by Jeff Noon
The other girl answered him lazily. “Zero, old man. The big nothing.”
“I’m looking at your friend there.”
This second girl was by now lost to the world. Her face had already taken on an orange tint around the lips. Her friend smiled. “Oh yeah. Daisy’s zoomed ahead.”
Nyquist picked up a small object from the cushion. It was a glass vial, the same size and shape as he had found in Eleanor’s possessions. He was curious.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Sadie.”
“You take this stuff, too?”
A look came in her eyes, a yearning. “I’ve tried it a few times, but nothing happened. And yet I waited and waited and waited.” Her mouth was set in a pained line, her teeth barely showing, as she pondered on her loss. “But all I saw was darkness. No knowledge, no looking ahead. No zoom, old man. No bloody zoom! Not for sad little Sadie.” Her hands clutched at the cushions she was perched upon. “It’s like that for some people, see, they just don’t get the privilege.”
“What does it do, when it works? Has Daisy told you?”
“Oh, she tells me all the time.” Bitterness crossed Sadie’s face. “It lets you see what lies between every single second.” Her eyes longed for distant places. “You can see things there, hidden away. Can you imagine?”
“I don’t think I can.”
Her voice dropped to a fearful whisper. “You know, some people inject it direct to a vein.”
Nyquist moved closer. “Sadie, do you know a girl called Eleanor. Eleanor Bale?”
She nodded. “I do. But she hasn’t been around for a while.”
“She takes this stuff as well?”
“Sure, a little.” Her eyes wandered.
Nyquist leaned closer. “I need to try some.”
“You want some kiaro?”
“That’s what you call it?”
“Mostly kia. Sometimes kiaro. It’s short for chiaroscuro. The play of light and shade in a painting.” She was proud of the knowledge.
“Sure,” Nyquist replied. “Rembrandt and all that. I’ve seen the pictures in my dentist’s waiting room.”
The music suddenly increased in intensity and the dancers moved in step.
“Sadie, do you have some kia to sell me?”
“Ah. No. No, no. Not me. No way! No. What is this? No. Not me. No.”
“Look. I’m not a cop. Look at me.”
The girl looked him over. “What are you then?”
“I’m a wreck. Natural born.”
“I don’t know. I mean… I’m not sure.”
Nyquist opened his wallet and handed over a couple of notes to the girl. There was no hesitation. Sadie took the money.
“Just your dealer’s name,” he asked. “And maybe where I can find him or her. That’s all.”
“Right over there.”
“What?”
“There he is. That’s him.”
She was pointing over to a young man standing beneath an archway. He looked to be late twenties. Slick and dark, halfway handsome, bejewelled, bone thin, dark hair greased back from a low brow. He was dressed in an electric pink suit which shimmered under the lights as he walked under the arch into another part of the club.
“What’s his name?”
“Sumak.”
“Sumak? I’ve got it.”
“He’s one of the few. This stuff is rare, you follow me? Special delivery.”
“Thank you, Sadie.”
Nyquist followed the young man down a short flight of steps into a third room at an even lower level. A vast fiery globe was suspended in the space, an artificial sun glowing orange at the centre and flickering with gold flames all around. Here, the people swayed back and forth to music that was more nebulous, a mirage of sound. Nyquist felt his old skills taking over, the alcohol lying low in his veins. Sumak was standing near a doorway, watching the girls on the dance floor. Nyquist approached him, leaning in close to whisper some words. Sumak gave him the one-two, grinned, nodded, and then gestured towards the doorway.
“My private office,” he said. “Come through.”
The room beyond was a kind of bower. Nyquist felt clean air on his face and he looked up to see that the space was entirely open to the lamps of the neon sky far above. The bower held a number of wooden tables, each surrounded by exotic plants and tropical leaves. Two men were drinking and chatting at one table and Sumak nodded to them, saying, “Gentlemen, a new customer”. The two men smiled politely and turned back to their conversation. Sumak lit a cigarette. “So then? What’s your desire?”
Nyquist studied the dealer before answering. Away from the fierce lights of the club, he was much less of a character. There was an odd feeling about him, a slightly mannered attitude; maybe he hadn’t been in this business for too long.
