The House On Gable Street (A Jack Nightingale Short Story) Page 6

  ‘I can do it, Nightingale.’ She held up her hand. ‘As easily as snapping my fingers.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ said Nightingale. Sarah was looking at him and waving. She took a step towards him, oblivious to the truck heading her way.

  ‘It’d be an easy death,’ said Proserpine. ‘Compared to cancer, say. Or dementia. Just a thud and then blackness.’

  The truck was about a hundred yards away. It was what the Americans called a semi or an eighteen-wheeler. It was moving quickly. The sun was reflecting off the windscreen so Nightingale couldn’t see the driver. It didn’t look as if the truck had any intention of slowing down and Sarah seemed to be still totally unaware of it.

  ‘All she has to do is to step into the road,’ said Proserpine. ‘Shall I snap my fingers, Nightingale?’

  ‘Don’t,’ said Nightingale. ‘She’s an innocent.’

  ‘No one is truly innocent,’ said Proserpine, her thumb pressing against her second finger. Her nails were jet black.

  ‘She hasn’t done anything wrong,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Don’t hurt her,’ said Nightingale.

  Proserpine smiled, her eyes amused at his distress. ‘Say please.’

  ‘Please,’ said Nightingale.

  He could hear the roar of the truck and he looked back at Sarah. She was still waving at him as she stepped into the road. At the exact moment her foot touched the tarmac, the truck vanished. Nightingale gasped and looked back at Proserpine. She had also disappeared. So had her dog. Sarah crossed the road towards him, an Undercover Agent paper bag in each hand.

  ‘Ten years ago, I’d have called the cops on you,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Got you committed for talking to yourself in public, that was before hands-free cellphones, these days you can’t tell whether someone’s talking to the boss or really is hearing voices.’

  Nightingale forced a smile. He’d have had to have taken his earphones out pretty quickly, but maybe she hadn’t been watching the whole time. They walked back in the direction of the car. ‘Maybe I am just hearing voices,’ he said. ‘What’s your take on what’s troubling the twins?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t have any idea. I’d put it down to some weird twin thing, if not for the temperature in the room. I’m just a simple Texas gal, never seen any ghosts or wanted to.’ She opened the car doors with the remote and they got in. She threw her bags on the back seat and started the car. ‘Get what you needed?’ she asked, as she threaded her way into the traffic.

  ‘Not sure I’m any further forward. What about you?’ he asked, jerking his thumb at the bags.

  ‘Hah! Not sure I need them the way things are, I’m not seeing anyone. Still. I like nice things, like the feel of them. How about you?’

  ‘Nah, I find the lace chafes my thighs.’ She shot him a puzzled look. ‘Joke,’ he said.

  ‘I got it. So are you married, seeing anyone?’

  Nightingale gave a wry smile, maybe one or two of Proserpine’s shots had hit home. ‘No, I tend to travel around quite a lot, anywhere that people are having problems. Doesn’t leave much time for dating.’

  ‘Yeah, sounds like nannying. Still, we’re young yet.’

  Time to change the subject, thought Nightingale. ‘Maybe. Tell me, what are the twins like to deal with?’

  ‘Just wonderful, easiest kids I’ve ever worked with. Except...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Except for the nights in the room. Doesn’t seem to make any sense, but it’s got Mary and Jimmy spooked. Me too. You think you can make it stop?’

  ‘I plan to do my best,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Great. Guess we all hope it’ll be good enough.’

  * * *

  Peacehaven lacked in catering to Nightingale’s preferred lifestyle, he had no criticism of the guest suite and its comforts. The two beers he’d enjoyed with his pizza helped him to nap soundly until just before six when he showered, dressed and went downstairs. He seemed to have the place to himself, so he wandered into what his map told him was one of the main drawing-rooms. It was huge, with floor to ceiling windows making up the whole of one wall. Brown leather sofas and chairs were dotted around a long low teak coffee-table and faced a giant screen hung on the wall. The rest of the room was dominated by a white grand piano. Its lid was closed, and judging by the family photos that stood there, it generally stayed that way.

