Nightshade

70

Nightingale was walking down a long corridor. There were doors to the left and right, heavy doors, the wood aged and cracked. There were bare floorboards running the length of the corridor, worn smooth by generations of feet, and they creaked like old bones as he walked over them. There was a single light bulb hanging from a frayed wire in the middle of the corridor, flickering and hissing. A handful of small moths fluttered around it.

Nightingale found himself being drawn to one of the doors. There was a brass handle, mottled with age, and it was warm to the touch when he grasped it and turned it. The room inside was pure white, a glossy white floor and white walls and a white ceiling. Nightingale stepped inside the room and warm breeze ran across his face. He could smell herbs. Rosemary. And tarragon. And mint.

‘Mr Nightingale?’

It was Mrs Steadman. She was standing in the middle of the room, wearing a long black dress and with a black wool scarf wrapped around her neck. On her right hand was a ring with a large black stone in it.

‘Hello, Mrs Steadman. Am I asleep?’

‘Yes, Mr Nightingale.’

‘And you wanted to talk to me?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So why not just phone me?’

‘I don’t have your number, Mr Nightingale.’

‘I’m in the phone book. Under Nightingale.’

Mrs Steadman giggled girlishly. ‘I didn’t think of that.’

‘Do you do this a lot, Mrs Steadman?’

‘Not a lot, no.’

‘It’s a bit confusing. I’m dreaming, so how can I tell what’s real and what isn’t?’

‘You could try pinching yourself.’

Nightingale pinched himself but didn’t feel anything. ‘That’s interesting,’ he said. He raised his arms to the side and took a deep breath. As he exhaled he rose slowly up into the air. He hovered about six inches above the floorboards. ‘I’m flying,’ he said.

‘It’s more levitating,’ she said. ‘But you can fly. You can do anything you want. It’s your dream.’

Nightingale lay back and his feet rose up so that he was parallel to the floor, staring up at the white ceiling. ‘This is so cool.’

‘Dreams can be fun,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘You just have to be careful that they don’t turn into nightmares.’

Nightingale slowly returned to an upright position and then lowered himself to the floor. Mrs Steadman watched him with amused eyes.

‘So what is it that you want, Mrs Steadman? Why are you here?’

‘I need to talk to you,’ she said.

‘I’m all ears,’ said Nightingale.

‘Not here,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘In the real world.’

‘Shall I come to your shop?’

‘Outside would be better,’ said Mrs Steadman. ‘There’s a park about half a mile from the shop. Close to the Tube station. I’m sure you can find it. Shall we say eleven o’clock in the morning?’

‘I’ll be there,’ said Nightingale. He rose up off the ground again and turned around slowly, the toes of his Hush Puppies pointing down at the floor. By the time he had done a complete turn, Mrs Steadman had vanished.

‘Mrs Steadman?’

His feet brushed the floor and then the floorboards squeaked as they took his full weight. He looked down. The white floor had gone and in its place were thick oak floorboards. He looked around. Furniture had appeared and now there was red flock wallpaper on the walls. There was a heavy four-poster bed, a chunky dressing table and a shabby armchair. There was a mirror over the bed and he stared at his reflection. There were dark patches under his eyes and his hair looked as if it hadn’t been combed in days. He ran his hand through it. ‘If it’s a dream, why do I still look like shit?’ he asked his reflection.

He flinched as something slammed against the door. He whirled around, his hands up defensively. His heart pounded as he stared at the door, his hands clenched into tight fists. Something scratched slowly at the wood, and then suddenly stopped. The only sound was that of Nightingale’s breathing.

He walked towards the door and slowly reached for the door handle. But before he could touch it the handle began to turn on its own. ‘Who is it?’ he asked.

There was no answer. The handle clicked to the fully open position and then the door began to slowly creak open.

‘Mrs Steadman?’

His nose wrinkled as it was assaulted by a foul smell, a mixture of sulphur and acid and faeces. His stomach lurched. He grabbed the handle and pulled the door open, and that was when he woke up, bathed in sweat, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon. Realising he was safe in his own bed, he smiled up at the ceiling. ‘Next time, Mrs Steadman, just use the phone,’ he muttered to himself.