Nocturnes

“Okay, then. Reflections.”

We counted the mirrors, to make sure none was missing. When we were done, Matheson climbed in the cab and drove off. I followed him back to his plant. Over in a brownstone building at the back of the lot was an industrial fumace. Matheson parked the truck outside it.

“You sure about this?” asked Matheson.

“I think so,” I replied.

“I’ll get some of the boys to give us a hand.”

He left me and headed for the main building. I leaned against the truck and watched the light fade. Already, it was growing dark. The wind was colder now. Soon, the snows would arrive.

I didn’t even see the blow coming. One moment I was looking at the sky, and the next I was lying on the ground, bright flashes exploding in my vision. I started to rise, but my balance was shot. I fell back upon the ground and tried not to retch.

The Collector stood above me. There was an old leather blackjack in his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing emerged. Instead, I watched in silence as he took a small, gilded mirror from the back of the truck.

I reached out a hand. I think I managed to say “No.” Whatever sound I made, it caused him to look down on me.

“Burning won’t be enough,” he said. “He will still be free.”

He knelt down beside me and turned the glass toward me.

“Look,” said The Collector.

I couldn’t focus. My image swam in the glass, but it did not swim alone. I saw John Grady, but not as he once was, not as he was in his pictures, or as he looked before my bullet struck the mirror in his basement. I thought I saw fear, or perhaps it was my own face that I saw. I do not know.

“He owes a soul,” said The Collector. “He was damned, and his soul is forfeit.”

“Who are you?” I asked, but he did not reply. Later, I would find the paperwork that The Collector had completed when he bought John Grady’s old books at the police sale. The name at the bottom was written in marvelously ornate script. It was quite beautiful. The man who claimed to be a nephew of one of Maine’s leading book merchants had signed himself “Mr. Kushiel.” Curiously, the address he gave was that of the old state prison at Thomaston, which now no longer stands. I was tempted, for a brief moment, to look up his name, to discover its derivation, but I did not. Instead, I prayed only that I would never see him again, for any jail in which Kushiel played a part lay far deeper than the ruins of Thomaston.

But that was later. For now, I was lying bleeding on the ground, and The Collector was standing above me, the mirror tucked firmly beneath his arm. By the time Matheson returned he was long gone, and John Grady’s debt was about to be paid for eternity.

XI

On December 12, Rachel gave birth to our daughter. We named her Samantha, “Sam” for short. I was there when she was born. I held her in my arms, and smelled the blood upon her as the past and the present came together, interweaving, combining, binding me to what I was and what I had become.

One child born, another saved. Perhaps Clem Ruddock was right. It is children with me, and there is a pattern to be seen, if I choose to look closely for it. There is a pattern, and I am part of it. She also has a role to play, for my new daughter will share her birthday with the a

There is a pattern.

I am not afraid.

I tell myself I am no longer afraid.

Acknowledgments

This book is something of a labor of love, and a great many people have played a part in its publication, offering support, encouragement, and advice over the long period of its gestation.

Nocturnes might never have appeared at all had BBC Northern Ireland not approached me, shortly after the publication of my first novel in 1999, and asked if there was anything I might be interested in writing for them. I had always been fascinated by supernatural stories, ever since I was a young reader, and I was curious about writing for radio. It seemed to me that there was something very appealing about the thought of a voice reading a ghost story aloud to a driver alone in a car, or to someone curling up in bed before turning off the light. In the end, I wrote five tales for the BBC, which were broadcast on Radio Four in 2000 and read by a very wonderful actor named Tony Doyle, now, sadly, no longer with us. As I write, another five stories are scheduled to be broadcast in 2004. Nine of those tales are contained in this volume.

I owe an immense debt of gratitude to Lawrence Jackson, the producer of both sets of stories for the BBC. Lawrence was the first to read them, the first to offer suggestions on how they might be improved, and the first to reassure me when I felt my confidence in them flag. Without him, and without the willingness of the BBC to offer them a home, they would not exist in this form.

I am also indebted to Emily Bestler and Sue Fletcher, my wonderful and very faithful editors at Atria, and Hodder amp; Stoughton, respectively. Short story collections are difficult propositions for publishing houses, but from the very begi

Finally, I will always be thankful that I have found myself in the care of my agent, Darley Anderson, who must sometimes wonder at precisely what he has let himself in for by taking me on. His friendship has, quite literally, changed my life. I would be lost without him, and without his marvelous staff. To Darley, Lucie, Julia, Emma, Heather, and Elizabeth: thank you.

Finally, to my family, to Je