Nightmare

39

Graham Lord lived in an innocuous semi-detached house in Highgate, north London. Nightingale parked his MGB close to the driveway of the house and walked past a five-year-old Honda before pressing the doorbell. Lord opened the door and smiled. He was wearing a baggy denim shirt over brown corduroy trousers. He wore reading glasses and his hair was flecked with dandruff. He shook hands with Nightingale. Lord’s hand was limp and lifeless, warm and slightly damp. ‘You’re early,’ said Lord.

‘But you knew I would be, right?’ said Nightingale. ‘Being psychic and all.’

Lord smiled without warmth. ‘That’s an old joke, Mr Nightingale. Or can I call you Jack?’

‘Jack’s fine,’ said Nightingale, taking off his raincoat.

‘First names it is, then,’ he said, adding, ‘I’m Lordy to my friends.’ Lord hung the coat on a wooden rack, then led Nightingale down a woodchip-papered hall and into the front room. The curtains, made of thick dark-blue velvet, were drawn and a small Tiffany lamp cast red, green and yellow blocks of light across the ceiling. There was a bookcase on the wall opposite the window; it was full of books on the supernatural, although, unlike Nightingale’s own collection, they were mainly newish paperbacks.

The flooring was bare boards that had been sanded and polished and they gleamed in the multicoloured light. In the centre of the room was a circular rosewood table with four high-backed chairs around it. There was a small hi-fi on a table under the window, with a flickering candle on either side. New-age music was playing, soft strings with the tinkling of wind chimes.

‘Have you come far?’ asked Lord, waving Nightingale to the chair that had its back to the window.

‘Don’t you know?’ said Nightingale, sitting down.

‘You really are a cynic, aren’t you?’ said Lord. ‘I’m not a psychic; I’m a spiritualist.’

‘Actually, I’ve got an open mind,’ said Nightingale. ‘If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here.’

Lord held out his hand. ‘That’s why I ask for the fee up front,’ he said. ‘It shows your commitment better than words ever can.’

Nightingale took an envelope from his jacket pocket and gave it to Lord. Lord left the room, presumably to count the cash and possibly hide the money. Nightingale wanted a cigarette but there was no ashtray around so he took out his pack of Marlboro and placed it on the table in front of him.

Lord spotted the cigarettes as soon as came back into the room. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t allow smoking in the house,’ he said. ‘It interferes with the process.’

‘Smoke’s an impurity, is that it?’ said Nightingale, putting the pack away.

Lord sat down. ‘I have asthma,’ he said. He placed his palms on the table and smiled at Nightingale. ‘Now, I need you to relax, and to open your mind. I don’t work the way the spiritualists do at the centre you went to. I’m not doing a show and I’m not playing to the crowd. I’m acting as a conduit to the person you want to talk to.’

‘Will I see her?’

Lord shook his head. ‘It doesn’t work like that. I’m not summoning her spirit so I won’t see her and you certainly won’t. It will talk through me. The spirit will pass into my body and talk with my voice.’

‘So I won’t hear her either?’

Lord’s eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘Yes, you’ll hear her. But it’ll be my voice. She will use my voice to talk to you. Assuming that she comes through.’

‘Sometimes they can’t communicate?’

‘There are no guarantees. How could there be? We’re communicating with the spirit world, not making a Skype call. Is it the money you’re worried about? Is that it?’

‘Well, I have just given you two hundred quid up front.’

‘If we’re not lucky this time, you can come back. And you can keep coming back until you’re satisfied.’

‘So now you’re telling me that luck plays a part in all this?’

Lord put his hands together and interlinked his fingers. He looked at Nightingale over the top of his reading glasses. ‘Can you imagine how many spirits there are out there, Jack? Many of them have unfinished business in this world. There are people they want to contact, things they want to say. People like me are in demand in this world, but we’re also in demand in the spirit world. Once I make myself available there’s often a rush as spirits pour into the room and I can’t always choose who speaks through me.’ He nodded, as if encouraging Nightingale to agree with him. ‘But I do know what I’m doing, Jack. You simply have to have faith in me. Okay?’

Nightingale could feel that he was being manipulated but he couldn’t stop himself nodding in agreement.

‘Great,’ said Lord. ‘Let’s get started.’ He put his palms back on the table.

‘I have a question,’ said Nightingale. ‘How will I know if I’m talking to a spirit or you?’

‘You’ll be able to tell,’ said Lord. ‘Trust me.’

‘And can I ask questions?’

‘Of course,’ said Lord. ‘That’s the point of the exercise.’ He scratched the side of his nose. ‘Are you ready?’

Nightingale nodded again. ‘Let’s do it,’ he said.

Lord took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tilted his head back. He shuddered, then splayed out his fingers on the table. He exhaled slowly, the breath whistling between his teeth, then inhaled again. Nightingale sat and watched him, trying to ignore the nicotine craving that was back with a vengeance. Lord spent several minutes breathing in and out with his head tilted back, then he slowly lowered his chin until it was pressed against his chest. His hands began to tremble and then the fingertips started to beat a tattoo on the table. Nightingale folded his arms and waited. Lord froze, the heels of his hands pressed against the table, then he slowly raised his head and his eyes opened. He seemed to be staring over Nightingale’s right shoulder. Lord’s lips began to move, but there was no sound. Nightingale tried in vain to read the man’s lips but then Lord took another deep breath and closed his eyes again.

‘Jack?’

