91
Nightingale turned into the alley and saw the church ahead of him. He looked at his watch. He was ten minutes early. He took his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one, then walked back to the main street and window-shopped as he smoked. When he’d finished he tossed the butt into the gutter and headed back to the church. It was built of grey stone and appeared to be several hundred years old. It was hemmed in by much taller steel and glass office blocks that had been built around it over the years.
There was an arched oak door and next to it a noticeboard covered with plastic sheeting detailing the service times and announcing that there was a coffee morning every Saturday to which everyone was invited. There were black metal studs set into the door and heavy hinges and a large metal keyhole. Nightingale half expected the door to be locked but it swung open easily.
He stepped inside. The floor was large granite slabs and the walls rough stone. There was a Virgin Mary set into the stone to his left and to his right were wooden plaques containing the names of parishioners who had fallen during the two world wars. There were two lines of oak pews facing a small altar on which there was a brass cross, and to the left of the altar a wooden podium with a large Bible open on a lectern. Behind the altar was a huge arched stained-glass window, with Jesus putting his hand on the head of a young child.
The church was empty. Nightingale looked at his watch again. It was three-thirty. He looked back at the door.
‘Mr Nightingale?’
Nightingale whirled around. Mrs Steadman was sitting in the front pew on the right. He frowned. How had he missed her? She was wearing a black coat with the collar turned up and a black beret. She motioned for him to join her. He walked down the centre aisle, towards the altar. He wasn’t religious but he had a sudden urge to bow his head and make the sign of the cross on his chest. He shuffled along to join Mrs Steadman and sat down next to her. ‘I wasn’t sure that you would come,’ she said.
‘I said I would.’
‘Do you always do what you say you’ll do?’
‘I try,’ said Nightingale. He looked up at the stained-glass window. It was impossible to tell if the child that Jesus was blessing was a boy or a girl. ‘Why here, Mrs Steadman? Why a church?’
Mrs Steadman reached into a shapeless black leather shoulder bag by her side and took out a small leather roll, fastened with a braided leather strap. ‘These have to be handed over on hallowed ground,’ she said. ‘They must be returned the same way.’ Nightingale put out his hand to take the roll but Mrs Steadman moved it out of his reach. ‘Once taken, there is no going back, Mr Nightingale,’ she said. ‘You must understand that.’
‘I’m not sure that I do.’
‘The knives in the roll have an energy that needs to be controlled. That is why they have to be given on hallowed ground. Once they are in your possession that energy will start to wane. If you do not do what has to be done within a day, the knives will be rendered useless for ever. That must not be allowed to happen, Mr Nightingale.’
‘So it has to be done today?’
‘Within twenty-four hours. And the clock starts ticking from the moment the knives are in your possession.’ She undid the braided strap and unrolled the sheet of oiled leather. She lifted a flap to reveal the metal hilts of three knives. The two outer knives were about four inches long. The hilts were ornate spheres made up of a mesh of dozens of small crosses. The knife in the centre was about twice as long, and its handle was a crucifix with a figure of Christ on it. All three knives were pitted and blackened with age.
‘They’ve been used before?’
‘Several times,’ said Mrs Steadman.
‘I assumed that they would be left in the body,’ said Nightingale.
Mrs Steadman shook her head. ‘Oh no, Mr Nightingale. These are the only knives of their type. They have existed in this form for more than a thousand years.’ She took out one of the shorter knives. ‘These are for the eyes,’ she said. ‘They should be plunged in at the same time if that’s possible. If they have to be done one at a time then it needs to be done quickly. They have to be thrust in right up to the hilt.’
Nightingale nodded, trying not to think what it would look like to see the knives piercing a child’s eyes.
Mrs Steadman slid the knife back into its slot and took out the longer knife. It was made of copper, dull and mottled with age. She held it delicately, just under the crucifix, her fingers just touching the feet of the Christ figure. ‘This has to go into the heart,’ she said. ‘It must pierce the heart and go right through it. The blade must stay in the heart until the Shade dies.’
‘How will I know that the Shade is dead?’ asked Nightingale.
‘The Shade will die with the host,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘Once the host is dead, you are to remove the knives and return them to me. Do not clean them, just return them as they are. I will do what has to be done. Now, this is important, Mr Nightingale. There are words you must say at the moment you insert the third knife.’
‘Words?’
‘An incantation. In Latin. Do you speak Latin, Mr Nightingale?’
Nightingale smiled. ‘Sadly, no. I went to a comprehensive.’
‘You must say the incantation perfectly,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘And it cannot be written down. It must be said from the heart.’
‘Okay,’ said Nightingale.
‘You have to memorise it,’ she said. ‘Word for word. Now listen to me carefully.’ Mrs Steadman spoke for almost a full minute. ‘Do you think you can repeat that?’
‘There’s more chance of me growing wings and flying around this church,’ he said.
‘Then I’ll break it down into smaller sections,’ she said, ignoring his attempt at humour. ‘But this is important. As important as the placing of the knives. Without the incantation, the knives will not work.’
Nightingale nodded. ‘I understand.’
For the next fifteen minutes Mrs Steadman went through the incantation with Nightingale until he was able to repeat it faultlessly, even though he had no idea of the meaning of the words. Mrs Steadman said that it didn’t matter whether he understood it or not, the words themselves held the power. When she was satisfied, Mrs Steadman asked him if he was ready to accept the knives.
Nightingale felt suddenly light-headed and he took a deep breath and exhaled through pursed lips. ‘I guess so.’
‘I need you to be more positive than that,’ she said. She replaced the knife, flipped the flap back and carefully fastened the strap around the roll. ‘Now, are you ready, Mr Nightingale?’
Nightingale forced a smile. ‘As I’ll ever be,’ he said. He could see from the admonishing look on her face that his answer wasn’t positive enough so he nodded earnestly. ‘Yes,’ he said, more confidently. ‘Yes, I am.’
She nodded and handed the roll to him. ‘God bless you, Mr Nightingale.’