The Body Library

by Jeff Noon

“We know it’s difficult,” Molloy said. “Just do what you can.”

  The assistant tilted the head slightly towards the window. In any other circumstance the act would possess a comic effect; but here the movement was enough to trigger a reaction that struck Nyquist to his core. He raised a hand to his eyes and covered them. He started to shake, his body following its own instructions.

  Detective Molloy asked him, “So you know her?”

  Nyquist did his best to look beyond the blemishes and distortions, to the woman that he remembered. He nodded, just the once, and his voice broke on a word.

  “We need you to speak aloud.”

  He took in a breath and tried again: “Yes. She’s called Zelda. I don’t know her last name.”

  DS Fabien wrote something on the clipboard he was holding.

  Molloy said, “Thank you. We need to ask a few questions.”

  But Nyquist couldn’t move. He stayed at the glass, staring ahead. For these few moments he clung to the hope that it was all a horror tale, as so much else was in this city. It was so easy to become confused by the false and the real, the story and the life, that endless feedback loop. Fiction and non-fiction. Zelda existed on the borderline of the two states, and now she’d fallen, fallen into death. Her story was over. The end. Turn the page and close the book. As though in recognition of this the morgue attendant pulled the sheet back over Zelda’s face, and the dark blue curtain closed again across the window. Even then Nyquist stayed where he was, until Fabien grabbed him roughly by the arms and pushed him out of the room.

  Twenty minutes later he was sitting at a table in an interview room. He had a feeling he was being watched, although the walls were solid, no windows, no trick mirrors. No evidence of a hidden camera. Still, he couldn’t help imagining somebody’s hidden eye, scrutinizing him, waiting for a sign of guilt, or fear. He’d been left here alone, no doubt as some form of interrogation technique. It gave him ample time to wonder on Zelda’s death, and his own part in it, indirect or otherwise. He kept his face as stone-like as possible, hoping to give nothing away as his heart burned with anger and his mind leapt from one scenario to another, seeking an explanation, a culprit, a mistake that he’d made, a reason why, anything that might act as an escape route, a way to break free. There was none. He was trapped at the center of the story web, all the strands converging on him without any explanation.

  And he wept, he wept inside. He kept his sadness locked away.

  Until Zelda’s face appeared once more before him, not as he’d viewed her at the end, white where it wasn’t blemished and hollow of life, but as he’d witnessed it before, in the tower block. And strangest of all, he couldn’t work out why he was so affected by her, and by her loss. It was a simple act of kindness he came back to: Zelda tending to his wounds, bandaging his arm for him, when really she should have gone her own way, left him alone to face whatever else the night might have thrown him. He recalled the pain and troubles they’d shared in those few hours as they’d moved from room to room to room, searching for a way out, her hand in his on the stairs as they ran down, her voice as she’d screamed at Lionel, her bravery then, yes, call it that, and her smile even in the heart of danger. Her face was a message that he didn’t have time to decipher, and then he knew the truth, the unwritten truth: he had seen a potential in her, in the two of them together; they were made for the same type of narrative, tattered and torn and dirty and cast aside to fend for themselves, the two of them, yes, their lips meeting once more in that kiss, that poem, the one sweet poem of a kiss, and of course he was living inside his own head inside the small grey interview room in a police station, he was living a fantasy, yes call it that, because only in the fantasy could he see the way forward, towards love, or at least the possibility of such a thing, such a feeling, a future, yes dare to call it that, a doorway opening on the lighted passageway ahead, where Zelda waited for him, her arms wide, her eyes, her lovely eyes on his, her soft voice calling to him, calling…

  The door of the interview room opened and the two detectives entered. Immediately Nyquist’s internal prayer ended and the vision of Zelda vanished like a moth’s wings in a candle flame. She was dead. The world was a cold, harsh place once more.

  They sat down across the table from him. He held the gaze of them both, and hoped that his own eyes wouldn’t betray him.

  Molloy spoke at last: “So then. Zelda?”

  He nodded.

  “And you don’t know her surname?”

  “No. I told you.”

  Fabien leaned back in his chair, seemingly at ease. Molloy made a note on a writing pad.

  “And where did you meet?”

  “Where does any man meet a prostitute?”

