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

Father
Mahoney said she’d damaged a car?”
    “Yes. Matthew’s Jaguar. One night we heard the garage door open,
and we found her in there with a front door-key, scratching every panel of it.
She just hurled abuse at us when we tried to stop her, she scratched Matthew with her nails when he pulled her away. Again she said
she couldn’t remember anything about it in the morning. And
then this last thing. Cutting herself.”
    “Tell me.”
    “We found her in the
bath. It looked worse than it was because it doesn’t take much blood to
discolour the water. Matthew said the cuts were superficial, across the wrist
rather than up. As if she wanted to make us worry. And then she started
screaming and swearing at us again while we were bandaging her. In the morning
she was crying and wanted to know what happened. We just made up the
sleepwalking story to calm her down.”
    Nightingale nodded,
looked across at Father Mahoney, shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. He
had no idea what was going on.
    “Susan,” said the
priest. “There really is nothing either of us can do here, it’s out of our
area. Honestly, I can only suggest again you seek medical advice for her.”
    The woman nodded. Her
lower lip quivered and she was clearly close to tears. “I’ll talk to Matthew,”
she said. “Thank you both for at least trying.”
    “I’ll just pop up and
say goodbye to Christine,” said Nightingale. He headed up the stairs.
Christine’s door was open. She was sitting on her bed, her hands in her lap.
“We’re off now,” he said. “Nice to have met you.”
    “Bye,” she said, then
looked up at him and frowned. “Do you think there’s something wrong with me, Mr
Nightingale?”
    “Not really,” he said.
“Perhaps you just need some help to sleep better. Anyway, you have a good day,
Christine.”
    She growled and bared
her teeth at him like a feral dog. Her voice dropped an octave and her eyes
flashed hatred. “My name is Lydia. And if you or that fucking
old fool of a priest come near me again, I’ll rip your fucking throats
out. Now fuck off and leave me alone.”

 
    * * *

 
    As Father Mahoney
drove back towards Central London, Nightingale told him what had happened in
the bedroom. The priest frowned. “And she wasn’t playing? Pulling your leg?”
    “She sounded as if she
meant it,” said Nightingale. “It wasn’t the girl we spoke to. Her voice was
completely different.”
    “It sounds as if she
is possessed,” said the priest. “But that isn’t possible.”
    “You’re sure about
that?”
    “No demon could hold a
copy of the Bible or not react to holy water,” said Mahoney. “And the way she
spoke about Jesus.” He shook his head. “No, possession is out of the question.”
    “I have to say that
whoever was threatening to kill us seemed a completely different person to the
one we spoke to downstairs. But you know way more about possession than I do.”
    The priest lit a
cigarette and handed his pack to Nightingale who helped himself.
    “She can’t be faking
it, though. She’s only eleven, for pity’s sake.”
    Nightingale lit his
cigarette. “The person who spoke to me in her room seemed a lot older than
that. And a hell of a lot more dangerous.”
    “This is definitely
out of my field, Jack.   I’m not even
sure I believe in demonic possession, but even so this girl shows none of the
classic signs.”
    “It’s not my field
either,” said Nightingale, without committing himself to an opinion on demonic
possession. “I really feel they need a psychiatrist or psychologist rather than
a priest and a detective. But we told them that. So did you.”
    “I suppose so. And
you’re right. It’s up to the parents to get the right help. I have to say I’m
rather glad I won’t be needing to ask the Bishop to let me do the bell, book
and candle casting-out stuff.”
    “No problem. Look,
Father, no point you driving me all the way, drop me up here at Putney station
and I’ll get