Nightingale jumped as if he’d been stung. The sound seemed to have come from deep in Lord’s chest. He stared at the man’s mouth.

‘Jack?’

Lord’s lips hadn’t moved.

‘Yes?’ said Nightingale hesitantly.

‘Jack Nightingale?’

‘It’s me,’ said Nightingale.

Lord took several more deep breaths, his eyes tightly closed. Then he began breathing shallowly and quickly.

‘This is Jack,’ said Nightingale.

Lord’s eyelids began to flutter. ‘Jack?’

‘Yes. Who is this?’

‘You know who it is, Jack. It’s me. Sophie.’

Nightingale leaned forward and stared intently at Lord’s face. It was a blank mask. ‘How old are you, Sophie?’

‘I’m nine. Did you forget already, Jack?’

Nightingale frowned. Sophie Underwood was nine years old when she died, but she had been born eleven years ago. If it was Sophie, did that mean that she had no sense that two years had passed since she fell from the balcony in Chelsea Harbour?

‘Jack, can you hear me?’

‘I can hear you,’ said Nightingale. ‘Where are you?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It’s dark here.’

‘Can you see me?’

‘I can now. Sometimes I can, but sometimes I can’t. I saw you at that place where you went before but the man who was talking couldn’t see me.’

‘The spiritualist association, you mean?’

Lord nodded, his eyes still closed. ‘I wanted to talk to you there but I couldn’t.’

‘You could see me?’

‘Yes. You were with a blonde lady. Jenny.’

‘That’s right.’

‘The man who was talking to you said that he could see us but really he couldn’t.’

‘Us? What do you mean?’

‘There are lots of us. We can’t talk to each other but we can see each other a bit.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s like we’re reflections in something. It feels strange, Jack. I don’t like it.’

‘What do you want, Sophie?’ asked Nightingale.

‘I want you to understand that it wasn’t your fault.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It wasn’t your fault what happened. I don’t want you to feel guilty.’

‘Okay,’ said Nightingale hesitantly.

‘You couldn’t have saved me. No one could. You tried your best, I know you did.’ Lord’s hands began to beat on the table and his eyelids were fluttering crazily.

‘Are you okay?’ asked Nightingale. ‘What’s happening?’

‘It’s like you’re fading, Jack,’ she said. ‘I can see you and then I can’t and it’s like you’re a long way away.’

‘What do you want from me, Sophie?’

‘I don’t want anything really. But I don’t want you to feel guilty because I died. You do feel guilty, don’t you? You think it was your fault?’

‘I wish I’d saved you, yes. I keep wondering what I should have done differently.’

‘You couldn’t do anything. But it was nice that you tried. You were the only person who wanted to help me, Jack.’

Lord went suddenly still and his head dropped so that his chin was against his chest again. He started to breathe heavily, as if he was in a deep sleep. Nightingale sat back in his chair and waited. The deep breathing continued for several minutes and Nightingale wondered if he should say something or try to wake the man up. Then Lord stiffened and slowly raised his head. His eyes opened and he stared at Nightingale.

‘I know what you did, Jack.’

Nightingale stared back at Lord. The man’s eyes were blank and lifeless.

‘I know what you did to my father, Jack. I know what you did. But you mustn’t feel bad about it because he was a bad man.’

Nightingale felt a chill run down his spine.

‘I’m glad that he’s dead, Jack. My mother too. She knew what he was doing and she didn’t stop him.’ Lord began to cry silently. Tears ran down his cheeks and plopped onto the table.

‘Sophie?’ said Nightingale.

Lord started to tremble and then his whole body went into spasm and he slumped forward. Nightingale stood up and hurried around the table. He grabbed Lord by the shoulders and pulled him back into a sitting position. Saliva was dribbling from one side of his mouth and as he sat up his head lolled back. Nightingale slapped him gently on the cheek.

‘Lordy, are you okay?’ asked Nightingale.

Lord groaned, then coughed. Nightingale stood back and looked down at him. The man coughed again, pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. He sighed and gazed up at Nightingale, blinking his eyes as if trying to focus. ‘What happened?’ he asked hoarsely. ‘Did she come through?’

‘Don’t you remember?’

Lord rubbed his eyes again and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’m not normally aware of what happens when I’m channelling,’ he said. ‘She was here?’

Nightingale nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘And did you hear what you wanted to hear?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Nightingale. He took out his pack of cigarettes. ‘It was.?.?.’ He shrugged without finishing the sentence. ‘I need a cigarette.’

Lord tried to get up but the strength seemed to have gone from his legs and he sat down heavily.

‘Are you okay?’ asked Nightingale.

‘It can be draining,’ said Lord. ‘The spirits seem to suck the energy from me while they’re talking through me. The longer they channel through me, the worse it is.’ He forced a smile. ‘I sometimes think that if I do it too long I won’t recover.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘Sorry.’

‘No problem,’ said Nightingale. He patted him on the shoulder. ‘I’m going to go.’

Lord looked up. ‘Did you hear everything you needed to hear?’

‘It was interesting.’

‘If you need to hear more we can try again another time. Generally I find that subsequent sessions are easier. You can call me.’

Nightingale tapped a cigarette out of the pack and slipped it between his lips. ‘I’ll do that,’ he said. He let himself out of the house and lit the cigarette as he walked towards his car. He reached the MGB and turned to look back at the house. ‘What a load of bollocks,’ he said, blowing smoke up at the clouds.