Nightmare

nodded and went back to her paperwork.

‘Here we are,’ said the administrator, opening a door. There was a hospital bed in the room, occupied by a white-haired old lady with a feeding tube snaking from a plastic bag on a stand into her nose. Mrs Fraser closed the door gently. ‘Mrs McFee has been in a coma for the past week,’ she said. ‘There doesn’t appear to be anything wrong with her, it’s simply that she won’t wake up. We have to give her water and nutrients through a tube but she doesn’t require medication. There’re no signs of a stroke or any physical damage.’

‘Shouldn’t she be in a hospital?’ asked Nightingale.

‘Our doctor has examined her and we brought in a neurologist but everyone agrees that there’s nothing that can be done in a hospital that we can’t do here. So we keep her under observation and take care of her and wait. She’s an old lady, of course. Almost ninety.’

‘But healthy?’

‘Mentally, yes, she was very sharp. But she has had problems with her heart and her kidneys and she has diabetes.’ She shrugged. ‘Old age,’ she said. ‘The body wears out eventually, no matter how well you take care of yourself.’

Nightingale smiled. ‘Yeah, I’m having the same problem with my car.’

Mrs Fraser looked at him sternly. ‘That’s hardly the same thing, Mr Nightingale.’ Nightingale opened his mouth to apologise but she was already looking back at the old woman. ‘She just didn’t wake up one day. But every now and again she says something.’

Nightingale felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He knew what was coming next.

‘She says your name, Mr Nightingale. Sometimes it’s a whisper; sometimes she shouts it at the top of her voice.’

‘Without waking up?’

Mrs Fraser stroked the old woman’s arm. ‘It’s hard to tell. Sometimes her eyes are open but immediately afterwards she’s back in this state.’

‘And why did you ask me to come here, Mrs Fraser?’

‘Frankly, Mr Nightingale, I was hoping that you might know her. Mrs McFee is in a similar situation to that of your late mother when she was a resident here. We have no next of kin listed and she hasn’t had a visitor in five years.’ She stepped to the side and waved him towards the bed. ‘Can you have a closer look and make sure that you don’t know her?’

‘Sure, but I don’t know anyone called McFee.’

‘There has to be some reason that she’s saying your name,’ said Mrs Fraser. ‘She never met your mother, and no one on the staff would have reason to mention your name to her. It’s a mystery.’ She motioned for him to step forward. ‘Please, if you don’t mind.’ Nightingale nodded but he found it difficult to move. Mrs Fraser smiled encouragingly. ‘Just have a closer look,’ she said. ‘She might be someone you met some time ago.’

Nightingale shuffled towards the bed. The old lady was lying on her back, her mouth open, snoring softly. He could see the feeding tube at the back of her mouth. She had no teeth and her tongue was covered with a thick white fur. Her eyes were closed and her white hair was thinning so that her scalp was clearly visible. He flinched as he felt a touch on his arm but then realised it was Mrs Fraser. ‘She won’t bite, Mr Nightingale.’

Nightingale bent over the old woman. He could smell her bitter breath and underlying it was a sickly sweet stench of decay. He swallowed and almost gagged.

‘Jack?’ The old woman’s bloodless lips had barely moved and her eyes were still closed.

Nightingale stared in horror at the old woman.

‘Is that you, Jack?’

‘She does seem to know you, Mr Nightingale.’

Nightingale shook his head. ‘No,’ he said.

‘Jack?’

‘Please, Mr Nightingale, say something to her.’

Nightingale swallowed. ‘Yes. It’s me.’

The old woman’s eyes opened. ‘Please help me, Jack. You have to help me.’ Her voice was a low growl, barely human.

Nightingale took a step back, shaking his head.

‘Mr Nightingale, where are you going?’ asked Mrs Fraser, grabbing him by the arm.

Nightingale twisted out of her grip and pulled open the door. ‘I have to get out of here,’ he said. He dashed out and ran down the corridor, his coat flapping behind him. He didn’t stop running until he was outside, where he pulled out his cigarettes and lit one with shaking hands. He kept looking at the main entrance, half expecting Mrs Fraser to come after him but the doors stayed resolutely closed.

He finished his cigarette before pulling up the soft top and fitting it into place. He got into the car and put the key in the ignition. He turned the key and something made a clunking sound under the bonnet. He groaned and tried again and this time there was no sound at all. He made three more attempts before giving up and taking out his mobile to call the AA.

17

Nightingale’s MGB was in the garage having its electrical system overhauled on Monday morning so Nightingale caught a black cab in Bayswater and had it drop him in front of the Wicca Woman shop in Camden. It began to rain as he paid the driver and he jogged across the pavement to the shop, holding a Waitrose carrier bag against his chest.

He opened the door but then had to stand back as two girls in matching Afghan coats and multicoloured Tibetan hats pushed by him. There was only one sales assistant, a chunky teenager with a spider web tattoo across her neck and short hair that had been dyed a fluorescent green. She was wearing a slashed T-shirt and camouflage cargo pants with zipped pockets.

‘Is Mrs Steadman in?’ he asked as he closed the door.

‘Are you Mr Nightingale, the one who rang?’ asked the girl in an almost impenetrable Scots accent. She jerked a thumb at a beaded curtain behind the counter before he could answer. ‘She’s expecting you.’

Nightingale smiled his thanks and went through to the back room, where Mrs Steadman was sitting at a circular wooden table reading the Guardian. She took off a pair of blue-tinted pince-nez and smiled up at him. ‘Mr Nightingale, I was so happy to hear from you,’ she said. She was dressed in a black silk shirt buttoned up to the neck, around which was hanging a large silver crucifix on a delicate chain. She had a bird- like face with a sharp nose and she cocked her head to one side as she looked at him with inquisitive emerald-green eyes. Her grey hair was tied back in a ponytail and her wrinkled skin was almost translucent, but there was a youthful energy about her that made guessing her age difficult if not impossible. If Nightingale had been put on the spot he’d have guessed that Mrs Steadman was in her late sixties but he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that she was seventy or even eighty. ‘Would you care for some tea?’

‘That would be lovely,’ said Nightingale.

He took off his raincoat and sat down as Mrs Steadman made a pot of tea. She put the pot, a milk jug and blue-and-white-striped mugs on the table. A gas fire was burning in a black-leaded fireplace casting flickering shadows over the walls.

He passed her the Waitrose carrier bag. ‘A small token of my appreciation,’ he said.

Mrs Steadman smiled like a child who had been given an early Christmas present and she opened the bag and took out two books. He’d selected them from the library in the basement at Gosling Manor. ‘Oh really, Mr Nightingale, you shouldn’t do this,’ she said, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. ‘They’re far too valuable to give away.’

‘I know you’ll appreciate them, Mrs Steadman,’ he said.

‘You’ve made my day,’ she said. She put the books down and poured the tea. ‘But I get the feeling that you didn’t come all this way just to give me some books. As much as I do appreciate the gift.’

Nightingale felt his cheeks redden, as though he was a naughty schoolboy who had been caught out in a lie. ‘I need some advice, Mrs Steadman.’