by Jeff Noon
“Again.”
“Eleanor, you don’t need–”
“Again!”
Nyquist repeated the line. “Now I see it clearly. I have to kill my daughter. I have to kill Eleanor.”
The room was quiet around them.
He was aware suddenly of the close proximity of dusk.
Just beyond the wall, it lies. In wait.
His eyes glimpsed his own father’s last few steps over the fogline.
Eleanor spoke at last. “Don’t you see, if Dominic was going to kill me, then I must’ve fought back against him, in the moment. And that’s when I stabbed him. It was self-defence.”
“Keep quiet. Let me think.”
She was upset by his tone. He didn’t care. He held the piece of paper between his two hands. The line plagued him, it circled around inside his head.
I have to kill my daughter. I have to kill Eleanor.
I have to kill my daughter…
Something troubled him, something out of place. Why would a father have to do that? What could be stronger than the bond between parent and child? Had Nyquist in some way inherited the job of killing her? He felt his anger building, that he’d been dragged into this pitiful situation against his wishes. He couldn’t stand it any longer, and shaking at his own helplessness, at his own preordained part in the story, he tore the paper in two, in two again, again, again, letting the shreds fall to the floor. He was trapped in this tiny space with his intended victim; and trapped in time, moving to one conclusion.
Eleanor was making a noise. He focused on her.
She was sobbing quietly.
“Look at me,” she said, anguish growing in her voice. “Look at me! Look at what I am. Look closely. Look!”
Nyquist couldn’t do it, he could no longer stare Eleanor Bale in the face. He was scared himself. He was torn in two, pulled one way then another, back and forth. He got up from the bed, looking around in panic. His mind was racing: How can I escape this. Where can I go? Even if he stepped out of the door and walked away, far away, he knew that somehow or other he would find himself in that hotel room, with Eleanor before him, the pillow in his hands. For the first time he felt a real sense of his own violence, building inside. He banged a fist against the wall. The cheap plaster shattered around his hand.
“Nyquist…”
The tiny room seemed to shake under his presence, his rage. Even his own shadow angered him.
“Nyquist, you’re scaring me.”
He turned on her. “By all the power of Lord Apollo, I wish I’d never set eyes on you. Not once!”
She stared at him, trembling.
He cried out in utter despair, “Give me back my time! Give it back to me!”
“I swear, I can’t remember what happened. I can’t.”
He moved towards her. Compulsion took him over.
“Nyquist! What’re you doing?” She cowered.
He came to a stop.
“I don’t know.” It was spoken simply, from the depths of his being. “I can’t escape myself.”
They stared at each other, victim and killer, as preordained.
He moved again.
A sudden noise was heard. A tearing sound.
It held the two of them.
Eleanor whispered, “What was that?”
“I don’t know. Let me–”
“Listen!”
Again, louder this time. It sounded like wood cracking in two, into splinters.
The girl looked fearful. “Somebody’s breaking in.”
“Wait here.”
Nyquist moved to the staircase. Slowly, silently, he descended to the corridor below and craned his head around the side door. The auditorium was dark, with only a few of the houselights still turned on. The noises had ceased, but something stirred in the shadows at the rear of the seating area. Nyquist was fearful it was the shadow men, with their masks of smoke, come out of the dusk to find Eleanor. But the figure stepped closer: a man, and his face was clear, on view.
It was Patrick Bale.
He walked down the centre aisle towards the stage, looking to be unsteady on his feet. He was muttering to himself, out of breath.
Nyquist watched for a moment and then stepped through the doorway.
Bale was shocked, seeing him. “Nyquist? You… what are you… I thought…”
“That’s right.” There wasn’t a trace of goodwill in Nyquist’s smile. “I’m a ghost.”
Bale tried to compose himself. “Where is she? Where’s Eleanor?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying. I knew she’d come to this place, eventually.”
“She’s safe now.”
“Safe? What do you mean? Safe from whom?”
