Creeping Jenny

by Jeff Noon

  He brightened his fret once more, so he could see partway down the alleyway.

  It looked like someone was being attacked.

  A number of frets billowed together in the narrow space, two of them shuddering with anger, the third trembling in pain. The colors danced with each blow. Nyquist walked down towards the fight, which was taking place in a tiny back yard. His presence stopped the next blow from falling. The two assailants stared at him, suddenly uncertain. They were both young, and tough looking. And their victim was younger still, and weak. It was Teddy Fairclough. His fret was a poor, thin, trembling affair, little more than a wisp, pale cream in color, and splashed with red to match the wounds on his face and hands. The punch landed. And the fret burst into fresh crimson, like a flower. Teddy whimpered, and curled up, folding his hands around his head.

  Nyquist said, “This doesn’t look like a fair fight.”

  One of the men came forward, his arm already flexed for a hit. He lunged forward clumsily. Stars cascaded around the young man’s bunched hand.

  Time seemed to slow down.

  Nyquist’s fret billowed around the approaching fist. He countered it easily, and then took a fast aim for his assailant’s stomach. The blow made contact, first with the other man’s fret, and then with flesh. The man staggered back and almost fell. He banged against the wall. Seeing this, his comrade left Teddy alone and made his way into the fray. But a voice stopped his progress.

  “No more of this. Not now.”

  The speaker stepped forward, pushing his two minions aside. It was Gerald Sutton. His fret was brimming with many different colors, a magnificent creation, He’d probably paid a fair packet to have the thing improved, souped up. The man’s pride, and his grief and anger, played in the haze as twists and strands of dark blue, crimson and puce. The sparkles shone like newly born stars, and then fell away into darkness.

  “This is private business, Mr Nyquist.”

  “No longer.”

  The two men stared at each other. Where their frets met, the air roiled and fizzed.

  “I’m sorry for your loss. Your wife was–”

  “Do not speak of my wife!”

  Sutton’s anger burned golden. It clouded, and spun apart, and merged once more. The sparks collided, shooting off from each other at wild tangents. One of his ruffians moved forward, but Sutton held him back with a raised hand. He never let his eyes leave Nyquist.

  “Do not speak of my wife, sir. It offends me.”

  Nyquist kept his silence, letting Sutton’s frustration play out.

  “It offends me that a… that a stranger should take on such airs, as though he knew her. As though he knew of Jane’s beauty, and refinement, and her intellect.” Every line on his face was deeply etched. “And don’t dare speak to me of what that old man said at the inquest!”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  “Lies, damn lies! My Jane would not sully herself. Certainly, not for a man like Ian Bainbridge. She had far better taste than that.”

  The anger burned away, and Sutton’s fret settled a little, awash now with grief. Nyquist could read the man through the colors that he showed, whether voluntarily or otherwise. It gave him a way of proceeding.

  “I know you want to blame me, Mr Sutton. And that’s fair enough. Things have taken a turn since my arrival.”

  “We are a community. We have our ways.”

  “Granted. But why are you punishing the lad?”

  Sutton looked back at Fairclough. “The bugger was seen, at the school this morning. He was talking to my wife, just before she…” The man’s face creased into pain. He spat to clear his throat. “One of the kids told me.”

  “And what, you think Teddy’s at fault? He’s afraid of his own shadow.”

  Black ink spread across Sutton’s fret, and his voice softened. “Someone made her do it. I know that to be the case. I know it, sir. She was a strong woman, my Jane.” His mood closed in. “She would not take her own life.”

  “We’re in agreement, then.”

  Sutton moved closer. Nyquist was now enclosed fully by the other man’s fret. He felt how powerful a force it was, how all-encompassing.

  “What do you mean? Speak plainly.”

  “I mean that other forces are at play here, in Hoxley.” Nyquist held the man’s stare, before adding, “And I think you know what they are. But you wish to hide them from yourself. And so…”

  “The saints damn you!”

