‘I’m new to this, yes,’ Nightingale said. He gestured at the pentagram. ‘But I’ve learned enough to know that you use the pentagram to protect yourself when you summon devils, and that they appear in physical form. So tell me, have you done that? Have you ever called up a devil?’
‘Me? God, no. That’s not why I’m into this. Summoning up devils is totally different to what we do.’
‘But you’re Satanists, right? The same as Joshua.’
‘Yes, but saying we’re the same is equivalent to saying that a guy who plays football with his local team is on a par with a guy who plays in the Premiership. Trust me, there’s no one in our group that would even contemplate summoning one of the Fallen. We worship them, sure, and we source power from them, but I’m nowhere near strong enough to start summoning one.’
‘I get it,’ said Nightingale.
‘And if you’re considering it you need to be very careful. A friend of mine tried it a couple of years ago and she ended up in a mental hospital. She’s a shell; her mind was totally destroyed.’
‘Were you there when it happened?’
Miller shook his head. ‘When you do a deal with one of the Fallen it has to be one-on-one. That’s why it’s so dangerous. Any sign of weakness, or you drop your guard for a second, and they’ll rip out your soul. I can’t stress that enough: you don’t mess around with them. Someone like Joshua, okay, maybe, but the likes of me?’ He shuddered. ‘I wouldn’t even think about it.’
‘I hear you,’ said Nightingale.
Down below, the doorbell rang. ‘That’ll be the rest of the group,’ said Miller. ‘By the way, did you bring something belonging to the deceased?’
‘I couldn’t get anything,’ said Nightingale. ‘I did try.’
‘It’s not essential,’ said Miller. He went back down the ladder.
Nightingale walked around the purple cloth towards the far end of the attic. There were two old steamer trunks there, wooden with leather straps around them. They weren’t locked but the straps were held in place with brass buckles. Nightingale’s curiosity got the better of him and he knelt down and undid the straps of the trunk closest to him. The lid groaned as he pulled it open. It was full of chalices, bottles, and objects wrapped in cloths of various colours. There was a strong smell of incense and something bitter and acrid that made his eyes start to water. He picked up one of the cloth-wrapped bundles. It was a brass knife covered with runes, the handle in the shape of a goat’s foot, the blade serrated and with a sharp point. Nightingale re-wrapped the knife and put it back in the chest. On the left-hand side of the trunk were bundles of candles, mostly black.
He heard voices downstairs so he hurriedly closed the lid and fastened the buckles. He was standing by the small altar when Miller’s head popped through the hatch. He had changed into a long black hooded robe. He was holding a Marks amp; Spencer carrier bag and he took out a robe and handed it to Nightingale. ‘We all wear these,’ he said. Nightingale took off his raincoat and draped it over one of the trunks. As he was putting on the robe a second man appeared; he was in his sixties with a goatee beard and a black mask over his eyes and nose.
‘This is Martin,’ said Miller. Martin shook hands with Nightingale. ‘Martin is my second in command.’
‘His wing man,’ said Martin. He was wearing a large sovereign ring on his left hand and a bulky gold chain on his right wrist. Even the baggy hooded robe couldn’t conceal his expanding waistline; he was clearly a man who enjoyed his food and drink.
‘Hood up or down?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Up when we begin,’ said Miller. ‘Colour is a distraction so things have to be as dark as possible.’
A blonde head appeared in the hatch. A woman’s. Miller and Martin helped her up. She was in her forties and had dark eyebrows and a slash of red lipstick over lips that looked as if they’d been pumped full of fat from elsewhere in her body. She was plump and as she stepped into the attic her robe fell open, giving them all a glimpse of cleavage and of a small rose tattoo on her left breast.
‘Jack, this is Joanne,’ said Miller.
She offered her right hand as she adjusted her mask with her left. Her hand was pasty and white and there was a silver ring on each finger. Her nails were the same scarlet as her lipstick, long and filed to points. Her handshake was twice as firm as Martin’s and she maintained eye contact while she shook.
‘Are you going to be joining our little group?’ she asked.