  “You tell me.”

  “On a street corner.” He was not yet ready to tell the truth, not until he had sorted this out, not until he’d found out why she’d been killed.

  “Which one?” Molloy asked.

  He remembered Zelda’s words: “Where Nin Street meets Lawrence.”

  Fabien smiled. “The most popular red light district in the city.”

  Molloy asked, “You were her client?”

  Nyquist didn’t answer at first. The question was repeated.

  “No. Not as such.”

  “Really?”

  “We talked.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all. We talked for an hour or so.”

  Fabien sneered at this. But Molloy kept on: “And you paid for this service?”

  Nyquist’s eyes closed. From a distance he heard himself say, “That’s right, I paid for the pleasure of her conversation.”

  Now Fabien laughed out loud. “Can you believe this guy, Molloy?”

  “He’s a puzzle, that’s for sure.”

  “He’s more than that. He’s a liar.”

  Nyquist shifted forward. “I need to know why I’m here. Am I a suspect in Zelda’s murder, or not?”

  Neither of the detectives answered him.

  “Do I need a lawyer?”

  Molloy responded. “We’re just asking questions, that’s all.”

  Fabien added, “Do you think you need a lawyer?”

  Nyquist was in the dark. Patrick Wellborn’s name hadn’t yet been mentioned, and asking for a lawyer would surely force things out into the open.

  “No,” he answered. “I just want to get out of here.”

  Molloy nodded. “We all do.” She looked through a sheaf of notes and asked, “How many times did you meet with Zelda?”

  “Once. That’s all. Like I said, I paid my money and we talked. Then we parted.”

  “And where did this conversation take place?”

  “A hotel room.”

  “Which one?”

  “A cheap one. I can’t remember its name. I was drunk. And depressed. Everything was going wrong for me, in my business, and my personal life. I’ve only been in Storyville for a few months, and you know how difficult it is to make friends.”

  Perhaps, if he added enough details to the lie, it would become true.

  “I was lonely. I drove out to the district and met with Zelda. She seemed to know what I wanted.”

  Fabien hunched forward in his seat. “Conversation, you mean?”

  “It’s more common than you might think. Zelda told me that, lots of men… they just want to be paid some attention. So we talked. I liked her, she was spirited and she listened and said all the right things back to me, whether she meant them or not, and if she didn’t mean them, well then she was a bloody good actress.”

  Nyquist stopped. He’d said enough. It was a story born from blood and darkness, half real, half made-up.

  “I don’t know why she died,” he added. “I really don’t.”

  Molloy answered him in a matter of fact way: “She killed herself.”

  Nyquist felt the cold run through him. “She… you mean…”

  “Yes, it looks that way. She hanged herself. Are you surprised?”

  “B
ut she was…”

  “Go on.”

  “She was full of life.” It sounded strange even as he said it, almost pathetic.

  Molloy shrugged. “Well, there it is.”

  “As far as we can tell,” Fabien added. “It all has to be checked out.”

  Nyquist didn’t know where to look; the two detectives had him in their power. And the world was a smaller place, suddenly, smaller even than this tiny grey room.

  “So…” Molloy stacked her notes. “You saw her just the once?”

  “That’s all, yes.”

  “And she didn’t appear suicidal?”

  “No, no. Not at all. Why would she do that? Why? I can’t believe she’d do that.”

  They were both looking at him. He felt his anger building, and his mind reeled. Everything that had happened that night in Melville Five was now a chaotic tumble of events and images, scattered like the words on the page he’d found on Wellborn’s body. And the sudden thought of the dead man almost made him confess. He could feel the words on his tongue, the tingle, the relief waiting just one sentence away. But he stopped himself. This wasn’t the time. Not yet.

  DI Molloy placed a sheet of paper on the table. “This is why we asked you to come in. We found it on her body.”

  Nyquist narrowed his eyes in concentration. It was another page torn from The Body Library. He glanced over the lines of text – the usual mixture of handwriting and type – and almost immediately he noted one particular word standing out from all the others.

  It was his own name.

  Nyquist.

  Nyquist read the entire sentence to himself: Cut price shadow man John Nyquist none other walking darkness bound. His name was circled again and again in blue pen, and in the margin in the same color was a simple two-word plea: Find him!