  Nightingale took a look at them. Plenty of the twins, from shots in hospital cots, via christening to some taken in the grounds. Older ones of Mary with her family. She had a brother who looked to be around eight when she’d been twelve or so, in a posed shot with her parents. Her father was a hefty guy who looked uncomfortable in his suit, and was a couple of inches shorter than his wife, from whom Mary had obviously inherited her coloring and looks.

  That meant the other couple must be Jimmy’s parents, Tom and Cathy, he’d called them. Tom Deadman was in military uniform, his blond hair crew-cut, his blue eyes staring sternly at the camera, while his wife softened the pose with her smile. Deadman didn’t seem to have inherited any of his father’s military bearing, maybe he’d been too busy rebelling against it. Nightingale wondered what the man had made of his son’s choice of career.

  ‘He never knew,’ said Deadman, coming up behind Nightingale as silently as a cat.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were wondering what an Air Force Colonel thought of having an Occult Metal guitarist for a son?’

  ‘Actually, I was,’ said Nightingale.

  ‘Doesn’t take a mind-reader. Most people wonder, but like I said, he never knew. Neither of them did. Dad got through two tours in Vietnam without a scratch, then got promoted to fly a desk. When I was seventeen, they were driving home from some reception and a drunk driver wiped them out.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Nightingale. Every time he used the phrase in circumstances like this he felt how inadequate it was. But then what else was there to say? Dead was dead, no words would make a difference.

  ‘Sure,’ said Deadman. ‘It was a long time ago now, but they deserved better. They were good people.’ He paused and looked at Nightingale, then shook his head, as if to clear it.

  ‘You okay?’ asked Nightingale.

  ‘Yeah, just a feeling. You’ve lost people too, haven’t you Jack. Maybe your parents?’

  ‘That’s right, how did you know.’

  ‘I’m not sure I did,’ said Deadman. ‘Just a feeling. Sometimes I get feelings about things. Can’t explain why. Maybe it’s hanging round Eva-Lynn all those years.’

  He laughed. Nightingale smiled too, but he was remembering what Joshua had told him about Deadman. Could his ‘feelings’ have any bearing on what was happening to the twins? No way to tell yet.

  Nightingale told Deadman the results of his inquiries, which didn’t take too long, and also mentioned that Wainwright was sending Miller to help. As he said that, it occurred to him he should be asking Deadman’s permission, rather than just informing him, but Deadman didn’t seem at all put out.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I could ask Sarah to fetch him from the airport.’

  ‘Actually I’d rather go myself,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve got nothing planned for tomorrow afternoon, and I can bring him up to speed on the way back here.’

  ‘Fine, take a car. You still got the same plan for tonight?’

  ‘Yeah, Can’t see anything else we can try at the moment.’

  ‘I’ve rigged up an internet feed you can log on to. Look, Jack. I guess this could be your last shot at this with the kids around. Mary’s getting pretty frantic about exposing them to this, she won’t go for it again. She owns a place in Houston, and we’ll all be heading off there in the next few days.’

  ‘Can’t blame her,’ said Nightingale. ‘If that works, then it’s the simplest answer.’

  ‘It is, but I don’t like having to run from my own home. Funny thing, even with all this
going on, I feel like I belong here. Feel this is where I need to be. Can’t explain it. You ever felt that kind of a connection to a place?’

  Nightingale shook his head. ‘No, can’t say I ever have.’

  ‘Well, it’s a strong feeling in me, but it’s not strong enough to keep me here if it risks my family’s health and happiness. If I have to I’ll get this place pulled down and sell off the land for whatever I can get.’

  Nightingale said nothing, but wondered whether that might not be the best course of action all round. Unless whatever was haunting the twins decided to follow them wherever they went.

  * * *

  Another healthy dinner from Helen’s seemingly limitless repertoire of dishes no-one in their right mind would eat from choice, and Nightingale was ready for another vigil. The twins had been through bath-time, and this time he’d watched the whole performance, with Jimmy and Mary obviously enjoying the experience. The kids seemed like perfectly normal babies.

  ‘Cute kids,’ he said, as the toweling finished, and their parents diapered and dressed them.

  ‘Aren’t they though?’ said Jimmy. ‘Cute as buttons.’