‘Jack’s just here for a one-off,’ said Miller. He looked down the hatch. ‘Ronnie, are you okay?’
‘Coming!’ called a Scottish voice from downstairs. ‘Just using the bathroom.’
‘That’s Ronnie,’ said Miller. He lowered his voice. ‘Bladder like a marble.’
Nightingale adjusted the robe, which reached down to his ankles. It was made of a thick coarse material that scratched against his wrists, and around his neck there were small knotted cords that tied together to close it at the front.
Downstairs the toilet flushed and the final member of the group slowly climbed the ladder, grunting with each step. He was a big man with a mane of ginger hair. His mask barely covered his eyes and nose and there was a sprinkling of large freckles over all his exposed skin. He grinned at Nightingale and stuck out his hand. There were nicotine stains on his fingers and the nails were bitten to the quick. ‘You’re the new boy,’ he growled. His hand enveloped Nightingale’s but there was hardly any strength in the grip.
‘Just visiting,’ said Nightingale, resisting the urge to wipe his hand on the robe. He’d heard the toilet flush but hadn’t heard Ronnie wash his hands.
Miller went over to the trunk that Nightingale had opened. He bent down, unfastened the leather straps and took out a large black candle. He carried it over to the purple cloth and placed it in front of the altar. He said something in what sounded like Latin, and then pulled a lighter from inside his robe and lit the five candles at the points of the pentagram. He said something else in Latin, moved his left hand over the burning candles, then went over to the light switch and turned off the light. Light was still flooding up through the open hatch and he pulled up the ladder and closed it. With the only light coming from the five small candles and everyone dressed in black, all Nightingale could see was the smudge of faces and the white pentagram on the cloth.
‘Right, everyone, let’s prepare ourselves,’ Miller said, clasping his hands together as if about to say a prayer. He looked across at Nightingale. ‘Just follow my lead, Jack. Do as we do.’
Nightingale nodded and clasped his hands together.
Miller closed his eyes and lowered his head. He began to hum, the sound appearing to come from deep down in his chest. The rest of the group followed his example, all making the same sound. Nightingale closed his eyes and joined in, though he had to change the pitch of his hum several times until it matched the group’s. When he did get the pitch right he felt his stomach begin to vibrate with the sound and before long his whole body seemed to be tingling. The humming continued for several minutes and then as one they stopped. Nightingale opened his eyes but when he saw that everyone else still had theirs shut he closed them again.
Miller began to recite a Latin incantation. That went on for several minutes and then he began to hum again. This time the note seemed to be lower and Nightingale had trouble matching it.
‘Right,’ said Miller eventually. Nightingale opened his eyes and Miller smiled at him. ‘We don’t have anything belonging to the deceased, so I’m going to ask Jack to say a few words about her.’ He gestured at Nightingale and nodded encouragingly.
‘Her name is Sophie,’ said Nightingale. ‘Sophie Underwood. She was nine years old when she died. Her father had been abusing her, and her mother knew what was going on but did nothing to stop what was happening. I was with her when she died. She was on a balcony outside her apartment and she fell.’ Nightingale took a deep breath to steady himself. ‘I think Sophie has been trying to contact me. I’m hoping that you can help her tell me what it is she wants from me.’
‘We’ll do our best,’ said Miller. He slowly pulled the hood of his robe over his head and his face disappeared into the gloom. One by one the others did the same. With the hoods over their heads it was almost impossible to tell who was who.
Miller picked up the big black candle, lit it, and placed it carefully in the middle of the purple cloth. ‘Gather round, please,’ he said, and the group spaced themselves around the pentagram. Miller went over to the Marks amp; Spencer carrier bag and took out a piece of parchment and a pen. He carried them to the altar, where he wrote on the parchment, murmuring in Latin as he did so. When he held it in the air, Nightingale saw that he’d drawn an upside-down pentagram. Miller used his lighter to set fire to it over the brass bowl, holding it for as long as he could before dropping the ashes.
He walked slowly back to the carrier bag and took out a bottle of red wine. It had a screw top and as he
