Creeping Jenny

by Jeff Noon

  “Bainbridge! Bainbridge, open up!”

  But there was no response. He looked through the window, through a gap in the curtain where the illuminated Saint Meade icon was standing, but the living room was empty.

  Other people were appearing at their doors along the street, their faces in shock.

  What could this be, this noise? What can it mean?

  But there was still a minute left, and even now they did not speak.

  Nyquist ran down the pathway at the side of the cottage. The back door was on the latch. He pushed it open. What he saw froze him to the spot.

  Hilda Bainbridge was standing pressed against the kitchen wall, her hands clenched at her sides, her upper body rocking back and forth: on each backward stroke the rear of her head knocked against the plaster. The noise of contact grew louder with each hit.

  And she was still screaming.

  Screaming, on this long night of silence.

  Nyquist called out her name. “Hilda.” But it did no good. Now he really feared for her, so he reached out and grabbed her with both hands and he pulled her forward. At last she fell silent. Nyquist saw the small patch of blood on the wall where she’d been hitting her head repeatedly. She looked at him with wild red-rimmed eyes, her entire face covered in tears. Her mouth was still open, trying to draw in one breath after another, each of them labored.

  The aftermath of the scream rang like an echo, heard and unheard at the same time.

  Hilda’s eyes darted about feverishly. She would rather do anything other than to look at the figure sitting at the kitchen table. Nyquist left her for a moment and went over to place a hand against the man’s neck. No pulse, no signal from within.

  Ian Bainbridge had found his own way out of the troubles of life, the lonely exit door of suicide. He was still sitting upright, bizarrely, his hands still outstretched, calmly resting on the tabletop near to a glass of sherry. But nothing had been disturbed, there had been no last-minute regrets, no struggle. His body had quite simply given up. There were a number of fresh scratches all over his face. And his lips were darkly colored with the juice of a berry. His fingertips were stained with the same ruby color. The remains of the berries lay in a bowl on the tabletop, their off-white skins broken open to reveal the dark red pulp and juice within. Beside the bowl lay a thorned twig cut from a tree. Flakes of bark were scattered across the white cloth.

  Bainbridge’s eyes stared ahead, seeing vistas beyond the stone wall of the kitchen, the utensils arranged in neat rows, the copy of Mrs Beeton’s Cookbook and the tea towel with its flowered pattern. He was looking beyond these walls, faraway, out into the fields, and then the moors and the sky where all worldly cares faded into mist.

  Hilda had slumped into a chair near the stove. She sat there with her hands in her lap, her shoulders bent forward, her face hidden. For the first time Nyquist noticed that her hair was wet, and that she smelled of soap. She was wearing a flannelette gown. Obviously, she’d had a bath and then come back downstairs to find her husband like this. But such thoughts only took him so far. He was at a loss: what could he do to help her?

  There was a noise at the door. It was one of the neighbors. He took a step into the kitchen and then stopped, gazing in horror at the paralyzed man at the table. Nyquist said, “Fetch a policeman. Can you do that?” The neighbor stared at him. “Now!” At last the frightened man stepped back through the door and was gone. Nyquist looked around. He had a few minutes before more people arrived, including the local officer. Probably he’d be asked to leave, and most likely be questioned. He was ready for all that, whatever may come, but he still needed to search the household, as far as he could.

  He kept to the kitchen, hoping to find the teacup. It wasn’t on the table or in the sink. He opened one cupboard after another, until he found the crockery neatly laid out on shelves. But the teacup wasn’t there, nor any of the matching set. He kept searching, moving into the hallway. A glass-fronted cabinet held a few special items, family treasures such as brooches, fancy ornaments, and the coronation tea service: cups, saucers, teapot, milk jug, each item carrying the Queen’s portrait. But only five cups – one saucer was empty. Despite this, he checked inside each cup, hoping to see the strange growth within, the remains of the tendril. But all the cups were clean.

