by Jeff Noon
Overcome with remorse he put the photographs back in the cabinet, closing the drawer on them. He stretched out fully clothed on the bed, letting his eyes close. Within a moment he was asleep.
She stood with her back to him, the young woman.
He wanted to warn her, that it wasn’t safe here, in the hotel room. They had to move on, keep moving. Something bad was going to happen. If he only knew what the danger was, he’d be able to fight against it.
He turned and looked out through the window. The street below was empty, barely lit, and covered in mist. Only the neon sign of the cinema opposite could be seen clearly. He couldn’t make out the name of the movie written on the marquee.
Now the woman called out his name, a call that transformed into a scream. It was terrifying. But then the scream was cut off, suddenly, as though by a switch. He turned to see her. His eye passed over a clock mounted above a mirror on the wall.
It was seven minutes past seven.
Everything moved slowly in his sight, in a dreamlike fashion. Strands of mist drifted around the room. A shadow stirred, a man, his face obscured by smoke.
Again, the young woman tried to scream, but her mouth would not open. Her hands waved in helpless gestures.
Nyquist could not work out what she was saying to him.
But now he recognised her: Eleanor. Her mouth was clamped shut. He knew that he had to help her, but could not see how.
She fell back onto the bed.
To all the world, she looked like she was drowning, drowning in the mist and the air.
A flutter of hands, helpless, helpless…
Nyquist could not take a step.
Between one second and the next, an eternity stretched out.
The shadowy figure moved to the bed, it covered Eleanor in its form, enveloping her completely, suffocating her. Within its deathly embrace she struggled, and then fell still, fell silent. Not even a breath was heard.
Nyquist moved at last, calling out to her…
He woke up with the girl’s name on his lips. Eleanor. Something had startled him, a noise of some kind. Where had it come from? He listened. Only silence. And then it came again, the tiny sound of breaking glass.
They’ve come back, he thought. The shadow men.
He tried to remember where he had put his gun. He must have left it on the coffee table, that was it, near the girl’s bag. He had to get to it. He stood up, trying not to make a sound of his own, and crept out into the corridor. He peeked in at the living room doorway. There was no one there. Empty, quiet. He moved quickly, snatching the gun up from the table. He clicked off the safety catch, at the same time scanning the room. Something was wrong, he could not place it yet. His eyes scanned the bookcase. There it was: the carriage clock – the one he had turned to face the wall earlier – was now facing outwards again. Had he done this himself, without knowing it? Perhaps in his sleep, or in some half-waking, drugged-up state? Nyquist moved closer. The clock’s dial had been smashed. Tiny pieces of glass littered the top of the bookcase. And then he noticed that the two hands of the clock had changed position, either losing or gaining time. They were now pointing at seven minutes past seven. The numbers meant something to him, the particular time, but he couldn’t think why it was so important.
He spun round, the gun moving with him. “Who’s there? Who is it?” His voice came louder. “Who’s doing this?”
No answer. He rushed to the front door, only to see that the chest of drawers was still in place. No one had forced their way in. Moving quickly, he went back to the corridor. Holding the gun with both hands, outstretched, he moved into the bathroom. Empty. But he had to check everywhere. A shadow crossed the wall. Nyquist swung round.
“Who’s there? Come on! Come on!”
Silence. And then once again the faraway sound of breaking glass. It was coming from across the corridor, from his bedroom. He moved back along the corridor, more cautious now, the gun swinging in a wide arc to take it all in.
Nyquist was alone. Only his breathing could be heard, coarsely drawn. His heart was beating far too quickly. He moved to the bedroom window, to see that it too was locked tight. And then a noise. Not breaking glass this time, but loud, high pitched, continuous. Nyquist jumped and cried out at hearing it, the shock of it. It was coming from his bedside cabinet, from the drawer. It was the sound of his alarm clock, calling out to him to wake up. The sound was piercing and shrill. Was he dreaming? No. No, this was real. He pulled the drawer open and, immediately, the alarm stopped ringing. He picked up the clock. The glass on the dial had been broken. The hands were frozen in place, exactly at seven minutes past seven. The clock fell from his hand.
Seven past seven, seven past seven…
Memories stirred. This was the time he’d seen in the dream, when Eleanor Bale had been attacked. Yes, he remembered it now, as the poor girl suffered, being suffocated, and her eyes closing in death.
Yet he’d seen no attacker in the dream, only a moving shadow.
What did it mean? Had the drug spoken to him?
Nyquist couldn’t think clearly anymore. There was another ringing sound, quieter this time, a melody of some kind, made of tiny bells and chimes. He walked back into the living room. The sound was coming from somewhere in there.
The music box.
It was sitting on the coffee table, the lid opened up, the ballerina dancing around and around. The melody played on. But the tune was different, slower than usual, darkened with too many minor notes. Had he done all this himself ̶ moved the hands on the clocks, smashed the dials, activated the music box ̶ all while under the influence of kia? He could not remember.
Nyquist snapped the lid shut. The music died.
He looked at his watch, his father’s watch, still attached to his wrist.
It read seven minutes past seven.
