by Jeff Noon
“You think Wellborn took them?”
“It pains me to say it, but yes, I do. I think Patrick was helping them, helping Lewis and Beaumont. They’d already revealed to him the power of the book, and now they needed his help to finish it: the missing element. Real stories, real people. Real lives.”
Nyquist looked at the cards: he saw the names of citizens, he saw the tales they were involved in, the tiny incidents, the fragile connections as one story crossed with another.
“Ah well,” Monroe said. “Overseer K will be happy, when I report this to her. I imagine the whole collection will be destroyed.”
Nyquist hardly heard her speaking. He was lost in his own realm. This room of broken stories had affected him in ways he couldn’t admit to, not even to Monroe. Because of his time in the Melville Tower he felt that he too was a part of the whole – he was listed in the body library, in the library of bodies, in the parts and pages of the book, the one book, the all-encompassing book, the book that contained the city within itself, that was the city, the book of the city, the book where the city lived and breathed and read itself aloud and wrote about itself in all its ragged, torn-apart glory.
Life, severed at the roots, scattered, caught on the wind.
And then written down once more as words.
The book was a code, a cipher.
But to what end? Containing which secrets?
He was drawn from his thoughts by the touch of Monroe’s hand on his own, and by her murmur of his name in quiet alarm. He looked down and saw her fingers running softly across his palm. The letters were visible there, just under the top layers of skin, he could see them moving about, living creatures, already forming into new words. The sickness was spreading, taking over his body.
The story lived inside him.
One Evening at Wordrise
IT WAS well past the end of the rush hour but the streets and pavements were still crowded. This made it easier for Nyquist to follow his target, jumping down from the motorbus as the target did, moving from one cluster of people to another, stopping to look in a shop window if he felt he was in danger of being spotted, or ducking into an alcove or doorway. Dusk had fallen. The town was painted in its softest colors. The two men walked diagonally across a market square and on, one behind the other, into a warren of back streets, until at last the crowds thinned out a little. They were in Lower Shakespeare, a district where people from many different ethnic groups and classes mingled, and several different languages merged together, their stories growing quite naturally from half-understood meanings.
The private eye had followed Officer Vaughn all the way from Kafka Court, watching and waiting until the target had left work for the day. Now he had to be more careful; with fewer people around he had to keep his distance. Vaughn crossed one more road and then disappeared down an alleyway. Nyquist followed half a minute later. The alley was called Nabokov Lane. It was a cul-de-sac, narrow and badly lit. Litter and rags lay in piles against the walls and around the metal waste bins, and the stench of urine mixed with that of rotten food and wet fur. The only light came from a lamp with a cracked shade above the rear door of a restaurant. A dog barked from a nearby back yard. Nyquist was glad that Bella Monroe had finally gone home: he’d lied about his plans for the evening, telling her he was tired, and needed sleep. It was the last thing on his mind.
The target stopped.
Nyquist did the same. He pressed his body into a niche in the wall, held his breath, just as Vaughn looked back down the alleyway, trying to see if the noise he’d heard had come from a person, or a dog or a rat.
The two men stood rooted to the places they had chosen.
One searched; the other prayed for the darkness to hold him.
It did.
Vaughn rapped at a door, the third one down the passage, and it opened up for him. He slipped inside. Nyquist was wondering how to take the next step when he heard voices behind him. A man and woman were walking down the alley, barely noticing him. They both had the hungered look of addicts in need of a fix. Nyquist followed and waited as they also knocked on the third door along. He entered with them, acting as though he belonged here. But each person was being checked by a woman sitting behind a counter. Nyquist approached her. With a yawn she asked: “Your first time?”
He nodded, not daring to speak in case he gave himself away.
“Do you have the mark?”
He wondered what she meant, but then held out his hand where the letters were visible beneath the skin: currently they spelled out a word: history. The woman took his entrance fee, a few pounds, and passed him on down a corridor lined with booths half-hidden behind velvet curtains. It had the look of an old-fashioned brothel, but all the beds in the booths were empty. Other pleasures had taken over the place. A hulking security guard looked Nyquist over, searched his pockets and inside his jacket, and let him pass to the inner sanctum. He really didn’t know where he was going, or what he was going to find, as he followed people up a staircase and through a doorway that opened onto a small hall, softly illuminated by a few overhead theatre lights. It was a black painted room without furniture or fittings of any kind: an empty space. Music was playing over a loudspeaker, the slow movement of a string quartet. The room was already filled with a crowd of people, perhaps thirty or so attendees, all of them standing around the outer walls, leaving the central area clear. They all had a certain look about them, all carrying the knowing air of being outsiders, cast-offs, exiles from the mainstream, seekers of forbidden knowledge. They were dressed mostly in plain clothing, with little to show for themselves other than their facial expressions, which swung between studied boredom and rampant desire. Many were nervous, on edge, as though waiting for a knife fight or an orgy to begin. One or two looked like they might run at any second; others were long-term users waiting for their latest kicks. A number of the attendees displayed the symptoms of the word virus on their hands and faces.
