Nightmare

47

Nightingale didn’t see any concrete cows when he got to Milton Keynes but he did have to go around half a dozen roundabouts before he pulled up in front of Adrian Miller’s house. It was a small semi-detached with a tiny front garden behind a neatly clipped hedge. Two rose bushes were growing under a bay window. It definitely didn’t look like the home of a devil-worshipper and Nightingale checked the text message with the address. He lit a cigarette and smoked it down to the butt before getting out of the car and walking over to the front door. He pressed the doorbell. It was answered by a man with a shaved head and tattoos down his left forearm. He was wearing a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black trousers. He grinned and offered his hand.

‘Are you Jack?’ Nightingale nodded and shook his hand, and Miller ushered him inside the house. ‘Come far?’ asked Miller as he closed the front door.

‘London.’

‘I’m just making a coffee — do you want one?’

‘Terrific,’ said Nightingale, and he followed Miller through to a modern galley kitchen with gleaming white units and a fridge festooned with family photographs and school notices.

Miller saw Nightingale looking at the photographs. ‘Wife and kids are staying with her mother for the night,’ he said. ‘No one’s going to walk in on us. Milk and sugar?’

‘Just milk,’ said Nightingale.

Miller picked up a jar of Nescafe Gold Blend and made him a coffee. ‘How long have you known Joshua?’ asked Miller.

‘A while,’ said Nightingale. ‘He’s a good guy.’

‘One of the best,’ said Miller, pouring in a splash of milk.

‘He thinks very highly of you,’ said Nightingale.

Miller blushed and waved away the compliment like a schoolgirl who had just been told she was pretty. ‘And you haven’t done anything like this before?’ He handed the mug to Nightingale.

‘I’m not sure exactly what it is that we’ll be doing,’ said Nightingale.

‘It’s a ceremony,’ said Miller. ‘There’ll be five of us. You, me and three others. The other three will be masked. They’re wary of outsiders.’

‘No problem,’ said Nightingale. ‘You’ve done this before, right?’

‘Loads of times,’ said Miller. ‘There’re a lot of like-minded people here in Milton Keynes. Quite a little gathering.’ He smiled. ‘So tell me who it is you want to contact?’

‘A nine-year-old girl,’ said Nightingale. ‘Her name’s Sophie Underwood. I say nine, but she’d be eleven now.’

‘Time doesn’t pass once you move into the spirit world.’

‘How would you know that?’

‘We’ve called up spirits that passed over fifty, a hundred, years ago. If time passed they’d be skeletons, right?’

‘So Sophie will never get any older now that she’s a spirit?’

‘Appearance-wise, no. Ageing is something that happens in this world, not the next.’ Miller finished his coffee and nodded at the door. ‘So, let me show you the room.’

He took Nightingale along the corridor to the stairs and up to the first floor. There was a small bedroom at the back of the house with a hatch in the ceiling from which protruded an aluminium ladder. Miller motioned for Nightingale to go up. He climbed the rungs slowly. The attic ran the full length of the house, with beams overhead and bare floorboards. There were no windows and the only illumination came from a single bare bulb hanging in the middle of the roof space.

Nightingale walked away from the hatch and looked around as Miller climbed up. In the middle of the attic floor was a piece of purple cloth, about four paces square, on which a pentagram had been drawn with white chalk.

Nightingale nodded at the pentagram. ‘I thought that was just for summoning devils,’ he said. ‘To protect against them.’

‘The pentagram has a lot of uses,’ said Miller.

At the top of the pentagram was a small wooden altar on which there was another, smaller, pentagram with a silver chalice and a small brass bowl at its centre. There were several peeled cloves of garlic in the bowl and a small black candle at each of the points of the pentagram.

‘Are we going to be summoning a spirit? Is that how it works?’ asked Nightingale.

‘There won’t be any fire and brimstone, if that’s what you mean,’ said Miller. ‘What we’ll be doing is basically a ritual that allows a spirit to return to this world and to interact with the people here. There are spirits all around us, but usually they can’t see or hear us and we can’t see or hear them.’