  A clattering sound came from the living room. He entered warily, expecting to find a person in there. But the room was empty. And quiet now, except for the carriage clock on the mantel and the low crackling of the fire in the grate. Everything looked in place, normal, comforting. Saint Meade stood on the window ledge, looking out at the street.

  Her reign was over.

  The noise came again. Nyquist turned. He walked over to the birdcage on its stand. It was covered in a purple cloth. He lifted this off and peered through the bars. The brightly colored budgerigar was no longer in residence. Instead a raven was standing on the perch, its body and wingspan far too large for the cage. Like a creature from a nightmare it beaded him with one yellow eye, its head turned to the side. A single diamond of white marked its forehead, like the symbol of a caste, or an assassin’s guild.

  The raven’s huge wings flapped madly, rattling the cage so that it might almost topple over to the carpet. At the same time, it let out a mighty cawing sound, which turned the quaint living room into a wild realm, just for a second or two. And then the bird settled back onto the perch, looking pleased with itself.

  Nyquist looked down at the floor of the cage. He knew instantly that he’d seen this bird before, on his first night in the village. This horrible specimen had stolen his naming card from him, the one given freely by Sylvia in the Woods – the same card that now lay scattered about the sawdust and droppings on the floor of the cage, torn into many pieces. He saw the letters OD written on one piece, and on another the single letter W. One fragment contained the word IN, or was it only part of a word?

  All the other pieces were turned upside down: message unknown.

  The raven guarded them all, its beak ready for action.

  PART 2

  CONNECTIVE TISSUE

  ALICE AND EDMUND WELCOME YOU

  Nyquist woke late again to find himself tightly wound within the bed sheets. He could hardly move, evidence of a night of bad dreams. The air was dense and smoky. He managed to free himself, and sat there on the edge of the bed, holding his heads in his hands. A bottle of whiskey rested on his bedside table, a good three quarters empty. Next to it was an ashtray overflowing with butts. Hence the bad air of the room, and the way his mouth felt. He unstuck his tongue from his upper palate. He wasn’t used to alcohol, not these days. A sharp needle prodded at his left temple. It took him a while to remember – he’d bought the whiskey off the landlord late last night, when he’d returned. Yes, it had been a difficult time, with the questioning and the waiting around and the comings and goings, and the police constable’s suspicions and Doctor Higgs examining the body and Hilda Bainbridge weeping silently in the corner of the living room and then being led away to spend the night elsewhere. And even now, after the death of her husband and the scream she had made, still, not a single word had issued from her lips, not even under all the pressure of the officer’s enquiries: not one.

  He stood up and splashed water on his face and cleaned his teeth, all the time keeping his eyes averted from the mirror, scared of what he might find there. He would have to wear the same shirt today, and hopefully make some arrangement to get his laundry done. Otherwise he would spend the evening scrubbing his clothes in the sink in his room, the glamorous life.

  There was a new icon standing on the cabinet. He moved his head slightly and tried to focus his eyes and wondered if he was seeing double. No, his vision was fine. A second icon was standing next to the first. Two saints. This did not bode well. They each looked identical, or nearly so, brother and sister from the look of it, and fairly sophisticated compared to previous icons, being made of molded plastic and clothed in modern apparel, a perfectly tailored blue suit
for the man, and a plain but well-cut blue dress for the woman. Their faces were soft and hardly delineated: no wrinkles, no lines, and no expression.

  Nyquist went downstairs. There was a new waitress in the dining room, a girl who looked aside when he greeted her and did the same when she served him his breakfast, a little later. She looked oddly familiar. But in truth everything was still a little blurred and fuzzy at the edges. He was hoping to cure his hangover with greasy food, lots of it, but the noise in his head continued, and his mouth felt clogged with mush or feathers, and the food on top of it made it worse, not better. He couldn’t finish his meal. He felt sick. The waitress came back. This time he asked for her name and got a reply so quiet he could barely hear it.

  “What was that again?”

  “Alice, sir.”

  Again he tried to look at her, but she kept turning away from his stare.

  “Where’s Mavis?” he asked. “Isn’t she working today?”

