Captain Mackerel’s little ship is called the Mermaid’s Tail and it is painted as green as limes. As we stand on the docks I stare down upon it and say goodbye. It bobs up and down on the grimy waters, overshadowed by the other vast metal ships without names or colour. It is raining heavily and great splodges of water fall into my eyes and Goliath’s beard, disappearing like pearls thrown into a wild forest. He gives me a huge grin, showing many white teeth, and puts me upon his great bear-like shoulders, carrying me like a ship’s mate up the mast through the crowds of grey and shadow-heavy people lurking about the docks. Seagulls screech like witches and the moon above us is shaped like a sickle. The people here wander about like ghosts, grey upon grey. That is how Liverpool appears to me. Not like London, where I grew up, which pulses with blood and dark magic. There is no strange glitter here. Captain Mackerel waves goodbye, holding his soggy cat in his arms. I will miss them both and, I am sure, will never see them again.
We make lodgings at a tavern called the Drowned Sailor, deposit our bags and head off into the night to Quack Alley. Goliath has arranged a meeting with a gentleman known as Augustus Nightingale (whose real name is Timothy Scudfish – Goliath tells me he changed his name to sound mysterious). Mr Nightingale is a Psychic Medium, which means he can talk to the dead. People pay a lot of money to see him. Goliath tells me that he is well known throughout England for helping people who are possessed by demons and he is able to perform exorcisms. Goliath hopes he will be able to help me because something is inside of me, like the red flowers inside the princess. Something that is not human.
Goliath holds Mr Nightingale’s book, The Secret Knowledge of the Spirit World, in his hands. He read parts to me on the boat. Mr Nightingale was born in Puddle Lane and his mother and father had owned a pie shop and he worked there for most of his life until one day, while serving pies, he said an angel came into the shop and told him to become a messenger of the spirit world. I remember that part because Captain Mackerel had been laughing so much he had nearly trod on the cat. Mr Nightingale, much to his parents’ displeasure, had quit the pie industry and started to attend spiritual churches throughout Liverpool, passing on messages to the families of the dead, and had started acquiring a large following. Captain Mackerel said it sounded like nonsense and that Mr Nightingale was as psychic as a dead haddock. He said the only thing you can trust in life is the fish in the sea because they know all the secrets of the world and they keep quiet.
Quack Alley smells of something dead. The moon above us illuminates our footsteps. The street twists snakelike around a series of courtyards and behind a brick factory.
With some trouble we soon locate number 63 in a terraced row and Goliath knocks heavily on the front door. We hear the scamper of rat feet on a roof and the door creaks open, revealing a young boy.
“I am here to see Mr Nightingale,” Goliath says, softly.
The boy replies, scratching his nose, “He’s upstairs doing his magic tricks. He’s a funny bugger.”
The house is small and candlelit. A small framed photograph of a ghoulish-looking grandmother watches us from the landing. Skin stretched over a skull; pinpricks for eyes.
The stairs creak under the weight of Goliath; he can only just squeeze onto the landing. I follow behind and the little boy’s eyes watch us all the way up the stairs. Mr Augustus Nightingale manifests onto the landing from the darkness like a pantomime magician.
“Welcome. Welcome. Come on in.” His teeth are catlike: little and pointy. The only source of light is a solitary candle which flickers and jiggers, casting apparitions on the walls, which dance around us. In the middle of the room a woman sits on a chair. Her eyes are vacant and she gazes emptily at us. Goliath moves towards her and puts his hand on her cheek very softly. Mr Nightingale is grinning like a school boy. “It’s a wonderful specimen.”
“Specimen?” Goliath questions.
“Oh, yes. A quite powerful demon. I’ve never got so close to one before. Usually I deal with the low level ones. Minor tricksters, nuisances really. But this one, it’s really something special.”
Goliath stands next to Mr Nightingale. He is three times as wide and a foot taller. The floorboards ache under his movements.
Mr Nightingale points a shaky white finger towards me. “So this is your ward, eh?” He approaches me and examines me carefully. “Yes, I can see there is a problem with her. Something quite insignificant. I’m sure I can get it out of her. If you’d both like to stand over there you can observe while I deal with this higher level demon.”
Goliath takes my hand and we step into the soft darkness and quietly watch. I could imagine Captain Mackerel throwing some fish at this man and swearing. Mr Augustus Nightingale is as thin as a broomstick, his long black cloak painted with elaborate golden thread symbols. His face is imp white with grey wisps of hair on his head and little shiny blue eyes that twinkle like oyster pearls underwater. He moves towards the chair and rests his hand on the woman’s forehead.
“I command you evil spirit to leave this woman and return to the dark realm from whence you came. Go back, go back vile one.” He mumbles some jumbled Latin and waves his free hand theatrically. Nothing happens. Mr Nightingale repeats his lines. I look at the woman, as though I am gazing through a peephole. I can see what is inside her. It is sadness. It is not a demon.
Mr Nightingale shrieks, “Begone! I command thee!”
I can feel that sadness, like a black ribbon; it is threaded throughout her. Goliath squeezes my hand softly, with love.