And then Nyquist spotted his target across the room, Officer Vaughn’s facial blemish making him stand out even in such a bizarre setting. Vaughn’s gaze seemed to settle on his own, but Nyquist quickly hid himself behind a pair of women who were nervous at being here; they kept joking and pinching each other. The council officer moved on.
Soon the few lights took on a brighter hue and an expectant hush fell over the room. Two ushers moved through the crowd, giving out sheets of paper. Nyquist looked at the one handed to him: it was a single page from The Body Library. The usher said to him, “All pages must be handed in at the end of the evening.” He nodded and looked around, taking in the various people standing nearby – an older man, a middle-aged woman, a boy in his late teens. No one paid him any mind.
The last hubbub died away, leaving silence.
Everyone in the room was holding their breath, Nyquist included.
The tension rose.
And then people started to read from the papers in their hands: at first a lonely hesitant voice, and then others joining in around the room, one by one, each in turn, passing lines of text between them like sacred offerings:
I am golden, I am folded.
I am alone here, among the many.
The clouds part above the island.
The moon rests each morning with the fire in her eyes.
No one knows my secret, no one cares to wonder why.
Our wings are spread, awaiting flight.
At this point the audience joined in, repeating the line with one voice.
Our wings are spread, awaiting flight!
Nyquist had not yet spoken, not yet said a line. He felt that he wanted to, the occasion demanded it, the room, the space, the people, the page in his hands, all combined to make him take part, if he could, if he dared to. He looked at the paper and chose a line at random and said in a clear voice so that all could hear:
Too late for sleeping, Lady Paradise walks the neon pathway.
As one, the audience chanted the name three times.
Lady Pa
radise! Lady Paradise! Lady Paradise!
And Nyquist felt a surge of power in his body. He was alive! In this moment, in this place – this, finally, was how he was meant to be. The words possessed him completely and he listened with more intent now, as the various reciters carried on:
The night people crawl on the edge of daylight.
I am looking for a doorway marked No Exit.
Don’t run away, not yet my love!
When the library burns down we shall all be wordless.
Until then, let the dawn break your eyes apart, let the darkness shine.
The audience echoed this last phrase:
Let the darkness shine! Let the darkness shine!
Nyquist joined in. His tongue was no longer his to command. And so it continued, the reading of these thirty or so pages from The Body Library. It was liberating, and Nyquist spoke again as the urge took him, choosing lines from the page that he held: The nearer the sky, the further the moon. None of it made sense to him, not by any linear or logical standard, yet he felt that each word, each sentence fitted in with the ones preceding it and following it: despite everything, a story was being told. But this was a story that more closely resembled the inner workings of the mind, or a labyrinth of dreams, than any standard narrative. And the audience hung on every word, further activated by certain key phrases here and there, adding their own voices to the mix as needed: it was a collective experience, a giving in to illegal desires. In the vast, all-encompassing city of stories, these few people were breaking narrative into pieces, and enjoying every fractured moment.
Nyquist felt lightheaded. By now, the words were having a strange effect on him. He became disorientated, and as the crowd shifted around into new positions he was taken with them. He looked around in a daze as the recital continued.
Lost in the sky, the words, the broken creatures.
The city opens and closes its mouth.
Nyquist spoke aloud once more, hardly hearing the words he was saying:
Where does the road lead, winding around the body’s collision…
His hands were shaking as he stared at the page. His own name appeared in one line and then faded: his eyes darted back and forth as he tried to find it again. But now the words were shifting around on the paper. They trembled and blurred.
The people were no longer reading and the room grew quiet. There was a strange rustling or whispering sound – the sound of paper fluttering. But was he imagining it? Was it merely an effect of the room, the lights, the recital? He tried to keep the page in focus, but the words seemed to be floating just above the surface of the paper. They were shivering, shifting from side to side. Nyquist was transfixed at what he was witnessing. Everyone was standing as he was, gazing in wonder, in silence, at the pages of The Body Library. Only the faint whispering sound could be heard.
And then the first word took flight.
…moon…
It rose from the paper in Nyquist’s hand and drifted around in the air right in front of his eyes. The four letters separated and whirled away in separate directions. Other words followed suit, from his page and from all the other pages in the room.
The whispering grew louder, a constant hissing sound.
A woman gasped, a man cried out in joy.
Every word on every page of the book had now risen upwards. They flew around the room, a swarm of letters, a flock of sentences. People were looking around in awe at the sight. One teenage girl tried to reach up, to grab at a word as it flew by, but she couldn’t manage it: the word was too quick for her.
Now the air was dark with letters. They moved faster and faster, swirling around in a frenzy. Through the cloud Nyquist saw the blemished face of Officer Vaughn once more. The two men stared at each other and recognition passed between them.
The words settled again onto the pages of the book.
