The Body Library

by Jeff Noon

  Lionel and Vito looked at each other. Lionel was worried. Vito lit a cigarette; some of his old composure had returned. He stood up and sauntered over to Nyquist, where he blew smoke into a series of blue circles that rose towards the ceiling, drifting apart like a set of faulty halos.

  Nobody spoke.

  Zelda looked to have passed out. No one attended to her.

  Nyquist prepared himself for another attempt at standing up, but his body was still too weak. He had to remain where he was.

  And then Amber reappeared at the door. She walked over to her bag on the table and took a few items from it. Nyquist saw a pair of scissors in her hand.

  “What does our good master want?” Vito asked.

  “First he needs fixing up,” Amber replied. “And then he wants you to bring the fellow in to see him.” She nodded towards Nyquist.

  “Will do,” Vito replied. “Just make sure Dreylock looks nice for our visitor.”

  Amber frowned at this and left the room.

  Vito turned back to his captive. “Well, well, you are privileged. The great man himself demands your presence.”

  Just then Lionel started up on his piano once more, vamping a few dissonant chords and singing over them in a gruff voice:

  There was a crooked man and he told a crooked tale,

  He scratched a crooked story with a crooked nail.

  Despite the wrong notes, the song played around in Nyquist’s head, tormenting him. Vito grimaced, anger sparking in his eyes. “Not now, Lionel.”

  “Not now?” The big man’s hands hovered over the keyboard. The last notes were still ringing out. “Are you sure?”

  Vito stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray. “There’s a good chap.”

  Lionel, somewhat reluctantly, leaned back on the piano stool. Vito relaxed. He took out a small, neat-looking pistol from the inner pocket of his jacket and checked it was loaded. Satisfied, he replaced it in his pocket and sat back down to read his newspaper. Nyquist looked from one man to the other – the first elegant and cruel, the other muscle-bound and almost childlike – seeing the tension between them, indeed between all three members of the group, the woman included. This was not a strongly bound unit, not at all, and in the cracks between them all he might find a means of escape, of hurting them even. Resetting the balance.

  He said, “Tell me why I’m here.”

  Vito turned the page of his newspaper. Lionel was still sitting at the piano, his hands folded on his lap. Neither of them looked at him, neither spoke.

  Another turn of the paper.

  A hand was tempted towards a few keys of the piano, and then removed.

  “What do you want from me?”

  Vito tutted. He pointed to a section of the paper and said. “Have you seen this? They want to have even more control over the city’s stories.”

  “Who does?” Lionel asked.

  “The Narrative Council.”

  “I hate those bastards. They should leave well alone. Let the people live the stories they want to live.”

  “Yes, quite. A bold thought. Still…” Vito closed the newspaper. “At least they can’t touch us, not in here.”

  Amber came back into the room. She looked fraught, a little nervous. “He’s ready to see you now,” she said.

  Vito nodded. “Lionel, if you would, a little help.”

  Lionel got up from the piano and came over to Nyquist and lifted him. He struggled a little, but couldn’t find the strength to fight back. Together, Vito and Lionel dragged his inert form over to the doorway and down the hallway towards a closed bedroom door. His hands were still tied, the twine drawing blood from the pinched, raw flesh.

  Vito knocked and waited for a cry from within. Then he opened the door and Lionel pushed Nyquist through.

  The room was so dark that he couldn’t see anything, not to begin with. He was aware of Lionel leaving the room and closing the door behind him. Vito remained at his side, holding Nyquist steady with a hand on his arm. Then Vito moved away a single step and Nyquist remained upright, swaying slightly on his feet. Slowly his awareness was coming back to him and he peered into the blackness of the room, knowing a figure was sitting there, a man, perhaps resting on the bed. But he couldn’t yet see the figure clearly. A breath was drawn, a rattle followed by a wheezing, slightly musical sound like a broken piano accordion.

  Vito spoke to the shadows in a quiet, referential voice. “Mr Dreylock, sir, this is the man we saw coming out of Wellborn’s apartment.”

