Nightmare

68

‘Jack, you have to get up.’ Nightingale groaned. ‘Jack, come on. Wake up.’ Nightingale’s eyes fluttered open. He was lying on his front, his face turned towards the oven. ‘Jack!’

‘Jenny?’ he moaned.

‘Wake up, Jack.’

He pushed himself up onto his knees, struggling to clear his head. ‘Jenny?’

‘Jenny’s dead, Jack. You know that.’

Nightingale felt something hard in his right hand and he looked down. He was holding the carving knife. The blade was glistening with blood and it was all over his hand. He turned and looked over his shoulder. Jenny was lying on the floor by the table, blood pooling around her head like a scarlet halo.

‘She’s dead, Jack. Now get up and finish this. You know what you have to do.’

Nightingale threw the knife away and got to his feet. The room began to swim around him and he fought to stay conscious. There was blood all over the front of his coat and splattered up his right sleeve.

‘Jack. You have to go. Hurry.’

He turned towards the voice. Sophie was standing in front of the refrigerator, her Barbie doll dangling from her right hand. Her hair was loose around her face and she looked as if she was about to cry.

‘Sophie?’

‘You can do it, Jack. You can do what needs to be done.’ She pointed down the hallway. ‘Go, Jack. Go now.’

Nightingale staggered down the hallway. He tripped and slammed against the wall before pushing himself upright, and as he took his hand away he saw he’d left a bloody handprint. A car screeched to a halt outside and he ran to the door and out into the street. Fairchild was pulling open the rear door of a large grey Jaguar. He looked over at Nightingale and grinned, then climbed into the back.

Roaring like an animal in pain, Nightingale hurried towards the MGB. As Fairchild slammed the door shut, Nightingale leaned into his car, opened the glove compartment and pulled out his gun.

The Jaguar drove off as Nightingale stepped away from the MGB, flicked off the safety and brought up the gun with both hands. He squeezed the trigger. The first shot slammed into the front wing, the second blew apart the front tyre. The Jaguar accelerated but veered to the right. It straightened up but then the driver lost control and it hit a concrete tub filled with ivy and span around, the engine revving uncontrollably. A cloud of steam billowed out from under the bonnet.

Lights were going on in houses all along the mews.

The rear passenger door opened and Fairchild staggered out of the car. His eyes were wide and staring and he bent low, trying to use the door as cover, but Nightingale knew that the thin steel would be no better than cardboard at stopping the next bullet. He squeezed off another shot but Fairchild had already started to turn and the bullet missed him by inches.

That was the third bullet. Four rounds left.

Fairchild was running as fast as he could but his feet were slipping on the cobbles and his arms flailed out for balance. Nightingale took two quick steps to the side, steadied the gun and fired. The bullet hit Fairchild in the left shoulder and he pitched forward and fell to his knees. Nightingale’s ears were ringing from the explosions and the cordite was stinging his eyes.

Fairchild crawled down the street on his knees and right hand, his left arm dangling uselessly.

Nightingale walked past the Jaguar. The driver was pitched forward against the airbag, blood streaming from his nose. The heavy in the front passenger seat was also trapped against his airbag but he was conscious and groped for his gun when he saw Nightingale. Nightingale caught a glimpse of metal in the man’s hand and he shot him through the window. The glass exploded and the heavy’s face folded into a bloody mess.

Fairchild managed to get to his feet and began to lurch along the street, blood streaming from the wound in his shoulder. Nightingale walked after him. He fired one-handed and the bullet slammed into Fairchild’s back. The lawyer took two more steps and then fell face down onto the cobbles.

As Nightingale walked up, Fairchild rolled onto his back. He coughed and bloody froth spewed from between his lips. ‘I’ll see you in Hell, Nightingale,’ he said. He coughed again and thick blackish blood trickled out of his mouth and down his neck.

‘You can bank on it,’ said Nightingale. He pointed the gun at Fairchild’s chest, just above the heart, and pulled the trigger.

Fairchild’s entire body convulsed and his bloody lips curled back in a snarl but then he went still and the life faded from his eyes.

Nightingale turned and walked back to Jenny’s house. More lights were coming on, and he saw a young woman standing in the window of the house opposite, staring at him in horror. He pushed open the door and then hesitated. He knew there was nothing he could do to help Jenny. She was dead. He stopped, unable to cross the threshold into the house. Realisation hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. Sophie was right. He did know what he had to do. And he had to do it now.

He turned on his heels and walked back to the MGB. He threw his gun onto the back seat and started the engine. As he drove away he saw the young woman pointing a phone at him, taking a photograph or a video, he couldn’t tell which. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered any more.