The spell was over, and straight away Vaughn started to move. Nyquist nudged aside the people nearest to him, seeking the council officer, hoping to catch him before he left the chamber. But he was too late: his target was nowhere to be seen. A doorway at the back of the room swung to. Nyquist took this as his lead and hurried through, into a dark corridor. A shadow moved, off to the right. He had to assume it was Vaughn, he had no other option. Nyquist stumbled on in the near darkness until he reached another doorway. A spiral staircase led even further upwards. He was faint by the time he reached the top, as though he’d climbed a tall, tall building. But it was only one floor. He was still recovering from the strange vision he had shared with the audience. His body swayed and he held onto the steel banister for support, willing his body and mind to settle. Rather unsteadily he moved through an open doorway, onto the roof of the building. Here he stopped and looked around.
It was a warm and drowsy evening in Lower Shakespeare. The moon was written low in the sky, a giant letter O. A few bugs and moths circled a lamp. Officer Vaughn was standing in the yellow cone of the lamplight. He stood there perfectly still, looking directly at Nyquist. He appeared to be waiting for him to come forward. The private eye did so, taking careful steps. But then he stopped: something was worrying him and he couldn’t work out what it was. Across a narrow gap he could see the roof of the next building along: a young man and a woman were lying face up there, perhaps staring at the stars.
Nyquist felt he was stepping into a trap. “Easy does it,” he said.
Vaughn answered, “Of course, of course. There’s no other way.” The blemish turned a livid pink on his face, and his shaven skull glistened under the glow of the lamp. Across the curve of skin, a single word crawled along and then vanished round the back of his head.
“Do you recognize me, Vaughn?”
The other man nodded. “Of course. I saw you yesterday. I helped take you into Kafka Court.”
“Before that? A week ago.”
Vaughn shook his head. “No. That was the first time.”
“What about Melville Towers?”
“Melville?” A tic worried the man’s cheekbone. “I’ve been there once, a while ago.”
Nyquist laughed at this. “I saw you last week. Block Five. You came out of your apartment to feed your cat. I was in the corridor.”
“I don’t have a cat. Can’t stand the creatures.”
The whole dialogue struck both of them as absurd, but they were trapped inside it now, with no escape.
“Listen, whatever your name is…”
“It’s Nyquist.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about–”
The last word was choked off as his throat closed up. Nyquist had reached out with both hands, grabbing him by the lapels. Vaughn’s eyes went wide and he started to grunt, the only noise he could make.
“I saw you. I was there with a woman, Zelda. We were walking toward the elevator. You fed your bloody cat!”
It was useless. The man was still high from the floating words, high on language. He was plugged into the alphabet like a kid sticking a finger in the electrical socket. Nyquist let him go. Vaughn bent over double as he started to cough.
“Why did you run, when you saw me just now?”
Vaughn came back up. His face was red all over. “Why do you think? Christ, man. You’ve been following me! Following me since I left work tonight. What, do you really think I didn’t see you? I thought…”
“Yes?”
“After I helped to bring you to Kafka Court yesterday, I thought that you were out for revenge. That’s all. That’s the truth.”
Everything about the other man’s behavior made Nyquist believe him. He stepped back a little.
Vaughn carried on, “Look, I didn’t know that you were part of our group, really I didn’t. How was I to know?”
Nyquist made a play: “Can you trust me now?”
Vaughn nodded eagerly in relief. “Yes, yes of course. We’re all in this together. May the words live on.”
A movement made Nyquist look upwards. The moths were fluttering around the lamp. But then h
e saw that they weren’t moths at all, but tiny black letters – s, q, d, a, l, and a few others – stray letters that had somehow escaped the room below. Or was he hallucinating still? He could no longer trust his own senses. All that remained was the one question that could never really be answered in life: what was truth, what fiction? He turned back to Vaughn and said, “So you have been to Melville Towers?”
“Once, like I said. Some months ago. How do you think I got this?” He pulled at the front of his shirt, revealing the words that crawled over his chest and shoulders. “But listen.”
“I’m waiting.”
Vaughn looked fearful. Droplets of sweat mapped the pathway of the blemish, down his left cheek to his mouth, where they wetted his lips.
“I would never go back there,” he said. “Not if you paid me.”
“Because of the words?”
“At first, yes. But I’ve got used to that now, especially after meeting with the other people in the group, and seeing the true power of language.”
Nyquist thought about this. “So everyone in the room downstairs, they’ve all been to Melville, and they’ve all been infected there?”
“That’s it. Every last one. We call ourselves the Church of the Sacred Word. And there are more of us, around the city.”
“What’s the purpose of the sickness?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can it be cured?”
“I don’t know! I really don’t.”
“What happened to you at the Melville Tower?”
“I can’t remember, not clearly.”
Nyquist pressed at him. “You woke up outside the building?”
Vaughn grasped at this as a shared truth. “Yes, yes! Exactly. It’s the same for all of us. But I don’t know how I got there. All I remember is the kid, the boy…”
“Calvin?”
“That’s him. He was waving his hands around and mumbling some spell or other. After that… after that… it’s a blank.” He paused, his chest heaving with the efforts of memory. Then he explained: “That’s why I won’t go back there. Once was bad enough.”
