My Name Is Lydia (Jack Nightingale short story) Read Free

she’s like.”
    “What happened last
night?” asked Nightingale.
    Mrs Warren continued to
stare at the door, the key in her hand. “We have a dog. A
small dog. A Jack Russell. Lovely little thing. So loyal. Loved Christine to bits.” She shuddered.
“She killed it last night. We’re not sure how. But at some point she used a
kitchen knife. She cut Poppy up and spread her insides around the kitchen.” She
shuddered again, then took a deep breath and composed herself before opening
the door. “Christine, some people to see you,” she said. “You remember Father
Mahoney, and this is Mr Nightingale.”
    The girl lay on the
bed, watching ‘Frozen’ on a wide-screen TV on the opposite wall. She clicked
the mute button as they entered, then stood up to meet them, shaking her long,
blond hair over her shoulders and straighteningher
skirt. “Hello, Father Mahoney,” she said. “Hello Mr Nightingale.”
    Nightingale’s eyes
were drawn to the bandages wrapped round both of her wrists, but, apart from
them, she looked a normal, cheerful eleven year-old, her smile showing perfect
teeth and her blue eyes lively and intelligent.
    “Why have they come to
see me?” Christine asked her mother.
    “They’ll explain,”
said Susan Warren. “I’ll leave you with her, gentlemen.”
    “Mummy, I want to go
outside and play.”
    “Maybe later,” said
Mrs Warren.
    “And where’s Poppy. I
keep calling her but she won’t come.”
    She opened the door to
leave but Father Mahoney held up his hand. “No, no, Susan, we shouldn’t be
alone with Christine without a parent present, please stay.”
    “Well, it’ll be rather
crowded,” she said. “Perhaps we should go downstairs?”
    “Fine,” said Mahoney,
and Mrs Warren led them all down to a large drawing room
which looked out onto the rear garden. Christine and the priest sat on
the long dark-green leather Chesterfield sofa, with Nightingale and the girl’s
mother in the matching armchairs facing them. Mrs Warren looked at Father
Mahoney and nodded.
    “So, Christine,” he
began. “How have you been?”
    “Fine thank you,
Father.”
    She held up her
bandaged wrists.
    “Except this. I was
sleepwalking, and mummy says I fell and cut myself. It hurt a bit at first, but
it’s healing up now.”
    “Do you often
sleepwalk?” asked Nightingale.
    “I don’t think so, do
I mummy? But I don’t know really, I’d be asleep when it happens. I don’t
remember.”
    “Sometimes she does,”
said her mother. “But she’s never hurt herself before.”
    “Do you know anyone
called Lydia?” asked Mahoney.
    “Lydia?” repeated
Christine, wrinkling her face into a puzzled look. “I don’t think so. She’s not
in my class.”
    The priest opened his
briefcase and took out a well-thumbed copy of The Bible, opened it and handed
it to the girl. “I wonder if you could read that for me Christine, where it
says Twenty Three.”
    She smiled.
    “Oh yes, I know that
one. Mrs Hemmings reads it in assembly quite often. The Lord is my shepherd. I
shall not want...”
    She read confidently
and fluently, and Mahoney let her carry on to the end of the psalm before
resuming his questions. “Do you believe in Jesus, Christine?”
    “Oh yes,” she said. “I
really like Bible stories.”
    Father Mahoney nodded
and took a small vial out of his pocket, took off the top, sprinkled a few
drops of liquid on his hands, then drew the sign of the cross on the girl’s
forehead. “May God bless you and keep you safe, my child,” he said.
    Christine smiled
again. “Thank you, Father,” she said. “Do you think if I pray enough, He might
stop me sleepwalking?”
    “Maybe He will, my
dear.”
    Father Mahoney looked
at her mother and nodded.
    “That’s fine,
Christine,” said Mrs Warren. “You can run along upstairs and finish your film
now.”
    “Thanks, Mum,” said
the girl. “Nice to see you, Father. And you, Mr Nightingale. Are you a priest too? You don’t dress like