‘You take care,’ she called after him.
‘You too,’ said Nightingale. He smoked as he walked, deep in thought. That was twice now that he’d heard someone tell him he was going to hell. The constable at Gosling Manor, and now the girl with the dog. Was he imagining it? It was what Simon Underwood had screamed in the dream, just before he went through the window. But that had been a dream, or a nightmare, and now he was wide awake, albeit a bit drunk. ‘Maybe I’m just going crazy,’ he muttered to himself.
‘We’re all crazy,’ said a gruff voice.
Nightingale jumped. A homeless man was sitting in the doorway of a hardware shop, nursing a bottle of cider. He was in his sixties with long grey hair, a straggly beard dotted with crumbs, and wads of newspaper tied around his legs with string.
‘The whole world’s gone crazy,’ he said, waving the bottle at Nightingale. ‘God’s abandoned us and the Lord Jesus doesn’t care any more. They’re letting us wallow in our sins until the end of days.’
‘Sounds about right,’ said Nightingale. He took out his wallet, gave the man ten pounds and carried on down the road.
18
Nightingale hadn’t lied when he’d told Jenny he wasn’t going to drive. And he’d meant what he’d said about wanting some fresh air, even though the first thing he’d done when he’d left the wine bar was light a cigarette. Neither had he been lying when he’d told the girl in the shop doorway that he didn’t know where he was going. So far as he was concerned, he was doing just as he’d said he would: taking a walk while he collected his thoughts. But his subconscious had other plans for him. It took him to his car, and thirty minutes later he was driving through east London, and ten minutes after that he was parking outside the graveyard where his parents were buried and wondering why he had never visited since the funeral.
He climbed out of the MGB and locked the door, then stuck his hands into the pockets of his raincoat and walked towards the ivy-covered stone arch that led into the churchyard. The house where he had been brought up was a mile from the weathered grey stone church but the only time he had been there was for the funeral. His parents had never shown any interest in religion and Nightingale had been surprised to discover that they had bought the twin burial plot just three years before their untimely death. They had been crushed in their car by a petrol-tanker. Later the driver had sworn he hadn’t seen the red traffic-lights or their car. He hadn’t been drinking, he’d tested negative for drugs and his tachometer showed that he’d only been driving for four hours before the accident. The coroner put it down to a fatal lapse in concentration and the driver ended up serving two years in prison for causing death by careless driving. It was just one of those things, everyone had said at the funeral and the reception afterwards – Nightingale’s parents had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
There was a wooden gate set into the arch and it creaked as Nightingale pushed it open. A black-painted sign topped with a cross announced the name of the church, that the vicar was the Reverend T. Smith and that there would be a bring-and-buy sale in aid of the church roof restoration fund the following Wednesday.
It was starting to get dark and there were no lights on inside the church. As Nightingale followed the path to the right of the building a halogen security light clicked on, illuminating the graves to his right. A second light came on as he continued to walk, and elongated shadows writhed over the gravestones. The stained-glass windows were covered with wire mesh and there was anti-climbing paint on the drainpipes. Nightingale suspected that local thieves had more to do with the need to restore the roof than simple wear and tear.
His parents’ graves were at the far end, close to the boundary wall and shaded by a spreading willow tree. There was a single black marble headstone with the names William and Irene Nightingale, their dates of birth and the date they’d died, and above them, optimistically, ‘Living together in eternity’. It was the first time Nightingale had seen it. At the funeral there had just been a hole in the ground, Astroturf strips over the pile of earth ready to be shovelled back in. He had been nineteen and if someone had asked back then whether he believed in God he’d have laughed scornfully and probably refused to answer. If he was asked the same question now, fourteen years later, the laugh would be more ironic and he still probably wouldn’t bother to answer.
