Nightshade

15

Nightingale went up to his room just before midnight. He’d drunk eight bottles of Budweiser, and while he wasn’t drunk he was slightly unsteady on his feet. There were only three bedrooms and no locks on the door. He sat down on the bed and reached for his cigarettes and lighter. He was just about to light one when he saw the ‘No Smoking’ sign by the bathroom door. He sighed, grabbed his raincoat, and headed downstairs. The landlord was polishing glasses behind the bar. Nightingale held up his cigarette. ‘I’m heading outside for a smoke,’ he said.

‘No problem,’ said the landlord. ‘I won’t be locking up for a while, but if you’re late back, there’s a bell by the front door. Just give it a ring and I’ll come down and let you in. How’s the room, by the way?’

‘Perfect,’ said Nightingale. ‘No lock on the door, though?’

‘You’re the only guest,’ said the landlord. ‘And you can trust me and the wife.’

‘I’ve nothing worth taking anyway,’ said Nightingale. He let himself out and lit his cigarette as he walked down to the beach. There were thick clouds overhead blocking out the moon and stars, but there was enough light spilling out of the pub windows for him to see. He walked onto the sand and stood watching the waves break onto the beach. A bitterly cold wind blew in from the sea and he shivered.

The sound of the waves was almost hypnotic and he found himself being lulled into a trance-like state, though that could have been a result of all the beer he’d drunk with his new-found Northumbrian friends. He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt towards the water, and was just considering lighting a second when something hard walloped against the back of his head. He fell to his knees and gasped, then something pounded between his shoulder blades and he fell forward. His face was pressing into the sand, and he coughed and spluttered and then something, probably a foot, slammed into the small of his back.

He twisted his head to the side and saw a pair of heavy mud-splattered workboots and frayed jeans. The foot was still in the middle of his back, so there were at least two of them. He tried to turn his head to the other side but as he did so the foot pressed down, pushing his face into the sand again.

‘You don’t want to be asking too many questions around here, Mister Private Detective,’ said one of the men. ‘You’d best be heading back to London.’ His accent was Scottish and didn’t sound like any of the men that Nightingale had spoken to in the pub. ‘Be easy enough to knock you out and drop you in the sea. You wouldn’t be the first southerner to fall foul of the North Sea.’

Nightingale managed to turn his face to the side and he spat wet sand out of his mouth.

‘Do you hear what I’m telling you, Mister Private Detective?’

Nightingale spat again, and grunted.

The foot between his shoulder blades gave a final push, and then he heard the two men jogging away across the sand. He rolled onto his back, gasping for breath, but by the time he’d got to his feet they had disappeared into the night.

He stood up and wiped his face on his sleeve. As he lit a cigarette with trembling hands he heard a car start up and drive away. ‘Bastards,’ he muttered under his breath.