  “And so you take it out on Teddy.”

  Sutton rose up to his full five foot nine, and his voice and his fret combined, speaking in deep blood and fury.

  “God preserve me for saying it, but I wish that Jane had finished you off!”

  And Nyquist knew the truth then, of what had happened yesterday evening. It was Jane Sutton who had attacked him with the knife, using Madelyn Arkwright only as a vehicle.

  “You should’ve taken my wife’s advice, old chap.”

  “What? And leave Hoxley?”

  Gerald Sutton smiled and leaned in close. “I have a different option for you. In fact, I dearly hope you do find what you’re looking for.” He paused here, using a well-practiced effect, before finishing: “And I hope it kills you.”

  For a good long moment, the anger was fixed in place. It made a fierce show. But the pain of loss was hiding beneath, and now it showed. His fret crumbled and shivered. Sutton groaned. It was a strange sound to make, like a wounded, cornered animal. And then he turned and called for his two underlings. They scurried after him, along an alleyway that ran behind the row of houses. Nyquist went over to Edward Fairclough and bent down to help him. The young man revealed his face, each wound on show. Nyquist used a handkerchief to clean Teddy’s face. It didn’t look too bad, once the blood was wiped off. He drew him to his feet.

  “Come on, we’ll find the doctor.”

  “No!”

  “Higgs will take a look at you.”

  “No. No, not her. She’s involved.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Her and Jane Sutton, making their plans. I saw them together more than once, out by Birdbeck tarn.”

  “What were they doing there?”

  “I don’t know. Testing the waters. Preparing a spell.”

  “This was before you saw my father at the old cottage?”

  “Yes, before that, a few weeks before.”

  Nyquist looked at him. They were standing in the yard behind the shop. It was quiet here, with no direct lights, only the moon’s glow and the spilled light from the bedroom window of a neighboring house. It was enough to give their frets a lovely shine, a blue gold shimmer. Their mingled clouds trembled, and the sparkles in each flickered and danced like insects talking one to one, many to many, in the ever-changing colors of love and hate, and Nyquist felt all the things that Teddy Fairclough was feeling, as though they were his own emotions on offer. It was cold fear, and contempt for those around him, and alarm, a constant sense of foreboding. And yet a kindness was there, hidden away; it showed as a faint pastel wash across the fret. The lad was a fragile creature, no doubt about it. Fragile and frightened.

  Nyquist kept his voice low. “If you don’t want the doctor, we can find your sister, Becca. Is that better for you?”

  Teddy nodded. He let himself be led a little way along the side alley, back toward the high street. He said in a low voice, “Have you found your father yet?”

  “No. I’m still looking.”

  “He’s around here somewhere, I’m sure of it. He hasn’t left the village.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I know it. But… but listen… it’s you he waits for, not me.”

  “Come on, kid–”

  “Not me, not me!”

  “Don’t beat yourself up. Not when there are other people to do it for you.”

  Nyquist tried for a laugh. It didn’t work. The lad’s face was deadly serious as he spoke. “Your father told me of his journey.”

  They had come to a sto
p halfway down the passage. Nyquist looked at him. “How do you mean?”

  “Mr Nyquist, he told me that…”

  “Go on.”

  “That he had traveled the long passage of death to be here, and seen monsters along the way. And he…” Teddy paused. His eyes darted this way and that, on the lookout for enemies, “… and he urged me to run away from the village. Otherwise they might come for me as well. Creeping Jenny and her children, the one thousand tendrils. For there was no escape, once hooked. But he said I had to keep this to myself. A secret.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll fight them, Teddy. You and me together.”

  “I wish… I wish that could be.”

  “It will be.” Nyquist put a hand round the lad’s shoulder. “And listen, full Marquess of Queensberry rules. No cheating, not on our part. Agreed?”