“From you.”
“Nyquist, you really don’t understand what’s going on here.”
“Enlighten me.”
Bale frowned. “Why aren’t you dead? You should be dead?”
“It’s a mystery, isn’t it?”
Nyquist moved forward quickly, grabbing the other man by the lapels of his tailored suit. The cloth tore.
“What are you doing?” Bale’s voice pitched upwards. “Get off me!”
Nyquist pulled him closer. They were face to face, a breath apart. “You tried to kill me.”
“No, no. That was–”
“Where is she? Where’s Pearce?”
“I don’t know. Really…”
Bale looked terrified as Nyquist pushed on. “Maybe I should haul you back to Dayzone. Tell the police–”
He quit the sentence halfway. Something had pressed itself against his lower chest.
Bale’s voice: “Ah. Now we feel it. Now we see it.”
Nyquist backed away.
“This is your own gun. How do you like that for a turn?” Bale was giggling, suddenly triumphant: “It’s your weapon.”
Nyquist saw that Bale’s obsession with controlling time had tipped over into madness. The chief executive’s eyes blinked repeatedly, two cameras clicking on one second after another, seeking to put the world together in the correct order.
“You’re losing it, Bale.”
“Yes, I’ve messed up. I know that. I’ve let things get out of hand.”
“Give up. Surrender.”
Bale shook his head. The gun jabbed forward. “That can’t happen. I’ve come too far, and the police don’t know the half of what I’ve done in my life.”
“Sure. Rules are for the little people, right?”
Bale screamed. The cameras clicked away madly, even faster now. He shouted, “Get down! Go on. Down on your knees.”
“Go to hell.”
“You think I wouldn’t do it?”
“You know what, Bale? I had you down as more than a lousy drugs man.”
“That’s Pearce’s business, not mine. I stepped away.”
“Really? That’s not how it looked when you ordered me killed.”
He dismissed this with a wave of the gun. “I only wanted the knowledge the drug could bring me, that’s all.” His eyes blazed with the thought. “Imagine it, Nyquist, having such awareness of the future? If we could only learn to control it, the power it would give us then.”
“And what if you don’t like what you see there?”
Bale trembled. He pressed the gun hard against Nyquist’s face.
“Get down on your knees!”
The barrel ground into flesh, then bone. For a moment the man’s finger pressed at the trigger, but then stopped at the sound of a voice.
“Please. Please don’t…”
It was Eleanor. Bale’s eyes darted over to where she stood, framed by the doorway.
“Please don’t hurt him, Daddy.”
And that last word was the release button. Daddy. His face creased with pain, and love, a desperate love, and his hand moved on, with the gun still in it. He looked around nervously, as though he might yet find a suitable target. But there was none, only himself.
“Eleanor…”
She came forward and reached out to take the weapon from his hand. He let it happen without a word, without a struggle.
“Why have you come here?” she asked.
Bale seemed incapable of answering. Nyquist used the opportunity to take the gun from Eleanor’s hand; quickly he emptied the chamber, making it safe.
Eleanor repeated her question and this time Bale found his voice. “To take you away.”
“To hide me away. To keep me locked up, and silent. To stop me from messing with time, your precious commodity.”
“You don’t understand, Eleanor. I want… I only want to love you.”
That was the spark. Eleanor went for him, her hands flailing at his face, his chest. Bale stood there and took it, took the pain, letting the pain get through, letting it hurt him.
Nyquist watched from the sidelines.
It was a one-sided fight.
Still the blows came, although weakening now, and all Bale could do was mumble over and over, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I’m sorry.”
Eleanor grew tired. Her arms dropped to her sides, both fists clenched.
Bale looked defeated. Yet he had one thing to say. “I’m trying to protect you. That’s all.”
She sighed deeply. “From what?”
“From the person who wants to kill you.”
The statement stunned Nyquist. He couldn’t help but think once more of the terrible visions he’d been given, of himself killing Eleanor.
