by Jeff Noon
“No. I do it for everyone. For the city.” Then she breathed evenly and pronounced with deadly seriousness, “One bulb going out, is like all the bulbs going out.”
“Just like in the war,” Nyquist said. “During the blackout?”
“Oh, but those were frightening times! The whole city dark, every bulb turned off. Us bulb monkeys didn’t know what to do with ourselves, I tell you truly.”
Nyquist stepped closer to better hear her. He must have made a terrible sight after his drinking spree and the long exhausting climb up the stairs, and yet her eyes seemed to look upon him with compassion.
She said, “You were born here in Dayzone, weren’t you? I can tell.”
Nyquist wanted to turn away. “Yes,” he answered. “I’ve never known anywhere else.”
“So you’ve never seen the sky? The real sky, I mean?”
“Well…”
“Yes?”
Nyquist frowned. “Once… once I journeyed out, close to the city’s edge.”
“You were curious?”
“My marriage had just broken up, and I was at a loss, saddened beyond measure, cast adrift. The city disgusted me, everything about it: the light of Dayzone, the darkness of Nocturna. I had a sudden urge to leave, to find a new place elsewhere, a new start in life.”
Lucille nodded. “Yes, I can understand that.”
“I went east, to Precinct Ninety-Nine.”
“That would be… let me remember… the town of Lambency?”
“That’s right. I had heard a story that many people went there, when they wanted an easy way to leave the city.”
Lucille nodded. “They have very few bulbs there, it’s true. Silly people.”
Nyquist looked into the distance. “I stayed there for a short while, in a small hotel close to the city limits. Then I set off walking, towards the border…”
He stopped talking. Lucille nudged his arm. “What happened? Come on, mister, did you reach the outside?”
He turned to look at her, his eyes fiery in the glow of the lamps.
“Yes. The bulbs ran out. Piece by piece, the neon sky fell away. My fingers kept fidgeting at my wristwatch, desperate to adjust it to a new timezone. Yet I knew, after this I would hardly need to change my watch again. One clock would rule me, one alone! I stopped and looked ahead. Beyond the final, dimly lit lamps I could see a field… farmland. A truck passed me on the road, carrying produce and foodstuffs into the city. A flock of starlings were also winging their way towards Dayzone. They flew above my head and I looked up and I saw… I saw…”
His brow furrowed and his eyes closed tight.
“You saw the sun! Is that it?”
“No…” He gazed at Lucille again, an infinite sadness in his expression. “No. It was cloudy. A cloudy day. The sun was just a soft yellow glow. It was enough… too much. I felt weak, dizzy. I dropped to my knees on the roadway and pressed my hands against my eyes.”
His hands made the same movement now, following the memory. And his voice fell silent.
Lucille watched and waited for his story to continue.
Nothing more was said.
She touched his arm. “Mister? Are you all right?”
He nodded.
“You had to turn back, is that it? It was all you could do?”
He revealed his eyes once more. They glistened in the light. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I haven’t told that story before, not to anyone.”
Lucille smiled. She tried to put him at ease. “You see, for me it’s different. I came here when I was young, a child of six. The whole family. My parents were looking for work.”
He wiped at his face. “So you’ve seen the sun? Really?”
“Indeed I have. Many a day.”
Nyquist hesitated. “What’s it like?”
She stared at him and then answered in a quiet voice: “I used to play on a sports field, just near to where we lived. The summer sky stretched overhead like a soft blue blanket. The sun warmed my skin. And then later it grew dark, as night fell.”
Nyquist sighed. “It must be something to see, it really must.”
She nodded. “A few years back, after my fall, I had the same idea as you, that I might build a new life elsewhere. So I went travelling.”
“You left the city? How was it?”