  At first the figure made no move. He took a few more breaths, each one as pained as the last, before slowly reaching his hand out to the side, towards a cabinet.

  A lamp clicked on and the face of the bed’s occupant was revealed.

  Nyquist gasped at the sight before him. He felt sick.

  Stitches

  THE MAN’S hand moved away from the lamp and beckoned to the visitor, urging him closer. With careful steps Nyquist did as he was told. He was still a little unsteady on his feet.

  “Closer. Closer.”

  Each utterance was drawn out with an effort.

  “Closer!”

  Nyquist stepped up to the side of the bed. They were both in the circle of lamplight, each looking at the other. Dreylock held the stare easily, but Nyquist felt queasy and it took all his effort to maintain eye contact.

  “Not a pretty sight, eh?”

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  It was a lie, the best he could do.

  Dreylock laughed out loud, which set off a bout of coughing. He said to Vito, “Do you hear that? I’ve seen worse!” More strained laughter.

  “He’s a comedian, sir.”

  “He is. He is, that. I’ve seen worse. Oh my!”

  Another helpless, rattled-out laugh left Dreylock looking agonized. He breathed heavily and reached for a tumbler of water on the bedside cabinet, which also contained a collection of medicine bottles, salves, ointments and the like. He took a sip of water and swallowed a white pill.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “You’re not seeing me at my best.”

  Dreylock was propped up against the headboard, his upper body visible above the covers. He wore a striped pajama top which was stained down the front with drool and foodstuffs. At first he seemed an old man, albeit one of considerable build. But now that Nyquist saw him close up he could see that Dreylock was younger, middle-aged, but his physical features aged him dreadfully. His was a face from a nightmare – the brow, cheeks, chin and shaven skull were all marked by a series of scars set at jagged angles to each other, where the skin didn’t quite meet, with each portion of skin held together by stitches. It was a patchwork of a face with a horrible home-made quality to it, something made by a blind, inebriated god on a bad day. The stitches were amateurish, ragged and placed at irregular intervals. A great weight of sadness was hanging upon the man, hooding his eyes, bending his shoulders, and he sighed: a sound carried directly from the heart.

  “Mr Nyquist… well, here we are.” He took another sip of water. “It’s your first time here in Melville Five, I’m guessing? Yes, I thought as much.” Dreylock nodded and smiled. “And how are we treating you?” Now that he’d started to speak properly, his voice was charming, almost melodious.

  Nyquist didn’t answer.

  Dreylock turned to Vito. “He looks a little confused. Have you hurt him?”

  Vito looked embarrassed. He shook his head. “A little chloral hydrate, that’s all.”

  So that was it, Nyquist thought. Knock-out drops. He must have swallowed them at some point, the drink forced down his throat. His bile rose.

  Dreylock tutted at Vito. “You’re so primitive, you really are. And what have you done to the poor man’s hands?”

  “Sir, we need to be careful…”

  “Untie him, for God’s sake. We’re civilized people.”

  Vito took out a small penknife and cut through the twine. Nyquist rubbed his wrists, one against the other, to alleviate the pain.

  �
��Lean into the light, please. I want to see what you look like.”

  Nyquist did so. He felt he was being examined by Dreylock as an entomologist might a new specimen, something in a jar, or even worse, twitching on a pin. It was the lack of true expression that unnerved the most: behind the man’s scars and wounds, only pain was visible. All other emotions had been exiled from the features, and even when Dreylock spoke with a soft voice, that agony remained in his eyes, in the broken plates of skin that shifted slightly as his muscles moved beneath.

  “Mr Nyquist, I only want to know about your part in the story.”

  “Which story?”

  “Really? You’re asking me that? Vito here tells me that you killed Patrick Wellborn. Isn’t that true?”

  “I retaliated.”

  “Pray tell, what did you do to upset him so?”

  “I tore a piece of paper in two.”

  “Oh, that will do it! That would do it. Nasty. And so cruel.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Dreylock smiled at some inner joke and said, “Those papers meant the world to him.”