  “Looks like Zelda was desperate when she marked your name,” Molloy said.

  Fabien cut in: “We just need to know if it means anything to you?”

  Nyquist tried to make sense of it all. “Zelda needs… she needed my help.”

  “With what?”

  “I wish I knew. I wish she’d… O God, I wish she’d come to me.”

  The two detectives stared at him. “How about Marlowe’s Field?” Molloy asked. “Did Zelda mention that to you, ever?”

  “Is that where you found her?”

  Molloy kept her eyes on him. “She was found swinging from the branch of a tree, right over a sewage overflow pipe.”

  “Hell of a place to choose,” Fabien added. He had a mocking smile on his face. “She must’ve really hated herself. Mind, that’s hookers for you. Live in the shit, die in the–”

  Nyquist was out of his seat before either of the two detectives could react. He grabbed Fabien by the neck and dragged him up and away from the table, against the nearest wall.

  Molloy got her arms between the two men.

  “Sit down. The both of you. Sit down!”

  Fabien started to laugh.

  Nyquist held the other man’s stare for a moment and then followed the order, taking his seat back at the table. Fabien remained standing. He tugged his jacket straight and pulled his tie away from his neck. He still had the smile written across his face as he lit a cigarette. Nothing meant much to him, Nyquist could see that. The smoke floated around the strip light above the table. A fly buzzed at the tube, angered by the limits of its world.

  Nobody spoke for a moment until Nyquist mumbled something under his breath.

  Molloy leaned across the table. “What’s that?”

  “I was close to her. To Zelda…”

  “But you only knew her a few hours, isn’t that right?”

  He nodded in reply. “Yes, but she reached out to me. We connected.”

  “Two sparks in the night?”

  He looked at her. Molloy’s expression was entirely serious, perhaps in reaction to a similar story of her own.

  He whispered, “Yes, something like that.”

  “Good, good.” She placed a large photograph on the table. “What do you make of this?”

  It took Nyquist a while to make out the object in the image. It was a gently curved expanse of off-white material, marked all over with words. At first he could only think it was some kind of book or manuscript, perhaps another page from The Body Library. But then he realized: it was a close-up photograph of a piece of skin covered in writing.

  “This… this is Zelda? Her body?”

  Molloy nodded. “This is her lower back. And this…” Another photograph. “Her face. It’s unusual, don’t you think?”

  The disfigurements Nyquist had noticed earlier were now plainly seen: a smattering of letters and words on the cheeks, brows and neck. Not as many as on the body, but enough to make it shocking.

  “They’re not tattoos,” Fabien said.

  Molloy placed another two photographs on the tabletop. “We don’t know what they are, to be honest,” she said. “But it’s not the first time we’ve seen this. There have been a number of similar cases in the last few weeks.”

  Nyquist didn’t know what to make of it. “Is it a sickness? Was she suffering?”

  “More likely a side effect,” Fabien told him. “From a drug.”

  “Thankfully, Zelda is the only infected person to kill herself. As yet.” Molloy tapped at the table. “Come on, Nyquist, can you tell us anything about this? Anything at all? What was she taking?”

  He heard the buzz of the strip light more than he heard the human voices in the room. The fly rubbing his wings together was louder in his mind.

  He still hadn’t responded to Molloy’s plea.

  DS Fabien helped him out: “She’s covered more or less all over.” He was reveling in the description. “Her entire body. Can you imagine that, the words creeping up towards her face? The woman must’ve been terrified. No wonder she took the easy way out.”

  Molloy hardened her tone. “All right, Fabien. Let’s keep this civil.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Well don’t.”

  Fabien raised his hands in mock apology to his superior.

  Nyquist paid them no mind. He was looking only at Zelda’s eyes in the second image. He imagined that if he could reach into the photograph and open the closed eyelids, memories would be held there, pooled like ink in the black pupils. The reason for her death would be made plain.

  He scratched at the back of his neck. His whole body was reacting badly, running with sweat. He needed desperately to get out of this room, to breathe in clean air.

  “Are you all right, Nyquist?”