  Teddy nodded at this, seemingly happy. His eyes engaged with Nyquist. In the enclosed world of their conjoined frets, they looked at each other and Nyquist felt for a moment that all was good, that nothing more needed to be said. He had a friend here, a true friend. And he felt that he had to help the young man, in some practical way. Nyquist took a five pound note from his wallet and handed it over. Teddy looked at this in surprise, but he was happy to take it as a gift. Nyquist said, “Treat yourself, lad, whatever you fancy. Or else buy your girl, Val, something nice with it.”

  “She’s not… she’s not my girl.”

  Teddy carefully folded the money into his pocket. But then a different look came to his face. He was having trouble breathing, and whatever peace there had been upon him, was fleeting. He now looked petrified.

  “What is it?” Nyquist asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “You’re too kind.” It almost looked as though he might start crying.

  “Forget about that. Just–”

  “Sir, I’ve seen too much.”

  “Yes, you’ve been through it, I know.”

  “I saw the killer’s face.” Teddy’s voice lowered. He was whispering. “At the school. I was going to find Becca. We’d argued at breakfast, and I wanted to apologize to her.”

  “Go on.”

  Teddy made a visible effort to concentrate. “But I got lost in all the school kids’ frets, so many of them. It was like a fog bank.” He paused for breath, and then said, “I walked along the corridor. I was alone. Or I thought I was, until I heard a noise in the mist.”

  “What kind of noise?”

  “A twig. A twig cracking! Right there in the corridor.”

  He made a noise, in imitation of what he’d heard. Krickk!

  Nyquist urged him on. “And then what?”

  “Someone came out of the classroom, the one where they found the headmistress. Right there in the daytime, undercover of the fret’s darkness.”

  “You mean…?”

  “It looked like the Tolly Man at first, walking right past me. This close. Like you are now.” His hand tightened on Nyquist’s sleeve. “I was scared. Shivering all over. The fret was clouding the figure, thick and billowing, monstrous. Opaque. Like fog. Like the fog in the trees in the morning. Only the mask was seen. The mask of twigs. Only…”

  “Teddy, tell me true. What did you see?”

  “The twigs were moved aside. It wasn’t a mask, I saw that now. The woman was only holding them up, you see, like this…” His hands came up, to cover his face. “Two branches, one in each hand, and the berries bright upon them. And then her hands moved aside. Like this.” His face was revealed.

  “It was a woman, you say?”

  Teddy nodded.

  “Who was it?”

  “Madame Fontaine. The fortune teller. She killed Mrs Sutton.”

  And with that the young man pulled free of Nyquist and took off at a staggering run back down the alleyway. He scrambled up onto a dustbin and climbed from there to the top of the wall, where he vanished from sight, dropping down on the other side. The pale blue, star-speckled glow of his fret lingered at the top of the wall for a moment, and then that too was whisked away.

  MANY TIMES AROUND

  Nyquist returned to the village green. He moved from one group to another, seeking one person only, hoping that this person was here, among the revelers. He asked for advice, for sightings, and was directed to the edge of the pond, where he found his quarry.

  Len Sadler was chatting with Nigel Coombes. Sadler was laughing heartily, Coombes was nodding his head, obviously not seeing the joke. The glow of their cigarettes was intensified by the frets, transformed into miniature suns. Nyquist interrupted their talk, and asked to speak with Sadler alone. Coombes left them to it, already calling out to his daughter.

  Sadler was drunk. He said. “Nyquist, my friend from afar, I hope you haven’t shot anyone yet?”

  “Sorry?”

  “That revolver I gave you, do you still have it?”

  “No. It was stolen.”

  “Stolen? Oh, that’s bad news. It was meant for you, and you alone.”

  “No doubt it will turn up again.”

  Nyquist pulled a piece of card from his pocket. He said, “I had my fortune read today.”

  Sadler looked excited. “Madame Fontaine spoke to you?”

  “She did.”

  “A nice piece of craftsmanship, that was, though I say so myself.”