  Nyquist felt his newly freed hands clench in anger.

  “Why should I even talk to you?”

  Dreylock sneered. “Oh, we’re getting irate now. Vito, I do believe your preparation is wearing off. Yes, indeed. He’s showing his teeth.”

  “Let Zelda go. She’s got nothing to do with this.”

  “We will decide upon this matter in due course…”

  Dreylock stopped in mid flow. He moaned and spluttered. His body was racked with pain as his face broke apart at one of the junctures. He was touching at his cheeks and brow, fingers smeared with blood. He called out: “Amber! Amber, I need you! Quickly!” All the pain of his life was collected in his voice. “Amber!”

  The young woman hurried in. “What is it?” She looked around and said to Vito, “Can’t you handle anything?”

  Dreylock pleaded with her: “Amber, help me, please.”

  She walked over to the bedside and picked up a few items from the cabinet.

  Vito said, “Shall I take him outside, boss?”

  “No. No, let him stay. Let him see this.”

  Dreylock’s upper body was perfectly still as his eyes glowed with hatred. He wanted to torture Nyquist with the blood on his face, the blood that flowed from the reopened scar. It was a mask of pride.

  Amber calmed her boss down, gently patting his shoulder and cleaning his face with a damp cloth.

  Dreylock said, “Hold him still. Make him watch.”

  But Nyquist didn’t need to be forced. He looked on as Amber took up a surgical needle and thread. With deft movements she began to sew the two separated parts of her patient’s face back together, repairing the damage. As far as Nyquist could tell, there was no anesthetic being used, only Dreylock’s own willpower, which must have been immense. He just sat there and glared at Nyquist as the needle moved in and out of his flesh, in and out, and a line of small black stitches appeared. Amber concentrated, Dreylock grimaced. The work continued, from one torn patch of skin to another, a smaller wound this time, the needle moving up and down. Nyquist was hypnotized by the work, by the extreme nature of the man’s life, by Amber’s complete control of the situation, by the obvious love she was showing her patient. And at last the job was finished. Amber wiped away the last of the blood and tidied up.

  “Thank you, my dear,” Dreylock said to her.

  Amber nodded and left the room.

  “Vito, go with her.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Go on! I need to be alone with our visitor.”

  Vito followed Amber, closing the door behind him. For a moment silence took over. And then Dreylock said, “Please, sit down. We need to talk.”

  Nyquist stayed on his feet.

  Dreylock nodded. “As you please. You know, I really must apologize for showing you that operation. But I wanted you to know of the nightly ordeal I have to go through.”

  “I can’t imagine. I really can’t.”

  “Oh, it’s particularly bad tonight. Other times I’m quite lively. Up and about, strolling down the corridors. Now then…” He smiled. “You have a good few questions, I imagine. The first, as you brought up, concerns the safety of your companion, Zelda.”

  Nyquist nodded. “There’s no need to hurt her. No need for her to be here.”

  “I have to disagree, I’m afraid. Zelda is important to me, in my present task.” He licked at a spot of blood on his upper lip. “Now then, second question…”

  “There’s no other question.”

  “You do disappoint me. I rather thought you’d be curious about my face. Most people are.”

  Nyquist didn’t respond. But Dreylock carried on, obviously enjoying his captive audience. “The thing is, it’s not just my face.” He undid the top buttons of his pajama jacket to reveal his upper chest and neck. Nyquist saw the scars that spread across the skin: he was a jigsaw of a man, a person of fragments. “But of course,” he continued, “the face is the worst. I really need to contain any strong emotions, for they cause me such trouble. Such is my… burden.” He put a special emphasis on this last word, as though the very speaking of it caused him agony.

  Nyquist knew that his only way out of this predicament, the only way to help Zelda, was to go along with the game. “Who did this to you?” he asked. It was a key question, for it brought a fierce tremor to Dreylock’s face, such that the freshly tailored scars might break open once more. Nyquist tried a guess. “Was it Wellborn? Is he to blame?”

  “In a sense. In the sense that he introduced me to this place, this building. And to the boy who lives here.”