  He looked at Molloy’s concerned face, seeing only a blur, and shook his head. He wanted to break the world apart with his bare hands. But the anger he was feeling quickly burned away, to be replaced by despair. He spoke quietly.

  “I could have helped her.”

  He looked from one detective to the other, and then down at his hands on the table, and the photographs below them.

  “I let her walk away, into the night. I let her get away.”

  The black fly landed on the table and started to wash itself.

  Nyquist stared at the scattered images. All these different sections of Zelda’s body, each one covered in letters, words, symbols. He knew for certain: there was story here, an explanation waiting to be unlocked if he could only find the key.

  But the darkness of the text held too many secrets.

  Overflow

  HE DROVE out to the eastern part of the city, through Brontë Town, through Blakeville, taking the Asimov Bypass, until the houses and offices gave way to factories and warehouses, and then further on, past isolated shacks and empty-looking garages and roadside cafés. It took him a good hour and a half to get there, fighting against the last of the morning’s rush-hour traffic. The dashboard radio crackled with ballads and stories from the years gone by, the heroes and villains cut from broader cloth than was currently popular; their emotions boiled over, men and women shouted at each other in arguments on the very e
dge of love, and a gunshot sounded through the tiny speaker. Nyquist turned the radio off. He drove on in silence, only his own thoughts to plague him now, the tumult of words and imagery that played like a moving picture show in his head: knives entering flesh, bodies cut open, a bullet’s pathway through the heart. The images were spliced into fragments, and projected in a random order. Blood splashed across the road ahead like a torn curtain. Nyquist closed his eyes to escape the sight, and his hands tightened on the wheel. Still the blood flowed behind his eyelids. He was roused from the madness by the sound of another car’s horn blaring out and he swerved to avoid the oncoming vehicle. He steered the car back onto the straight road and did his best to empty his mind of violence.

  He pulled over into a lay-by and studied the road atlas once more. He was on the right road, and he placed in memory the various turnings he would need to make and the street signs he would have to look out for: Collins, Wharton, Shelly, Sappho and Plath. He set off once more, thinking back to his time in the police station. They’d finally let him go at one in the morning, having nothing at all to lay on him. He’d slept fitfully, troubled by dreams he couldn’t remember one second after waking. But now sunlight sparkled on the windscreen, and the terrible noises and images quietened and faded at last in his mind, and he suddenly felt wide awake, committed to action.

  The miles sped by, the story awaited him. He would live it by his own words, no one else’s.

  The car was bumping over rough tarmac. There was a rundown farmhouse on the right, surrounded by rusting tractors and other dilapidated machinery. A dog barked ferociously. Nyquist took another turning and headed along a narrow lane, with trees on one side and waste ground on the other, where a small mountain of household goods had been dumped: refrigerators, armchairs, vacuum cleaners and the like. This was blighted land, neither city nor countryside.

  The car slowed a little as it left the road and took to an earth driveway. Nyquist saw a mud-spattered street name sign that read Plath Lane, and he knew he was close to his destination: the field should just be at the end of the lane. He parked. The sun warmed the land and the trees all round him, and the birds were singing brightly from the branches. He walked to the end of the lane and opened a farm gate and then walked across the grass that was wet underfoot: the land was waterlogged. This was Marlowe’s Field. Sheep stood around in ones and twos, paying him no mind. Ahead he could see where the field suddenly dipped down into a large ditch lined on one side by stunted trees, their clutching roots exposed in the brown dirt like X-rays of a brain. Two kids were playing nearby, a boy and a girl, throwing stones into the fetid water; a noxious stench rose up whenever a stone landed. They were chanting a rhyme, and they eyed Nyquist suspiciously as he neared, but he ignored them and walked on, over to where a strand of crime scene ribbon fluttered, caught on a hedge. The ground on the other side of the ditch was slightly firmer, and emerging from the bank was the end of a large outlet pipe. This must be the place, as Molloy and Fabien had described it. Dirty, clay-colored water dribbled from the pipe into the pool of wet mud that lay in the bottom of the ditch. A number of iridescent beetles were scurrying around. Nyquist looked up at the tree that loomed overhead. Its leaves were far healthier than its neighbors’, and more plentiful, as though the tree had learned to feed off the sickened ground, the roots going deep in search of sustenance.