by Jeff Noon
“What is it? Nyquist, what’s wrong?”
It was Eleanor, talking to him. Alone, untouched. He heard her voice from far away, like a caller from another land, and then the line of dusk passed over him entirely and he was returned once again to the garden, to the Aeon Institute.
It had lasted a few moments only, this slow sweep of twilight across the garden, but during this whole passage his face had turned stark with fear. Now darkness had fallen over the flowers and trees. Artificial stars had taken the place of the fake sun, and wailing sounds could be heard coming from the upper galleries of the building.
Eleanor said, “Nyquist, wake up.”
There was no sign of the shadow man. Had it all been a vision? Orderlies were urging visitors to make their way out. “It’s nine o’clock,” one of them shouted. “Please vacate the garden.” Torch beams moved back and forth through the dark. Nyquist was forced into action by the sight.
“Come on.” He grabbed hold of Eleanor’s arm.
“Hey!”
“It could happen anywhere. Anywhere!”
“What can?”
“Never mind. We’re getting out of here. Just do what I say.”
He pulled her along, towards the garden’s nearest exit door.
The Minute Hand
Nyquist didn’t know how he was going to find a way out of the place, just that he had to do it. This girl had taken over his life, just as the case had infiltrated his everyday purpose. He moved quickly down an ill-lit corridor, pulling Eleanor behind him. She had the green duffle bag with her, which she clung onto like a sacred object. Two orderlies entered the corridor some way ahead and started walking down it. They looked to be big guys, the sort who might take charge of the heavier, more violent patients. Nyquist dragged Eleanor around a corner, into a second corridor. Here another member of staff was seen, a doctor. Nyquist tried the nearest door. It was locked. He tried the next and this opened at his touch and he pushed Eleanor through, followed her and then pulled the door shut.
It was dark inside. Nyquist held the girl close to him, his hand over her mouth to keep her from making a sound.
He listened.
All was quiet outside, but a noise was heard from further inside the room. It was a small cry of pain. Nyquist turned to the sound. Artificial moonlight had crept in through a grilled window, but hardly enough to see by. And then a small desk lamp clicked on and a young man’s face appeared in the glow. He was sitting at a table, staring intently at the items that lay before him: the many pieces of an antique clock – the large dial, a pendulum, the hour and minute hands removed and separated, hundreds of cogs and jewels and springs and wheels. He picked up two of the cogs and tried to fit them together. Then he looked up.
Nyquist put his finger to his lips, to urge the young man into silence.
The patient obeyed his order.
Footsteps were heard as the doctor passed by outside.
The girl struggled. Nyquist held her more tightly.
He whispered, “Keep still. Shhh!”
Without warning the young patient swept the wooden casing of the clock off the table. It clattered on the hard floor. He started to howl, a long continuous sound that rose in pitch. There was no stopping him. Nyquist looked on in horror.
A knock came at the door.
Nyquist could hardly think straight. He had to do something. He had to move fast.
The doctor entered the room.
He looked at the young man at the table, who was now merely staring into space, his hands linked together on the tabletop amid the scattered clock parts.
“What is it, Anthony? Are you sickening–”
The words were cut off as Nyquist pressed the long brass minute hand of the clock against the doctor’s neck. The sharpened tip dug into flesh. The man froze. His voice stuttered.
“Uh, uh, ugh!”
“Do you feel that?” Nyquist said, close to the man’s ear. “Do you feel it? Cold and sharp and painful?”
The man nodded as best he could.
“It’s a knife. The shiniest knife you’ve ever seen. You got that?”
“Yuh!” The doctor was terrified.
“What’s your name?”
“Leonard.”
“OK, Leonard, let’s take this nice and slowly…”
Moments later the doctor was being force-marched down the corridor, Nyquist behind him, holding the clock’s hand tight against the small of his captive’s back. Eleanor followed. She was fearful herself, too scared to be left behind, too scared to go forward. Nyquist urged her on. An orderly was approaching, leading a couple of female patients, both of whom appeared to be half asleep. Nyquist dug the metal point a little deeper into the doctor’s back, tearing the cloth of his jacket. Metal touched flesh. He whispered, “Be nice.” The orderly and the two patients were nearly upon them. The doctor grimaced and the orderly was obviously confused by this signal. But all seemed fine, and they were safely passing along. Nyquist felt he might be getting away with it when one of the patients suddenly lurched out of her sleepwalking state. She reached out with both hands toward the doctor.
Nyquist lost his nerve. He reached up and pulled back on the doctor’s neck with his free arm. The doctor managed to blurt out, “He’s got a knife!” And then the arm lock tightened. The little group was held motionless for a few seconds, until Nyquist pushed the doctor on violently, saying, “Keep moving!” They turned a corner. He could feel Eleanor hanging onto his jacket from behind. She had fallen in step with the plan, whatever it might be.
An alarm bell rang out, piercing the shadow-lit corridor.
The locked gateway could be seen ahead, with a number of security guards waiting there. Doctor Shapiro was standing close by.