Lucille gave out a gleeful laugh. “Bloody awful! All that space, that empty space. And the climate always creeping up on you, and the seasons changing before you know it. And just one clock, one timescale like an evil overseer. Everybody following the same patterns. Hell, no. It’s a nightmare. It’s a daymare. Now I understood why people are so reluctant to leave Dayzone, despite all the hassle and the heat and the constant ticking sound!” She scowled. “This is paradise! And I came running back, pronto. And here I’ll stay, until I shuffle off the clock for the final time.”
Nyquist thought for a moment. He realised this woman might have a great deal of knowledge about the city. “Tell me,” he asked. “Have you ever been into the dusklands? Or to the edge of it? The very edge?”
Lucille screwed up her eyes. “What? No, I wouldn’t go there. You don’t go there. It’s a bad place.”
“But how do you know that?”
“Oh come on, mister. I tell you, it’s a place of dangers.”
“So you believe all the stories?”
“Of course I do. All the city’s dead are living in there, in the dusk.”
Nyquist nodded. “Yes. That’s what my father believed.”
“He was a wise man, then.”
“Maybe… maybe it’s just people talking. Rumours.”
“You heard about that poor fellow, didn’t you? The one they found dead out there, in a house on the borderline? Recently. You heard about him?”
Nyquist spoke more to himself. “I heard.”
“They buried him in a pauper’s grave. That’s what happens, see, when you die in the dusk? You die alone, and then they stick you in the hardest, most desolate ground they can find. A dreadful fate. And the worst thing is, some horrible demon got hold of him. That’s how he died.”
“That’s not true. He was stabbed.”
“Oh, that’s what they tell you in the Beacon Fire, sure. But listen, I have it on good authority. A demon got him!”
Nyquist saw again the dead man in his mind’s eye. Kinkaid. He saw Eleanor standing near the bed, the knife in her hands. The memory plagued him.
Lucille checked the dome for anymore dead bulbs, then she said, “You’ve heard about Quicksilver, haven’t you?”
“I have.”
“Well you know he comes out of twilight every so often, to claim another sacrifice.”
Nyquist didn’t respond.
“It’s why no one can see him. Because he’s wrapped in a cloak of fog. It makes him invisible–”
Now he grabbed her by the upper arms. “Tell me about the twilight. What is the dusk, really? Why does it exist? What does it do to you? Lucille, you must know!” She looked back at him as though he were mad. But he carried on. “Tell me.”
Lucille went limp in his hands, bringing him to his senses a little. He loosened his grip, enough for the woman to fix her eyes on him. “You be careful,” she said. “You just be careful now.”
Nyquist released her. He said quietly, “I think the dusk has got inside me, somehow.”
Lucille grimaced and moved a few steps away but then stopped. “Nobody gets free of it. You do know that? Once taken.”
“What do you mean, taken?”
“People go missing, on the fogline. They get taken over. And even if they come back, which is rare, they’re never the same.”
He looked at Lucille, shaking his head slowly. “How can you know that?”
She didn’t answer directly. Instead she said, “Do you want to know the truth about Dusk? The worst thing of all?”
Nyquist nodded.
“Time is a fluid substance in there, not a solid. It moves back and forth, back and forth like the
tide. There’s no when. There’s no now, no then, no if, no was, no past, present or future.” Her voice rose in pitch. “There’s no waiting, no expectations, no chance of change. It’s a limbo state. And all you can do is wander around twilight forever. Half dead, half alive. Now that’s the truth.” The woman started to laugh at her own words. It was a horrible sound that scratched at his nerves like a scalpel.
Nyquist looked away, towards the overarching dome of lamps. He was thinking of his father: the sight of him walking off into the mist, the young boy watching scared from the edge of Dusk, never daring to follow. Was his father still alive in there, or half alive? A ghost in the mist. It was too much to hope for. Or to fear.
The sizzle of the electrical circuits joined in with Lucille’s manic laughter. And the dazzling colours of the neon sky bled into each other, dissolving in Nyquist’s sight.
