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

know that I’m as much a
paedophile as you’re Wayne Rooney.’
    ‘So who are
you?’
    ‘I told you.
Jack Nightingale.’ He pulled out his wallet and gave the man a
business card.
    Ricky took it
with his left hand and squinted at it. ‘You’re a private eye?’
    ‘I can put two
words together so it wouldn’t be impossible for me to write an
article for someone,’ said Nightingale.
    ‘That doesn’t
make you a journalist.’
    ‘No. But last I
heard saying you’re a journo isn’t a criminal offence.’
    The man studied
the card. ‘And you’re not local.’
    ‘I’m from
London.’
    ‘Who’s your
client, Mr Nightingale?’
    ‘I can’t tell
you that.’
    Ricky lowered
the cricket bat. ‘Do you drink?’
    ‘Do I
drink?’
    ‘Alcohol.’
    Nightingale
nodded. ‘I’ve been known to.’
    Ricky nodded
and leaned the cricket bat against the back wall of the house.
‘There’s a pub down the road.’
    ‘It’ll take
more than a drink to loosen my tongue,’ said Nightingale. ‘Two,
possibly three.’
    ‘You’re a very
funny man, Mr Nightingale.’
     
    * * *
     
    Ricky’s
full name was Ricky Hamilton. He was Carla Spradbery’s elder
brother and for the last five years he’d been working as a
researcher for a TV documentary company. Prior to that he’d been a
journalist for almost twenty years, with long spells as an
investigative reporter on The Guardian and The Sunday Times. He’d
written half a dozen books, mainly political biographies. As a joke
Nightingale had asked to see Ricky’s NUJ card and he’d happily
produced it. The pub was a short walk from Ricky’s house, a
traditional boozer with oak beams and a real fireplace. Ricky
turned out to be a fan of Corona and he paid for two bottles before
they found a quiet corner of the pub and sat at a small circular
table. Ricky pushed his slice of lime into the neck of the bottle,
pressed his thumb over the top and then inverted it. The lime rose
slowly to the top and Ricky waited for it to touch the bottom of
the bottle before turning it the right way up.
    ‘Why do you do
that?’ asked Nightingale.
    Ricky shrugged.
‘I saw someone else do it once. It runs the lime taste through the
lager.’
    ‘I was told
that the reason they give you a slice of lime in Mexico is because
it keeps the flies away.’
    ‘Nah, that’s an
urban myth.’
    ‘How do you
know?’
    ‘Because I’ve
been to Mexico and they don’t serve it with lime there. It was a
marketing gimmick, that’s all.’
    ‘Well it
worked,’ said Nightingale. He clinked his bottle against Ricky’s
and drank.
    ‘You followed
the doctor to my house, didn’t you?’
    Nightingale
nodded.
    Ricky looked
pained. ‘I knew I should have got Tracey another doctor, but she
loves Dr McKenzie.’
    ‘He seems to
know his stuff,’ said Nightingale. ‘And the stigmata is real?’
    ‘Of course,’
said Ricky.
    ‘And she talks
to the Virgin Mary?’
    ‘That’s what
she says,’ said Ricky. ‘That’s harder to prove. But the wounds,
they’re there, no question of that.’
    ‘And she cured
Ben of his cancer.’
    ‘It was the
Virgin Mary that told Tracey to get him over. She told Tracey to
touch him, on the forehead, and to say a prayer. And that cured
him.’
    Nightingale
nodded. ‘I spoke to Ben’s parents. They think it was a
miracle.’
    ‘It was a
miracle, no doubt about it,’ said Ricky.
    ‘So why not
tell the world?’
    Ricky snorted.
‘Do you have any idea what happens to people who perform
miracles?’
    ‘They become
saints?’
    Ricky nodded
slowly. ‘If they’re Catholics, yes. If they’re not Catholics…’ He
left the sentence hanging.
    ‘What are you
saying?’ asked Nightingale.
    ‘I’m saying
that if you’re Mother Teresa or Pope John Paul then the Vatican
will be turning over every stone to prove it and get them a
sainthood. But when you’re not in the fold, when you’re an
outsider, well that’s a game-changer.’
    ‘In what
way?’
    ‘What do you
know about