  “I don’t know anyone called Mavis.”

  And before he could ask another question, she turned on her heels, and hurried away towards the kitchen door, carrying his plate and his empty teacup.

  Nyquist made his way outside. It was a Saturday morning, one of those special days winter sometimes gives you, when the world seems at rest and the air is bright and silvered, like the insides of an unstruck bell. A banner had been strung across the street, from one house to another. In stitched-on letters it read: ALICE AND EDMUND WELCOME YOU TO THEIR VILLAGE. Nyquist set off for the doctor’s surgery. On the way a middle-aged couple stared at him with open animosity in their eyes. He had the feeling he’d seen them both before, somewhere. But where, and when, he just couldn’t work out. Other people shook their heads and whispered to each other. He was a figure of curiosity, or hatred. And then, as he walked along, the high street came more clearly into focus and he saw that each face was the same, or at least very similar. Everyone seemed to be wearing a mask, which covered their faces entirely, giving them a new expression. One for men, and another face for women, the two faces repeated in each person that he met. The same faces as the two icons in his room.

  He took a guess. Were they perhaps Saint Edmund and Saint Alice? And the people had adopted their faces for the day.

  Something hit him on the back of his neck.

  Nyquist turned.

  Three people were staring at him, all of them young by the look of it, and all wearing their own masks, two Edmunds and an Alice.

  One of the young men scooped up another stone from the gutter.

  “Don’t try it, kid.”

  Nyquist’s threat had little effect. The other young man came forward until he was but a few inches away and spoke through the moving lips of his mask. “Who are you, sir? You are no one. Leave this place. We don’t want you here.” It was coldly said, with utter disgust in each phrase.

  Nyquist stared back at him, unwilling to give any ground.

  The mask was plainly fashioned, of thin almost transparent plastic, and the man’s real features could be glimpsed underneath. It was an exact copy of the male icon’s mask. The young woman came to join her friend, and her mask was a similar design, but made to replicated the features of Saint Alice.

  “Who are you? What’s your name? What are you doing here?”

  It was then he realised it was one of the teenage girls he’d met by the oak tree, Blade of Moon. Through his addled brain, he searched for her name.

  “Val, isn’t it? Why are you–?”

  “Do not call me that. My name is Alice.”

  He was about to argue with her, when a stone hit him on the chest, thrown by the third young man, who was hanging back from the group, rocking back and forth on his feet as though getting ready to pounce.

  “You do that again…”

  The youth stared at Nyquist. He bent down for another stone.

  Valerie took charge: “Come on, Edmund, let’s go.” And all three of them moved off down the road.

  Nyquist walked on, past the village green where a decorative tent was being set up. A notice board next to the tent read, Madame Fontaine, Fortune Teller Extraordinaire. A man was standing by the board, putting the finishing touches in place. He too wore the day’s mask. He was covering up the name Fontaine with a piece of white card bearing a new name: Grey. An odd thing to do, unless Madame Fontaine had been taken ill.

  Nyquist rang the bell at the doctor’s house and was let in by the maid. He was getting used to the effect of seeing people with their faces changed, and he actually said without thinking, “Hello Alice, is the doctor free?”

  The maid led him to the study. Doctor Higgs was sitting at her desk, reading a report. She greeted her visitor with a smile.

  “Can I help you, sir? Are you ailing?”

  “It’s me, doc. You know damn well who it is.”

  “I am sorry, I don’t think we’ve met before–”

  “Higgs, come on, take that mask off.”

  The maid gasped. She was still standing in the doorway, awaiting instruction.

  The doctor’s mask quivered, mirroring her facial expression changing underneath. Nyquist couldn’t make out what she was really feeling, it was well hidden, despite the semi-transparent nature of the covering.

  And then Doctor Higgs composed herself. She said to the maid in a cheerful voice, “Alice, dear, get our friend a cup of coffee will you?”

  The maid left the room. Nyquist remained where he was, standing by the sideboard. A pair of goldfish swam around aimlessly in their tank. The two saintly icons stood guard to the left and right of the aquarium.