Here Lies a Stranger
Nobody wanted to bury their dead in the dark. Because of this fact, almost all of the city’s cemeteries were located in Dayzone. One such was Cotton Springs Remembrance Garden. The attendant showed him the way, past the formal tombs and the well-tended plots, over to the dry, cracked, weed-strewn ground where those who had died unknown or unloved were laid to rest. The stone was simply made, standard issue, carved with the name of Dominic Kinkaid and the year of his death: 1959. That was all. No date of birth, and no message of any kind. Nyquist looked down at the small bunch of withered flowers that had been placed in a tin vase. It wasn’t much to show for a life, especially one that had ended in such sorry circumstances.
“Were you here for the ceremony?” he asked.
The attendant nodded. “Such as it was.”
“Why do you say that? Not many turned up?”
“Nobody. Nobody turned up.”
Nyquist felt his head throb with the heat, the unremitting glare. The lamps were very low here, just a few feet above his head, and the buzz and hum of the electrical circuits was almost deafening. If he reached up, his hands would make contact with the sky. Why had he come to this place, what was he hoping to find? He looked around at the other graves in the area, hardly any of which had flowers laid upon them. The attendant seemed to understand his reasoning, saying, “I need to throw these away now,” and he bent down to remove the dead flowers.
“Did you put them here?”
“No. The woman did.”
“The woman?” Nyquist immediately thought of Eleanor. “I thought you said nobody attended the funeral?”
“She came later.”
“Tell me about her.”
“Why should I do that?”
Nyquist looked at the man. He was thin and tall and wrinkled, nearing retirement age. He had probably spent most of his life in such surroundings; and whatever it was that he was seeking in recompense for knowledge, almost certainly it wasn’t money.
“What do they call you?”
“Usually? The man with the spade.”
“Otherwise?”
“Delamonte.”
“That’s a good name.”
“Aye, it is. I stole it off a dead man.” He squinted in the harsh light. “We’re being watched.”
Nyquist followed the attendant’s gaze over to the iron fence that edged this part of the cemetery. An indistinct figure was standing near the gate, his or her body the only dark object in the surrounding lampscape.
“We get all sorts here. Drunks, tramps, courting couples, grief junkies, hooligans. Bloody flower stealers as well, can you believe it?”
“I can.” Nyquist turned back to view the headstone, saying, “I was with Mr Kinkaid, the day he died.”
“Is that so?”
“We spoke together. He asked me for help, and I did what I could. But it was too little, and too late.”
Delamonte bowed his head. He held some private thoughts to himself for a moment, then he looked up. “It was quite a shock seeing her here.”
“Why?”
Delamonte smiled. “Oh, she was celebrated in her day, and very beautiful. I remember her well, from the photographs in the newspapers. Of course, she’s not quite so beautiful now. But then again, who is?”
So it wasn’t Eleanor then. “Who was it?”
“Catherine Bale.”
Nyquist thought about this. Catherine was Eleanor’s mother, the wife of Patrick Bale. She had been the young heir to a business fortune, once high society’s favourite darling, but now rumoured to be a virtual recluse. Indeed, even Patrick had said that his wife hardly ever left Nocturna. Well, this grave had obviously drawn her forth, out of the darkness.
Could it be true, that Dominic Kinkaid was Eleanor’s real father, not Patrick Bale? In which case, Catherine Bale was paying her final respects to an old lover.
“When did she visit?” he asked.
“Mrs Bale came after the service had finished,” the attendant said. “Much later. After the priest had said his few words, and the body was lowered into the ground.”
“Was she alone?”
“No. She had a maid with her, and a chauffeur. She was well looked after, protected, if you like. Hat and veil, dark glasses, long black gloves, the whole rigmarole. She stood at the graveside and lifted the veil away from her face and I recognised her straight away.”
Nyquist brought out his photograph of Eleanor Bale. “Tell me, have you ever seen this girl?”
Delamonte shook his head. “Not that I recall, no.”
“Well, thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
“A dreadful business, though. Being killed like that, right on the edge of Dusk. The worst place to die, don’t you think?”
