by Jeff Noon
“Not just now.”
“But you know her?”
The old lady nodded. “That I do, yes. I know all the people who live here.”
“I’d like to ask you some questions.”
“As you wish.”
He took a chair at the table, where a single mock antique standard lamp gave a little warmth to the room, but very little light. The whole room was filled with an old lady’s comforts: antimacassars on the chair backs, puffed-up cushions, a patchwork quilt on the sofa. The lady sat down and pulled the quilt over her legs and lap. There was neither sight nor sound of the other, younger men and women he’d heard through the closed door. He looked around for a radio set or a gramophone, but there was none.
The old lady introduced herself: “Some people call me Alice.”
“Is that your real name?”
“Yes, of course. Otherwise, why would they call me that? Would you like some tea?”
She poured him a cup and placed it on a lace doily on the table.
“Milk?”
Nyquist nodded. He didn’t know where to start, not properly, but at last he said, “I’m a private investigator.”
“Yes, I know that. We’ve met already, remember?”
“We have?”
“Oh dear. You are having trouble, aren’t you?”
Nyquist had to admit this was true. “To be honest, I’m not sure why I’m here.”
“You want to know about Zelda, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, that’s what I want.”
“But you don’t know why you want to know this?”
He hesitated and then answered, “No. I don’t.”
Alice stared at him, her eyes alert and birdlike in the lamplight.
Nyquist started to explain: “I found a photograph of Miss Courtland, with your number written on the back. Apartment 14. So I thought I’d start here.”
Alice nodded, a brusque pecking motion.
“Zelda came to see me twice, I think. Yes. Twice. She had trouble getting through the first time.”
“Getting through?” Nyquist was becoming confused, so he tried to keep the questioning on track. “What can you tell me about her?”
“We became quite friendly in our own little way. But she hasn’t been back here since then, I’m afraid.”
Nyquist thought about this for a moment. He sipped at his tea.
“Are you all right?” Alice asked. “You look perplexed. Biscuit?”
He looked at her and began to speak, but then stopped himself. He dipped a digestive into his tea. Alice waited a moment longer and she asked a question that startled him:
“Did you know Zelda, is that it? In your other life?”
“In my what?”
Now the old lady’s eyes sparkled. “Your life before this. In the world, as they call it.”
He stared back at her. “You’ll have to help me,” he said. “Because I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
Alice held up a finger to quieten him. She turned her attention to the far reaches of the room, to the shadows outside the small glow of yellow light around the lamp. She appeared to be listening.
Nyquist listened also, but could hear nothing.
“Alice–”
“Shush!”
Now they were both giving their full attention to the room and its tiny noises. He felt unnerved: the room appeared to be listening back to him. There was no other way to express the feeling. He was being listened to.
Alice whispered, “There. Can you hear? There they are!”
It was true, he could hear something. Voices. Two of them, male and female. They were floating in the air of the room, quietly at first, and then growing louder, clearer and more pronounced with each passing second. Nyquist looked this way and that, seeking the people who were speaking, seeking lips that moved, faces, bodies from which the voices came. But the living room was empty. And then one by one they arrived, forming themselves out of the shadows: two characters in the room’s drama. The ghostly figures took on form and flesh, solidifying, becoming real, or as real as they could manage at this time. Now they stood before him and spoke aloud, a man and a woman talking to each other. These were the same voices that Nyquist had heard through the door.
Where are we?
I don’t know, Charles.
You must know. You brought us here.
You’re blaming me.
Edwina, I’m scared.
I know, darling, so am I.
The two characters spoke only for themselves, paying no attention at all to Nyquist or Alice. He felt he was watching a play in a tiny theatre, with an audience of just two people. The mood changed. The female character, Edwina, was now standing close to Charles by the window and discussing the rose garden they could see beyond the veranda.
I wish we were back home, in the garden. Do you remember?
There was no rose garden, no veranda.
There was only the night sky and the city, Storyville, seen through the window of the living room. The upper floors of two of the other Melville towers were visible.
Alice spoke softly: “Don’t disturb them. Don’t ever touch them.”
Nyquist whispered in reply: “Why not?”
“They don’t like it. Not yet. Not in this state. They will go away far too early, leaving the story unfinished.”
“Where do they go?” he asked. “Where do they go to, these people, when they leave?”
Alice’s eyes glittered sadly. “Why, back into the ink, of course. Midnight’s ink.” She leaned over towards him so that she could talk in an even quieter voice. “Apartment 14 is very special. It’s where the characters first appear, when they arrive at Melville Five. They perform for me, a few lines at the most, to begin with, a gesture or two. Like yourself, Mr Nyquist.”