“Kia.”
Sumak nodded. He took out a leather pouch, which he opened to reveal a half dozen or so of the orange vials. He handed one of them to Nyquist, saying, “Be careful, my friend. The good Lady Kia does not welcome everyone.”
“What do you mean?”
The dealer smiled. “Lady Kia rules over a realm of fog and sorrow. She will elaborate your vision, and pull your eyes open to more freely see the shaded road ahead.”
“And what then?”
“Time itself is revealed to you, the very essence thereof. Past, present, and future: all rolled into one.”
“That’s some sales pitch.”
“Alas, our petty minds cannot take such knowledge in abundance. And so we receive glimpses only. What follows, of course, is entirely up to the user.”
“So you’ve taken it yourself?”
Sumak shrugged. “I have. But only the once.”
“Once only? What happened? Didn’t it work for you?”
“Oh it worked. It worked too damn well.” The dealer shook his head, side to side. “I learned enough.”
Nyquist leaned in, saying, “I’m interested.”
“How many?”
“First of all, have you seen this girl?”
He was holding out the photograph of Eleanor. Sumak looked at it, licked his lips.
“You know her?”
“I’ve seen her around. The Bale kid. She’s famous on the scene. And rich as all hell.”
“She buys from you?”
“Once or twice, but to be honest…”
“Go on.”
“That girl doesn’t need any nasties. She’s the thing itself.”
“How do you mean?”
“Time, man. Time! She’s got it at her fingertips.” He laughed. His eyes flickered with lust. “Man, that chick can slow your clock right down. Just with a kiss, a glance. A single touch.”
The remark pushed Nyquist over the edge. He moved fast and sure, grabbing Sumak by the bunched lapels of his tailored jacket. He pushed him backwards into a bunch of potted plants, and then went on further, harder, until he had the young man up tight against the inner wall of the bower. The two men at the table jumped to their feet. One of them shouted out, “Leave him alone.” There was fear in the voice. Nyquist ignored it. He put the squeeze on Sumak, demanding, “What do you know about her? Come on!”
“Like I said–”
“What?”
“She’s the real thing.”
The other two men hurried from the bower. Nyquist knew he was still uptight from the beating in the cemetery. His edge was blistered. Anger was taking over. It felt good. But seriously twisted. A ticking sound came and went inside his head. He laughed as he let up the pressure on Sumak a little, allowing the dealer to catch a few breaths.
“Tell me more. Why should anyone want to harm her?”
“How would I know?”
Nyquist tightened his grip.
“Hey! Come on, man. I’m just the dealer.”
“You’re lying.”
“Right, right. Believe what you want. But that girl…”
“What about her?”
Sumak’s eyes
darkened. “She’s from the dusk. That’s where she was born.”
Nyquist stepped back in surprise. The words seeped into him.
His clock was being wound up, tighter, tighter…
Sumak struggled free. He danced and howled. “Oh man! You’ve creased my suit!”
Time was passing. Nyquist could hear it now, like a lover’s breath in his ear. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. His mind buzzed. The noise, the heat, the dazzle of lamplight. There were too many seconds, minutes and hours in his head, that was the trouble, all of them moving at once along different pathways.
He turned away.
A bouncer was standing in the doorway.
Nyquist pushed past him.
From room to room to room. Time followed along, closing in. The cuckoo called to him. Once, twice. Eleanor’s face wreathed in shadow. Three times. Cuckoo! The knife in her hand, thrusting forward, again and again, the blood flowing freely. Four, five times. Cuckoo, cuckoo! He stumbled onto the dance floor. The giant golden orange sun above his head radiated fire. Slow flashes of red and gold were turning, turning in rhythm, as the dancers moved away from his flight, his sudden fall. A teenager screamed at him, but Nyquist heard only the rush of his own blood and the dull pounding of music like a stunted heartbeat. He tried to get up but somebody’s boot came down on his chest, pinning him to the floor. The electric sun was in his eyes, making a liquid haze of sweat through which he saw some other men standing nearby, maybe three or four of them, a regular gang, one with the booted foot in place, the others taking up their chosen positions, and Sumak doing a rock and roll stroll over to the spot of bother. “Tut, tut. Really.” He leaned in close, his breath tinted with cigarette smoke and lavender.
