Nightshade: The Fourth Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thriller (28 page)

Will stood up and shook hands with them both. He was good-looking, tall with an unruly mop of chestnut hair that kept falling over his eyes, and Kathy knew that he’d photograph well.

‘And this is Bella,’ said Sandra.

Bella smiled up at them. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said.

Sandra offered them tea but Kathy said that they’d rather get on with the photographs first. She handed them over to McEwan and he ran through what he wanted. A family shot on the sofa, Bella playing with her toys, perhaps a walk to the park later.

‘What about Floppy?’ said Bella. ‘What about a photograph of me and Floppy?’

‘Floppy’s a rabbit?’ Bella nodded. McEwan said that was a great idea, and he spent the next hour taking the photographs as Kathy gently teased out the quotes that she wanted. How their prayers had been answered, how Bella’s abductors should be given the death penalty, how grateful they were to the police. It was all stock stuff but Kathy knew that it would be a good read. So many abducted children stories ended badly, and it was a pleasant change to write about a success story. Kathy intended to skip over what had happened to Bella during the hours she’d been held captive. She could only imagine the horrors that the nine-year-old had gone through, and her news editor had made it clear that she wasn’t to spell out the details.

McEwan took them out into the back garden to get pictures of Bella cuddling her rabbit. As Bella brushed her cheek against the animal’s soft white fur, she smiled over at Kathy. ‘I saw an angel,’ said Bella.

‘That’s nice,’ said Kathy.

‘Really. An angel came to see me.’

Kathy looked over at Bella’s mother. The mother smiled uncomfortably. ‘A real angel, with wings and a halo?’

‘No halo, but wings, yes. Really long wings with white feathers. Michael is an archangel, one of the top angels.’

‘And this was in a dream, was it?’

Bella shook her head. ‘It was real. But in my head. Do you understand?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Kathy.

‘Michael said that I was dead. But that I wasn’t to be scared. He said Jesus wanted to talk to me.’

‘Jesus?’

Bella nodded excitedly. ‘Yes, Jesus Christ. He wanted to talk to me.’

‘And Michael took you to see him?’

‘We went to this huge white house. More like a palace. Everything was white and so clean and there were other angels there. And my Grandpa Arthur. And Auntie Eadie.’

Kathy looked over at Sandra, frowning.

‘Grandpa Arthur is my husband’s grandfather. Auntie Eadie was …’ She shrugged, wondering how she was going to explain it. ‘My mother had a baby before me. A girl. Eadie. She died very young. Bella never knew her.’ She shrugged again. ‘I can’t explain it, but that what she says happened.’

McEwan finished taking pictures of Kathy and the rabbit. ‘How about the park now?’ he asked.

‘You know what, I’m parched,’ said Kathy. She smiled at Sandra. ‘Don’t suppose there’s a chance of a cup of tea now?’

‘Of course,’ said Sandra. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

McEwan flashed Kathy an annoyed look but she smiled sweetly and touched him gently on the arm. ‘I want to keep them talking,’ she said. ‘Give me a few minutes, then we’ll head to the park.’

‘I’m worried about the light,’ he said, looking up at the grey clouds that were gathering overhead. ‘And it might rain.’

‘Half an hour, tops,’ said Kathy.

They followed Sandra and Bella into the kitchen. Bella sat down at the table and Kathy sat next to her. ‘Surely someone must have told Bella about this Grandpa Arthur and Auntie Eadie?’ she said to Sandra.

Sandra shook her head. ‘Never. Even I didn’t know that my mum had had another baby. And Will didn’t know the name of his grandfather. But we checked and yes, his paternal grandfather was Arthur Harper. He died long before Will was born.’ She turned on the kettle.

‘They were really nice to me,’ said Bella. ‘They said they would look after me when it was time for me to stay there but it wasn’t time yet.’

‘Bella, are you saying you were in Heaven?’

‘I don’t know where I was. It was a palace, I guess. But I don’t know where the palace was.’

Kathy frowned and ran a hand through her hair. What had started out as a simple family reunion story was becoming much more complex, and she wasn’t sure how the features editor was going to react if the story took a religious turn.

‘Perhaps we should talk about what you’re going to do this year,’ said Kathy. ‘What about Disneyland? Is that somewhere you’d like to go?’

‘Don’t you want to talk about Jesus?’ asked Bella.

‘We can talk about anything you want,’ said Kathy. ‘What about when you’re a grown-up, what do you want to do?’

