‘Many happy returns, Nightingale.’ She blew him a kiss and turned to go.
‘Wait!’
She stopped and looked at him over her shoulder. The dog growled, hackles rising. ‘Do not try my patience, Nightingale,’ said Proserpine, her voice deeper now and more menacing.
‘My sister?’
Proserpine shook her head. ‘Not my problem.’
‘My father sold her soul, too.’
‘Not to me.’
‘To whom, then?’
Proserpine laughed. It was a deep, booming sound that echoed off the house and reverberated around the garden. Nightingale shivered. ‘Who gets my sister’s soul?’ he shouted.
Proserpine winked at him. ‘Unless you want to put your eternal soul on the table, you’ve got nothing left to bargain with, Nightingale. We’re done. Catch you later.’
She walked away, the dog following in her footsteps. She waved without looking back. Then reality shimmered, bent in on itself, and they vanished. The wind gradually died down and the trees stopped whispering. The mist had cleared and he could see the gardens again. Two of Mitchell’s heavies were standing by a willow tree close to the perimeter wall, scratching their heads. One was holding a leash but there was no sign of his dog.
Nightingale took out his packet of Marlboro and lit a cigarette. He held the smoke deep in his lungs and relished the feel of the nicotine entering his bloodstream, letting him know that he was still alive. He blew a smoke-ring towards the moon, and smiled to himself. ‘That went well,’ he muttered. ‘All things considered.’
77
There were five candles spaced around the circular table and Nightingale lit them one by one. ‘Very romantic,’ said Jenny.
‘If you don’t take this seriously, I’ll do it myself,’ said Nightingale.
‘How can you use a ouija board yourself?’ said Jenny, scornfully. ‘The whole point is that it’s a joint effort.’
Nightingale went up the stairs, switched off the lights and came back down into the basement. He had found the ouija board in the bottom drawer of Gosling’s desk. It was made of oak that had cracked with age, the words ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ in the top corners and the letters of the alphabet embossed in gold in two rows across the middle. Below the letters were the numbers zero to nine in a row and ‘Goodbye’.
The planchette was made from ivory or bone, cool to the touch and as smooth as marble. He had put the board on a circular table in the middle of the basement with a crystal vase containing freshly picked flowers and a crystal glass of distilled water. He had placed the five large church candles around the table. He took a small bowl of sage and sprinkled it onto the burning candles, then smudged some over the board and the planchette. He had also prepared bowls of consecrated salt and lavender, which he sprinkled over the board before taking two high- backed wooden chairs and putting them together at one side of the table. He waved for Jenny to sit down. ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ she asked.
‘We won’t know until we try it,’ said Nightingale, taking his seat. ‘Come on, sit down. It won’t bite.’
‘I wish I had your confidence,’ she said, and sat. She looked at the candles. ‘Shouldn’t we have a protective circle or something?’
‘This isn’t about raising demons,’ said Nightingale.
‘That’s right,’ said Jenny. ‘All we’re doing is talking to the recently departed.’
‘Relax,’ said Nightingale.
‘That’s easy for you to say,’ said Jenny. ‘Why the salt and herbs and stuff?’
‘It’s what you’re supposed to do.’
‘And the flowers and the glass of water?’
‘Spirits love flowers and water.’
‘What about the ones with hay fever? Or the ones that died of rabies?’
Nightingale looked at her sternly. ‘You’ve got to take this seriously or it won’t work,’ he said. ‘The table has to be free of all negative energy or the spirits won’t come.’
‘It’s a kids’ game, Jack.’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘I’ve read some of Gosling’s books on it, and it’s deadly serious,’ he said. ‘Over the years it became a game, a bit of a laugh, but the ouija board is a genuine way of conversing with spirits.’ He reached over and took her hands. ‘Close your eyes,’ he said.
‘You’ve got to be joking.’
‘Jenny, just do as you’re told. If nothing else, do it to humour me.’
Jenny closed her eyes. Nightingale began to speak, clearly and loudly so that his voice echoed around the basement. ‘In the name of God, of Jesus Christ, of the Great Brotherhood of Light, of the Archangels Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, Uriel and Ariel, please protect us from the forces of evil during this session. Let nothing but light surround this board and its participants, and let us only communicate with powers and entities of the light. Protect us, protect this house, the people in this house, and let there only be light and nothing but light. Amen.’
He squeezed her hand. ‘Amen,’ she said.
They opened their eyes. ‘Now, this bit is important,’ said Nightingale. ‘You have to imagine that the table is protected with a bright white light. First you imagine it coming down through the top of your head and completely surrounding your body. Then push it out as far as you can go. Can you do that?’
‘I’ll try,’ said Jenny.
‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘Now we put our right hands on the planchette. If anything goes wrong, we move the planchette to “Goodbye” and we say it firmly. Then I’ll recite a closing prayer.’
Jenny took her hand off the planchette. ‘What might go wrong?’ she said.
‘A malicious spirit might try to come through, that’s all.’
‘Oh, that’s all?’ she said.
‘Jenny, it’ll be fine, just trust me. Now put your hand back.’
Jenny slowly reached out with her right hand and touched the planchette.
‘Now visualise the white light. Okay?’
Jenny nodded.
Nightingale took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. ‘We’re here to talk to Robbie Hoyle,’ he said.
The candle flames flickered.
‘Robbie, are you there? Please talk to us.’
Jenny looked around the basement, then back at Nightingale. ‘Jack…’
Nightingale ignored her. ‘It’s Jack, Robbie, and Jenny. Are you there? We need to talk.’
He took another deep breath, then exhaled slowly.
‘This is a waste of time,’ said Jenny.
‘I have to try,’ said Nightingale. ‘He said he knew something about my sister.’
‘He’s dead, Jack. Robbie’s dead.’
‘I know that.’
‘So this isn’t going to help.’
Nightingale glared at her, then looked up at the ceiling again. ‘Robbie? Robbie, are you there?’
Jenny was just about to take her fingers off the planchette when it twitched. Her mouth opened in surprise.
Nightingale smiled. ‘Robbie,’ he said, ‘is that you?’
The planchette slid slowly across the board until its point was resting on ‘Yes’.