‘Like ghosts?’

‘Ghosts are different,’ said Miller. ‘Ghosts are tied to a particular place because of something that has happened there. You only ever see them in that one place.’ He smiled and shrugged. ‘You really are a novice, just like Joshua said.’

‘I’m new to this, yes,’ Nightingale said. He gestured at the pentagram. ‘But I’ve learned enough to know that you use the pentagram to protect yourself when you summon devils, and that they appear in physical form. So tell me, have you done that? Have you ever called up a devil?’

‘Me? God, no. That’s not why I’m into this. Summoning up devils is totally different to what we do.’

‘But you’re Satanists, right? The same as Joshua.’

‘Yes, but saying we’re the same is equivalent to saying that a guy who plays football with his local team is on a par with a guy who plays in the Premiership. Trust me, there’s no one in our group that would even contemplate summoning one of the Fallen. We worship them, sure, and we source power from them, but I’m nowhere near strong enough to start summoning one.’

‘I get it,’ said Nightingale.

‘And if you’re considering it you need to be very careful. A friend of mine tried it a couple of years ago and she ended up in a mental hospital. She’s a shell; her mind was totally destroyed.’

‘Were you there when it happened?’

Miller shook his head. ‘When you do a deal with one of the Fallen it has to be one-on-one. That’s why it’s so dangerous. Any sign of weakness, or you drop your guard for a second, and they’ll rip out your soul. I can’t stress that enough: you don’t mess around with them. Someone like Joshua, okay, maybe, but the likes of me?’ He shuddered. ‘I wouldn’t even think about it.’

‘I hear you,’ said Nightingale.

Down below, the doorbell rang. ‘That’ll be the rest of the group,’ said Miller. ‘By the way, did you bring something belonging to the deceased?’

‘I couldn’t get anything,’ said Nightingale. ‘I did try.’

‘It’s not essential,’ said Miller. He went back down the ladder.

Nightingale walked around the purple cloth towards the far end of the attic. There were two old steamer trunks there, wooden with leather straps around them. They weren’t locked but the straps were held in place with brass buckles. Nightingale’s curiosity got the better of him and he knelt down and undid the straps of the trunk closest to him. The lid groaned as he pulled it open. It was full of chalices, bottles, and objects wrapped in cloths of various colours. There was a strong smell of incense and something bitter and acrid that made his eyes start to water. He picked up one of the cloth-wrapped bundles. It was a brass knife covered with runes, the handle in the shape of a goat’s foot, the blade serrated and with a sharp point. Nightingale re-wrapped the knife and put it back in the chest. On the left-hand side of the trunk were bundles of candles, mostly black.

He heard voices downstairs so he hurriedly closed the lid and fastened the buckles. He was standing by the small altar when Miller’s head popped through the hatch. He had changed into a long black hooded robe. He was holding a Marks amp; Spencer carrier bag and he took out a robe and handed it to Nightingale. ‘We all wear these,’ he said. Nightingale took off his raincoat and draped it over one of the trunks. As he was putting on the robe a second man appeared; he was in his sixties with a goatee beard and a black mask over his eyes and nose.

‘This is Martin,’ said Miller. Martin shook hands with Nightingale. ‘Martin is my second in command.’

‘His wing man,’ said Martin. He was wearing a large sovereign ring on his left hand and a bulky gold chain on his right wrist. Even the baggy hooded robe couldn’t conceal his expanding waistline; he was clearly a man who enjoyed his food and drink.

‘Hood up or down?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Up when we begin,’ said Miller. ‘Colour is a distraction so things have to be as dark as possible.’

A blonde head appeared in the hatch. A woman’s. Miller and Martin helped her up. She was in her forties and had dark eyebrows and a slash of red lipstick over lips that looked as if they’d been pumped full of fat from elsewhere in her body. She was plump and as she stepped into the attic her robe fell open, giving them all a glimpse of cleavage and of a small rose tattoo on her left breast.

‘Jack, this is Joanne,’ said Miller.