  ‘I guess every parent thinks their kids are the most perfect in the world,’ said Mary. ‘We just happen to be the only ones who are right.’

  Nightingale smiled.

  ‘And apart from the night visits, there’s never been anything else to worry about?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ said Jimmy. ‘And in case you were wondering, they didn’t scream at their christening when the priest sprinkled holy water on them, and neither of them have 666 tattooed on them anywhere.’

  ‘Never thought they would have,’ said Nightingale. ‘Demonic possession’s strictly for the films.’ He had cause to know that wasn’t true, but it seemed pointless to worry the parents any further. Not yet, anyway.

  Jimmy and Mary carried the children to the nursery, settled them in their cribs, and Mary left. Jimmy took a book down from the shelf and spent ten minutes reading Red Riding Hood to them. His voice was soft and gentle, and even if Myrrh and Storm had no idea what he was talking about, they seemed to find it soothing, and were asleep before he finished. Nightingale had to make an effort not to drift off himself, but once Jimmy had finished, the two men went outside, gently closing the door behind them.

  There were two kitchen chairs in the corridor, one either side of the door. Jimmy had offered armchairs, but Nightingale didn’t want to risk getting comfortable and drifting off on his second night without sleep. Jimmy had insisted on joining him, which seemed to make Mary feel a little better about the whole thing, though she still had reservations. Both men had a flask with them, full-strength coffee in Nightingale’s case, heaven-knew-what in Jimmy’s. They also had a laptop each, tuned to the feed from the nursery cameras. It was only eight-thirty, so they settled in for a long wait. They swapped stories from their life history, Jimmy’s mostly about growing up in Florida, Nightingale’s about his days in Manchester and some stories from his time as a Police negotiator in London, though he gave away nothing from more recent years. Who’d believe it, anyway?

  It was eleven-thirty when Nightingale first noticed the temperature start to fall on the room thermostat, and seconds later, the mobile above Storm’s crib begin to move slowly, followed almost immediately by the one over Myrrh’s head. Jimmy spotted it too on his laptop. ‘Let’s get in there, Jack,’ he said.

  ‘Just give it a little longer, please,’ said Nightingale. ‘Wait until it looks like they can see something, then maybe we can see it too.’

  ‘Those are my kids,’ said Jimmy, getting up.

  Nightingale put a gentle hand on Jimmy’s arm. He wasn’t about to restrain the man, but he needed a few minutes more. ‘Please, just till they see something?’

  Jimmy nodded, and Nightingale took his hand away. They watched as the children opened their eyes, gurgled happily and got to their feet, staring at the space between the cribs. Nightingale nodded. ‘Okay, now.’ He opened the door slowly and silently and padded inside, his eyes adjusting to the glimmer of the nightlight, and his attention fixed on the point the twins were staring at.

  The cold struck him at once, followed almost instantly by a dreadful wave of panic. He was lost, completely lost, alone in darkness, terrified of something strange and awful, suddenly struck blind, his ears filled with an appalling screaming and nobody to care, nobody to help him, nobody...

  ‘Jack, Jack, you okay?’ Jimmy Deadman’s voice cut through the horror, as he shook Nightingale by the shoulder. Nightingale looked around him, Deadman was still holding his shoulder, the twins were sitting down in their cribs, smiling at each other. The temperature was climbing back to normal, and there was nothing else to see.

  ‘You okay, Jack?’ repeated Deadman.

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Nightingale. ‘Fine. I just sensed something when I came in. You see anything?’

  ‘Not a thing. As soon as we came in, the kids stopped staring and sat down. No panic, except maybe from you.’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said Nightingale. ‘Maybe I’m getting over-sensitive. Tell me, did you feel anything when you walked in?’

  Deadman thought about it.

  ‘Maybe I did,’ he said. ‘Loneliness. Fear. Almost as if I was lost and didn’t know what was happening to me. But only for a second or two, then it went. Do you think that’s what the kids were feeling, what made them...’

  ‘Okay, so have you achieved what you wanted?’ said Mary, walking into the room, a look of fury on her face. ‘Because that’s it as far as I’m concerned. I’m not putting them through that again. They’re sleeping in my room for the rest of the night, and tomorrow we’re driving up to Houston.’

