by Jeff Noon
Nyquist looked at her. She was in her mid-twenties and dressed in a fake fur stole and a dress of shimmering blue fabric. Her face still held a certain amount of innocence, kept in account from her youth.
“What did you talk about?”
“This and that.”
He pulled out a couple of bank notes from his jacket pocket. But she pushed his hand away and said, “It’s not your money I’m after. I just need to know what you’re doing with another man’s story? That’s stealing, in my book. Plagiarism.”
Nyquist thought for a moment. “Wellborn started the story, but he couldn’t finish it.”
“And you’re trying to finish it for him?”
“I am.”
“And why can’t he finish it himself?”
“He’s dead.”
The prostitute tutted. “Oh, I knew it! I just bloody well knew it! I said to myself, Gabrielle, I said – that’s me, by the way, Gabrielle – I said to myself, Gabby, that man is not long for this Earth. And wasn’t I correct?”
“How did you know this?”
She drew Nyquist further into the shadows and lowered her voice. “I can read a few pages ahead, into the future. I can see it in a person’s eyes, or in the words they say. Sometimes I just have to touch them and I get this flash of light and then I see a vision. Not clearly, but like through a mist or a dirty window.”
Nyquist smiled at this.
“Oh, you can laugh.”
“I’m not laughing. I’m smiling.”
“Smile all you like, I don’t care. I saw it when Patrick Wellborn talked to me, when he touched my hand.”
“And what did you see, exactly?”
“Oh, it was horrible. His head was all bashed in, all bloody like.”
Now Nyquist gave her his full attention. “Who did it to him?”
“I can’t see everything and everywhere, I told you that. Just a few pages ahead, that’s all, but the pages are torn and the ink is faded. That’s all I can say.”
Nyquist didn’t know what to say, or what to think. This case was opening up new areas for him, new ideas about just how deep the storytelling went in this city. It wasn’t just about beginnings, middles and endings – rather, everything was tangled up, one story wrapped around many others in an endless Celtic knot.
“So, what did Wellborn say to you?”
Gabrielle thought for a moment. “He was confused. But he was looking for someone, for a woman.”
“Any particular woman?”
“Sure. Zelda. But she wasn’t here at the time. So I thought I might as well ply my trade with him. But he wasn’t interested. It was Zelda he wanted. But…”
What is it?”
Gabrielle looked suddenly thoughtful. She said, “Do you know that feeling, when the story gets too much for you, and you can’t escape it?”
“A little.”
“Well it was like that with Mr Wellborn. That poor man was trapped in a story and he couldn’t escape it. That was the feeling he gave me, anyway. And that’s when I touched his arm and I got the vision in my head, of where he was heading.” She shuddered. Then she leaned close in to Nyquist and continued in a whisper, “Now don’t you go telling the other girls about this, will you, about what I can see and all that? They all think I’m a bit weird, as it is. That’s why I stand over here, on my own.”
“It’s our secret.”
“Well, I’d better get out there, I suppose. Earn some money.”
“You’ve been very helpful.”
“Just find out who killed Mr Wellborn, that’s all I ask.”
Her demand made Nyquist’s heart lurch. It cut to the raw center of what he was, of how deep he was caught up in these events, and how guilty he was.
Gabrielle folded her arms around herself: “Seeing something like that, something so awful, his head all caved in and bloody like, it was truly frightening. I can still see it, as clear as daylight. It won’t go away.” Her eyes were filled with the vision, the fear. “I can’t get to sleep easily. Not if I’m alone.”
Again, Nyquist offered her money and this time she gave in and took it off him. “I don’t even know your name.”
He told her. She looked deep into his eyes and said. “I know what you’re going to ask. And the answer is yes, I can see what lies on the next page for you.”
“What is it?”
Her eyes narrowed and a single line creased her forehead. “The next page is fine, no trouble. But the one after that…”
“Yes?”
“Take care, Mr Nyquist. Stay away from libraries.” And with that she walked away.
He was alone in the shadows, in the sudden cold of a summer’s day that only he could feel. He waited until the moment of dread had passed, before moving out of the doorway. The other prostitutes were grouped together a little way along Nin Lane. A car pulled up and one of the women peeled away and leaned in at the driver’s window. A deal was struck and she climbed into the vehicle. Nyquist walked up to the remaining women.
“Do any of you know Zelda?”
Most of them did and they bombarded him with voices.
“Zelda? Oh yeah, we all know her,” said one.
Nyquist asked, “What can you tell me about her?”
The first woman replied, “Well, she wasn’t a regular on the corner.”
Others joined in, all speaking at once: “She came and went, working her own pickup spots, pretty much keeping to herself.”
“Thought she was too good for us. Stuck up cow–”
“Oh shut up. Zelda wasn’t that bad. We’ve all got to survive, how we can.”
“That’s all right for you to say, Daisy. You’re still young.”
Nyquist asked, “What was her second name, does anyone know?”
The one called Daisy told him: “Courtland.”
Nyquist logged it away: Zelda Courtland.
“What about in the last few days?”
“Oh we haven’t seen her,” one of the older women said. “Not lately. I reckon she’s hanging out with a fancy fellow, someone with money.”
