Nyquist gave his name in turn. Then he said, “I need your help.” He knew of no other opening.
Bainbridge looked nervous and he spoke in a sudden rush, “As you might ascertain I am a man of some intelligence, but really, this is beyond my comprehension, that such a thing might happen on today of all days.” He was in his forties, yet he seemed older in his speech patterns, his mannerisms, and the way he dressed: a brown jumper over a check shirt, cavalry twill trousers and polished brogues. His hair was shiny with brilliantine, a lot of it. He was healthy looking, well-bred, yet his eyes were the oldest part of him: all the pains of his life had collected here. He rubbed at them now, spreading tears on his cheeks, and he repeated: “Today of all days!”
“It’s a Thursday,” Nyquist said. “I don’t understand.”
“Not any old Thursday. It’s Saint Switten’s Day.”
The very mention of the saint was enough to cause Bainbridge’s head to bow down so low that his chin was tucked into his chest. He was mumbling a prayer, the words unheard until the final amen. The budgerigar sang sweetly in its cage.
Bainbridge looked up, a calmness on his face as he explained: “We’re not supposed to go outside on Switten’s Day, not until midnight.”
“That’s when the curfew ends?”
“It’s not a curfew. It is time put aside for silent contemplation. Of course, not everyone follows this to the letter, darting from house to pub and back, thinking a few minutes here and there don’t count. Or else they cover their heads with an umbrella, so the sunrays or the moonlight doesn’t touch them.” He tutted. “Ridiculous.”
“What’s the punishment?”
The man showed a set of yellowing teeth. “This is not a day for flippancy.”
Nyquist was scrutinized. The table was cleared of crumbs. More tea was poured. The Queen’s face smiled demurely from the curve of the cup, a souvenir of the coronation.
“Tell me about Saint Switten’s Day.”
“We have our traditions. Our ritual observances. This one goes back to when Switten himself walked these fields around, centuries past.” Bainbridge tapped on the birdcage, causing the occupant to flap its wings uselessly. “Abel Switten was punished terribly for his beliefs, stripped bare and staked out in the dirt.” He made a blessing, his hands descending from brow to stomach, tapping at five points in between in a serpentine curve. “We are beholden to our benefactors.”
Nyquist felt the day was getting the better of him. He said, “I’ve been traveling by train since eight this morning. I haven’t eaten, not properly. And then a long wait for a bus, and a ride across country. Another hour of that. And then I had to walk through the fields, through a wood! A goddamn wood! In the rain.”
Bainbridge shook his head in wonder.
Nyquist cursed. “I’ve never stood in a field before, not one so large.”
“Never?”
“The sky hurts me.”
The budgerigar started pecking at the bars of its cage repeatedly, making a racket. Mr Bainbridge tried to calm the bird, rubbing fingers and thumb together and speaking softly: “Here, Bertie. Here, Bertie, Bertie.” And so on. It had a suitable effect and the creature was quiet once more.
Nyquist placed the photograph of the house on the table. Bainbridge looked surprised. “That is my house. Yew Tree Cottage. Why do you have a picture of my house?”
“And this is you?” Nyquist tapped at one of the two people depicted. “It looks like you. And the other person looks very like your wife.”
Bainbridge picked up the photograph and studied it more closely.
“I’m sorry, Mr Nyquist. I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re asking–”
The radio crackled suddenly. Hilda Bainbridge bent forward slightly in response to the single burst of static.
Her husband held his breath.
Nyquist looked from one person to the other, expecting a deeper reaction or a speech. But none came.
The budgerigar sang the same few notes over and over, like a broken recording.
Nyquist decided to tell the truth. He took the other five photographs from the envelope and laid them out on the tablecloth so that each image was visible.
“I received these in the post a few days ago. There was no accompanying letter. So I don’t know who sent them. Or why.” He paused. “But I intend to find out.”
Bainbridge looked at the photographs without speaking.
Nyquist carried on: “All of them show scenes from this village. Look.” He showed the postmark on the envelope: “Hoxley. There are a number of villages called that, so I had to do a little detective work. The name of the church, and the shop, and this delivery van, here.” He pointed to the photograph of the high street, to a parked van. “Sutton’s. A bakers. You can make out the address painted on the side. I needed a magnifying glass to read it.”