He murmured to himself: “This is where it all starts.”
“Exactly, yes. Oh, how funny you looked when you first emerged, your eyes blinking and your hands busily brushing away the ink from your clothes and face. People always do that: they assume that midnight’s ink is still on them, still clinging. It isn’t, of course.” She laughed at the memory and a mischievous look played over her features.
Nyquist told her, “I can’t remember any of that.”
“Ah well, it affects some that way. Never mind.” The light dimmed in her eyes. “They move on. They always move on and it’s all very sad. I hate to see them go, I really do, but one must be strong.”
“Tell me about midnight’s ink,” he asked.
“It’s where we are born, each of us that resides here.” She gave a cry of delight. “Oh, but look! How lovely.”
Now the young couple were kissing each other, quite discreetly.
“Oh my, isn’t that wonderful? I always like it when newcomers kiss.” She clasped her hands together. “It’s so rare, these days.”
And through the window a faint suggestion of moonlight played. Moonlight and the waft of roses, a scent that lingered.
Alice sighed. “Oh, I do believe they’re ready.”
Nyquist put down his tea cup. He felt strange. Reality swayed from side to side like a tipsy dancer.
And then the elegant young couple turned away from the window and walked across the room, heading for the hallway door. As they did so, one of them, the woman, passed right through Nyquist’s body as a ghost might pass through a wall, or an X-ray through a man’s skin. He shivered from head to foot and reached out blindly with his arm. But now it all was over: the spirits or whatever they were had left, and the room was returned to its former state: a perfectly normal living room owned by a little old lady called Alice.
She said, “It’s always sad to see them go. Still, at least they’ll be at home now. I do hope they find a nice apartment.”
Nyquist turned to her, wondering which possible question he could ask.
She reached out and touched his arm. “Don’t worry. It’s not unusual to feel confused, not in this place. It took me ages to get used
to living in the tower.” She smiled at him. “One day soon you will forget everything of your former self, and then at last you’ll be free, and at peace. Just give it time, young man.”
Nyquist still looked confused.
“Look, it’s like this,” Alice continued. “We’ve all been given a second chance, a second chance at life. That’s how I see it. I no longer think about my other self. This is me. This!” She pressed the flat of her hand against her chest. “Here I live, and here I breathe, in the tower. Alice Johnson.”
Nyquist finished off his tea. “Who were you before?”
“I no longer know my other self. Truly, I can no longer recall. Do you see? Oh, she’s probably out there somewhere…” Alice gestured to the city glimpsed through the window. “But truly, for me it’s all gone. Of my life before I came here, all is dust.”
Nyquist saw a tinge of sorrow in the old lady’s eyes. “I really need to find Zelda,” he said. “I think she holds the key.”
“To what, young man?”
He frowned. “I don’t know, but I think she might be in trouble. After all…”
“Yes?”
“I am a private eye. Isn’t that why people come to me, when they’re in trouble?”
“But have you considered that she might be… that Zelda might be dead?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because that’s your job.” Alice was excited by the prospect. “Maybe you’re supposed to find out who murdered her. Just think, that could be your next case!”
“Perhaps. I don’t know. Not yet.”
“Well, you could always try number 21. I know many people end up there, when they’re lost. Or in search of something, or someone.”
Nyquist made a note of the new apartment number. He thanked Alice for her help and for the tea and biscuits, and he walked out of her apartment. Taking the stairs up to the next floor he tried to make sense of what she’d said to him, and for a moment the truth of his situation trembled before him like a vision. He saw a man lying in a hospital bed, a woman at the bedside attending to him. But the man’s face was in shadow, his name unknown.
It was real enough to make him come to a halt at the top of the stairs.
And then the vision faded as he heard clattering footsteps from the floor above. He looked up to see a child, a young boy, arriving at the next turn in the stairs. His face seemed familiar to Nyquist. For a moment man and boy stared at each other without speaking. And then the boy gave a strange little laugh, low-pitched then high, and he turned on his heels and scarpered back up the stairs.
“Wait!”
But the boy had gone.
Nyquist walked along the corridor until he found apartment 21. The door was wide open. He stepped inside and searched through each room. The place was empty and he felt disappointed after what Alice had promised.
He stood alone in the center of the living room, staring at each wall in turn. Every available surface was covered in writing, in words, numbers, diagrams, equations and maps. There wasn’t a spot left free. Even the glass panels of the window had been covered in plain paper and used as a notebook to record information. A pair of stepladders rested against the wall in the corner of the room, which caused Nyquist to look upwards. The work continued on the ceiling, coming in from all sides to meet at the center around the light fitting.
