He tried to blow smoke-rings but the wind whipped them away before they’d left his lips. The smoke-ring was a good analogy for life, he thought, or a metaphor. He was never sure what the difference was. Jenny would know – he’d ask her next time he saw her. Whether it was an analogy or a metaphor, the smoke-ring was like a human life. It came from nothing, existed for a short time and then was gone. Gone for ever.
Nightingale hadn’t thought much about his own death before he had met Sebastian Mitchell. Death was something that happened to every living thing. That much he knew. It was part of the process. You were born, you lived, and then you died. But even when his own parents had been killed in a senseless car accident, death had been something that happened to other people. He’d watched Sophie Underwood fall to her death from the apartment block in Chelsea Harbour, and he’d grieved for her but it hadn’t made him think about his own mortality. Robbie Hoyle’s death had been a shock but Nightingale hadn’t imagined himself in his friend’s place. During his years as an armed police officer, he’d been in situations where death was just a bullet away, but he’d never felt vulnerable. Mitchell had shown him what lay ahead for him even if he avoided bullets, looked both ways when he crossed the street, kept away from high places and wore his seatbelt every time he got into his car. If you lived long enough, you died anyway. That was the one simple fact about life. At some point it ended. Mitchell looked as if he didn’t have more than a few weeks to live. Then he would die and that would be it. And as Nightingale had looked at the old man, gasping and wheezing and coughing up blood, he had grasped that one day he, too, would die. It was a horrible feeling, like a cold hand gripping his heart and squeezing. He’d never see Jenny again. Never drink a bottle of Corona or a good malt whisky. Never enjoy feeling the wind in his hair as he drove the MGB with the top down.
He took a long drag on his cigarette and held the smoke deep in his lungs. He’d never smoke another cigarette, smile at a pretty girl, eat a bar of chocolate. The world would go on, nothing would change, but he wouldn’t be part of it. And he wouldn’t be dead for a week or a month or a year. It wasn’t like an illness when you went to bed and then you got better. Death was for ever. For ever and ever. Until the end of time, except that there was no end. You were dead for ever and Nightingale didn’t want to die and he didn’t want to be dead.
He shivered and gazed up at the clear afternoon sky, blue and cloudless. He didn’t want to die but that didn’t matter: it was going to happen, whether he liked it or not, sooner or later.
He flicked what was left of his cigarette into the stream. He shivered again and turned up the collar of his raincoat. There was no solution to what was troubling Nightingale. All he could do was accept the inevitable – that one day he would die. He looked up at the sky again. All the talk of his soul being sold to the devil didn’t really worry him. He didn’t believe in the devil and he didn’t believe in souls. But he did believe in death, and that was what truly scared him.
He walked back to the pub. It was just after three o’clock and the lunchtime trade had gone. Two pensioners in cloth caps were sitting in a corner, one with a terrier asleep at his feet. Nightingale nodded at them as he went up to the bar. The publican was a jovial fat man with slicked-back hair, wearing a collarless shirt and red braces. ‘Afternoon, squire, what can I get you?’ he asked.
Nightingale thought of asking for a Corona but decided against it. He wanted something with more of a kick. ‘A Bell’s,’ he said. ‘With ice.’
‘On the rocks, as our American cousins like to say.’ The publican pushed a glass against the optic. ‘You’re not from around here.’
‘Just visiting a friend,’ said Nightingale, as the man raised the glass against the optic a second time. ‘Just a single, I’m driving.’
‘It’s happy hour,’ said the publican. ‘Buy one get one free. BOGOF.’ He put the glass in front of Nightingale. ‘Be happy.’
‘Do I look happy?’
‘You look morose,’ said the publican. ‘But everyone does these days. With three million unemployed, house prices halving, the pound in a slump, there’s not much to smile about. Which is why we’ve got the happy hour. We’re doing our bit.’
Nightingale raised his glass to him. ‘Cheers,’ he said. He sipped his whisky, reached into his pocket for his cigarettes and put the packet on the bar. ‘Every time I have a drink, I want to smoke. Reflex action,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ said the publican. ‘Still can’t get used to not being able to smoke in my own bloody pub. I lost half my trade when the ban came in. The bloody nanny state, it is.’
‘And for what?’ said Nightingale. ‘It doesn’t save lives because everyone dies. Even if you never smoke a single cigarette in your whole life, you still die.’
‘It’s not about saving lives, it’s about controlling the way we live,’ said the publican. He helped himself to a brandy and clinked his glass against Nightingale’s. ‘You know, if we’re not careful, the bastards’ll be banning alcohol next. Then where will we be?’
‘Do you ever think about the meaning of life?’ Nightingale asked, as he swirled the ice around his glass.
‘It’s the number forty-two, innit?’ said the publican. ‘According to that movie, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Whatsit.’
‘The galaxy,’ said Nightingale. ‘Nah, forty-two was the answer to the ultimate question. It wasn’t the meaning of life.’
‘Ah, well, now you’re asking,’ said the publican. ‘The meaning of life? It’s got to be kids, right? That’s all you leave behind, other than your debts. Your kids. Your DNA.’ He leaned forward. ‘My advice to you, have lots of sex and produce lots of kids. That bin Laden chappie, you know how many kids he’s got? Twenty-six. Twenty-bloody-six. Doesn’t matter who you are or what you do, good or bad, it’s your kids that live on. Your kids and their kids and their kids’ kids.’ He jutted his chin. ‘I’ve got four, and three grandkids. Two of my lads moved to Australia and I don’t see them much, but that’s not the point. They’re the meaning of my life.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘You got kids?’
Nightingale shook his head. ‘Nah.’
‘There’s your answer, then. That’s why you’re morose. Kids give your life meaning.’ He grinned. ‘Mind you, they also suck it out of you, but that’s another story.’
Nightingale drained his glass and smiled. Maybe the publican was right. Maybe children were the answer. But it had been three years since he’d had a regular girlfriend and they weren’t part of his immediate game plan.
‘You’re going to hell, Jack Nightingale,’ said the publican, his voice cold and lifeless.
Nightingale’s glass slipped from his fingers and smashed on the floor. ‘How do you know my name?’ he said.
The publican frowned. ‘What?’
‘How do you know my name?’
‘Squire, I asked if you wanted another drink. There’s no need to start smashing my glasses.’
‘You said I was going to hell.’
‘You’re hearing things. I asked if you wanted a refill but it looks like you’ve had enough to drink already.’
Nightingale bent down to pick up the shards.
‘Leave it!’ said the publican. ‘Health and safety. Customers aren’t allowed to touch broken glass. The brewery’d have my job if they saw you do that.’
‘Sorry,’ said Nightingale. He reached for his wallet. ‘I’ll pay for the damage.’
‘Forget it.’
Nightingale held up his hands. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a rough couple of days.’ He took a step back, turned and left the pub. The terrier lifted its head and growled at him, then settled back on the floor.
56
Jenny was tapping away on her keyboard when Nightingale walked in. ‘There are some sick bunnies out there, Jack,’ she said.
‘Tell me about it,’ said Nightingale. He flopped onto his chair and raised his eyebrows expectantly. ‘Coffee?’