Nyquist rocked his head from side to side. The boot had by now moved down to his stomach, and then lower still, and was pressing down heavily there, making him stutter some words, he could hardly tell what, just babble. It made Sumak smile. He removed himself from Nyquist’s immediate vision. And then laughed out loud. “Oh dear. I do believe he’s saying sorry to me. Do you hear that, boys?”
Laughter all round. “It’s a disgrace,” one partner said.
“Truly,” answered another.
Sumak came down a second time, even closer. “You must never apologise, my friend. It’s a sign of weakness.”
Nyquist closed his eyes. He lay there expecting some kind of blow, a slicing away of flesh, but neither came. The music screamed louder, the floor beneath him pumping his veins full of noise, and when he finally got his eyes open all he could see were the dancers around him, a circle of staring faces, and the artificial sun above, pulsating with light.
His mind buzzed in painful sympathy.
The orange of the globe was splashed with blood-red streaks. And then the club itself appeared to bleed with fierce heat, the music singing at fever pitch, pure light, pure vibration of sound. His vision smeared, the monstrous ticking sound filled his head. There was no escaping it. He felt himself being lifted up, to his feet, by one of the club’s bouncers. He was led away with no struggle on his part, no protest. His thoughts were taken over by the fact that, no matter how hot the daylight, and no matter how bright the ten billion lamps of the city, all the time he would keep returning to that strange fog-wrapped vision witnessed on the edge of twilight, the death of Kinkaid.
He covered his ears with his hands, pressing his palms hard against his skin. It was no use. He could still hear a clock, a single timepiece now. Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick. The sound of it rose up from the regular beat of the club’s music, louder, faster, more insistent, and even when Nyquist hit the pavement outside and the rogue spotlight picked him out once again in its cruel and radiant circle, still he could hear the death clock ticking.
Preparations for Travel
He managed to get back to the office in more or less one piece, travelling on instinct through the static and blur of the crowded streets. Back to base. He asked Queeps if anyone had come calling for him. No one had. That was good. But he couldn’t imagine the shadow men showing themselves in such a public place as the city centre.
Another session at another mirror, patching himself up. Coffee, soap, sugar and painkillers. Getting his things together. Nyquist took the wayang kulit puppet from his desk drawer, wrapping it carefully in the yellow dusting cloth, and then placed it inside Eleanor’s bag. He found her other belongings. The teenager’s face stared at him from the photograph, seemingly innocent. There was so much he hadn’t noticed, and so much he still didn’t know.
He sat down for a moment, tempted by the whisky bottle, but denied himself the pleasure. The piece of paper was still inserted in the typewriter: one simple question still unanswered, still tormenting him. He took his handkerchief from his pocket: it was sopping wet, so he opened a desk drawer and took another from the pile of six neatly folded inside. Another present from his wife: each square of linen, blue and white in colour, was decorated at the corner with an embroidered eye design. “For my big brave private eye,” she had said with a knowing smile. In truth, she knew how easily he broke out into a sweat, often during important meetings. Nyquist dwelled on the memory for a moment, a pleasant thought amid the chaos. He took a second handkerchief from the pile. Next he bent down to the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet and pulled out a locked metal box. Inside was a small hand gun. He’d fired it only once in anger, managing to take a bite out of his ceiling fan, yet now he felt it might offer protection. He took a handful of bullets, loaded the chamber, and then strapped a holster around his chest and placed the gun in it. His jacket hid the weapon completely. He changed his wristwatch to correspond to the time shown on the wall clock. This was done without thinking, without knowing the reason why. Ten to nine. Last of all he picked up the postcard sent to Eleanor from abroad. He turned it over, reading the address: Eleanor Bale, 5 Beckett Drive, Darkness Falls, Precinct Forty-One, Nocturna. All was set. He thought about what he was planning. His part in the case was over, but since being attacked by the shadow men he had felt only a piercing rage: they wanted Eleanor as their own, for whatever vile purpose. His job was to stop them. It was that simple.
