80
The doll tumbled over the side of the balcony but Sophie didn’t seem to have noticed. She was staring at Hoyle with wide eyes but she wasn’t moving and she hadn’t seen Nightingale dropping from the balcony above her. Hoyle cleared the railing and scrambled across the terrace just as Nightingale reached Sophie.
Sophie screamed as Nightingale pushed her in the chest and she fell backwards.
Hoyle threw himself forward and caught Sophie under the arms. She slammed into his chest, knocking the breath out of him, and as he gasped he locked eyes with Nightingale.
81
Sophie fell backwards into Hoyle’s arms, her mouth open in surprise, as Nightingale’s chest thudded against the railing. His right arm was outstretched towards Sophie but he managed to catch hold of the railing with his left hand. He fell but jerked to a halt and the momentum almost wrenched his arm from its socket. He felt the skin scrape from his palm but there was barely any pain because of the adrenaline that was coursing through his body.
He heard screams from far below and one man’s shout sounded like he was telling people to keep back, but all Nightingale could think about was that Sophie was okay.
He smiled and then reached up with his right hand, gasping for breath. He managed to grab the railing and he tried to haul himself up but he didn’t have the strength so he just hung there, his face pressed against the balcony wall, breathing heavily.
82
‘Jack!’ screamed Hoyle. He had turned Sophie round so that her face was pressed against his chest; now, keeping a firm grip of her with his left hand, he reached out with his right. He didn’t want to let go of the girl but he couldn’t let his friend fall. His fingers touched the back of Nightingale’s left hand and he took another step forward, grabbing Nightingale’s wrist. ‘Hold on, Jack!’ he shouted.
Sophie was crying, her tears soaking into Hoyle’s shirt.
He felt Nightingale’s hand start to slip from the railing.
‘Jack, hold on!’ Hoyle yelled.
Sophie wrapped her arms around Hoyle’s waist. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, sobbing.
Hoyle reached out with his left hand, trying to grab Nightingale’s other wrist, but Sophie was in the way.
‘Jack, hold on, man!’ he screamed. He pushed Sophie down onto the terrace with his left hand. ‘Stay down, honey, just for a moment, please.’
83
‘Robbie, it’s okay,’ said Nightingale. He forced a smile. ‘It was always going to end this way.’
‘I’ve got you. I’ve got you,’ said Hoyle. As he grabbed at Nightingale’s right hand both Nightingale’s hands slipped from the railing. Hoyle grunted as he took all of his friend’s weight.
‘No, you haven’t, mate,’ said Nightingale. He could feel his wrists slipping through Hoyle’s fingers.
‘Jack!’ shouted Hoyle.
‘It’s okay, Robbie. Really. It’s okay.’ And Nightingale meant it because it really was okay.
‘No!’ Hoyle screamed.
Nightingale felt his left hand slip from Hoyle’s grip and then his right hand was free and he was falling backwards, away from the balcony.
He heard Hoyle scream and then all he could hear was the wind rushing past his ears. His arms and legs were pointing upwards and he suddenly realised how beautiful it was: pure blue sky and high overhead the white trails of jets flying to far-off places.
There’d be no pain, he knew that. When he hit the ground he’d be travelling at a hundred and twenty miles an hour and it would be over in a fraction of a second. He thought about counting or praying but he did neither; all he did was think about Sophie and Jenny and smile because by dying he was saving them and that was all that mattered.
He was right.
There was no pain.
He hit the ground and it was over in an instant.
84
There was nothing.
Time seemed to have stopped and yet not stopped.
Nightingale was there but not there.
He wasn’t even sure if he was Nightingale.
There was nothing to see, nothing to hear; he was just there and yet not there.
All his thoughts were there, and all his memories. But there was no emotion. No feeling.
Time passed.
Or maybe it didn’t.
He had no way of telling.
85
‘Nightingale?’ A voice, but not a voice. He didn’t hear it but someone had spoken. Not spoken, exactly. There weren’t words. More like feelings. Vibrations.
‘Who is that?’ said Nightingale, except that he didn’t say it. There were no words.
‘How quickly they forget.’ It was Proserpine.
‘Where are you?’
‘There is no where,’ she said.
‘Why can’t I see you?’
‘Because there is nothing to see.’
‘Where am I?’
‘No where. And no when.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘There is nothing to understand.’
‘Am I dead?’
‘Yes. And no.’
‘That doesn’t make sense.’
‘Because you don’t understand. Alive and dead supposes that there is change. And that supposes time, and