He looked down at the grave. ‘Funny old world, innit?’ he said aloud. In the distance an owl hooted. The two security lights clicked off. There was an almost full moon overhead and the sky was clear of clouds so there was enough light to see by. A cold breeze from behind made him shiver so he turned up his coat collar and put his hands back in his pockets. His right hand found his cigarette lighter and he held it like a talisman. ‘Why did you never tell me you weren’t my real parents?’ he said softly, to the gravestone. His breath feathered in the cold night air. ‘I wouldn’t have loved you any less. You’ll always be Mum and Dad to me, no matter what.’
The owl hooted again. Nightingale sighed. What he was doing made no sense to him. He didn’t believe in ghosts, he didn’t believe in an afterlife, and he sure as hell didn’t believe that he could talk to his long-dead parents. ‘This is crazy,’ he said. ‘I’m crazy. The whole thing is crazy.’ He took out his lighter and the packet of Marlboro and lit a cigarette. ‘I know, I smoke too much,’ he said. ‘And I drink. I’m a big boy now.’ He took a deep lungful of smoke, held it, then exhaled slowly, aiming at the marble headstone. ‘Did you know Gosling? Did you know he was my real father? Is that why you never said anything? Is that why you never told me I was adopted?’
High overhead a passenger jet was moving across the night sky, its red and green navigation lights flashing. Nightingale gazed up at it, rubbing the back of his neck with his left hand. He could feel the tension in the muscles, the tendons as taut as steel cables.
‘Can I help you?’ asked a voice.
Nightingale started. His left foot slipped on the grass and he stumbled sideways. His arms flailed as he fought to keep his balance and he cursed loudly. He turned to see a middle-aged vicar in a cassock, with a brass cross around his neck. He seemed as shocked as Nightingale was. ‘You almost scared the life out of me,’ said Nightingale, patting his chest.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the vicar. ‘I thought you’d heard me walking along the path. I wasn’t exactly on tiptoe.’ He had the look of an ex-boxer, with a squarish jaw and a slightly flattened nose. While he was a good six inches shorter than Nightingale he was heavy-set and had thick forearms that bulged through his clerical garb. His light grey-brown hair was receding, and while he studied Nightingale with unflinching pale blue eyes, his smile was that of a kindly uncle.
‘I was… deep in thought,’ said Nightingale. ‘Miles away.’
‘I saw the lights go on and we’ve had a lot of problems recently,’ said the vicar. ‘When times are good, we have vandalism most weekends, but when they’re bad it’s all we can do to keep the lead on the roof.’
‘I’m sorry, I guess I shouldn’t be here,’ said Nightingale. He pointed at the grave. ‘My parents. I wanted to…’ He shrugged. ‘Actually, I’m not sure what I wanted.’
‘You’re not a regular at my church, are you?’
‘I’m afraid not. Sorry. A lost sheep.’
‘No one is ever truly lost,’ said the vicar. ‘The shepherd will always welcome you back.’ He extended his hand. ‘Timothy Smith.’
Nightingale shook it. ‘Jack Nightingale.’
The vicar looked at the headstone. ‘Fourteen years ago,’ he said. ‘How time passes.’
Nightingale peered at the man, but his face wasn’t familiar. He didn’t remember much about the funeral. He’d sat on a hard pew next to his aunt and uncle and after the service, when they were outside, Uncle Tommy had shown him how to drop a handful of earth into the grave. It had been muddy and he hadn’t been able to bring himself to clean his shoes for at least a month. But he couldn’t summon the face of the man who had conducted the funeral, or recall anything he’d said. ‘You knew my parents?’
‘Of course,’ said the vicar. ‘They were regular churchgoers.’
‘Not while I was at home,’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t remember them taking me.’
The vicar nodded. ‘They’d been coming for about a year before they died.’
‘I would have been at university,’ said Nightingale. ‘It’s funny, I never knew they were religious.’
‘People tend to turn more to the Church as they get older,’ said the vicar. ‘As they become aware of their own mortality, they start looking for solutions.’
‘Lifelines?’ said Nightingale.