Nyquist pushed the captive doctor forward a few more steps and then pulled him up short. “We’re going through,” he called out.
Shapiro looked at Nyquist through the bars. “Now then. Let’s not–”
“Open the gate.”
“Don’t do anything stupid–”
“Open the gate! Come on. I’ll knife him!”
Nyquist pressed the metal in, hard. The doctor shrieked in pain and fear. He cried out to the guards, “Do it. Do it!”
Shapiro looked confused. He said, “Eleanor can’t leave. Her father specifically asked that we–”
Nyquist cut him off, saying, “Patrick Bale is not her father.”
“What?”
Nyquist nodded towards Eleanor. “Tell him. Tell him!”
The girl hesitated for a second, before calling out, “It’s the truth. Bale isn’t my father.”
“Her real father’s dead,” Nyquist added. “Murdered. Now open the bloody gate!”
Nothing happened. Nyquist felt something flash inside his head. Anger lit a bulb in the night. It made him pull back with all his strength on the doctor’s neck, bending him over, and at the same time digging the sharp metal into his flesh, drawing blood. The doctor cried out, “Ah! No. No!”
“One more chance. Open the gate!”
Shapiro waited for a moment. Then he stepped back a little, nodding to one of the guards. This person unlocked the gate. The door opened.
Nyquist pushed his captive forward. He turned to the girl, saying, “Come on, keep up,” and they moved off together, the three of them, along the main corridor. The front doorway lay ahead and they passed through safely. Some of the visitors were chatting to each other outside, near their cars, and they looked on in surprise as Nyquist bundled the doctor down the steps to the pavement.
The air was dark. A single arc light shone down from a pole.
Nyquist let go of the doctor’s neck, while still keeping the clock’s minute hand in place. He used his free hand to pull the car keys from his pocket. He threw these to Eleanor, yelling at her to get inside. She did so with no hesitation.
Members of staff were standing at the top of the steps, watching all this. Two security guards were marching forward, batons in their hands.
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Nyquist forced the doctor to his knees, saying, “Stay there.”
“I’m doing it. I’m doing it!”
The clock’s hand fell to the floor.
Nyquist ran to the car. He got in behind the wheel, fumbling with the ignition key. But then the engine started and the car moved off, clipping the side of another vehicle before he got control and they drove away at speed.
The girl was screaming madly beside him. Yet when he glanced over, he saw that her face was lit up with joy.
Extra Special for Fugitives
These were the back streets of a rundown part of town. Nyquist turned the steering wheel to the left and right as needed, working on autopilot. His face was set hard, his bones and skin unmoving. So many thoughts were flickering through his mind. He dwelt more than once on the image of the front door of his apartment still being smashed in, left unlocked. It seemed to symbolise the fact that his life had swerved off its usual pathways. He stopped at a set of muted traffic lights and turned to look at Eleanor.
The girl was sitting there, hugging the duffle bag to her stomach like a comforter. All of her previous excitement had left her. Nothing was said.
He thought back to the vision he’d received in the garden of Aeon. Again, Eleanor Bale was being killed, by a scarf this time, strangulation. Perhaps the future wasn’t fixed in place, perhaps several futures were fighting for position? Maybe, just maybe a future existed in which she didn’t die, in which he saved her…
The very thought of it made his heart glow.
Could he dare to believe such a thing?
The road unravelled in the dipped headlights. He’d lost all sense of how long they’d been travelling for, but felt they’d gone far enough. He turned into an alleyway, where he brought the car to a halt. The place was thick with darkness, so the midnight blue vehicle practically disappeared.
The noise of the engine died. Silence.
Eleanor frowned. “What now? You’re not taking me home, are you? Because I really don’t want to go home.”
He reached under the seat, pulling out the gun. The girl’s eyes widened at the sight.
“Out. Now.”
She did as she was told. Nyquist got his various things together and followed her. They started to walk down the alleyway, away from the vehicle.
“Keep up,” he said.
“Where are we going then? Your place?”
“No. They’ll be looking for us there.”
“Will they get the police onto us? I mean, have we broken the law? Lord Apollo, this is incredible.”
“Bale is powerful enough. He doesn’t need the police.”
“Just how many laws have we broken?”
“Quit talking. You’re giving me a headache.”
They came to an avenue where dead neon signs hung over closed-down cinemas, casinos and theatres. Once an area of lavish entertainments, now a zone of deserted dreams. The people on the streets were desolate types in the main, who turned away hastily from Nyquist’s hard stare.
A little later Eleanor said, “I’m hungry. I’m tired. Please let’s stop somewhere. Let’s eat. My feet ache.”
They were walking down a narrow side street.
“Here, this will do it.”
Nyquist went up to the front door of a small, dark, pitiful building called the Starblind Hotel. The foyer was smelly and gloomy, but this would do them just fine. He handed over some cash to the person behind the desk, a dirty looking man with untidy hair and pocked skin. “The two of you, is it?” he asked. “Just the one room?” He gave Eleanor a salacious look. His tongue licked at his thick wet lips.