  The doctor was concerned. “Sit down, won’t you, Edmund? You look ill.” He could see her eyes blinking within their apertures, pale and blue.

  He remained on his feet, swaying slightly, the room moving with him.

  “Edmund, have you been overindulging?”

  “You can drop the pretence.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

  He’d come to rely on Higgs for her commonsense, and her guidance, and not least her friendship. But now he looked on her with confusion in his mind.

  “My name is not Edmund. It’s John. John Nyquist.”

  “I really don’t think that’s true–”

  “That’s my name!”

  She let his outburst fade away into silence. Then she said quietly, and politely, “For today, however, I shall call you Edmund. I hope you don’t mind? It makes everything so much easier.”

  Nyquist stepped towards the desk. He wanted to do two opposite things at the same time: leave the doctor in peace… and pull the mask from her face.

  “Please, Edmund. Please.”

  “I can’t talk to you, not when you’re wearing that.”

  For a moment she looked at him as though he were a madman. Anger pitted every word. “You wouldn’t be able to remove it, even if I let you get anywhere near.”

  The door opened and the maid entered. Immediately, Nyquist stepped away, his hands falling to his side. The maid placed a coffee pot and two cups on the sideboard.

  The maid looked from him to the doctor. “Is everything alright, ma’am?”

  “Yes, thank you, Alice. You may go.” Higgs got up from her chair and walked over to the sideboard. “I’ll be mother, shall I?” She poured her visitor a cup of coffee. Nyquist took a long drink. It was hot and strong, and it worked like a charm on his hangover.

  Higgs opened a drawer in the sideboard and took out a rolled-up piece of plastic. “Take this. It will do you the power of good.”

  The mask was clammy to the touch, and when he unrolled it, he saw the two eyeholes and the mouth-hole, and the cold skin of the flesh.

  “It clings on its own volition,” she explained. “Things have certainly improved since my childhood, when we used string, or even glue!”

  “Higgs!”

  “I’m sorry, I truly am. But my name is Alice. Alice Grey. And you are Edmund, my only brother. For you see, on this day of all
days, every man is Edmund Grey, and every woman is Alice. Doesn’t that make sense to you? It’s perfectly simple.”

  Nyquist groaned. He sat down in a chair, the plastic mask in his lap.

  The doctor stood in front of him. “I can’t stand to see you this way, Edmund.”

  He looked at her. He felt suddenly compliant. “Alice…”

  “Yes. It’s me. Doctor Alice. Oh, but your hands, you’ve damaged them!”

  He gazed in surprise at his own palms, holding them both out for inspection. Each was crisscrossed with cuts, many of them, the blood dried over. The doctor’s fingers touched gently at the scabs.

  “How did this happen?”

  “Last night…”

  “Yes? I can give you some ointment, if you like.”

  “I can’t… I can’t remember…”

  She fussed over him. “Finding a dead man, such a terrible thing for you to witness.”

  Nyquist pulled himself free of her ministrations. “How is Hilda? I need to see her; I need to talk to her.”

  “Hilda? Oh, you mean Alice?”

  “Yes, if you say so.”

  “She stayed the night here, in my guestroom, and left early this morning.”

  “Where did she go? Back home?”

  “Most probably. Her husband will be at the funeral home in Bligh by now. Oh, that poor woman! She must be out of her mind with grief.”

  Nyquist started to pace. “What about the victim, Ian Bainbridge?”

  The doctor looked confused. “I’m afraid I don’t know who Mr Bainbridge is. Do you mean Edmund Grey, the man who died last night?”

  Nyquist felt his mind starting to reel. “Yes, yes. Edmund Grey. When did he die, do you know? The exact time?”

  “Not long before you got there, I think.”

  “The cause of death?”

  She hesitated.

  “In your considered opinion?”

  The doctor took up her pipe. She started to fill it with tobacco. “Paralysis of the heart muscles due to ingestion of moonsilver.”

  “Tell me about that.”