Sophie was crying, her tears soaking into Hoyle’s shirt.
He felt Nightingale’s hand start to slip from the railing.
‘Jack, hold on!’ Hoyle yelled.
Sophie wrapped her arms around Hoyle’s waist. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, sobbing.
Hoyle reached out with his left hand, trying to grab Nightingale’s other wrist, but Sophie was in the way.
‘Jack, hold on, man!’ he screamed. He pushed Sophie down onto the terrace with his left hand. ‘Stay down, honey, just for a moment, please.’
83
‘Robbie, it’s okay,’ said Nightingale. He forced a smile. ‘It was always going to end this way.’
‘I’ve got you. I’ve got you,’ said Hoyle. As he grabbed at Nightingale’s right hand both Nightingale’s hands slipped from the railing. Hoyle grunted as he took all of his friend’s weight.
‘No, you haven’t, mate,’ said Nightingale. He could feel his wrists slipping through Hoyle’s fingers.
‘Jack!’ shouted Hoyle.
‘It’s okay, Robbie. Really. It’s okay.’ And Nightingale meant it because it really was okay.
‘No!’ Hoyle screamed.
Nightingale felt his left hand slip from Hoyle’s grip and then his right hand was free and he was falling backwards, away from the balcony.
He heard Hoyle scream and then all he could hear was the wind rushing past his ears. His arms and legs were pointing upwards and he suddenly realised how beautiful it was: pure blue sky and high overhead the white trails of jets flying to far-off places.
There’d be no pain, he knew that. When he hit the ground he’d be travelling at a hundred and twenty miles an hour and it would be over in a fraction of a second. He thought about counting or praying but he did neither; all he did was think about Sophie and Jenny and smile because by dying he was saving them and that was all that mattered.
He was right.
There was no pain.
He hit the ground and it was over in an instant.
84
There was nothing.
Time seemed to have stopped and yet not stopped.
Nightingale was there but not there.
He wasn’t even sure if he was Nightingale.
There was nothing to see, nothing to hear; he was just there and yet not there.
All his thoughts were there, and all his memories. But there was no emotion. No feeling.
Time passed.
Or maybe it didn’t.
He had no way of telling.
85
‘Nightingale?’ A voice, but not a voice. He didn’t hear it but someone had spoken. Not spoken, exactly. There weren’t words. More like feelings. Vibrations.
‘Who is that?’ said Nightingale, except that he didn’t say it. There were no words.
‘How quickly they forget.’ It was Proserpine.
‘Where are you?’
‘There is no where,’ she said.
‘Why can’t I see you?’
‘Because there is nothing to see.’
‘Where am I?’
‘No where. And no when.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘There is nothing to understand.’
‘Am I dead?’
‘Yes. And no.’
‘That doesn’t make sense.’
‘Because you don’t understand. Alive and dead supposes that there is change. And that supposes time, and there is no time. You are alive and dead, born and not born.’
‘So I’m imagining this?’
Proserpine laughed. ‘Would it help if you could see?’
‘I don’t know. Yes. Maybe.’
There was a flicker and then everything was white, but not the white of a snow-covered mountain or a cloud in the sky; it was the white of a television screen that was only showing static. There was no up and no down, no feeling of depth or height or any perspective. Nightingale couldn’t see anything, just white. Then she was there in front of him. Except there was no him. Just her. And her dog, on a leash.
She smiled. She was wearing a long black leather coat that hung straight down past knee-length black boots with stiletto heels. She was wearing black lipstick and black nail varnish and silver upside-down crucifixes dangled from her ears. The dog looked up at Nightingale, its tongue lolling from the side of its mouth. But they weren’t standing on anything. They were just there.
‘Where am I?’
She waved a languid hand. ‘I told you. Nowhere. Nowhen. Outside time. Outside space.’
‘Once before you talked about the Elsewhere. You said that’s where you went.’
‘This isn’t the Elsewhere,’ she said. ‘This isn’t any place.’
‘Limbo? Is that it?’
‘It has been called that.’
‘And how long do I stay here?’
‘There is no long, there is no short; there’s nothing. There’s no you. There’s just.?.?.’ She shrugged.
‘Why are you here?’
‘I’m not. But you said it would be easier if you could see me. So you can.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘Nothing is happening. Everything just is. Or isn’t.’
‘So why are you here?’
She laughed. ‘I told you. I’m not.’
‘What do you want?’
‘To see how you are.’
‘I don’t know how I am. I don’t know anything. I remember falling. I remember hitting the ground.’
‘No you don’t,’ she said. ‘You don’t remember anything. Remembering suggests that there is a past and a present, but there is neither in the Nowhen. There is nothing to remember because there is no passing of time.’
‘But I fell.’
‘You are still falling. You are still getting ready to jump. And you are dead on the ground. You are all those things, Nightingale. Before, you saw them in an order. You got ready to jump. You fell. You hit the ground. But in the Nowhen there is no sequence. There just is.?.?.’ She smiled sadly. ‘You will never understand.’
‘Do I stay here for ever?’
‘You are already here for ever, Nightingale. Time does not exist here. I could go away and come back in ten thousand years but there would be no sense of time passing. How long do you think you have been.?.?.’ She shrugged. ‘.?.?. here?’ she finished. ‘For want of a better word.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘An hour? A day? A year? A hundred years?’
Nightingale tried to remember. But she was right. There had been no sense of time passing.
‘Do you understand?’
‘No,’ said Nightingale. ‘So what happens now?’
‘In the Nowhen nothing happens. The question is, do you stay here or do you go back or do you move on?’
‘Move on to where?’
She laughed again. ‘Nightingale, if you can’t fathom the Nowhen, there’s no way you will ever understand what lies ahead of it.’ Her dog growled and she bent down and rubbed it behind the ear. ‘I know you don’t like it here, but we’ll go soon,’ she said.
‘You said there was no soon,’ said Nightingale.
‘For you there isn’t,’ she said. ‘But I follow my own rules.’
‘Why can’t I see myself??’
‘Because there is nothing to see. We’re going round in circles.’
‘This is all your fault,’ said Nightingale.
‘Fault? You want to blame someone for this?’
‘You sent Marcus Fairchild after me, didn’t you?’
‘I told you there would be three. He was one of the three.’
‘So why did he kill Jenny? What had she ever done to you?’
‘That wasn’t my doing, Nightingale. That was Lucifuge Rofocale.’
‘So Fairchild went behind your back?’
‘Lucifuge Rofocale sits on the left hand of Satan. He does what he wants to do.’ She chuckled. ‘Though you have given him a problem.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You sold your soul. You promised it to the Darkness. And then you gave your life to save another. An innocent. Which made it even worse.’