Still Bleeding (A Jack Nightingale Short Story) Read Online Free PDF

holding his breath. The
girl was obviously Tracey Spradbery and the worried man by the
cooker must have been her father.
    A woman
walked into the kitchen. It was obviously Tracey’s mother. She was
a few years younger than the man by the cooker, with dyed-blonde
hair and a washed out face as if she hadn’t been sleeping well. She
sat down at the kitchen table and began talking to Tracey. Tracey
nodded and said something to her mother and Mrs Spradbery laughed,
showing a mouthful of crooked teeth.
    Nightingale’s
phone buzzed in his raincoat pocket and he pulled it out. It was an
SMS from Jenny. ‘EVERYTHING OK?’
    Nightingale
sent her an SMS back. ‘SHE’S HERE. STAY PUT.’
    He put the
phone back in his pocket. Dr McKenzie was dabbing a liquid on the
girl’s wounds. He said something to her and she laughed. She was a
pretty girl, with shoulder-length chestnut hair and big green
eyes.
    Dr McKenzie
reached into his bag and took out two fresh dressings. Nightingale
jumped as the kitchen door burst open and a man appeared, holding a
cricket bat. He was in his forties, tall with receding hair and a
hooked nose and deep-set eyes that gave him the look of a hawk
sizing up its prey. ‘Who are you?’ he said angrily.
    ‘Nightingale.
Jack Nightingale.’
    ‘What are you
doing here?’ The man’s eyes were blazing. He used both hands to
hold the cricket bat.
    ‘Who are you?’
asked Nightingale.
    ‘This is my
house,’ said the man. He held the cricket bat up in the air, ready
to bring it crashing down on Nightingale’s head.
    ‘I want to
write a story about Tracey and what happened to her.’
    ‘You’re a
journalist?’
    ‘That’s right,’
said Nightingale. He flashed the man a confident smile.
    Mrs
Spradbery appeared behind the man. ‘Ricky, what’s happening?’ she
asked. Nightingale couldn’t make out her face as it was in
shadow.
    ‘Get back
inside, Carla,’ said the man. ‘I’ll handle this.’ He kept his eyes
on Nightingale and he took a step to the side, putting himself
between Nightingale and the gate.
    ‘ Do you
want me to call the police?’ asked Mrs Spradbery.
    ‘I can handle
it,’ said Ricky. ‘Just close the door.’
    The woman did
as she was told. ‘Who do you work for?’ asked the man, still waving
the cricket bat menacingly.
    ‘Who do I work
for?’ repeated Nightingale.
    ‘What
paper?’
    ‘I’m
freelance,’ said Nightingale.
    ‘Yeah?
Freelancing for who?’
    Nightingale
shrugged. ‘One of the Sundays.’
    ‘You’ve got a
commission, have you?’
    ‘Sure.’
    ‘From who? Who
commissioned it?’
    Nightingale
shrugged again. ‘I’d rather not say.’
     
    ‘Show me your
NUJ card.’
    ‘My NUJ
card?’
    The man smiled
sarcastically. ‘Have you got a hearing problem? If you’re a journo
you’d be in the NUJ, freelance or otherwise. It’s the only card
that the cops recognise.’
    Nightingale
took out his wallet, opened it, then made a show of looking through
it. ‘I must have left it at home.’
    ‘Show me your
notebook then.’
    Nightingale
grimaced and patted his coat pockets.
    ‘ You’re
as much a journalist as I’m Wayne Rooney,’ said Ricky.
    ‘ That’s
not fair, I’m not calling your footballing qualifications into
question.’
    ‘ I don’t
have anyfootballing qualifications,’ said the man. ‘Two left feet.’
    ‘ Then you
really shouldn’t be passing yourself off as a professional
footballer,’ said Nightingale. He made a show of looking at his
watch. ‘Look, I’ve got work to do.’ He moved to get by the man he
stepped in his way.
    ‘What do you
want with my niece?’ he snarled.
    ‘Your
niece?’
    ‘Yeah, my
niece. I’m her mother’s brother and this is my house. Now if you
don’t tell me why you’re sniffing around my niece I’m going to
detain you using a citizen’s arrest and then I’m going to call the
cops. And the cops don’t pussyfoot around with paedophiles.’
    ‘ Alleged
paedophiles,’ said Nightingale. ‘And you