What did Bale know of this?
And once again Nyquist thought back to Pearce’s statement: You couldn’t be more wrong. About what? About Eleanor and Bale? Yes, they’d been talking about her.
Could that really be it? Bale wasn’t trying to hurt Eleanor, at all. He really was trying to find her, to protect her. But from what? Or whom?
In confirmation, Bale said to Eleanor, “I found out that your life was in danger. It’s why I stepped away from the drug deal, and why I didn’t want you to see Kinkaid, or to come to this place. Eleanor, it’s why I locked you away in the Aeon Institute. Everything… everything was for your own protection.”
But Eleanor dismissed Bale’s words. “I don’t want your protection. I want to be free.”
“But what else can a father do for his child? What else?”
She answered, “I’m not in danger. I don’t believe your story.”
“You have to. Leave it at that.”
“You’re lying–”
Bale screamed. “No! Leave it at that!” It was a burst of pure rage, driven by fear, and his body was drained by it. All the life he had built for himself, all the work and the planning and the distrust and the greed and the coldness and the fear and the sheer obsessive desire, all came down to this moment, all broke apart in this one moment of time and Patrick Bale collapsed onto his knees, looking up at Eleanor, pleading with her, his hands held forward, fingers entwined. He might have been praying, praying for the safe return of what used to be; but his daughter turned away from him and he was left there alone, a pitiful sight.
Nyquist walked over to him.
“Get up.”
He did so without a word.
“Talk.”
Bale’s eyes were half dead. “What do you want to know?”
“The truth. About Eliza, about Kinkaid. About Dusk, and what’s really going on here, in this city.”
“It’s to do with–”
“Not to me.” Nyquist dragged him over to face Eleanor. “To her. Now. Speak.”
Bale said, “Eleanor, you are my child, in spirit if not in flesh.” He paused for breath, and then added, “I ask only that you understand that.”
“From the beginning,” Nyquist said. “Everything.”
The White Curtain
Patrick Bale began slowly. “There was trouble between us, between your mother and me, right from the start. We were… we were trying to start a family together. Trying, and failing. And failing, over and over. Our business would lack an heir, it seemed. This was of vital importance to her family. Catherine took to her night-time wanderings, her charity affairs and artistic gatherings, and I threw myself into the company. Our lives settled into this routine. Until that night when she told me that she was pregnant. It felt like a miracle, I could scarcely believe it.” He kept his eyes on Eleanor as he spoke. “Our two daughters were born. Yes, twins. Yourself, Eleanor. And then Elizabeth. Eliza, for short. A few minutes later.”
Nyquist heard Eleanor gasp with shock, but he calmed her with a gesture.
Bale smiled at her. He seemed to relax a little, now the story was begun and that first revelation was over with.
“Catherine and I were so happy then, our love grew strong again. It was a blessing, you see? A double blessing. I would often come into the nursery to watch my two children sleeping. Sweet Ellie and dear Eliza. Sisters. It was a joy to see.”
His voice dropped to a whisper.
“You, Eleanor, you grew up strong and healthy. But poor Eliza was ill. She became terribly sick within the first few months of her life. Her skin turned pale, her weight dropped, she was wasting away. The doctors could offer little or no help. It was a mystery. I would hold her in my arms to make her warm, to urge her back to health.” He paused, bringing to mind the feelings. And then his tone changed again, becoming more agitated. “Shortly after this, about five months into the child’s life, I realised that my wife Catherine was troubled in some way. Of course I thought it a result of the child’s illness, but there was more to it than that, something beyond the illness. I tried my best to comfort her. It was little use. And then I received a letter.”
“From Dominic?” asked Eleanor.
“Yes. It was plainly written. He told me that he was the real father of the twins, and he asked that Eliza, the sickening daughter, be handed over to him. Kinkaid explained that Eliza was different from Eleanor, a different kind of child; and he claimed that only he could cure her before it was too late. He seemed to have superior knowledge. He said that the child would surely die if she wasn’t properly treated.”