“You could be right.”
“But somebody loved him at least.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Here. See?” Delamonte knelt down and started to stir up the soil on the grave, revealing a few sparkling objects buried just below the surface. Nyquist bent down next to the aging man, who continued, “Nothing of value, just these little trinkets. Mrs Bale left them here. Buried them herself. Kneeling down just like we are now, and taking her time about it, a good fifteen minutes or more. Amazing. That such a woman…”
His voice trailed off.
“Sure.” Nyquist picked up a tiny necklace of coloured gems, a length of scarlet ribbon, a miniature doll. He dug further, unearthing coloured marbles, beads, sparkling bangles, a fairy light, feathers, a toy watch, glass jewels and crystals.
“Children’s playthings,” said Delamonte. “A little girl’s possessions.”
“Looks like it.” Nyquist felt strange: he was examining the toys and precious items from Eleanor’s early years. But then he found something that made him hold still. It wasn’t much, and his reaction had hardly anything to do with the teenage girl, but more to do with himself and his own childhood. It was a music box. Small, intricately made, no more than three inches square. He lifted the lid to reveal a tiny ballerina who revolved slowly as the music started playing. The melody was slow and tender, with a beauty all its own, spiky as the notes started, and soft as the notes died away.
He stood up and looked over towards the fence. The figure at the gate had vanished. Only the fierce glow of light remained, under a barrage of bulbs. Everything blurred. He suddenly felt weak on his feet. It was the lack of sleep, the overpowering heat of the day, and the melody from the music box. His eyes misted over as he stared once more at the simple gravestone.
“Is that the current year?” he asked. “1959. Definitely?”
“It is. I think.”
“By whose calendar?”
Delamonte shrugged. “Who knows? I try my best to keep track, but whenever there’s an election and a new council come in, they insist in bringing their own timescales with them. Left wing time, right wing time, left of centre time, right of centre. I’ve lived through them all.”
Nyquist nodded in reply. The lamplight shone down fiercely on his head. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief, and said, “Sometimes I wake
up and it feels like whole years have been taken away from me.”
The attendant smiled. “You and me both.”
The conversation was over. Nyquist walked back to his car. The dashboard fan had breathed its last, and so all the windows were wide open. A faint breeze touched at his face, like the whisper of a spirit only recently deceased. He examined the music box more closely, noting the engraved writing that spelled out the name of the melody, Beethoven’s “Für Elise”. He had had such a toy himself when he was small, of more or less the same design. The melody itself was different but of a similar quality, enough to suddenly transport him back there, to his younger realm, the council house in New Lantern Town. Artificial sunlight streaming in through the living room window, his mother bending down to present the gift to him. And hearing this similar tune, being drawn back like this, Nyquist had the uncomfortable feeling that time, like the music, like the Eleanor Bale case, was either slipping away from him, or creeping ever closer; he could not tell which.
Negative Halo
As Nyquist started his car and made for the exit, another vehicle suddenly pulled over and halted, blocking his way. He waited, but the other car didn’t move. He tried honking the horn. It had no effect. With a sigh, he got out and walked over. The other vehicle had blacked-out windows, a sight that was hardly ever seen in Dayzone. It puzzled him. Who would want to keep out the light? He tapped on the glass, but then stopped at a noise to one side, as the air close by seemed to darken suddenly. Had a bulb gone out overhead, or a number of them at the same time? Such a thing could happen, he knew that, a chain reaction. But no, all the bulbs looked to be brightly lit. Yet a shadow moved. And again, a fleeting presence. Here in this illuminated realm, an area of gloom was visible. Nyquist shivered. And then his eyes adjusted and he saw a slowly moving figure, a tall, well-set male figure. It looked more like a body of gloom than a body of flesh. The darkness covered it entirely from head to foot in a uniform of dark grey. Even the facial features were hidden behind a smoky mask.
Nyquist stayed where he was, a few feet from his car.
The shadow man stopped at the same time.