‘What do you want, Sophie?’
Sophie whispered to her doll. Nightingale took a long drag on his cigarette.
‘You’re here to help me, aren’t you?’ Sophie asked.
‘That’s the plan.’
‘But you can’t, can you?’
Nightingale rubbed the back of his neck and his hand came away wet with sweat. ‘I don’t know, Sophie. I don’t know what to do; I don’t know what to say. Can you tell me?’
Sophie shook her head. ‘I don’t know either.’
Nightingale felt something cold run down the small of his back and he shivered.
‘Jack?’
He looked over at her. ‘What?’
‘Could I just go with you now? Could you take me inside? Will that fix it?’
Nightingale smiled. ‘I don’t think it will. No.’
‘Because I’m dead?’
Nightingale nodded.
‘I don’t want to be dead, Jack.’
‘So what do you want, Sophie? Tell me what you want.’
A single tear rolled down her cheek. ‘I want to be alive, Jack. I want to take back what I did. I thought I wanted to be dead but now I don’t. And only you can help me. Only you.’
‘Sophie, I don’t know how,’ said Nightingale.
‘You said you could help me, remember? You said we could go inside and talk about it. You said that you could help me and you said “cross your heart”, do you remember?’
Nightingale smiled sadly. ‘I remember, Sophie.’
‘So help me now. Cross your heart and help me.’
‘It’s too late. There’s nothing I can do.’ He put the cigarette to his lips.
‘No one can help me, then,’ said Sophie. She lifted her doll, kissed it gently on the top of its head, and then slid off the balcony without making a sound.
Sophie’s skirt billowed up around her waist as she fell. He leaned forward and reached out with his right hand even though he knew there was nothing he could do. ‘Sophie!’ he screamed. Her golden hair was whipping around in the wind as she dropped straight down, her arms still hugging the doll.
He closed his eyes at the last second so that he didn’t have to see her hit the ground but he couldn’t blot out the sound, the dull thump her body made as it slammed into the tarmac at terminal velocity. The cigarette fell from his nerveless fingers and he ran into the apartment.
There was an old couple sitting on the sofa, holding hands. Mr and Mrs Jackson. They stared up at him with blank faces. ‘Please help me, Jack,’ they said in identical flat, emotionless voices.
Nightingale hurried by them. There was a young uniformed constable standing at the doorway, his right hand touching the mic on his shoulder. The constable’s radio crackled but as Nightingale drew level with him his eyes misted over. ‘Please help me, Jack,’ he said. Nightingale pushed him out of the way and rushed along the corridor to the emergency stairs. He hurtled down the stairway. The cop shouted something after him but Nightingale was already out of earshot, taking the stairs two at a time.
He burst into the reception area, where a dozen paramedics and uniformed officers were all talking into their radios. Nightingale pushed through them. One of the men, a heavyset bruiser in a fluorescent jacket, grabbed Nightingale by the arm. ‘Please help me, Jack,’ he said, his voice a deep growl as he stared at Nightingale with unseeing eyes. Nightingale shook him away and ran out of the building, turning left towards the river.
Two female paramedics crouched over the little girl’s body. The younger of the two was crying. Four firemen in bulky fluorescent jackets were standing behind them. One was being sick, bent double and heaving, while another was wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his gloves.
Nightingale went over to the paramedics. The younger one looked up at him, her face glistening with tears. Her lower lip trembled, then her face froze and her eyes glazed over. ‘Please help me, Jack,’ she said, staring up at Nightingale, her voice a dull monotone. He elbowed her out of the way and knelt down beside Sophie. A pool of blood was spreading around her shattered skull. Her eyes were closed as if she was sleeping and the Barbie doll was still in her right hand. Nightingale reached out to stroke her hair but as he did so her eyes opened wide. ‘Please help me, Jack,’ she croaked, then she took a long slow breath that rattled in the back of her throat before she began to scream at the top of her voice. The scream turned into the ringing of his mobile phone and that’s when he woke up.
42
Nightingale groped for his phone and took the call.
‘Jack?’ It was an American voice. Joshua Wainwright.
‘Joshua, how’s it going?’ It was still dark outside and Nightingale squinted at his wristwatch. It was half past five. He groaned.
‘Sorry, man, did I wake you up?’
‘Nah, I had to get up to answer the phone anyway.’
‘Say what?’
‘English humour,’ said Nightingale, sitting up. ‘Where are you?’
‘New York,’ said the American. ‘Shoot, what time is it there?’
‘Half five in the morning.’
‘Man, I’m sorry. I lost track of the time with all the flying I’ve been doing.’
‘Not a problem, Joshua.’ He yawned and covered his mouth.
‘Are you okay? You sound a bit tense. I can call back.’
Nightingale rubbed his chin. ‘I’m okay. I just had a bad dream, that’s all. What’s up?’
‘Is it that girl? The dream?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Because it’s been on your mind, and problems have a way of making themselves known in your dreams.’
Nightingale sighed. ‘Yeah, so my assistant keeps telling me.’
‘I might be able to help,’ said Joshua.
‘Is that why you’re phoning? You’re not psychic, are you, Joshua?’
‘You mentioned her when I was round at your house. Doesn’t take much to put two and two together. No, I’m calling about the books. My team can be at your house today, if that’s okay. Late afternoon.’
‘Today?’
‘Yeah, I know it’s short notice but they’re heading back from Rome and they can stop off in the UK for a couple of days to work on the inventory.’
‘Okay, sure,’ said Nightingale. ‘Get them to call me on my mobile when they’re about ninety minutes away and I’ll be there to let them in. I haven’t had time to get any camp beds in, though.’
‘They can find a hotel,’ said Wainwright. ‘Now this Sophie thing.?.?. how determined are you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘How serious are you about contacting this girl?’
‘I’m still trying,’ said Nightingale.
‘That’s what I thought,’ said the American. ‘I hope you’re steering clear of dark mirrors.’
‘I tried a medium but he was a con artist.’
‘There’re a lot of them about, Jack. It can be tough separating the wheat from the chaff. But I can put you in touch with a group who might be able to help.’
‘I’m listening,’ said Nightingale.
‘The thing is, Jack, we’re talking about the dark side. Not as bad as the Order of Nine Angles, but they’re still on the side of the fallen.’