“Did you know who Kinkaid was at this point?” Nyquist asked.
“I remembered him, vaguely. The company had sponsored an exhibition of his work some years before. For a while he’d become something of a friend, to Catherine. But I had no suspicions. Out of arrogance, I could not believe that a woman would cheat on me. And, frankly, he looked so odd, and so weak. What would she see in him?”
“What did you do, when you found out?”
“I went crazy. I was mad, I was angry. Humiliated, incredulous. I went through every painful emotion a man can possibly experience. I insisted that Catherine tell me the truth, which she did.” Bale shook his head. “Can you imagine what it’s like, to discover that the two daughters you’ve loved since their birth turn out to be another man’s progeny? I had the urge to go and kill somebody. Her, or him, or both of them. Or myself. Or some random stranger. Anything! Anything to purge the feelings. Instead, I had a paternity test done.”
“Which came out negative?”
Bale nodded. “I wasn’t the father. And I also learnt that I would never be a father.”
He was lost in his own thoughts for a moment, until Nyquist gave him a nudge. “Keep talking, Bale.”
“Please. This is not easy.” He took a deep, almost painful breath. “Catherine told me everything: the details of the affair; and how she had been exchanging letters with Kinkaid; and more recently telephone calls, during which she had told him of Eliza’s illness.”
Bale sat down in one of the theatre seats. He looked at Eleanor, hoping for some kind of response. She nodded slightly. And he went on with his story.
“I didn’t tell Catherine about Kinkaid’s offer. Instead, I went to see him on my own, here in this place.” He waved a hand lazily to indicate the auditorium. “He was a strange man, I felt, a lonely man, an outcast. He persuaded me that Eliza was a child of Dusk, she had been conceived there, and would only
survive within the region’s particular atmosphere.”
Nyquist asked, “Did you believe him?”
“I had little choice. The doctors had predicted two years of life, that was all. Eliza was living on borrowed time. She was in and out of hospital, the poor thing.” He paused. “It seemed a chance worth taking.”
“And your wife agreed to this?”
He looked at Nyquist and then at Eleanor, with a nervous expression in his eyes.
“I never told her. Not until the night it happened.”
Eleanor frowned, hearing this. “You mean… you took the child from her?”
Bale nodded, a birdlike peck of the head.
“Against her wishes?”
He leaned forward in the seat, holding both hands out towards her. “Eleanor, I had to do it, don’t you see, I had to save Eliza, your sister! Your twin! I had to save her.”
Nyquist remembered the room full of clocks, and the woman who worked so hard to keep them from moving on.
He said, “And this took place at twenty minutes to four, is that right?”
Bale settled back. “Yes. My dear, sweet Catherine. When I first met her she was a lively, beautiful young woman who loved to dance along the different timelines of her life, jumping from one to another merrily, laughing as she did so. But now… now, her time came to a halt, a dead stop.”
Nyquist understood what Catherine had meant when she’d stated that her daughter had been passed over. She meant taken from her, given away. Stolen.
Bale stood up. He said to Eleanor, “There is one thing you must never underestimate, and that is my love for your mother.”
It was evident that Eleanor didn’t know how to respond; the emotions were too far away from her version of reality.
Bale took a careful step towards her. He spoke softly: “I followed Kinkaid’s wishes exactly. I took the child from her cradle, while Catherine screamed at me. It took two of my security guards to hold her back. I met up with Kinkaid at a house near the fogline. The child was crying incessantly. But he took her into his arms, and immediately…” Bale’s voice broke. “Immediately, she stopped crying. In some way Kinkaid had lulled her, and I knew then that I’d made the right decision, no matter how painful it might be.” Bale’s eyes brimmed with tears as he found the strength to continue. “And then Kinkaid turned away and walked inside the house with her. And so it was done.”