“The Suttons are well known around these parts,” MrBainbridge said. He pointed out the brand name on the one remaining custard cream. “They’re a local firm.”
“Exactly. A local firm.” Nyquist’s eye passed over each photograph. “So I did a bit of digging, and I put it all together.”
“I’m impressed.”
“It’s my job. How I make my living.”
Bainbridge looked at him in a new way. “You’re a police officer?”
“A private investigator.”
“I see. So, this a case you’re working on, for a client?”
Nyquist took a moment to answer. “This is for me. Entirely for me.”
Bainbridge turned his attention to another image, the one showing the tower in a field. He said, “I’ve never seen this building before. I don’t think it’s from around here.”
“It’s not very clear in the shot.”
“Still, I don’t recognize it.”
Nyquist turned one of the photographs over. “What about this? The photographer’s mark. It’s on all six pictures.” It was small pale blue-inked rectangle, somewhat faded, the stamp damaged. “But I can’t see the name properly. Nor the address.”
Bainbridge squinted. “No. It’s too faint.”
“There aren’t any photographers in the village, professional ones, I mean?”
“Oh, maybe, yes, but I don’t believe they live here anymore. I think they left the village a little while ago.”
“What were they called?”
“I really can’t remember. I don’t like having my photograph taken, neither does Hilda. We’re very private people.”
“But somebody took this picture of you and your wife.”
Bainbridge looked puzzled. “As you can see, it was taken without our knowledge. Why would anyone do that? It scares me, to think of it.”
“You’ve no idea?”
“Hilda and I, we lead ordinary lives. It sounds ridiculous to say it, but there is nothing to spy upon. Nothing at all.”
There was an awkward moment. Neither man spoke. Nyquist glanced at the clock on the mantel: ten past seven.
“What I don’t understand,” Bainbridge said, “is why you’ve come all this way? I mean to say, why is this so important to you?”
Nyquist gathered up the photographs until only one was left on the table, the portrait of the middle-aged man.
“Tell me, do you know this person?”
Bainbridge glanced at the image and shook his head. “No.”
“Take a closer look.”
“I’ve told you. I don’t know him.”
There was a noise from the corner of the room and Nyquist looked that way, hoping the woman was alert now, that she might have something to offer. But she was sitting there as before, gazing intently at the now silent radio set. Perhaps her eyes moved slightly, perhaps they flickered?
Bainbridge picked up the photograph. “I can see a family resemblance.”
“Yes. It’s my father.”
Nyquist could feel his heart being wound up tight, a fragile half-broken machine. “I haven’t seen him since I was a child. A boy. Twenty-four yea
rs have passed. I thought he was dead. And now…” He looked at the photograph. “And now this.”
Ian Bainbridge stared at his guest. This stranger, a wanderer, someone who didn’t know the rules, a lost soul. He said, “I swear. I swear on Saint Switten’s unmarked grave, in all my years I have never seen this man.”
Nyquist frowned. He gazed at his father’s face. Then he swallowed the last gulp of tea and said, “There’s something in my cup.”
“There is?”
“Christ. It’s moving about.”
Bainbridge was puzzled. “You know my mother used to read the shapes in tea leaves. She could view a person’s future through them.”
Nyquist was irritated. “What would she make of this?”
Bainbridge looked into the offered receptacle. “I cannot say.” But his eyes widened, as Nyquist reached into the cup and made to pull out the worm or insect or whatever it was. The creature’s squirming body stretched out, one end of it still clinging to the cup’s interior.
“What the hell are you feeding me?”
“I’m really sorry about this,” Bainbridge answered. “I don’t know what to say.”
The worm or whatever it was, was still clinging on, lengthening as Nyquist tried to pull it loose. He leaned forward to examine the foreign body.
“I don’t think it’s a worm. It’s the wrong color. Unless you have green worms around here?”
“No, of course not. Green? No. Nothing like that. Just normal worms, nothing special.”
“I think this is more like a plant.”
“A plant? Really?”
“It’s a tendril, or a piece of root.” Nyquist turned the teacup this way and that under the light. He said, “But the way it moves, it’s more like a living creature.”
