Wainwright had been nearly frantic with worry and had wanted to drive straight back to Memphis, but Nightingale managed to dissuade him by pointing out that they would have no hope of finding the child if they left. ‘I sort of get the feeling that if Dudák has her, he’s not going to want to have anything happen while she’s hidden away,’ Nightingale had argued. ‘The whole idea of this plan is to cause you as much anguish as possible, so however this is meant to end, we’ll be around for it.’
‘That’s really not much consolation, Jack,’ Wainwright had said. ’For a start it’s pure guesswork, for another thing, there’s no way I’m gonna sit on my ass here for another two days on the chance they’re gonna send for me to watch my niece die.’
‘I said that’s what their idea is, I didn’t say we’d be going along with it. But we’re only human and we need to get our strength up, we need to eat, drink and sleep.’
‘Bullshit. You think I can sleep at a time like this?’
‘Neither of us will be any use to Naomi if we don’t. You know you can will yourself to sleep, so do it. And maybe sleep will bring a few answers.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Wainwright.
‘With a little luck, I’ll tell you in the morning.’
‘I wish I could believe that, Jack. But yeah, you’re right, we need to recharge our batteries. Take any bedroom you like, they’re all ready.’
By now, Nightingale had pretty much come to the conclusion that the house didn’t belong to Tyrone at all, but had probably been purchased through one of Wainwright’s many shell companies. He wondered how many more places Wainwright owned around the world, and how many of them were so clearly set up for the rituals of the Left-Hand Path.
The bedroom he chose was about twice the size of his last hotel room, with a massive bathroom complete with a roll-top bath with feet in the shape of a lion’s claws. The king-size bed had grey linen and a black and grey striped counterpane. The fitted wardrobes contained, on one side, a selection of robes covered in polythene and hanging from the rail, and half a dozen sets of pyjamas, still in their plastic bags. The other side held shirts, socks, underwear, jeans, sweaters, suits and jackets. All looking brand new, and in various sizes.
Against the wall opposite the bathroom door was a fridge, Nightingale opened it and saw that it was well stocked, though there was no Corona. Alcohol wasn’t a great idea under the circumstances but he figured he’d need something to ease him into sleep. He helped himself to a miniature of Glenfiddich and a glass from the tray on top of the fridge. He put his drink down on the nightstand to the right of the bed, then undressed as far as his boxers and slipped between the covers. He lit a final cigarette, sipped the whisky and tried to clear his mind. His body needed sleep, and it was important that he put all his current stress aside. He felt his eyelids growing heavy, so immediately stubbed out the cigarette, finished the drink with a gulp, and lay back on the pillow. He closed his eyes, visualised the colour light blue, and tried to relax every muscle.
Sleep came quickly, but it seemed only a few minutes later when his eyes opened as if of their own accord. His whole body felt as if it were being tugged towards the ceiling. He recognised the sensation, relaxed and allowed himself to float freely upwards, beyond the house, much more easily and quickly than last time, until he found himself again walking through a light morning mist, over damp grass, towards a familiar figure in black, sitting on a park bench, knitting some long shapeless red garment. This time, most of her silver hair was hidden under a black, woollen cap, and her black dress stretched to her ankles, leaving just the pointed toes of her black boots visible. He sat on the end of her bench, and stared into the greenest eyes he had ever seen. ‘Mrs. Steadman, and this time it really is you.’
She smiled reassuringly and nodded. ‘Of course it is, Mr. Nightingale. Look at me with your inner eye, disregard the outward appearance, and you will always know.’
He nodded. ‘I do know. I don’t know if it’s my inner eye, but there’s no mistake now. I don’t know how I was fooled last time.’
‘Oh dear, I have often warned you not to judge by appearances, you know. They can be so deceptive.’
‘Someone else told me that, quite recently. I think it’s something I need to work on.’
‘You do.’
‘This time was much easier, because you called me here.’
‘Yes, at your inexperienced level, it can be dangerous to come here alone, your dreams and memories can be used against you.’
‘They were, and I nearly got lost. But why have you called me here? You said you couldn’t help.’
She bowed her head, as if ashamed. ‘I know, and I feel rather bad about that. I thought I couldn’t help, yet now I find I must help. And yet there is so little that I can do. Oh dear.’
‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
‘Let me try to explain.’ She put down her knitting, put her hands in her lap, and looked him full in the face. ‘It seemed at first that this whole unpleasant episode was being directed against you in revenge for your interference in someone’s affairs. Rather like when the Order Of The Nine Angles wanted revenge on you. Not something which I could be involved in, as it might be thought to be redressing The Balance, and I have no authority in such matters. But now I have learned, from a quite remarkable source that I cannot share with you, that there is far more to it than that. There are forces at work here that must be stopped. As you know, I can only act if the order of things is threatened from outside, and now it seems that it is.’
Nightingale had no idea who Mrs. Steadman’s ‘remarkable source’ might be, He had always assumed that she knew pretty much everything, but he kept quiet, as she went on.
‘What is happening is rather more complex than just that horrible Dudák creature using its power to have children kill themselves, and feed off them.’
‘So you know about Dudák then?’
‘Yes, I recognised what was happening. I have encountered it before.’
Nightingale frowned. That was surely not possible, if Dudák had been trapped in a cave in Hamlin for eight hundred years. Mrs. Steadman couldn’t be more than seventy. Could she? Conversations with her always seemed to raise more questions than they answered.
‘But, as I say, there is far more to it than just Dudák’s foul habits, and a desire for revenge. Far more and far worse, and you must stop it.’
‘But you’re not telling me what it is.’
She clenched her tiny fists on her knitting needles. ‘That’s the worst thing about it. I cannot explain to you what is happening. It is not permitted. But you must stop it.’
Nightingale opened his hands and spread the palms. ‘I’m lost, Mrs. Steadman. How can I stop whatever it is, if I don’t know what or how?’
She pressed her lips together, and closed her eyes. Whether she was just thinking, or communicating with someone, Nightingale couldn’t tell. Eventually her bright green eyes flew open, and were staring at him again. ‘You must find Dudák and destroy it,’ she said.
‘How?’
‘You have killed demons in human form before. Destroy the host.’
‘But I can’t find it. My crystal was shattered when I tried.’
‘The pink one?’
Nightingale nodded.
‘Oh dear. I wonder how that could have happened...unless...yes, yes, of course. A shame, that crystal was perfectly in tune with you. It will be a long time before you find another as good. But you can find Dudák by simpler means. Look within yourself, and you will already know where to find it.’
Nightingale paused and thought. ‘I think I may know who, but where is harder. The last time, I was given a sign.’
‘Oh, of course,’ said Mrs. Steadman, her green eyes flashing. ‘How stupid of me to forget. Hold out your hand.’
Nightingale did as he was told, Mrs. Steadman turned his left hand palm downwards and picked up one of her knitting needles. She drew it across the back of his hand, and where it touched, the flesh opened into cuts that oozed blood. It was the shape of a pan pipe. ‘Dudák’s sigil,’ she said. ‘As you get close, it will burn.’
Nightingale winced.
‘It hurts?’ asked Mrs. Steadman.
‘A bit,’ he said. Actually it hurt a lot. A hell of a lot.
‘The pain will intensify the closer you get to your quarry,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry about that, but you may well find that it is the least of your worries. But there is more.’
‘Destroying Dudák isn’t enough for me to have to worry about?’
‘It would be, but it is not the most important thing at all. It is absolutely vital that you save the girl, Naomi Fisher. At all costs, literally at all costs, she must not be allowed to kill herself on June 26. The consequences are unthinkable.’
‘But you’re not allowed to tell me what they are?’
She bowed her head, but said nothing.
‘You’re not making this easy for me, Mrs. Steadman,’ said Nightingale.
‘I am sorry,’ she said. ‘But I have done all I can. Good luck, Mr. Nightingale. And do be careful,’
She waved her hand at him, and Nightingale watched as the mist round his feet rose up to hide her from view, then covered everything, so he couldn’t see at all. Then, slowly, a blinding light burnt the mist away and shone straight into his eyes.
He woke up, the morning sun streaming through the opened curtains. He lifted his left arm and stared at the back of his left hand. The flesh was still singed and the sigil was red now and raised and it hurt like Hell.