Still Bleeding (A Jack Nightingale Short Story)
they’ve gone?’
    Jenny
shook her head. ‘All she said was that the Spradberys have taken
Tracey with them to keep her away from the press. They were ringing
their doorbell every hour of the day and night.’
    ‘Did she
confirm the stigmata?’
    ‘She said it’s
true. But she said the family don’t want to talk to anybody.’
    ‘Any idea when
they’ll be back?’
    Jenny shook her
head.
    ‘Tracey has to
go to school, right?’
    ‘I asked her
that. Apparently they pulled Tracey out of school when the bleeding
started. They’re home-schooling her. What do we do?’
    ‘We talk to the
neighbours.’
    ‘That’ll be the
royal “we” I suppose.’
    ‘ Nah,
I’ll come with you this time,’ he said. ‘Ben Spradbery’s family
don’t seem to mind talking about what’s happened.’
    Jenny looked
around but the kids had gone from outside the off-licence.
    ‘Your car’ll be
fine,’ said Nightingale. He got out of the Audi and Jenny locked
the doors.
    ‘If my windows
get smashed then you pay, right?’
    ‘Cross my
heart,’ said Nightingale. ‘But you worry too much.’
    They walked by
the Nissan and Nightingale rang the doorbell. There was no response
and he tried again. ‘Maybe they’re not in,’ said Jenny.
    ‘The car
suggests otherwise,’ said Nightingale. He headed around the side of
the house.
    ‘Jack, where do
you think you’re going?’ hissed Jenny.
    ‘Let’s check
the back door.’
    ‘I’m not up for
breaking and entering,’ she said. ‘That’s not in my employment
contract.’
    ‘No one said
anything about breaking,’ he said. ‘Let’s just take a look.’
    The rear garden
wasn’t much bigger than the one at the front, but was considerably
more overgrown. There was a garden shed at the bottom of the garden
and a washing line from which fluttered a sheet and a quilt
cover.
    ‘Jack, we
shouldn’t be doing this,’ said Jenny behind him.
    ‘It’ll be
fine,’ said Nightingale. He reached for the handle of the kitchen
door. He flinched as it moved just before his fingers touched it.
The door opened and a woman holding a plastic basket of washing
screamed. Nightingale jumped back and fell against Jenny as the
woman dropped her basket of laundry. The woman staggered back into
the kitchen and screamed again.
    Nightingale
recognised her from the newspaper article. It was Mrs Miller, Ben’s
mother. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ said Nightingale. ‘We’re just here
to talk to you.’
    Mrs Miller
stood staring at Nightingale, her chest rising and falling as she
gasped for breath. ‘You scared the life out of me,’ she said. She
was in her forties, a heavy-set woman with permed hair. She was
wearing a shapeless dress with yachts and lighthouses on it.
    ‘Mutual,’ said
Nightingale. ‘Sorry. I did ring the bell.’
    ‘I was in the
laundry room,’ she said, still panting. Sweat was beading above her
upper lip, emphasising a slight moustache there. ‘Who are you?’
    ‘Jack
Nightingale,’ he said. ‘This is my friend Jenny. Can we talk to you
about Ben?’
    ‘You’re not
journalists are you? We don’t talk to journalists any more?’
    Nightingale
shook his head. ‘I have a nephew who has leukaemia,’ he said.
    ‘Oh, I’m
sorry,’ she said. ‘What type?’
    ‘Type?’
repeated Nightingale.
    ‘ AML,’
said Jenny, quickly. ‘A cute myelogenous leukemia.’
    ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Mrs Miller. ‘Let me hang
these up and I’ll make us some tea.’
    She carried the laundry basket across the
lawn to the washing line.
    Nightingale opened his mouth to speak but
Jenny silenced him with a wave of her hand. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘I’m
not proud of myself for lying like that.’
    ‘We don’t have a choice,’ said Nightingale.
‘You heard her. Someone’s told her not to talk to journalists.’
    Mrs Miller came back and ushered them into
her kitchen. The lino was threadbare and the gas cooker looked as
if it was fifty years old. She told them to sit down at the

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