She offered her right hand as she adjusted her mask with her left. Her hand was pasty and white and there was a silver ring on each finger. Her nails were the same scarlet as her lipstick, long and filed to points. Her handshake was twice as firm as Martin’s and she maintained eye contact while she shook.

‘Are you going to be joining our little group?’ she asked.

‘Jack’s just here for a one-off,’ said Miller. He looked down the hatch. ‘Ronnie, are you okay?’

‘Coming!’ called a Scottish voice from downstairs. ‘Just using the bathroom.’

‘That’s Ronnie,’ said Miller. He lowered his voice. ‘Bladder like a marble.’

Nightingale adjusted the robe, which reached down to his ankles. It was made of a thick coarse material that scratched against his wrists, and around his neck there were small knotted cords that tied together to close it at the front.

Downstairs the toilet flushed and the final member of the group slowly climbed the ladder, grunting with each step. He was a big man with a mane of ginger hair. His mask barely covered his eyes and nose and there was a sprinkling of large freckles over all his exposed skin. He grinned at Nightingale and stuck out his hand. There were nicotine stains on his fingers and the nails were bitten to the quick. ‘You’re the new boy,’ he growled. His hand enveloped Nightingale’s but there was hardly any strength in the grip.

‘Just visiting,’ said Nightingale, resisting the urge to wipe his hand on the robe. He’d heard the toilet flush but hadn’t heard Ronnie wash his hands.

Miller went over to the trunk that Nightingale had opened. He bent down, unfastened the leather straps and took out a large black candle. He carried it over to the purple cloth and placed it in front of the altar. He said something in what sounded like Latin, and then pulled a lighter from inside his robe and lit the five candles at the points of the pentagram. He said something else in Latin, moved his left hand over the burning candles, then went over to the light switch and turned off the light. Light was still flooding up through the open hatch and he pulled up the ladder and closed it. With the only light coming from the five small candles and everyone dressed in black, all Nightingale could see was the smudge of faces and the white pentagram on the cloth.

‘Right, everyone, let’s prepare ourselves,’ Miller said, clasping his hands together as if about to say a prayer. He looked across at Nightingale. ‘Just follow my lead, Jack. Do as we do.’

Nightingale nodded and clasped his hands together.

Miller closed his eyes and lowered his head. He began to hum, the sound appearing to come from deep down in his chest. The rest of the group followed his example, all making the same sound. Nightingale closed his eyes and joined in, though he had to change the pitch of his hum several times until it matched the group’s. When he did get the pitch right he felt his stomach begin to vibrate with the sound and before long his whole body seemed to be tingling. The humming continued for several minutes and then as one they stopped. Nightingale opened his eyes but when he saw that everyone else still had theirs shut he closed them again.

Miller began to recite a Latin incantation. That went on for several minutes and then he began to hum again. This time the note seemed to be lower and Nightingale had trouble matching it.

‘Right,’ said Miller eventually. Nightingale opened his eyes and Miller smiled at him. ‘We don’t have anything belonging to the deceased, so I’m going to ask Jack to say a few words about her.’ He gestured at Nightingale and nodded encouragingly.

‘Her name is Sophie,’ said Nightingale. ‘Sophie Underwood. She was nine years old when she died. Her father had been abusing her, and her mother knew what was going on but did nothing to stop what was happening. I was with her when she died. She was on a balcony outside her apartment and she fell.’ Nightingale took a deep breath to steady himself. ‘I think Sophie has been trying to contact me. I’m hoping that you can help her tell me what it is she wants from me.’

‘We’ll do our best,’ said Miller. He slowly pulled the hood of his robe over his head and his face disappeared into the gloom. One by one the others did the same. With the hoods over their heads it was almost impossible to tell who was who.

Miller picked up the big black candle, lit it, and placed it carefully in the middle of the purple cloth. ‘Gather round, please,’ he said, and the group spaced themselves around the pentagram. Miller went over to the Marks amp; Spencer carrier bag and took out a piece of parchment and a pen. He carried them to the altar, where he wrote on the parchment, murmuring in Latin as he did so. When he held it in the air, Nightingale saw that he’d drawn an upside-down pentagram. Miller used his lighter to set fire to it over the brass bowl, holding it for as long as he could before dropping the ashes.