The Gates
The rain falls sparsely in Nocturna. It is said that only one in ten droplets manage to make their way between the tightly packed, broken lamps of the night sky down to ground level. The plants and flowers have adapted over the years, sucking up the moisture with extra tubers and roots. The people make similar adaptations, finding ways to live in such limited circumstances, indeed they learn to love the conditions of their lives. To view such a place as paradise.
The car sped along through the dark, headlamp beams flickering. Nyquist gripped the steering wheel tightly, his upper body pushed forward to better see what lay ahead. The road blurred as the wipers smudged the raindrops across the windscreen. He passed a few other vehicles, not many; this was one of the most exclusive areas of Nocturna. People tended to stay indoors.
The car pulled up at a junction, where a traffic sign was lit up with a soft, eerie glow. Four directions were offered. Rain slanted through the small patch of light. Nyquist dragged the girl’s bag from the passenger seat, revealing a road atlas beneath. He checked the sign and then drove on, taking the next turning on the right, towards Darkness Falls.
His mind played over the vision he’d had under the influence of kia.
Eleanor being attacked. Murdered. The event happening at seven minutes past seven. But on which of the many thousand timelines, and measured by whose clock?
It felt like a future event waiting to happen. But surely such thoughts led to madness? And then he remembered what the retired bulb monkey had told him on the roof of his office block: in this city time is a fluid, not a solid substance. It moves forward and back like the tide.
How far could he trust the vision? Just what was being revealed?
Did it hold any kind of truth, symbolic or otherwise?
Was Eleanor really in danger?
If such a tiny amount of the drug had given him that much access to the hidden part of his mind, what would a full dosage bring into the light?
Questions, questions. Secrets gathering at every twist and turn.
A short while later he was travelling along a narrow country lane lined with trees. There were no streetlamp
s, no light at all except for the headlights of the car. He glanced from side to side, looking for signs of life, noise, radiance, anything. The black night closed in around him. He had the feeling of being lost, of the night playing tricks on him. Still, he kept going, taking each winding bend at a slow pace, hoping that his map-reading was up to scratch. And then he saw something through the trees; a flame of some kind, another, two flickering lanterns perhaps? The car slowed further as it turned off the road. A pair of ironwork gates were set across the entrance to a driveway. The two lanterns were fixed to the upper parts of the gate, one on each side, and the address Number 5 Beckett Drive was plainly seen, the letters made out of a luminous material.
Nyquist brought the car to a halt.
Only the sound of the rain could be heard.
He glanced at his watch; it had not moved on since the episode in his apartment, and was still stuck on seven past seven.
The dashboard clock read twenty-five to eleven.
Which one should he believe?
He got out of the car and walked up to the gates. Looking through he could see the driveway continuing until it vanished into the gloom a little further on. He pressed a button at the side of the gate and seconds later a pale light came on in a nearby window. A small outbuilding nestled in the trees. A door opened and the beam of a torch emerged, followed by a dark bulky figure. Nyquist waited, shivering from the cold. The approaching person was dressed in a shiny black waterproof coat. He had some weight about him. His face was only partially visible under the coat’s hood, as he stared at Nyquist through the gateposts.
“What do you want?”
“Let me in.”
The gatekeeper grimaced. “Do you know what the time is?”
“The time?”
“It’s gone two o’clock.”
“I need to speak with Eleanor.”
“Two in the morning, mind. It’s late.”
The torch beam dazzled Nyquist’s eyes. “Please. I need to see her.”
“Miss Bale is away just now.”
“Away? Where?”
“Do you think they tell me everything?”
“What about… what about Eleanor’s father?”
“No. Sorry.” The gatekeeper shook his head. Drops of rain fell from his hood. “Only Mrs Bale is present at this moment.”
“Eleanor’s mother?” Nyquist grabbed hold of the bars. “Tell her I’m here. Wake her up.”
“Oh. Mrs Bale will still be awake. She does not sleep. Well, not often.”
“Tell her it’s Nyquist. John Nyquist.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“It’s about her daughter, Eleanor. She’s in danger.”
The gatekeeper frowned. He looked suspicious. “What kind of danger?”
Nyquist shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I’m not sure. I just need to see Eleanor, or anybody, the family. Anybody!”
“I can’t–”
Nyquist thrust both of his hands through the bars, grabbing the gatekeeper by the collar, making him cry out in alarm. The torch fell to the ground. The gatekeeper’s face was pulled up tight against the bars, distorting his features. He couldn’t speak, he was making rude babbling sounds. Nyquist relaxed his grip just a little, allowing the man to get his words out. “I can’t let you in,” he cried. “I can’t.”
“Tell her!”
“I have my… my orders.”
Nyquist pulled the gatekeeper forward once more, harder this time, mashing his face up against the railings. “Listen to me. Eleanor Bale is going to be killed.” He spoke coldly and plainly. “She’s going to die.” The gatekeeper looked scared. Nyquist pushed him away, so that he stumbled and fell to the ground. The man lay there for a moment and then scrambled to his feet, setting off immediately for his hut. He vanished inside. Nyquist wiped the rainwater from his face with his sleeve and waited. He was aware of his own smell, the caked-on dirt, the sweat. He hadn’t changed his clothes, nor had he got round to that shower and shave, too scared, petrified at what was happening to him. In the distance, further up the drive, a dog barked. Probably more guards were on the way. They would force him to leave and that would be that.