Bainbridge looked worried, terrified almost. His voice rose in pitch. “We only bring the coronation tea set out when we have guests, which is very rarely these days. And anyway, I keep a clean house!”
Now the two men were both looking at the strange fibrous substance held between cup, and Nyquist’s forefinger and thumb. It had stretched to about a foot in length and was still clinging onto the china by its suckered end. Queen Elizabeth II continued to smile gracefully from the cup’s outer surface.
“I can feel it pulling back at me,” Nyquist said. He felt lightheaded. His eyes couldn’t quite stay in focus. His tongue was thick in his mouth.
“I don’t feel well.”
The dark green fiber was wet and sticky. Tiny burrs hooked at his skin. He gave it a sharp tug, but instead of the sucker coming loose from the cup, the tendril extended itself even further and wrapped itself around his fingers.
“It’s got you!”
“The thing’s digging in.” It was beginning to hurt. “It’s tightening.” Nyquist pulled with all his strength, watching in a kind of horrified fascination as the tendril stretched out, further and further.
“I think it likes you,” Bainbridge whispered. The fear had left him. Now he had a look of wonder in his eyes. “It doesn’t like me. And it doesn’t like Hilda. It likes you.”
“Hold the cup!”
Bainbridge did so, as Nyquist backed away from the table, until he reached the limits of the creature’s physical hold. There was a bureau in the corner of the room, and his free hand scrabbled around until it closed on the handle of a paper knife. Bainbridge gasped, and he whispered, “Don’t hurt it.” Nyquist swore at him. Or tried to. Nothing made sense, not a single thought or word. Had he been poisoned? Was he hallucinating? Only one thing mattered now. He placed the blade against the tendril and started to slice into it. It was awkward using his left hand, and the thing was resilient, but eventually the knife did its work and the tendril snapped in two. Bainbridge groaned aloud. His wife looked on, her eyes turned at last to the scene before her, a lone silent member of the audience at an absurdist drama.
One section of the tendril was still wrapped around Nyquist’s fingers, but it was weaker now. He pulled it loose and threw it to the floor.
“I felt that.” He could speak again, after a fashion.
“What? You’re mumbling. I can’t hear you.”
Nyquist rubbed at the fingers of his hand. “When I cut into it, it really dug in. Holding on for dear life.” He grabbed the cup from Bainbridge’s hands, and examined the remaining half of the tendril. There was a green ooze seeping from the severed end.
“Is that blood?” Bainbridge asked.
“It’s green. Like sap.”
“So it is a plant then.” Bainbridge’s mood had changed again. He now looked like a man in a puzzle palace, trying to find his way out.
Nyquist put the cup down on the table. “I killed one half of it. But this section’s still alive. It’s like a worm that’s been cut in two.”
“You said it wasn’t a worm.”
“Well then, I don’t know…” Nyquist couldn’t finish the sentence. He tried to gather up the photographs, but his hands wouldn’t quite do what he asked of them.
“I’m sorry I can’t help you further,” Bainbridge said.
“I can taste it.”
“What?”
“That thing you put in my tea.” He steadied himself against the table’s edge.
“I didn’t put–”
“It’s nasty. Bitter. It tastes like…”
“Like what?”
“Like biting into a moth. Not that I’ve ever…”
Bainbridge grinned. “Oh, I’m sure the effects are temporary.”
“I don’t feel too good.”
“You see, I’m just trying to…”
“Yes?”
“To live my life. And to look after Hilda, that’s all.”
Nyquist felt sick in his stomach. “All I need is… all is need is information… relating to my father.” His body was slowing down.
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
He looked into Bainbridge’s face. “I’ve interviewed lots of men.” He had put on an act, forcing the words out. “Tougher guys than you.”
“You have?”
One last effort: “I know when someone’s lying.”
Hilda Bainbridge clapped her hands together, just the once.
The sound was shocking.
It set the budgerigar fluttering and chirping madly. It took Nyquist’s every last ounce of strength, just to stay upright. He looked at the woman in the armchair. She was staring at him intently, without a flicker of her eyelids. The room trembled.
One shiver, a second shiver.
He placed a hand against the wall, holding on.
Like so. Concentrate. You can…
The third shiver.
The budgie started to ring its little silver bell, over and over and over.
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