He walked slowly back to the carrier bag and took out a bottle of red wine. It had a screw top and as he reached the pentagram he unscrewed it and carefully poured wine into the chalice. He put the top back on the bottle and put the bottle on the floor by the wall, then he picked up the chalice and held it above his head. ‘Servo nos,’ he said. ‘Protect us.’ He sipped the wine and then passed the chalice to his left, to Joanne.

She held it high and said, ‘Servo nos. Protect us,’ then drank. She passed it to her left and everyone took it in turns to drink from the chalice. Finally Ronnie handed it to Nightingale. He held the chalice above his forehead, said the words in Latin and English, took a sip and then gave it to Miller.

Miller spoke in Latin again and then put the chalice next to the brass bowl on the altar. He used both hands to pick up the black candle and he placed it on the altar between the bowl and the chalice.

He turned back to the group and held out his hand. Joanne took it. He led her onto the purple cloth and into the centre of the pentagram and then helped her lie down, her head towards the altar. He nodded at Martin and Ronnie and they moved into the pentagram and knelt down on either side of the woman.

‘Jack, please join Martin. Make sure that you remain inside the pentagram at all times.’

Nightingale knelt down next to Martin.

Miller moved to stand by Joanne’s head and he crouched down carefully. Joanne had closed her eyes and was breathing softly. Miller began to gently massage her temples. ‘Joanne, your eyes are getting heavy and you are going into a deep, deep sleep,’ he said quietly. Joanne breathed deeply and then went still. ‘You see in your mind Sophie Underwood and her mind is like an open book to you and we ask that you read it to us.’

Miller nodded at Martin and Ronnie and they extended the first and second fingers of both hands and moved them under Joanne’s body, one under her shoulder, one under her hip.

‘Jack, use two fingers under each leg,’ whispered Miller. ‘See how they’re doing it? First and second finger only.’

Nightingale moved around so that he could put two fingers under each knee.

Miller put his hands under Joanne’s neck and then he nodded again. They all lifted her into the air. She was surprisingly light, Nightingale realised, and with no effort they lifted her three feet off the floor.

‘Sophie Underwood,’ said Miller.

‘Sophie Underwood,’ repeated Martin.

Ronnie said her name and all three men looked at Nightingale. He swallowed. His mouth had gone so dry that it hurt. ‘Sophie Underwood,’ he croaked.

The men slowly lowered Joanne back onto the purple cloth. Miller stood over her, looking down at her face. ‘Sophie Underwood, can you hear me?’ he said.

Joanne took a deep breath.

‘Sophie. Are you there?’

‘Where am I?’ said Joanne. Nightingale froze as he realised that it wasn’t the woman’s voice. It was the voice of a young girl.

‘Sophie?’ he said. Miller flashed him a warning look.

‘What are you doing, Jack? Where are you?’

‘You are Sophie Underwood?’ asked Miller.

‘Who are you?’ said Joanne. Nightingale was now sure that it was Sophie’s voice.

‘We’re here to help you talk to Jack,’ said Miller.

Smoke from the candles was beginning to swirl around Miller and Nightingale was finding it hard to breathe.

‘Jack, you don’t know what you’ve done.’

The smoke was thicker now and all the men were coughing. Martin wiped his eyes.

‘Run, Jack,’ said Sophie, her voice shaking. ‘Run before it’s too late.’

Lightning flashed, even though Nightingale knew that was impossible because they were indoors. It was followed almost immediately by a crash of thunder that shook the house. Dust showered down from the roof. The candles were flickering and the smoke was now whirling around in a grey vortex.

‘What’s happening?’ asked Ronnie. ‘What’s going on?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Miller, his voice trembling.

‘Jack, run!’ screamed Sophie, and then Joanne arched her back and her whole body went into spasm.

There was another bolt of lightning and a loud crack and then something appeared in the vortex, something big, its skin glittering as if it was covered in scales. The figure took a step forward and the floor shuddered.

