at the entrance to the basement, but it was shut and there was nobody there. He took another deep breath and continued to read. ‘Deus servo vos. Hic illic est tantum pacis quod diligo. Adeo mihi quod sermo. Adeo mihi iam. Deus est vigilo nos. Nusquam nocens can venio. Adeo mihi iam. Adveho.’ He finished reading and closed the book as he stared at the mirror.
There was still no reflection, just slowly swirling smoke. Then something moved. A shape.
Nightingale wasn’t sure what to do. He squinted at the mirror. The smoke seemed thicker now, and it was becoming greyer, like a fog rolling in from the sea. The shape was moving forward, through the smoke. Nightingale gripped the book with both hands, so tightly that his fingers began to ache.
‘Sophie?’ he said. ‘Sophie, is that you?’
The smoke was darkening, black around the edges, grey in the middle. The shape stopped. It was a figure, but Nightingale had no sense of its size.
‘Sophie, it’s Jack,’ said Nightingale.
The figure began to move again, towards the glass. Nightingale could make out long blonde hair and pale skin, and he could see something hanging from the figure’s hand. Even though he couldn’t see it clearly, Nightingale knew what it was. A doll. A Barbie doll.
‘Sophie, can you hear me?’
The figure took another small step towards the glass. Nightingale could make out her shoes. Silver trainers with blue stars on them.
‘Sophie, it’s Jack.’
‘Please help me, Jack.’
The voice took Nightingale by surprise and the book tumbled to the floor. He stared at the mirror. Sophie was about three feet away on the other side of the glass, smoke swirling around her. He couldn’t make out what she was standing on or what was behind her. There was just her, and the smoke. She was wearing the same white sweatshirt and blue cotton skirt that she’d had on when he’d seen her on the balcony. Before she fell to her death.
‘I’m cold, Jack,’ she said. ‘I’m so cold.’ She had her head down so that he couldn’t see her face. She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
‘Where are you?’ asked Nightingale.
She sniffed again. ‘I don’t know.’
Nightingale took a step closer to the mirror. Except it wasn’t a mirror any more. There was no reflection. It was a window, a window into Sophie’s world, wherever that was.
‘Jack, please help me.’ Her voice was hoarse. Muffled.
‘I want to, honey, but I don’t know what to do.’
Tears were running down Sophie’s cheeks.
‘What is it you want me to do, Sophie?’
‘Help me.’ She clutched the Barbie doll to her chest and buried her face in its long blonde hair.
‘You have to tell me what to do, honey.’
‘Can you hug me?’
‘Hug you?’
Her body was trembling. ‘It’s cold here. Can you hold me?’
Sophie shuffled closer. Her head was still down so that Nightingale couldn’t see her eyes but tears were glistening on her pale skin. Nightingale reached out with his right hand and touched the glass. Even though his fingers were pressed against the mirror there was still no reflection. ‘Sophie, I don’t know how.’
She slowly raised her head and stared at him with tear-filled eyes. ‘You can hug me if you really want to,’ she said.
Her eyes were jet black. He’d never noticed that before. He frowned as he tried to remember that day when he’d seen her on the balcony at Chelsea Harbour. Had he seen her eyes? Were they black? He couldn’t recall.
‘Please, Jack,’ she said. ‘I’m so cold.’ She shivered, then hugged the doll to her chest.
Nightingale put his left hand against the glass, next to his right. He splayed out his fingers. ‘I can’t, Sophie.’
‘You can, Jack, if you want to. But you really have to want to.’
She dropped the Barbie doll. Nightingale felt suddenly dizzy as he flashed back to the moment when Sophie had slid off the balcony. Her hair had whipped around in the wind as she’d fallen to her death, still clutching her doll. And Nightingale’s stomach lurched as he remembered the sound she’d made as she hit the ground: a dull wet thud followed by complete silence. Nightingale’s frown deepened. Sophie had fallen thirteen storeys to her death, smashing every bone in her body. But the little girl in the mirror looked fine. There were dark patches under her eyes and her hair was streaked with dirt but she didn’t appear to be injured.
Nightingale opened his mouth but before he could say anything Sophie took a step towards him and put her hands up against her side of the mirror. ‘Please, Jack, you have to help me.’
Nightingale gasped as he felt the palms of her hands press against his. Her skin was warmer than the glass, but only just. Her hands moved slowly, her fingers pushing his fingers apart until they were fully interlinked.
‘Please, Jack,’ she said. Her voice sounded more assertive, Nightingale realised. Harder. And deeper. She pulled his hands towards her.
Nightingale stared into Sophie’s eyes. They were completely black. He couldn’t see where the irises end and the pupils began. They seemed bigger than when he’d first seen her. And narrower. Almost reptilian.
‘Come to me, Jack,’ she said.
‘Sophie,’ began Nightingale, as he tried to pull his hands back. She was too strong and she grinned as she pulled him towards her. Her teeth were sharp, like fangs, and her gums were dark blue. Nightingale pulled harder but her nails dug into his flesh and she grinned in triumph as she dragged him closer. She began to laugh, a deep, throaty roar that made the glass vibrate. Her mouth was bigger now, the teeth longer and sharper; her eyes were wider and her hair was moving around her face as if it had a life of its own. Nightingale opened his mouth to scream but before any sound could leave his mouth something flashed over his shoulder and smashed into the mirror, breaking it into a thousand shards. He fell back, arms flailing, and slammed into the floor as bits of glass rained around him.
26
‘You stupid prick!’ shouted Wainwright, staring down at Nightingale, his eyes blazing. ‘Didn’t you listen to anything I said?’
Nightingale looked up at him but had trouble focusing and he blinked several times.
‘Do you have any idea of the risks you’re taking?’ shouted Wainwright. ‘How stupid are you, Nightingale?’
‘I’m not feeling too bright at the moment, that’s for sure,’ said Nightingale. He touched his face gingerly. ‘Am I bleeding?’
‘Bleeding is the least of your worries,’ said Wainwright. ‘I told you: you can’t mess around with these things. They’re not toys.’ He saw the book by Nightingale’s feet and he picked it up. He looked at the spine and wrinkled his nose in disgust. ‘What do you think magic is, Nightingale?’ He held the book up. ‘This isn’t a cook book, with recipes that you follow. It’s a way of handing down knowledge from one generation of practitioners to the next. It’s not a do-it-yourself guide for amateurs.’ He tossed the book onto the top of a display cabinet.
‘It worked,’ said Nightingale. ‘I saw Sophie.’
The American sneered. ‘You’ve no idea what just happened, have you?’
‘You smashed a fifty-grand mirror,’ said Nightingale. ‘That much I know.’ He held up his hand. ‘Help me up, yeah?’
Wainwright shook his head, sighed, then grabbed Nightingale’s wrist and hauled him to his feet. Bits of glass tinkled to the floor. Nightingale brushed his raincoat with his hands but winced as a splinter of glass speared his left thumb. He pulled it out and sucked on the wound.
‘You’re an idiot, you know that?’ said Wainwright.
