Nightingale knew that they needed an ambulance but his self-preservation instincts kicked in and he realised that it would be a bad idea to make the 999 call on his own mobile.
‘Does anyone have a mobile?’ he shouted.
‘Downstairs,’ said Miller.
Nightingale turned around to talk to Joanne. ‘Joanne, are you okay?’
She nodded and pushed herself up, using the wall to steady herself.
‘Get downstairs now and phone an ambulance. Tell them it’s a throat wound with heavy bleeding.’
Joanne hesitated and looked over at Miller.
‘Joanne, go!’ shouted Nightingale.
As she moved by them and pulled up the hatch, Miller ripped a piece from the bottom of his robe and thrust it at Nightingale. ‘Will this do?’
Nightingale took it and folded the material into a pad. He looked at Martin. ‘Listen to me, Martin. I’m going to need you to take your hands away, just for a second.’ He held the wad of material in front of the man’s face. ‘Then I’m going to press this against the wound. It’ll do a better job of stemming the blood flow.’
Joanne pushed the ladder down and lowered herself out of the attic. Nightingale gave her a quick look. She was scared and she was in shock but she was in control of herself. The last thing he needed was for her to run out of the house without calling for an ambulance. She caught his look and flashed him a nervous smile and he realised she was okay.
Nightingale looked back at Martin. His eyes were glassy and he was breathing quickly and shallowly, like a cornered animal. His hands were drenched in blood and there was bloody froth pulsing from between his lips. ‘Swallow, Martin,’ said Nightingale. ‘Get the blood out of your mouth.’
Martin did as he was told.
‘Good man,’ said Nightingale. ‘Now, I’m going to count to three. When I get to three I need you to take your hands away. I’ll press this dressing against the wound and then you can put your hands back and hold it. Do you understand?’
Martin nodded fearfully.
‘Good man. One, two, three.’ When he said ‘three’ Nightingale used his left hand to loosen Martin’s grip, and as the hands moved away Nightingale slapped the wad of material against the wound. Martin’s hands scrabbled to hold the cloth in place. ‘It’s okay,’ said Nightingale. ‘Just stay calm.’
Ronnie crawled over. ‘Is he okay?’ He was breathing heavily and his face was florid.
‘We think so,’ said Miller.
‘Can I help?’
‘Can you go down and make sure that Joanne’s called the ambulance?’ said Nightingale.
Ronnie grunted, crawled over to the hatch and climbed down the ladder.
Nightingale looked over at Miller. ‘That thing that appeared,’ he said. ‘Has that ever happened before?’
Miller shook his head. ‘Never.’
‘Any idea what it was?’
‘A demon,’ said Miller. ‘No doubt about it. But it wasn’t anything to do with what we did. We don’t summon devils, we talk to spirits.’ He put his hand on Martin’s shoulder. ‘He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?’
Nightingale could hear the desperation in Miller’s voice. ‘He’ll be fine,’ he said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. He looked at Martin. The man was in shock, his eyes wide and staring. Nightingale put his face closer to the injured man’s. ‘Listen to me: you’re going to be all right. If a major vessel had been cut you’d be dead already. Breathe slowly, swallow what blood you can and be calm. You can get through this. Don’t try to speak, just blink twice if you understand.’
The man blinked twice, a look of fear in his eyes.
‘There’s an ambulance on the way. Just don’t panic. It looks and feels a lot worse than it is. That cloth is stemming the blood flow, so just concentrate on not choking and you’ll be okay. Understand?’
Martin blinked twice.
‘Make sure that he keeps the pressure on, firm but not too firm,’ Nightingale said to Miller. ‘The ambulance won’t be long.’
‘You’re sure he’s going to be okay?’
‘If you keep the pressure on, he’ll be all right. He’s lost a pint or so of blood, but he can spare that. I’ve seen worse.’
Miller nodded but Nightingale could see that he didn’t believe him.
‘How did you do that?’ asked Miller. ‘How did you get that thing to go away?’
‘I’ve had some experience of dealing with them,’ said Nightingale. ‘The words I used are what you say to send back a devil that you’ve summoned, so I just hoped it would work for an unwanted visitor. I was lucky.’
Miller nodded. ‘We all were.’ He shuddered.
The ladder rattled and Ronnie appeared. He’d taken off his mask and robe. ‘The ambulance is on its way,’ he said. He pulled himself up into the attic.
Nightingale stood up. ‘I’m off,’ he said.
‘You’re not staying?’ said Miller.
‘The cops and I aren’t on good terms at the moment. It’s best they don’t know I was here.’ He clapped Miller on the shoulder. ‘Sorry about this.’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ said Miller.
Nightingale left them to it, knowing that Miller was wrong. It almost certainly was his fault. He lit a cigarette as he left the house and walked towards his MGB. As he climbed into the car he heard a siren, heading his way.
48
Nightingale drove back to Bayswater, parked his car in his lock-up and was heading back to his flat when he remembered that he didn’t have any beer left in his fridge. He walked along to the Prince Alfred pub and ordered a Corona. The barmaid was just putting the bottle down in front of him when his mobile rang. It was Duggan.
‘Colin, did you get it?’ he asked before Duggan had the chance to speak.
‘Yeah, I’m fine, thanks for asking,’ said the policeman. ‘Where are you?’
‘In the gym, lifting weights.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Nah, I’m in the pub. The Prince Alfred in Queensway. Opposite Whiteleys.’
‘Don’t go anywhere.’
‘You’ve got it?’
‘Trust me, it won’t be a social call.’
‘I’ll have a pint waiting for you,’ said Nightingale.
‘Yeah, make it a latte, skimmed milk if they’ve got it.’
Duggan arrived half an hour later, as Nightingale was finishing his lager. He waved over at a pretty Australian barmaid who was wearing one of her national rugby team’s shirts. ‘Another Corona and a milky coffee,’ he said.
‘Latte,’ growled Duggan. ‘Skimmed milk.’ He was wearing a heavy overcoat and a red wool scarf, and both were flecked with rain. ‘Bloody weather.’ He took off his scarf, shook it, and undid the buttons of his coat. He frowned as he looked at Nightingale. ‘You look like shit, Jack. Seriously.’
‘Thanks, mate.’
‘If I didn’t know you better I’d think you were using.’
‘Using? Drugs?’
‘You’ve got the eyes of a smack-head. Really.’
There was a mirror behind the gantry and Nightingale bent down and peered at his reflection. Duggan wasn’t exaggerating. He looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week.
‘Yeah, much better,’ sneered Duggan.