‘I want to be a good person, like Jesus,’ said Kathy. ‘Jesus loves you, Kathy.’ She looked over at the photographer. ‘He loves you too, Dave.’

‘Good to know,’ said the photographer.

Bella smiled at him, then turned back to Kathy. ‘Jesus wants us all to be happy.’

‘I’m sure he does.’

‘He thinks there are lots of things wrong with the world and that we need to fix them.’

‘That’s interesting, Bella. Really. But let’s talk about you and what your plans are.’

‘Do you want to know what Jesus told me?’ asked Bella.

Kathy forced a smile. It was the last thing she wanted to know, but she needed to keep the little girl talking. ‘Sure,’ she said.

Bella crooked her little finger and beckoned her to move closer. ‘I have to whisper it,’ she said.

B
ernie Fowles screwed up his face. ‘She said what?’ Fowles was the
Express
’s features editor. He was in his fifties and was an old school journalist, known to keep a bottle of Bell’s in the bottom drawer of his desk even though alcohol was banned on the premises. His liking for whisky was written on his face – his cheeks were perpetually flushed and his nose was flecked with broken veins.

Kathy sat down. ‘She says she has messages for the Prime Minister and the Archbishop of Canterbury and Prince William, from Jesus.’

Fowles rubbed his eyes and cursed under his breath. ‘Is she crazy? Or have her parents put her up to it?’

‘She’s a nine-year-old girl, Bernie.’

‘Nine-year-old girls can be manipulated, and manipulative,’ said Bernie. ‘Remember that kid in the States, wrote that bestseller about going to Heaven. He was only four.’

‘I don’t think they’re planning to write a book, Bernie.’

‘Maybe not now, but if we run a piece saying that she spoke to Jesus then all the big publishers are going to be knocking on their door.’ He stood up and began to pace up and down behind his desk. ‘The pictures are good, right?’

‘Brilliant,’ said Kathy. ‘Lots of stuff around the house and a really great shot of the three of them walking through the park. Sitting next to her dad on the swings, that sort of thing. And some very pretty ones with her rabbit.’

‘Kids and cuddly animals, you can’t go wrong with that,’ said Fowles. ‘And she wants to talk to the PM? Face to face?’

‘She said Jesus gave her messages for the PM, the Archbishop and the Prince.’

‘And you don’t know what those messages are?’

Kathy shook her head. ‘She says the messages are personal.’

Fowles sat down again. ‘So you don’t think the parents put her up to it?’

‘Mum and Dad aren’t particularly religious. They go to church sometimes and they prayed when she was missing, but they’re not religious fanatics. If anything, the mum seemed embarrassed at what Bella was saying.’

‘And the girl’s not deluded?’

‘I’m not a psychiatrist, Bernie. She seems okay, but you’ve got to remember what she’s been through. Kidnapped. Raped. She was pretty much dead when they found her.’

Fowles leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his nose. ‘Tell me about that.’

‘I don’t know much, but one of my police contacts told me that when they first went in they thought she was dead. One of the cops felt for a pulse and couldn’t find one. Then a while later a paramedic realised she was breathing.’

‘So was she dead or not?’

‘Cops aren’t medically trained.’

‘They’re trained enough to spot a corpse,’ said Fowles. ‘Is this maybe some sort of out-of-body experience? Lack of oxygen to the brain bringing on hallucinations?’

‘Sure. That’s possible. Anything’s possible.’

Fowles grimaced. ‘See, I’m worried that we give her coverage on this whole Jesus thing and then it turns out it’s down to brain damage. That’d make us look pretty stupid, wouldn’t it?’

‘She’s a bright kid. Very articulate. Doing well at school, her parents said.’ She leaned forward. ‘You know, she’s at the school where the headmistress killed herself. Threw herself off the roof.’

‘Are you serious?’

Kathy nodded. ‘Bella didn’t see it, but a lot of kids were traumatised. The school was closed for a couple of days. Do I mention that in the story?’

‘It’s an angle, isn’t it? Kidnap girl sees teacher suicide.’

‘She didn’t actually see it.’

‘You don’t want to spoil a good story with the facts. Already in shock from abduction, little Bella faced more heartbreak … hell, you don’t need me to write it.’

‘And what about the intro? Do I go with messages from Jesus or abduction girl back with her family?’