And then, without any further word from the gatekeeper, the gates clicked open and started to move slowly apart.
A Woman of Unusual Habit
Pinpricks of light ahead turned out to be strings of multicoloured bulbs arranged on the branches of the trees. These provided the only illumination as Nyquist’s car edged along the driveway. He peered out through the windscreen as the final bend took him into a cleared area and the Bale residence appeared before him, a large mansion house with a well-tended night garden extending to one side. A number of ornamental lamps cast a muted glow onto the scene, each yellow bulb cast in vapour by the rain.
Nyquist parked the car in the shadows. He got out and immediately a muscle-bound security guard approached him. The guard was dressed in black, a nocturnal creature with glittering red eyes, a result of the special night-viewing goggles he was wearing. A snarling dog moved at his side. Nyquist walked to the front door under the guard’s silent inspection. The door opened as he approached and a maid greeted him by name. She led the way into the hall.
The house was filled with antiques, their beauty barely seen in the low-level lighting. Nyquist, for his part, looked terrible. He was wet through, bone-frozen, and shaking still with the nerves that had driven him here. The young maid took an intense interest in his appearance, moving closer to him. Nyquist felt nervous and he wiped at his face with a handkerchief. The maid smiled. “You are very lucky, Mr Nyquist. We sleep only when Mrs Bale sleeps.” She spoke quietly, almost in a whisper. “This way, please.” They walked through into an antechamber, whose walls were hung with oil paintings, some of them very large and imposing. Each of the larger paintings had its own discreet lighting; apart from these faint dustings of colour, the room was dark.
The maid paused. “It’s not often that she agrees to see anyone. Although, I must warn you…”
“Go on.”
“Don’t expect too much of her.”
The maid turned to set off again but Nyquist gently caught hold of her arm. “Tell me…”
“Melissa.”
“Melissa, do you know Mrs Bale’s daughter well?”
“Eleanor? Yes. I would like to think that we are friends. Well, as much as two people can be, in this sort of relationship.”
“Relationship?”
“I’m an employee. A servant.”
Nyquist gripped the maid’s arm a little tighter. “I’m on Eleanor’s side. You have to believe me.”
Melissa looked worried. She glanced back, over to where another security guard was standing, watching them closely. She said to this character, “It’s all right, Jacob. I’ll be fine here.” The guard stood to attention, silent and unmoving.
Nyquist leaned into the maid once again, whispering himself now. “Just tell me where Eleanor is. That’s all.”
“I cannot say.”
“But you do know?”
Melissa’s voice changed tone, becoming businesslike. “Wait here please.” She hurried away through a doorway.
Nyquist looked at the security guard, nodded, but got no response. The pendulum of a grandfather clock swung slowly back and forth, producing a deeply resonant sound. According to the antique’s dial the time was approaching twenty past two, which seemed to fit with the time the gatekeeper had given him. The house was working to its own chronology. Nyquist felt the usual overwhelming need to change his own wristwatch in accordance, but resisted it. He glanced at the dial: it was still fixed on seven minutes past seven. Just then the security guard coughed and stared at him intently. Nyquist walked over to the nearest work of art, a large oil painting depicting an eerie twilit landscape where the shadows of unseen people lay frozen on the ground between strange-looking towers and archways. It was signed de Chirico.
Nyquist had the feeling the painting might well be an original. He was examining an abstract marble sculpture when the inner doorway opened once again and Melissa appeared.
“Mrs Bale will see you now.”
“Thank you.”
She held the door wide for him and Nyquist entered the room.
It was the sound he noticed first. The room was as dimly lit as all the others, but the sound of ticking, of chiming, filled the shadowed air so completely it seemed as though he had stepped inside a machine. His eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom and he looked around in astonishment, for every single wall and shelving space was fitted with a timepiece of some kind, all of a different design and age. Pendulums swung to and fro, hands turned around dials, mechanisms whirred and clicked. He noted that the clock nearest to him read twenty minutes to four, completely out of step with the timescale he thought the house was running to. Obviously, in this room the clocks moved to a different instruction. And then moving on he saw that every single dial showed approximately the same time: twenty minutes to four.
He became aware of a voice, a woman’s soft voice saying over and over the single repeated word: “Time, time, time. Time, time, time, time, time. Time, time. Time, time, time.” The voice lowered to nothing more than a whisper, at one with the constant ticking sound of the room. “Time. Time, time, time. Time, time…”
The mother of Eleanor Bale was a living ghost of a once startlingly beautiful woman. She was in her late forties, but her skin had the pale drawn-out quality of somebody who has never seen the daylight, not in many years, whilst the look in her eyes reminded Nyquist of his own mother in the photographs, fixed as they were upon some other realm just slightly askew to the present-day world.