Martin was backing away, his mouth moving soundlessly. Miller had crouched down next to Joanne and was holding his hands over his face. The woman was still in spasm, her feet and hands drumming on the floor.

The creature, whatever it was, roared and the foul stench made Nightingale gag. Martin took another step back, his arms flailing.

‘Stay in the pentagram!’ shouted Nightingale but Martin wasn’t listening.

Ronnie went down on his knees and buried his face in Joanne’s lap.

Lightning flashed again. Martin stumbled backwards and stepped out of the pentagram. He managed to twist around and regain his footing and then he ran to the hatch. He threw himself to the floor, his hands grasping for the handle.

‘Martin, no!’ shouted Nightingale.

Miller was coughing and spluttering. Joanne’s spasms had stopped and she had opened her eyes. Ronnie was murmuring the Lord’s Prayer, his face still buried in Joanne’s lap.

The smoke was so thick now that all Nightingale could see was a massive shape moving slowly towards Martin. Martin turned, his mouth wide open in panic.

‘Martin, get back here now!’ shouted Nightingale. ‘It can’t cross the pentagram!’

Martin tried to get to his feet but then something flicked through the smoke and struck him across the throat. Blood sprayed across the attic wall and Martin fell back, hitting the floor hard.

‘Stop!’ screamed Nightingale. He pushed the hood back off his head and pointed at the massive shape, now just a dark blur in the choking fog that filled the attic.

There was a deafening roar from within the fog and a wall of heat washed over Nightingale. The floorboards creaked as it moved towards Nightingale and he caught a glimpse of glistening scales and a claw with curved talons.

Ronnie took a look over his shoulder and began to scream the Lord’s Prayer at the top of his voice before burying his head in Joanne’s lap again.

The air was so thick and acrid that every breath burned Nightingale’s lungs and tears were running down his cheeks.

Hot foul-smelling air blasted across his face again and whatever it was roared so loudly that the sound seemed to push against his chest and force him back. His right foot caught against Joanne’s hip and he struggled to regain his balance.

Nightingale took a deep breath and then screamed at the shape in the fog. ‘Reverto per pacis quod per totus festinatio ex unde venit!’ The shape froze, then what passed for a head turned towards him. Nightingale felt another blast of heat across his face and he threw up his hands up to protect his eyes. The shape growled and moved closer to the pentagram. Nightingale pointed at the shape and screamed again. ‘Reverto per pacis quod per totus festinatio ex unde venit!’

The creature, or whatever it was, threw back its head and roared, then space folded in on itself and it was gone. Nightingale went down on one knee, gasping for breath. His ears were ringing and his eyes were filled with tears. His lungs were burning and he forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply. The smoke was already starting to clear.

Martin was lying against the wall near the hatch, his hands clutched to his throat. Blood was trickling between his fingers. He tried to speak but frothy blood spewed down his chin. Nightingale hurried over to him and knelt down by his side.

Miller appeared at Nightingale’s shoulder. ‘Get me a piece of cloth,’ Nightingale said to him as he gently pulled Martin’s hands away from his neck. Blood immediately began to spurt and Nightingale pressed the hands back to stem the flow.

‘Keep your hands there until we get a dressing,’ Nightingale said to him. Martin didn’t appear to hear him but did as he was told.

Joanne got up on her hands and knees and began crawling towards them.

Nightingale knew that they needed an ambulance but his self-preservation instincts kicked in and he realised that it would be a bad idea to make the 999 call on his own mobile.

‘Does anyone have a mobile?’ he shouted.

‘Downstairs,’ said Miller.

Nightingale turned around to talk to Joanne. ‘Joanne, are you okay?’

She nodded and pushed herself up, using the wall to steady herself.

‘Get downstairs now and phone an ambulance. Tell them it’s a throat wound with heavy bleeding.’

Joanne hesitated and looked over at Miller.

‘Joanne, go!’ shouted Nightingale.

As she moved by them and pulled up the hatch, Miller ripped a piece from the bottom of his robe and thrust it at Nightingale. ‘Will this do?’