“Maybe she’s gone and got herself married!”
They all laughed at this.
Nyquist asked if they knew where Zelda lived.
It was Daisy who answered again “Christie Town.”
“Do you know which street, the number?”
But the older woman stopped any more conversation. She gave Nyquist the evil eye and asked, “Here, why do you want to know all this?”
“I’m a friend. And…”
“We’ve all got friends. I need more than that.”
“Don’t you know what’s happened to her?” he said.
They gathered around him, evidently seeing bad news in his expression.
“Tell us.”
And for the second time in ten minutes he found himself giving news of a death. The women on the corner fell silent. They looked at each other, frowning, and one of them cursed, another spat at the pavement.
Nyquist told them the truth: “The cops are happy to think she hanged herself.”
“But you think different?”
“I do.” He paused. “I think she was killed.”
This caused a few gasps.
“Oh, you mean murdered?”
“May the Lord above gather her story.”
“It’s always the same, no one cares about us, alive or dead.”
“But who did it? Do you know?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” Nyquist said. “Anything you can tell me would be really useful.”
They turned to each other and huddled together and spoke in whispers. Nyquist waited. The oldest woman turned back to him: “Are you legit? You’re not some pervy sort?”
“No. I really liked Zelda.”
She gave him one last up and down look and then nodded. “Zelda lived on Eliot Road, number 17. It’s not far from here.”
“Thank you.”
“Only…”
“What is
it?”
“Lately, she was acting strange. These last few days, I mean. Daisy, you knew her best. Tell him.”
Daisy came forward, a nervous look on her face. “That’s right. Really strange.”
“In what way?” Nyquist asked.
“I live in the same boarding house, see, and sometimes we’d walk out together. But just a couple of days ago now, she locked herself in her rooms, and she wouldn’t answer when I knocked on the door.”
“What was wrong with her, do you know?”
Daisy shook her head. “Well I can’t say, not for sure. She wouldn’t even show me her face, not properly. One time she did speak to me a little, but only through a crack in the door. I think she’d taken badly to the job. Well, it happens, God help us all. I mean, she didn’t want to show herself to anyone, not to any man, not even to her best and favorite clients.”
Nyquist thought about the state of Zelda’s corpse, the words on her skin. She was probably in pain, or scared or ashamed even, especially as the words reached her face and became visible.
“She said one thing that really upset me,” Daisy added.
All the women were clustered around Nyquist now. “What was it?” he asked.
“She said that time was running out for her. That she was scared.”
Nyquist urged her on. “Daisy? Scared of what? Another person?”
“I think so. Yes, maybe. But worse than that. Much worse.” Daisy’s eyes filled with tears. “She told me that she was scared of words.”
The other women were shocked by this.
“Never!” one of them exclaimed.
“That’s terrible,” said another.
“She had to be lying.”
The eldest rhapsodized: “Words make us, and keep us. Words embrace us.” It was, Nyquist realized, a prayer. “Words save us from our true selves, covering us in story. Words deliver us from everyday life.”
“It’s true,” Daisy insisted. “Zelda was scared to death of words. That’s what she said, exactly that. Scared to death.”
The prayer continued: “Words enfold and improve us. I am what I speak. My tongue is a long road; I shall never reach the end of it. Words fall in the night like a soft rain, like a balm. I am comforted.”
The women all joined in, their voices raised up as one. Nyquist could hear them as he walked away.
Like a page left unturned, I am hidden away…
It used to be, he had no use for prayers. Now he wasn’t so sure.
No Longer Living
NYQUIST FOUND Zelda’s boarding house easily enough. He spoke with the landlady, who told him that Miss Courtland hadn’t been home for a couple of days. Obviously she hadn’t yet heard the news of the death, and Nyquist kept it to himself.
“Can I see her room?”
“What are you, a cop?”
“No.”
The landlady, a no-nonsense woman in her forties, tutted loudly. “Well, you’re too late anyway, I’ve already rented it out to another lodger. Needs must, and all that. So I don’t think it would be appropriate.”
“How was Zelda, these last few days?”
“A mess. But what can I say, Miss Courtland was always behind on the rent.” The landlady muttered under her breath, “Dirty little good for nothing.”
She closed the door in his face.
Nyquist moved on, once more following Wellborn’s path through the city. The streets turned darker, the people poorer. Even the stories were different: outrageous, bawdy tales passed on gleefully. Here, life and story coexisted as equal partners, feeding off each other constantly.
He made one last turning. He was now standing outside the residence of the late Patrick Wellborn: a small rundown hotel in the Orwell district. He watched the building for a while, sitting on a bench across the way and eating a sandwich, as he’d done each morning when actually following Wellborn. Alone or in pairs, down-at-heel men of a certain age entered and left the building, never women: Nyquist assumed it was a rooming house for unemployed or divorced gentlemen, perhaps a last resting post before the steep decline set in. After his disappointment with Zelda’s rooms, he wanted to make sure he did this right, and as he sat there wiping crumbs from his mouth a new story formed in his head, a possible means of entry. He stood up and walked across the road towards the entrance. His neck was itching again; the irritation, whatever it was, seemed to be spreading. But he felt emboldened; the city’s narrative spirit was taking him over and by the time he’d reached the entranceway he’d already invented a voice, a suitable tone and attitude to go with a new character.
