‘So, tell me, what do you want to do with the money?’ said the bank manager, running the fingers of his right hand along the bundles.
‘I’d like to open an account with you, convert this to pounds and pay it into the account, then use that account to continue paying the mortgage my father took out. Does that make sense?’
Collinson nodded.
‘I’ll get my accountant to give you a call to arrange any paperwork.’
‘We’ll need a copy of your passport, two recent utility bills, and a reference from your current bank,’ said Collinson.
‘Easy peasy,’ said Nightingale.
‘Will you be planning to sell more of your father’s books, Mr Nightingale?’ asked the bank manager.
‘Possibly,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m going to draw up an inventory and see what there is.’
‘They must be very interesting volumes,’ said Collinson. ‘Perhaps you could show me some time.’
‘They’re an acquired taste, Mr Collinson,’ said Nightingale. ‘I wouldn’t have thought they’d be of much interest to you.’
Next door to the bank an optician was offering free eye tests and fifty per cent off all frames. A young woman in a white coat with long black hair tied back in a ponytail was standing behind the counter, showing a range of frames to a housewife with two small children. There was an eye-test chart behind her and Nightingale read the letters all the way down to the bottom line. He’d always had perfect vision. A buzzer sounded as he pushed open the door and went inside.
64
Nightingale was already at his desk when Jenny walked into the office. He had his feet on the desk, his keyboard on his lap, and was staring intently at his screen. ‘You’re in bright and early,’ she said, then noticed the bottle of whisky next to the overflowing ashtray. ‘Or did you not go home last night?’
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ said Nightingale. ‘You okay?’
‘I had new locks fitted to the doors and windows and Banhams are putting in a motion-sensor alarm system later this week.’
‘They won’t be back, Jenny. They only wanted the diary.’
‘I’d feel more secure.’ She took off her coat and hung it on the back of the door. Nightingale picked up the whisky and took a long swig. ‘What’s wrong, Jack?’
‘Why should anything be wrong?’
‘It’s half past eight in the morning and you’re drinking whisky.’
‘Do you believe in hell, Jenny?’
‘Of course not.’ She sat down opposite him and moved the whisky out of his reach.
‘Because?’
‘Because how can there be a place called hell? Where would it be? We’re mapping the universe and there’s nowhere that hell could be. It can’t be a planet or a star or a black hole.’
‘So you don’t believe in heaven either?’
‘As a place, of course not. Angels sitting on clouds playing harps. How ridiculous is that?’
‘So when we’re dead, we’re dead, is that it? Just nothingness? The great abyss?’
‘Life will go on, whether I’m here or not, so it’s not blackness. What’s wrong, Jack?’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘I guess I want to know what happens when we die, and it’s the one question no one can answer. That’s the paradox, isn’t it? We all die, it’s the one thing we have common, yet no one knows what it really means.’
‘It depends on what you believe, Jack. Some people truly believe that when they die they go to heaven. Others believe they’ll be reborn, that our time here is just part of a process.’
‘Reincarnation?’
‘I guess. Atheists think there’s nothing. We’re born, we live, we die, it’s over.’
‘Which is pretty depressing.’
‘You think hell is a better alternative?’
‘Oh, Jenny, I don’t know. I don’t know what to think any more.’
‘You think it might be true? You’re starting to believe that Ainsley Gosling sold your soul to the devil.’
‘To a devil. Proserpine. I’m sure he did, yes. Or, at least, I’m sure he believed he did. The big question is, do I have a soul to sell? Is the soul something tangible that can be traded? It’s nonsense, right? There’s no such thing as a soul.’
‘Are you asking me or telling me, Jack?’
‘That’s the thing, isn’t it? We can talk about it until the cows come home but we’ll never know for sure.’
‘That’s what makes us human,’ said Jenny. ‘We’re the only animal that knows it will die one day. No other creature thinks about death.’
‘But most of us do everything we can not to think about it,’ said Nightingale, ‘because it’s the scariest thing imaginable.’
‘Life is what you should be thinking about,’ said Jenny. ‘Enjoy it while you have it. Relish every moment. Every second.’
‘But one day it’ll be over.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe?’ echoed Nightingale.
Jenny shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Jack – I don’t know any better than you. But I have a gut feeling there’s more. That’s all it is, a gut feeling. Jack, what’s brought this on? Has something happened?’
‘You’re not religious, are you?’
Jenny smiled. ‘No, but religion has nothing to do with life after death, has it? You can believe in that without believing in God. Maybe we just move on to something else.’
‘Like what?’
Jenny sighed. ‘I have no idea, Jack. Nobody does.’
‘That’s the point, though, isn’t it? If there was something else, wouldn’t those who have passed on come back and tell us what lies ahead? Why didn’t my mum and dad? The last time I saw them they were on the doorstep, waving me off to university. Then, bang, they’re killed in a car crash. If there was life after death, wouldn’t they have come back to say goodbye? Just to let me know that everything was okay?’
‘Sometimes people do get messages from beyond, don’t they? And lots of people say they’ve seen ghosts.’
‘Have you?’
‘No,’ admitted Jenny.
‘And neither have I. And my parents died suddenly and violently, and so did my aunt and uncle, and if you believe what you read, those are the most likely circumstances to produce a ghost. I got nothing from them, Jenny. Not from my mother and father and not from my aunt and uncle. They died and that was the end of it.’ He sighed. ‘You know, when I buried my mum and dad, I expected to feel their presence at the funeral but there was nothing. Just the coffins.’ He reached for the whisky but didn’t make it.
‘Maybe they couldn’t come back. Maybe that’s not how it works,’ said Jenny, picking up the bottle. ‘I’ll make you a coffee.’
‘And what about my so-called genetic father? He died violently but I haven’t seen him floating around. He left me a DVD apologising for what he’d done, and you’d think he might have come back and apologised in person. Or in spirit. And if there is life after death, don’t you think he’d get in contact and tell me what to do? And what about Robbie? Remember the message he left on my phone? He had something to tell me, something important.’
Maybe it’s a one-way journey with no coming back. Like caterpillars.’
‘Caterpillars?’
‘Caterpillars spend their lives crawling over leaves until one day they turn into a chrysalis and then the chrysalis bursts open and there’s a butterfly. Now, does the caterpillar know that one day it’ll be a butterfly? I doubt