Nightingale took it and folded the material into a pad. He looked at Martin. ‘Listen to me, Martin. I’m going to need you to take your hands away, just for a second.’ He held the wad of material in front of the man’s face. ‘Then I’m going to press this against the wound. It’ll do a better job of stemming the blood flow.’

Joanne pushed the ladder down and lowered herself out of the attic. Nightingale gave her a quick look. She was scared and she was in shock but she was in control of herself. The last thing he needed was for her to run out of the house without calling for an ambulance. She caught his look and flashed him a nervous smile and he realised she was okay.

Nightingale looked back at Martin. His eyes were glassy and he was breathing quickly and shallowly, like a cornered animal. His hands were drenched in blood and there was bloody froth pulsing from between his lips. ‘Swallow, Martin,’ said Nightingale. ‘Get the blood out of your mouth.’

Martin did as he was told.

‘Good man,’ said Nightingale. ‘Now, I’m going to count to three. When I get to three I need you to take your hands away. I’ll press this dressing against the wound and then you can put your hands back and hold it. Do you understand?’

Martin nodded fearfully.

‘Good man. One, two, three.’ When he said ‘three’ Nightingale used his left hand to loosen Martin’s grip, and as the hands moved away Nightingale slapped the wad of material against the wound. Martin’s hands scrabbled to hold the cloth in place. ‘It’s okay,’ said Nightingale. ‘Just stay calm.’

Ronnie crawled over. ‘Is he okay?’ He was breathing heavily and his face was florid.

‘We think so,’ said Miller.

‘Can I help?’

‘Can you go down and make sure that Joanne’s called the ambulance?’ said Nightingale.

Ronnie grunted, crawled over to the hatch and climbed down the ladder.

Nightingale looked over at Miller. ‘That thing that appeared,’ he said. ‘Has that ever happened before?’

Miller shook his head. ‘Never.’

‘Any idea what it was?’

‘A demon,’ said Miller. ‘No doubt about it. But it wasn’t anything to do with what we did. We don’t summon devils, we talk to spirits.’ He put his hand on Martin’s shoulder. ‘He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?’

Nightingale could hear the desperation in Miller’s voice. ‘He’ll be fine,’ he said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. He looked at Martin. The man was in shock, his eyes wide and staring. Nightingale put his face closer to the injured man’s. ‘Listen to me: you’re going to be all right. If a major vessel had been cut you’d be dead already. Breathe slowly, swallow what blood you can and be calm. You can get through this. Don’t try to speak, just blink twice if you understand.’

The man blinked twice, a look of fear in his eyes.

‘There’s an ambulance on the way. Just don’t panic. It looks and feels a lot worse than it is. That cloth is stemming the blood flow, so just concentrate on not choking and you’ll be okay. Understand?’

Martin blinked twice.

‘Make sure that he keeps the pressure on, firm but not too firm,’ Nightingale said to Miller. ‘The ambulance won’t be long.’

‘You’re sure he’s going to be okay?’

‘If you keep the pressure on, he’ll be all right. He’s lost a pint or so of blood, but he can spare that. I’ve seen worse.’

Miller nodded but Nightingale could see that he didn’t believe him.

‘How did you do that?’ asked Miller. ‘How did you get that thing to go away?’

‘I’ve had some experience of dealing with them,’ said Nightingale. ‘The words I used are what you say to send back a devil that you’ve summoned, so I just hoped it would work for an unwanted visitor. I was lucky.’

Miller nodded. ‘We all were.’ He shuddered.

The ladder rattled and Ronnie appeared. He’d taken off his mask and robe. ‘The ambulance is on its way,’ he said. He pulled himself up into the attic.

Nightingale stood up. ‘I’m off,’ he said.

‘You’re not staying?’ said Miller.

‘The cops and I aren’t on good terms at the moment. It’s best they don’t know I was here.’ He clapped Miller on the shoulder. ‘Sorry about this.’

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ said Miller.

Nightingale left them to it, knowing that Miller was wrong. It almost certainly was his fault. He lit a cigarette as he left the house and walked towards his MGB. As he climbed into the car he heard a siren, heading his way.