The woman smiled at him through the protective Perspex screen. ‘You’re going to hell, Jack Nightingale.’
‘What?’ said Nightingale, his fingers gripping the race card so tightly that his knuckles whitened. ‘What did you say?’ He knew what she’d said – he’d heard her quite distinctly. There was no mistake.
‘Win or place?’ said the woman.
Nightingale was sure he hadn’t misheard the first time – she hadn’t mumbled and had looked him right in the eye as she’d spoken. Her voice had been flat and cold, the voice of something not quite alive. But, like everyone else who had told him he was going to hell, she didn’t seem to be aware that she’d said it.
‘Win or place, young man,’ said the cashier. ‘I don’t have all day.’
‘Win,’ said Nightingale. Had he imagined it? Was his subconscious playing tricks on him? It had started with the dreams of Simon Underwood falling to his death, but maybe now his subconscious had decided that the dreams weren’t enough, that it wanted to torment him while he was awake. Or maybe he was going crazy.
The cashier handed him a betting slip and Nightingale walked away.
‘Jack, are you okay?’ Hoyle called.
Nightingale reached for his cigarettes. No, he wasn’t okay. He was a long, long way from it. He lit a cigarette but had taken only one drag when an official in a blazer tapped him on the shoulder and told him that smoking wasn’t allowed. ‘But we’re outside,’ he said, waving at the sky.
‘It’s a place of work,’ said the man. ‘Health and safety.’
‘It’s bloody nonsense,’ said Nightingale.
‘It’s the law,’ said the man. He had short, wiry hair and its dark brown hue was so uniform that it had to have been dyed. His cheeks were threaded with burst veins and he had the look of a former sergeant major hankering for the days when he could make life a misery for men who couldn’t answer back. ‘Don’t give me a hard time, sonny.’
‘You’re not going to tell me I’m going to hell, are you?’
‘I don’t have to use bad language,’ said the man, holding up a small transceiver. ‘All I have to do is call Security.’
Nightingale dropped the cigarette onto the ground, stamped on it and headed for the bar. He was about to order a beer but changed his mind and asked for a whisky instead. It had just arrived when Hoyle appeared at his shoulder. Nightingale handed the barman a ten-pound note and ordered Hoyle a glass of red wine.
‘What’s wrong, mate?’ asked Hoyle.
‘Nothing,’ said Nightingale. He downed his whisky in one gulp, and when the barman returned with Hoyle’s wine, he pointed at his empty glass and asked for a refill.
‘Clearly,’ said Hoyle. ‘Since when have you been knocking back the whisky like that?’
‘What’s happening to me, Robbie? My bloody life’s turned upside down in less than a week. My parents aren’t my parents. The man who was my father claimed he’d sold my soul to the devil. My uncle killed my aunt and himself and…’ He shook his head and picked up his glass.
‘And what?’
‘That message – the one my uncle wrote in blood. People keep saying it to me.’
‘They what?’
‘I keep hearing people tell me I’m going to hell.’
‘You’re under a lot of stress, that’s all. Have you heard me say it?’
‘No.’
‘That’s a relief.’ His face went blank and he stared at Nightingale. ‘You’re going to hell,’ he said, his voice a low whisper.
‘Screw you, Robbie. It’s not like that.’
Hoyle grinned. ‘Just trying to lighten the moment,’ he said.
‘Cheers, mate.’ Nightingale drained his glass.
‘But, seriously, you should lay off the booze,’ said Hoyle. ‘You were never a big drinker. Strictly amateur.’
‘I can drink you under the table,’ said Nightingale. ‘And look who’s talking! You’re a bloody wine drinker.’
Hoyle picked up his glass. ‘You’re just upset because you thought you were a Nightingale, but you turned out to be a Gosling,’ he said. ‘How the mighty have fallen.’
‘It’s not funny,’ said Nightingale. ‘My whole life has been a lie, Robbie. My parents lied to me from the day I was born. My uncle and aunt lied. Probably everyone I knew as a kid lied to me.’
‘They didn’t. lie to you, they just didn’t tell you the whole truth. There’s a difference,’ said Hoyle.
‘That’s lying by omission,’ said Nightingale. ‘Which is still lying.’
‘You were adopted. Loads of people adopt and don’t tell their kids. It’s just… simpler.’
‘Simpler? Or do you think that the fact they bought me from a Satanist might have had something to do with their reticence?’ Hoyle didn’t answer. ‘Anyway, can we change the subject?’ said Nightingale. ‘I’ve had it up to here with Ainsley bloody Gosling.’
Hoyle sipped some wine. ‘Jenny said business hasn’t been so good recently.’
‘She did, did she?’
‘She said it was a bit quiet, yeah.’
‘It’s a dry spell, that’s all,’ said Nightingale. ‘It happens. Peaks and troughs. Swings and roundabouts. Everyone’s cutting back because of the recession, so the corporate side is down – but divorce work’s up. We’re doing okay.’
‘I don’t know why you’re bothering with the marital-strife stuff. You’re better than that, Jack.’
‘Like I’ve got a choice.’
‘You were a great negotiator – the best. You should be working for one of the kidnapping insurance firms. Or in-house security for a multinational.’
‘The last guy I negotiated with exited through a twenty-storey window, let’s not forget,’ said Nightingale. ‘That doesn’t look great on the old CV.’
‘I’m serious,’ said Hoyle. ‘You’re better than this. You know you are. Two years in the wilderness is enough. It’s time to come back in.’
‘Maybe.’
Hoyle slapped him on the back. ‘You know I’m right, mate. Oh, one bit of good news for you. Your man Turtledove is the real McCoy, he’s been a solicitor for nearly forty years and there’s never been a complaint against him. So, whatever’s going on, it’s not a con. Now, come on, the next race is about to start.’
‘Do you believe in hell, Robbie?’
‘Who was it said that hell is other people?’
‘I’m serious,’ said Nightingale. ‘Do you believe in a place called hell?’
‘I’ve been to Harlesden, mate. That’s as close to hell as I ever want to go.’ Hoyle put his arm around Nightingale’s shoulders. ‘No, Jack, there is no such place as hell. You can trust me on that.’
Nightingale finished his whisky. ‘Let’s go see these dogs run,’ he said.
30
Joel McBride had thought long and hard before he decided to kill himself. He had no children, his parents were long dead, and most of his friends were his wife’s and he was sure they would side with her. McBride loved his wife and had done since the day they’d met, when she was a sales representative for a children’s books publisher and he had been working in the Trafalgar Square branch of Waterstones. She’d walked in wearing a short skirt and a low-cut top ready to extol the merits of her firm’s three new authors, and within an hour they were having coffee at Starbucks over the road. Two nights later they were in Leicester Square and on the next they were in bed together.
They had been married less than six months when McBride had injured himself. They had been on a riding holiday in Spain. His wife was a keen horsewoman but it had been his first time. His first and last. They had gone trekking through sand dunes, six holidaymakers and two girls from the stable, and had rounded off the afternoon with a gallop along the beach. The stable girls knew McBride was a novice and had told him to hold back, but he’d wanted to show off to his wife so he’d given the horse its head. It had been a combination of bad luck and bad judgement: the rein had snapped, McBride had fallen and the horse had trodden on him when he’d hit the sand. His spinal cord had been severed. The holiday insurance paid for the hospital in Spain and the flight back to London, but he had never walked again and never would.