‘It feels like for ever.’
‘It is. In the Nowhen everything is for ever.’
‘What’s happening to me?’
‘Nothing. Nothing can happen in the Nowhen.’
‘I don’t understand any of this. Am I dead?’
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘What?’
Reality, or what passed for reality in the Nowhen, flickered. Nightingale was sitting at a table and Mrs Steadman sat across from him, holding a teapot.
‘Would you like some tea?’ She was dressed in black: a glossy silk shirt over black knitted tights and a string of black pearls around her neck. She smiled at him and nodded like a pecking bird. ‘It’s still hot. The tea.’
‘Thank you,’ said Nightingale. He looked around. They were in the room behind her shop in Camden. Except he knew that was impossible.
‘This isn’t real, is it?’ he said.
Mrs Steadman smiled benignly. ‘Is anything real?’ she said.
‘Where am I? Where is this place?’
‘You’re asking me to describe something that can’t be described,’ she said. ‘You don’t have the terms of reference.’
‘But I’m dead?’
‘There is no dead, Mr Nightingale. When you hit the ground, you died. Then. But you are still alive before you fell.’
‘I didn’t fall. I jumped.’
She smiled. ‘That’s right. You jumped.’
‘And now I’m — what? A ghost?’
‘No. You’re not a ghost.’
‘I’m not really here, am I?’
Mrs Steadman looked around the room. ‘Here? No, you’re not here. But I am. I just thought this might be easier for you.’
‘What’s happening, Mrs Steadman?’
‘What’s happening? Well, your future is being discussed. Of course in the Nowhen there is no future as there is no past and no present, so the choice is either to leave you where you are or to come to a mutually acceptable decision. You see, you’re an anomaly, Mr Nightingale, and the universe really doesn’t like anomalies.’
‘How am I an anomaly?’
‘Because you sold your soul, Mr Nightingale. Even though I warned you about getting involved with the Darkness, you went and sold your soul.’ She wagged an admonishing finger at him. ‘You should have listened to me.’
‘Why are you talking to me? Who sent you?’
‘Someone has to explain to you what’s happening, and it was felt that any explanation was better coming from someone you know. And hopefully someone you can trust.’
‘And who decides what happens to me?’
‘Negotiations are taking place,’ she said.
‘Between who?’
‘Between those who want you to burn in Hell for eternity, and those who think you deserve a second chance.’
‘And is that possible? A second chance?’
She smiled and nodded. ‘It has happened before, yes.’
‘And when will I know?’
Mrs Steadman shrugged. ‘You’ll know when I know,’ she said.
Reality, or what passed for reality in the Nowhen, flickered again.
Nightingale was alone.
Time passed.
Or didn’t.
He had no way of telling.
87
‘Are you happy now, Nightingale? Is that what you wanted? An eternity of nothingness?’
Nightingale didn’t recognise the voice, but then strictly speaking there was no voice to recognise. He didn’t actually hear the words; they were simply there.
‘Who is that?’ said Nightingale, except that he didn’t say anything. It wasn’t even a thought, truth be told. Just a feeling, a vibration in the nothingness that was the Nowhen.
There was a flash of light and then he was standing on a windswept cliff looking out over an ocean; the waves were flecked with white froth and dark storm clouds were gathering overhead.
‘Your soul was supposed to be mine, Nightingale. Mine to do with as I want.’
Nightingale turned round. It was Lucifuge Rofocale, wearing his crimson jacket with gold buttons and gleaming black jodhpurs. He was holding a black riding crop and he swished it from side to side as he glared up at Nightingale with blood-red eyes.
‘I know that,’ said Nightingale. ‘We had a deal. This has nothing to do with me.’
‘You never said you were going to kill yourself for the girl.’
‘That’s not what happened,’ said Nightingale. ‘I wanted to save her. And I did.’
Lucifuge Rofocale stamped his foot. ‘You sacrificed yourself for her and now look what’s happened.’ He raised the riding crop as if he was about to strike Nightingale across the face and sneered when he saw Nightingale flinch.
Nightingale raised his hands to protect his face. ‘It wasn’t planned,’ he said.
‘Planned or not you’ve screwed everything up.’
‘So take my soul and have done with it,’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t care any more.’
‘Don’t you understand? It’s not my decision any longer. It’s out of my hands.’
‘This isn’t my fault,’ said Nightingale. ‘We had a deal. You kept your end of the bargain and I did what I had to do. I had no idea it was going to end up like this.’ He looked out across the sea. ‘Whatever “this” is. I still don’t understand what’s happening.’
Lucifuge Rofocale glared at Nightingale. ‘This was what you intended all along,’ he growled. ‘You tricked me.’
‘I didn’t,’ said Nightingale.
‘You knew that if you went back and died to save the girl then all bets would be off.’
‘I’m not as smart as that. I just did what I had to do.’ He patted his pockets, looking for his pack of Marlboro.
Lucifuge Rofocale cackled and waved his crop, and a lit cigarette appeared between the index and second fingers of Nightingale’s right hand.
Nightingale stared at the cigarette in disbelief, then raised it to his mouth and inhaled gratefully.
‘I don’t know what’s going to happen, Nightingale. I don’t know who’s going to get your soul. But I know one thing as surely as if it was carved in stone. I will make your life, or what passes for your life, a misery for all eternity.’
Nightingale blew smoke. ‘Sticks and stones,’ he said.
Lucifuge Rofocale roared and shimmered and there was a loud crack and a rancid stench, then something huge and scaly loomed over Nightingale. A massive claw whipped out, just missing his stomach but ripping through his sleeve. The monster’s jaws opened and Nightingale saw rows of sharp teeth and a forked tongue covered in purple scales, and then a wave of foul-smelling smoke washed over him.