“Just the one,” Nyquist told him. “That’s right.”
“Nice. Very nice.”
Eleanor made a face. “Ugh. Disgusting.”
“Ah! Spirit. I like that in a woman.”
“Just give us the key,” Nyquist said.
“Surely. I can see that you’re keen. But you know, we’re very crowded at the moment. We have a convention going on. See there?”
Nyquist turned to look at a poster board announcing the Third Annual International Convention of Whispering Poets.
Nyquist shook his head at this.
“But don’t worry too much,” the man behind the desk continued. “They won’t disturb you much. Quiet souls, really. You’ll hardly know they’re here.”
The keys were handed over.
“One more thing,” Nyquist said.
“Ask away.”
“We never stopped here. Right?”
The man sneered. “Of course not. We’re very discreet, when needed.” He laughed and then he mumbled something under his breath. Nyquist came in close.
“What was that?”
“I said: May the night gently enfold the both of you in her arms.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Poetry, sir. Extra special. No charge for fugitives.”
He bowed deeply.
Nyquist followed Eleanor to the stairs.
A Few Seconds of Life
It was a small room near the top of the hotel. A three-quarter bed, a wooden chair, a basin. That was it. A ten-watt bulb whose light died within inches of its shade. No clocks, no radio, no telephone. The only window was covered with slats, and every so often a train would pass by on an elevated track outside, close up and very loud. The two people occupied this tiny space as best they could. Eleanor Bale was sitting on the bed, finishing off a surprisingly tasty room-service meal. Nyquist was leaning against the wall, drinking from a half bottle of whisky. He’d had a wash and combed his hair. He felt little better for it, but it was all he could do to keep his mind at bay.
“You like to drink, don’t you?” Eleanor said. “What are you doing, numbing the pain?”
“Just finish your meal.”
“I’m done. What now? What are we doing here? Why did you kidnap me?”
“You think that’s what I did?”
“What else can it be?”
“I rescued you.”
The girl laughed. “You rescued me?”
“That’s what I did.” He took another drink.
“Oh. Right. So let me go then.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“And how exactly are you going to help me? By drinking too much and waving that stupid gun around. Is that it?”
He didn’t answer.
“I saw a movie once, with a guy just like you in it, a man who was constantly running from one threat or another.” She paused. “He died at the end. Shot down in a hail of bullets.” She imitated the noise of a gun firing. “Bam! Bam, bam, bam!”
“What time is it?” he asked.
She smiled at this. “You do realise the absurdity of that question?”
“I’ve left my watch in the car.”
“Let’s go and get it–”
“No! No, we stay here. Tell me about Quicksilver.”
She sighed. “What’s to say? He killed some people. So I killed him.”
He recalled his attacker’s message: Quicksilver awaits you. Which implied not only that Nyquist was targeted as a victim, but that Quicksilver was still alive.
He said, “Eleanor, what if you’ve got it wrong? What if Kinkaid wasn’t Quicksilver? Then you’ve killed an innocent man.”
“He confessed.”
“And you believed him?”
“Why would he lie to me?” She hesitated, and then continued, “That’s why I went back to see him, at Angelcroft, to confront, to see if it really was true. Well… he told me it was. He insisted. And that’s when you arrived.”
“I heard you say, ‘It’s my fault. It’s all my fault.’ You were looking down at your father’s body.”
“Well there it is. Actually, I wasn’t sure at the time. But now I know.”
“Do you think it’s your right to kill a man like that, to be judge and jury?”
“No.”
�
�So you’re saying–”
“Oh for heaven’s sake! No one else could’ve done it. No one! Kinkaid would never have been caught. He’d just slip back into Dusk.”
“I didn’t see it happen. That’s the trouble I have with your story. I didn’t see you kill him.”
“Well that just frightens me.”
“Why?”
“I don’t think you’d understand, a man like you…”
Nyquist looked at her. Tiredness caught up with him. He took another drink. Then he sat down on the chair and lowered his head into his big, scarred hands, and he stayed like that for a good while. Neither of them spoke a word. A train moved past outside the window, casting its flickering black and white patterns over the hunched figure, the noise of the engine and the carriages deafening. And then the silence and the barred shadows closed in once again. The shadows held Nyquist within them like a man in a cage.
Eleanor said quietly, “You’re scared, I can see that.”
He didn’t look up.
“I saw your face in the garden, Nyquist, as twilight fell. You’re terrified of the dusk.”
“Why don’t you keep quiet? Let me think.”
“Sure. You do that.”
Eleanor upended the duffle bag and started to go through her belongings, the bunched-up clothing and the shadow puppet, the postcard from her friend holidaying on the French coast. She gazed at the image of the beach and smiled to herself. Then she found the photograph of Kinkaid and her expression changed utterly, becoming a strange mixture of loss and disgust as though she couldn’t decide on which emotion to go with.
“What was Kinkaid’s power?” Nyquist asked.