  Jimmy looked at her and nodded. ‘Okay, honey, whatever you say. Sorry, Jack, the kids are out of it.’

  ‘You want me out of it too?’ said Nightingale. ‘I don’t like to give up, but if you’d rather I quit...’

  ‘Why don’t we all get some sleep, and talk about it in the morning?’ said Deadman. ‘This guy Miller is due in tomorrow, perhaps he’ll have something to say about it. I’m heading to bed.’

  Nightingale nodded. Whatever Jimmy and Mary decided, he still had people to talk to tomorrow, and needed to hear what Miller had to say. There was something badly wrong at Peacehaven, and he was pretty sure Wainwright would be wanting a real answer to it. In the meantime, catching up on some sleep looked a very good idea.

  * * *

  Breakfast was a quiet affair the next morning, since Mary and Sarah had risen early to start packing. Jimmy had given up on the juice and joined Nightingale in the pulses, grains and decaf soya-milk coffee-substitute. He picked at the food, and gave up on the drink after half a cup. He sighed and shook his head. ‘Could almost start smoking all over again,’ he said. ‘So, you’d like to stay on a while?’

  ‘I think Joshua would want me to see it through,’ said Nightingale. ‘Can I still borrow a car, I need to go into town.’

  ‘Sure. Help yourself.’

  ‘Cool, I’ll try not to bend one.’

  ‘You’ll need to pick up this Miller guy as well, I guess.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s on my list.’

  ‘I’ll probably be down in the studio when you get back. If the red light’s on outside, press the button, but don’t come in till it’s green. I probably won’t be doing anything too important, but it helps with stress, and I’ve got way too much of that at the moment.’

  They finished for what passed as breakfast and Nightingale headed down to the garage. ‘Garage’ was nowhere near an adequate description of the climate controlled, aircraft-hangar sized building where the car collection was stored. There were at least fifteen in there, ranging from a Corvette to an SUV, via Porsches and Ferraris, and, to Nightingale’s surprise and delight, an MGB convertible in British Racing Green, one that pre-dated the USA’s crazy old safety laws, so hadn’t been disfigured with the hideous large rubber bumpers at the front and back. The car was spotless
, its bodywork and wire wheels gleaming, and Nightingale felt a wave of nostalgia for the one he’d been forced to leave behind in London, though his own had never looked anywhere as good as this.

  He opened the door and eased himself into the driver’s seat, pulled out the choke, checked the gear stick was in neutral, pressed down the clutch and turned the key. The motor fired up straight away, another major difference from Nightingale’s own model, and the room was filled with the sporty roar of the old-fashioned British exhaust. It certainly sounded powerful, even though Nightingale knew it was probably the slowest car in the place. He left the engine running, while he went through the complicated ritual of folding down the convertible top, and snapping the tonneau cover into place, then resumed his seat and headed slowly for the main door, which opened before he reached it, courtesy of the sensor behind the sun-visor.

  He pulled out around the front of the house and down the drive to Gable Street, savoring the morning sun on his face and the breeze in his hair. This was driving the way it was meant to be, low down, feeling every bump of the road through the taut suspension, changing up and down through the gears with the smoothest possible clutch foot, the steering responsive to every twitch and the roar of the exhaust and tires almost deafening in the open cabin.

  And then it was over, and he was parking outside the White Horse café, turning off the motor and making his way inside. There were a couple of older women who might have been Margaret Shaw, but he deduced it was probably the ash-blonde woman in the green-rimmed glasses and striped sweater, probably because she was waving at him. He walked over and introduced himself.

  ‘Jack Nightingale, Mrs Shaw? How did you recognize me?’

  She nodded and smiled. ‘I figured the coincidence of an English accent on the phone and an old English car today was probably too much, and besides, you’re the only person in here I don’t know.’

  ‘Small town, eh?’

  ‘It is, at that. I’ll take another tea, please, Muriel. And for you, Mr Nightingale?’ Nightingale ordered straight coffee, and the waitress bustled off. ‘Shall we stay here and talk?’ she said. ‘It’s pretty quiet, and I’m sure you won’t mind not smoking for a while. It plays havoc with my allergies.’