97
Nightingale shivered as he walked into the church. Mrs Steadman was in the front pew, her head bent forward. As he sat down next to her he realised that her eyes were closed and her hands were clasped together in her lap. He sat with her in silence, looking up at the figure of Jesus in the stained-glass window. He’d smoked a cigarette in the alley outside the church but he already craved another. He tried to remember how many Marlboro he’d smoked during the night as he’d finished drinking the bottle of vodka. Ten? Twenty? He’d gone out just after midnight and bought two packs from an all-night supermarket in Queensway.
Mrs Steadman sat back and opened her eyes. ‘It is done,’ she said, and it sounded more like a statement than a question.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘I’m not sure it’s something that deserves to be thanked.’ He slid his hand into his raincoat pocket and pulled out the leather roll. He weighed it in his hand, then passed it to her.
‘You did a good thing, Mr Nightingale. You saved a lot of lives.’
Nightingale shivered again. ‘I need to know something, Mrs Steadman. When the Shade died, would Bella’s soul still be around?’
‘I’m not sure I understand you,’ she said. She slid the roll of knives into a shapeless black bag on the floor between her legs.
‘I was in my flat, afterwards. There was an Ouija board on the table and the planchette moved. It went to GOODBYE. I wondered …’ He shrugged, not wanting to finish the sentence. His head ached. It had been a long time since he’d suffered from a hangover, but then it had been a long time since he’d last demolished a whole bottle of vodka.
Mrs Steadman smiled and patted him on the arm. ‘She would be moving on from the Nowhen. She must have stopped by to let you know that everything was okay. You helped her, Mr Nightingale. And she would have been grateful for that.’
Nightingale sighed. He ran a hand through his hair and stared at the altar. ‘I’m not sure that I can live with what I’ve done, Mrs Steadman.’
‘You did the right thing, Mr Nightingale.’
‘Even so.’ Nightingale shrugged.
‘I might be able to help.’
‘Help?’
‘I could make you forget. It would be as if it never happened.’
‘But it did happen.’
Mrs Steadman nodded. ‘Yes, it did. And because it happened the world is a better place. But I can take away the memory.’
Nightingale forced a smile. ‘You can do that?’
‘I can do pretty much anything I want,’ she said. ‘Providing my motives are pure.’
‘And my friend Robbie. Robbie Hoyle. He’s a detective. He knows what I did and he’s a cop so it puts him in a very difficult position. And Jenny. I think it’s best that she doesn’t remember, either.’
Mrs Steadman nodded. ‘I can do that, too. I can remove the memory of what happened for you and for your friends.’
‘Then I think I’d like you to do that,’ he said.
She tilted her head on one side. ‘It’s done,’ she said.
‘You’re an angel, Mrs Steadman.’
‘So they say, Mr Nightingale. So they say.’