  “You gave Fontaine the face of Agnes Dunne.”

  Sadler was mildly irritated. “So? So what? Is it wrong to be in love?”

  Nyquist ignored the remark, asking instead, “Who put the fortune cards in the box?”

  “I did. But Agnes wrote them out for me.” He was slurring his words. “I just loaded the cards in the box.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yes, yes. As far as I know. What’s this about?”

  By the fret’s glow Nyquist read aloud the card’s message: “Follow a pathway through the woods, ask your question of the fire.” He looked at Sadler, and received no response. “What do you think that means, Len?”

  “How would I know. I’ve never been very good at riddles.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Agnes? Maybe she’s left the village. That’s what people are saying–”

  “No. I think she’s still here.”

  Sadler looked anxious. He opened his mouth to speak, and then thought against it. He started to move off across the green. Nyquist grabbed hold of him by the arm, but Sadler was strong and turned back to curse in Nyquist’s face.

  “Piss off! Go on, get away from here. We’ve had enough of you.”

  Nyquist wiped spittle off his face with his sleeve.

  Their frets were buffeted by a sudden gust of wind, but within their confines, the two men felt only a gentle wave of air, and a sense of warmth. They were cut off from the wide world, and would in most circumstances be comforted in isolation. But comfort wasn’t on offer.

  “I think you know where she’s hiding,” Nyquist said.

  “I don’t. I really don’t! Why would I lie to you?” Sadler’s voice cracked.

  “To protect her.”

  “From what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Nyquist thought the emotions were genuine, but still, something was amiss.

  “She was seen, Len. Today. At the school.”

  “Agnes was?”

  “At the time of Jane Sutton’s death.”

  It took a moment: various new colors bled across Sadler’s fret, each one mirroring the trouble on his face, the changing expressions. Finally, the colors burst into words.

  “She’s not to blame!”

  “For what?”

  “She didn’t kill anyone. Not Bainbridge. Nor Sutton.”

  “So who did then?”

  “I don’t know. But Agnes wouldn’t do something like that.”

  Nyquist looked around. Beyond the limits of his fret, the night was dark, the moon veiled. He could see people not too far away, on the far side of the pond, their own frets aglow: yellow, green, orange. He turned back to Sadler
. The other man looked a wreck, his face covered in sweat and his eyes red raw. His beer glass was empty and it slipped through his fingers and fell to the grass. Nyquist knew the exact feelings Sadler was going through, having experienced them all himself, when drunk, and the darkness was closing in.

  “I’m sorry for messing you about. But if you think Agnes is involved, then you need to tell the truth.”

  “I can’t… I can’t tell the truth.”

  “It’s too painful?”

  Sadler managed to find a speck to focus on, one tiny speck of red light in his fret. And then he turned his eyes on Nyquist and made an attempt to control his speech.

  “Ah, I’ve fucked up. I should never have…”

  “What? Fallen for her?”

  “It was all a mistake, and now I’m paying for it.”

  Nyquist knew he was close, that Sadler was on the edge of confession. “What form does the payment take?” he asked.

  “Oh… so much, so much! Blood and tears, so much per pound, weighed out. Look, look at my hands…”

  He showed his palms to Nyquist. They were crisscrossed with scars and nicks, old and new, made by chisels and hammers.

  “You’ve worked hard, Len. All your life. That’s what you are.”

  “Yes, yes.” Sadler’s head nodded. He seemed to have lost most of his inner strength, and his body was ready to drop. “But where has it got me? I’ll be working till I die.”

  Nyquist took hold of him and led him over to a bench at the edge of the green. For a good long moment, they both sat there in silence. But then Sadler sobbed out loud. His fret trembled.

  Nyquist kept his voice low. “Do you know where she is?”

  Sadler shook his head. “No. I swear. But she came to me.” He took a deep breath. “I thought she’d left Hoxley, along with her husband. I really did. But then, one night, she came to see me.”