The name of the serial killer buzzed in his head, the great unseen murderer. The attack that came from nowhere, and faded back into nowhere, leaving only the mark, the wounds, blood and death. The killer’s name was spoken often by so many people, living in fear. When would the next attack happen?
Quicksilver awaits you.
Those words whispered in his ear. Lord Apollo! Was he a victim, marked out, waiting to be killed? Nyquist couldn’t be sure of anything. Too much alcohol, too much fear, too many regrets, wasted chances, too many timelines crossed and recrossed, the proximity of twilight, the fog, too many bad memories of his own: his father walking away, his mother’s death when he was only seven years old. But he couldn’t take the chance of being wrong. He would have to go and see the girl, make sure she was all right. He would do what he could to help her, to protect her if need be. And that meant travelling back into Nocturna.
But first there was one other place he had to visit, if he could stand it, and one other person he had to find.
The Meteorologist
Nyquist walked away from the parked car. He had brought along a more powerful torch this time, and he had no intention of getting too close to the fogline, but still, icy fingers started up his spine as the first swirls of dusk appeared in the air. The evening sky was painted in many different shades of grey except for where the yellow moon floated half seen in the distance. There was much speculation about this moon, one of many that occupied different areas of Dusk. It was common knowledge that this particular orb was the giant neon logo atop the old Luna Insurance office tower, a building long since given up to the dusk. But who or what was it that kept the moon aglow all these years? It was just one more mystery of the twilight.
Nyquist stopped. He had reached the Fade Away weather station with its weird-looking instruments and measuring devices. Close up, he foun
d the instruments to be even stranger than he remembered; the spindly elongated structures looked more like abstract sculptures, or primitive totems. His torch beam flickered across the various decorations that had been added to the poles and collecting dishes: mirror shards, lenses taken from cameras and sunglasses, polished shapes cut from aluminium foil, fragments of coloured glass. Fine sparkling chains hung from steel rods, each one strung with silver cogs and springs taken from the movements of clocks and pocket watches. Numerous cobwebs were strung between the struts, each dotted with dew, and each containing its own guardian, a bulbous orange-bellied spider unlike any other that Nyquist had ever seen. The whole station glittered with light in ever-transforming patterns, a magical effect; and yet, when the torch beam moved away, all of this splendour was lost to the gloom.
Nyquist cast his attention to the darkened street in the near distance, the row of houses where he had found Eleanor and the man she claimed was her father. The mist clung to the buildings. The whole scene seemed to be melting away, into memory, into the past. And then some further movement caught his attention. A crow had landed on one of the twisted metal struts of the weather station. One crow, and then another. Three more. Half a dozen. He lost count. They stabbed at the orange spiders with their beaks, gobbling them down with glee. Nyquist didn’t know how many crows it took to make a murder, but this seemed sufficient. And still they came, one by one landing on the instruments. Their croaks and wing rustles made an eerie sound. The birds’ eyes flashed brightly as the torch beam passed over them. Nyquist shuddered. A louder noise attracted him, and he turned to catch a glimpse of a figure in white moving in the shadows some few yards away.
“Hey! Who’s there?”
The crows answered him, screeching maniacally for a moment before settling back into their usual sound. The rusty scientific instruments creaked in harmony. Nyquist walked over to where the pale form had moved through the half-darkness. He had seen just such a figure on the night of Kinkaid’s death, and was hoping that the person was still around. This was why Nyquist had come back here. He moved ahead cautiously, until a small wooden hut emerged from the gloom; closer still, and he could see and hear an open door knocking gently against its frame. He looked inside the hut, seeing a few personal odds and ends, nothing of interest. He stepped back out and turned, and again he saw the figure. Nyquist flashed his torch, catching a glimpse of a body clothed in white, a hood, and a stark face. The apparition retreated, falling backwards over a pile of old gardening utensils. Nyquist moved quickly now, reaching out to try and catch hold of a sleeve. But the person turned and showed his hand, the knife in the grip. A broad blade, dirty and nasty looking.