Fowles took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, his brow furrowed. It was Sunday and it had been a quiet weekend, news-wise. The story of a child who had come back from the dead would put some energy into what threatened to be a very dull Monday paper. ‘What the hell,’ he said. ‘Who dares, wins. Let’s go with the Jesus angle. Who knows, maybe we can get the PM to drop by to pick up his message.’

N
ightingale was walking down a long corridor. There were doors to the left and right, heavy doors, the wood aged and cracked. There were bare floorboards running the length of the corridor, worn smooth by generations of feet, and they creaked like old bones as he walked over them. There was a single light bulb hanging from a frayed wire in the middle of the corridor, flickering and hissing. A handful of small moths fluttered around it.

Nightingale found himself being drawn to one of the doors. There was a brass handle, mottled with age, and it was warm to the touch when he grasped it and turned it. The room inside was pure white, a glossy white floor and white walls and a white ceiling. Nightingale stepped inside the room and warm breeze ran across his face. He could smell herbs. Rosemary. And tarragon. And mint.

‘Mr Nightingale?’

It was Mrs Steadman. She was standing in the middle of the room, wearing a long black dress and with a black wool scarf wrapped around her neck. On her right hand was a ring with a large black stone in it.

‘Hello, Mrs Steadman. Am I asleep?’

‘Yes, Mr Nightingale.’

‘And you wanted to talk to me?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So why not just phone me?’

‘I don’t have your number, Mr Nightingale.’

‘I’m in the phone book. Under Nightingale.’

Mrs Steadman giggled girlishly. ‘I didn’t think of that.’

‘Do you do this a lot, Mrs Steadman?’

‘Not a lot, no.’

‘It’s a bit confusing. I’m dreaming, so how can I tell what’s real and what isn’t?’

‘You could try pinching yourself.’

Nightingale pinched himself but didn’t feel anything. ‘That’s interesting,’ he said. He raised his arms to the side and took a deep breath. As he exhaled he rose slowly up into the air. He hovered about six inches above the floorboards. ‘I’m flying,’ he said.

‘It’s more levitating,’ she said. ‘But you can fly. You can do anything you want. It’s your dream.’

Nightingale lay back and his feet rose up so that he was parallel to the floor, staring up at the white ceiling. ‘This is so cool.’

‘Dreams can be fun,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘You just have to be careful that they don’t turn into nightmares.’

Nightingale slowly returned to an upright position and then lowered himself to the floor. Mrs Steadman watched him with amused eyes.

‘So what is it that you want, Mrs Steadman? Why are you here?’

‘I need to talk to you,’ she said.

‘I’m all ears,’ said Nightingale.

‘Not here,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘In the real world.’

‘Shall I come to your shop?’

‘Outside would be better,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘There’s a park about half a mile from the shop. Close to the Tube station. I’m sure you can find it. Shall we say eleven o’clock in the morning?’

‘I’ll be there,’ said Nightingale. He rose up off the ground again and turned around slowly, the toes of his Hush Puppies pointing down at the floor. By the time he had done a complete turn, Mrs Steadman had vanished.

‘Mrs Steadman?’

His feet brushed the floor and then the floorboards squeaked as they took his full weight. He looked down. The white floor had gone and in its place were thick oak floorboards. He looked around. Furniture had appeared and now there was red flock wallpaper on the walls. There was a heavy four-poster bed, a chunky dressing table and a shabby armchair. There was a mirror over the bed and he stared at his reflection. There were dark patches under his eyes and his hair looked as if it hadn’t been combed in days. He ran his hand through it. ‘If it’s a dream, why do I still look like shit?’ he asked his reflection.

He flinched as something slammed against the door. He whirled around, his hands up defensively. His heart pounded as he stared at the door, his hands clenched into tight fists. Something scratched slowly at the wood, and then suddenly stopped. The only sound was that of Nightingale’s breathing.

He walked towards the door and slowly reached for the door handle. But before he could touch it the handle began to turn on its own. ‘Who is it?’ he asked.

There was no answer. The handle clicked to the fully open position and then the door began to slowly creak open.

‘Mrs Steadman?’

His nose wrinkled as it was assaulted by a foul smell, a mixture of sulphur and acid and faeces. His stomach lurched. He grabbed the handle and pulled the door open, and that was when he woke up, bathed in sweat, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon. Realising he was safe in his own bed, he smiled up at the ceiling. ‘Next time, Mrs Steadman, just use the phone,’ he muttered to himself.