  “The boy?”

  “Calvin. That evil little runt.”

  “He did this to you?” Nyquist couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “Oh, you’ve met him, have you?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “The little sod tempts you, he leads you on, he makes such promises, such treasures to be had.” Dreylock coughed again and shook his head. “Stories, beyond stories, beyond stories.” His voice was brittle, weighted by anger. “And when it’s all over and the deed is done, you hardly ever see the boy again, not unless he’s got some job for you. He darts about here and there like that scallywag Puck from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, making mischief. That’s his job, see, entrancing, goading, luring. And now…” He raised a hand to his scarred features. “You see what happens, when it all goes wrong? The consequences.”

  Nyquist still didn’t understand.

  Dreylock continued, “Patrick Wellborn held my one good chance at being cured. He was given a task: to bring Zelda to the tower. This is what Oberon wanted.”

  “Oberon?”

  “Calvin’s father, or grandfather, or great grandfather. I really don’t know. He’s the owner of this whole place. And evil through and through.”

  “And he wanted Zelda brought here? Why?”

  “For his pleasure. For his collection. God knows.” Dreylock dismissed the thought with a wave. “What matters is this: that Oberon will be pleased with the task completed, with Zelda’s delivery, and that in his mercy he might make me whole once more.”

  Dreylock’s eyes lit up at the thought. Nyquist saw the truth, the threat. He didn’t know how precisely, but Zelda was in danger: right from the beginning they were after her, and Nyquist had simply gotten in the way.

  Dreylock studied him. “I believe that you and I were destined to meet. It was written.”

  It was written…

  It was a phrase Nyquist had heard a good few times in the past months; the idea that some life stories were already written out, waiting to happen in reality. This was seen as both a good thing and a bad thing, depending on the circumstances, and the teller. The whole idea angered him.

  “I have a great desire to hit you right now.”

  The man in the bed stared back at him, quite calmly. “The more you hurt me, Mr Nyquis
t, the angrier I become. And the angrier I become, the more blood flows from my body.” After a slight pause he added, “Do you really want to witness that?”

  Nyquist uncurled his fists and stepped away from the bed. He turned and looked around the room, at the sparse furnishings, the closed curtain at the window, the medicines on the cabinet. He wondered about breaking free of this place, doing damage along the way to Vito and Lionel. But he was trapped here, that was the truth, still suffering the effects of the knock-out drops, his mind skipping from one thought to another.

  Dreylock said, “You’re not looking too good yourself. Sit down, please.”

  Nyquist’s hands were shaking. He took the offer of the seat at the bedside, looking for all the world like a concerned relative on a hospital vigil. He picked up a paperback book that lay amid the medicines and bottles on the cabinet. It was the same crime thriller he’d found in Wellborn’s suitcase: Deadly Nightshade by the author Bradley Sinclair. The cover of the novel showed a young woman wearing a tight purple dress. She was holding a gun in her black-gloved hand. A typical femme fatale. Some poor victim cowered before her, his face stricken with fear. Nyquist looked up from the book and contemplated the bedridden man. Dreylock shared a reading interest with Patrick Wellborn. It made him think about the real connection between the two people.

  Dreylock asked, “Tell me, have you heard the voices yet? The voices whispering to you, calling your name?”

  Nyquist nodded. “What do they mean?”

  “Yes, I thought so. And Zelda the same, no doubt. You see, that’s one of the signs. You’ve been chosen, both of you.”

  “For what?”

  “You will find out, soon enough. When the story is ready. There’s really no escaping it.”

  Nyquist’s head lowered into his hands and his eyes closed, and in the darkness created he found a tiny measure of peace. “I just need…”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  He looked up. “I just need to get out of this building.”

  “We would all like to do that, believe me.”

  “With Zelda. That’s all I want.”

  Dreylock sighed. He ran a hand over his shaven head and worried at the black sutures that lay there, crisscrossed, old and new. The map of a terrible land. “Sadly, there is no way out. The Body Library holds us all.”