The lobby was badly lit, smelling of damp and boiled cabbage. Somewhere, no doubt, a clock was striking thirteen. With his scant white hair and his shipwreck of a face, the old man behind the reception desk had the look of someone whose best stories had run out a long time ago, and he was now living on the dregs. He eyed Nyquist as though he might be a criminal, come to rob the place. A plump and very furry white cat was curled up on the ledger.
Nyquist brushed down his lapels and said, “I’m looking for Mr Wellborn. Is he in?”
“Ain’t seen him, not in a while.”
Man and cat looked at him, both with one eye open, the other half-closed. Nyquist gave them the same look back and said, “I’m Patrick’s brother.”
The man smacked his lips. “Funny, he never mentioned any family to me.”
“We’re estranged.”
“Figures.” The old man suddenly picked up a flyswatter and whacked it down on the desk, full pelt. The cat jumped a foot in the air. “Got it.” He inspected the swatter, a look of satisfaction on his face. “Little buggers. Now then, sir, what did you require?”
“It’s like this. My brother stole a gold wristwatch off our dear father, and I would like to retrieve the item.”
Now the old man’s eyes were fully engaged. “What are you, a con man?”
Nyquist held up his hands in surrender. “Sir, you have found me out, good and proper.”
“How does this sorry tale end?”
“I give you a small amount of cash. You let me see the room. I steal something from there of value.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s all.”
“There’s nothing of value up there.”
“You’ve looked?”
“I clean the rooms, now and then. When Gladys can’t make it in.”
Nyquist placed three banknotes on the counter. “Here’s the payment.”
“You still want to see the room?”
“I do.”
The man stared at the money somewhat distastefully. “They’re fresh out of the bank only yesterday,” Nyquist told him. But the manager still hesitated. Nyquist nudged him along. “Here’s the thing: you can watch me the whole time I’m in the room.”
The man picked up the money. “I must be a fool, but the trouble is, I can’t see where the story’s going. Can you?”
“I never can. That’s the curse of my life.”
“Well then, I guess I’m the same. Otherwise, I’d still be living in sin with an exotic dancer.”
Together they walked up the stairs to the second floor. The old man stopped outside a door at the end of the landing and fished in his pocket for a set of keys. The door was opened and Nyquist went inside.
It was a small room. Very neat, very tidy, with a few items of furniture, and nothing on the walls to alleviate the peeling wallpaper or the bare plaster seen in patches. There wasn’t a book or a magazine in sight, which struck Nyquist as odd; in this city, books were as essential as food. Or air.
The hotel manager was standing in the doorway. Nyquist asked him his name.
“Travis Gilly.”
“Travis, how long has Wellborn been staying here?”
“Four weeks, roundabout.”
“I guess most of your tenants are short-stay?”
“Most of them, yes. We have a few long-timers.”
“And did Wellborn receive any visitors during that time?�
��
“Not a one, as far as I recall.”
Nyquist opened the wardrobe, finding three identical suits, the same color and style as the one he’d seen Wellborn wearing every day during the last week of his life. He was a man of strict habits and tastes.
“How about money? Did he pay his rent on time?”
“He paid a month in advance, plus a deposit. All in cash.”
“No questions asked?”
“Not a one.” The manager frowned. “I stopped asking questions many years ago.” He took a step into the room. “You gonna tell me what you’re really looking for yet?”
Nyquist examined the desk, opening each drawer in turn. There was nothing of interest.
“What about your maid?”
“Gladys.”
“Did she notice anything strange about the room, or the tenant?”
“There was one thing, yes.”
“Go on.”
Travis settled himself against the wall. “She disturbed Wellborn one day, when she thought he’d gone out. She was hoping to clean his room, you see.”
“And?”
“It’s like this: Wellborn had his shirt off. His entire upper body was covered in tattoos, or so she said.”
Nyquist looked over at the manager. “Did the maid say what the tattoos represented?”
“Well, Gladys is a very religious person.”
“Meaning?”
“She called him a walking bible.”
Nyquist thought about this. So Wellborn was suffering as well from the word sickness, just like Zelda.
“Of course,” Gilly continued, “I’d already seen the words on his hands.”
“On his hands?”
“Sure, all that writing he had on there. Bizarre, if you ask me.”
Now this was puzzling: Nyquist couldn’t recall seeing any words on Wellborn’s hands in Melville Five. Perhaps the sickness moved around the body, from one section to another? Unless in some way Wellborn had more control over it?
He stood in the center of the room and looked around. The window was tightly closed and the air was thick and slightly grey-looking. Yes, this felt like the room of a seriously diseased person.
Travis fidgeted. “Like I told you, there’s very little here.”
“That’s true. It’s like a monk’s cell.”
Nyquist saw that the carpet under the bed was thick with dust; obviously Gladys’s broom didn’t reach that far. A handprint was visible in the dust, just under the edge of the bed. Someone had leaned down there, quite recently.