“I’ll be with you in a second.”
Nyquist turned at the sound of the voice.
A man had entered from the hallway. He was carrying several large rolls of paper in his arms. “I just needed to get some more supplies. Just give me a minute.” He dropped the rolls onto the floor and then pulled a great number of pens from his pockets. “Now then, how can I help you?”
“I’m looking for somebody.”
“Good. Excellent. Maybe I can be of service.”
Nyquist asked, “Is this a story?” He was referring to the walls and ceiling of the room with their vast array of words and figures.
The other man looked surprised at this. “A story? Why, good lord, no. Alas, I simply haven’t got that kind of talent. I’m a recorder, only. A jumped-up office boy! Sam Bradshaw at your service.” There was a twang of the North in his accent. “I record the tower and its various movements and conversations.”
“You’re an eavesdropper? A voyeur.”
“Those are not the kind of words I like to use.”
“But still…”
“Yes, if you like.”
Nyquist swept his hand in a wide arc. “So these are things you’ve overheard, in the corridors, the elevators and so on?”
“The thing is, I’m not overly concerned with what people say, only where they are. That’s my interest. Rooms, the foyer, the stairwells, broom closets, et cetera. Sometimes I even press a tumbler against a door panel or an adjoining wall and have a bloody good listen, just to find out who’s hiding themselves away in there. It’s terrible of me, but there it is. A lonely man needs a hobby.”
Sam Bradshaw had some weight to him: it showed in his belly and in the folds of skin around his face, his cheeks and jowls. His greying hair was long at the sides and back, untidy, and sparse on top. Phlegm rattled in his throat. He bore the look of a middle-aged railway guard or a hotel doorman near to retirement, complete with dusty clothes and a slight air of decay in his bodily aroma. But his lips were always nearing a smile, and his eyes, sunken in their pockets of flesh, were lively and bright.
Bradshaw stretched both arms out wide to encompass the whole room. “Collected here are the various movements of people, here and there, hither, thither, up and down the stairs, out of one apartment and into another, and so on and so forth, ad infinitum, forever and a day. Do you see?”
Nyquist couldn’t help but see: he had no choice in the matter. The numbers and words in their columns and rows dazzled and danced all around him, in various colors and sizes, in both pencil and pen.
Bradshaw smiled proudly. “Every word, every number, every line, every marking, all done by my own fair hand.”
Nyquist knew enough by now not to question further, nor to ask for motive: this tower had its own rules of living.
“Now then, sir, who or what or where is it that you’re looking for?”
“A woman called Zelda Courtland.” He handed over the photograph. “I thought she might live in apartment 14.”
Bradshaw tutted. “No, that’s wrong. I mean, she’s been there, this character, most certainly. Everyone’s been there at some point.”
“So you know where everyone is, which person in which apartment?”
“I keep an eye out, that I do. Residents, visitors, intruders, thieves and vagabonds. And most of all, the poor lost souls who wander in here without realizing. Many never find their way out again. It’s very distressing.” Not a trace of distress crossed his features. “Now just let me think. Zelda, Zelda, Zelda…” Bradshaw mused on the name and cast his eyes from one wall to another.
A soft whirring noise was heard and a glowing object moved through the air. Nyquist couldn’t make out what it was. But Sam Bradshaw bent at the knees and bounced gently up and down like a wicketkeeper poised behind the stumps. His arms waved slowly in front of him, describing complex, interlocking shapes. And then one arm snapped out at speed and he hit the wall with some force, with the flat of the hand. He shouted in sudden joy. “Yah!” Nyquist watched as the hand was pulled away, revealing the squashed remains of an insect. The wings and legs were broken, sticking out of the crushed thorax and abdomen. The orange letter H glowed among the gooey mess, the only evidence of life. And then that too faded, the light going out.
“Alphabugs,” Bradshaw explained. “The bane of my life. They make their nests out of paper, you see. Not blank paper, alas. No, the paper has to have words on it, and then the larvae hatch out and they eat the words. It’s horrible! Without a doubt, one of King Oberon’s worst creations.” He scraped the insect’s remains off his hands and the wall, leaving an ugly brown and orange stain on the array of
numbers.
Nyquist saw other such stains dotted around the walls and ceiling.
“Now then, let’s see.” Bradshaw started to walk around the room, checking the rows of words and the columns of numbers, looking at his wristwatch now and then and mumbling the date and time to himself as he did so, his keen, agile mind at work, his eyes narrowed in concentration.
“What are you doing?”
“Hush! Quiet please.” He stopped at one section of the far wall, the fingers of his hand tracking down a column, and then pausing in midair. “Oh, that is weird.”
“What is it?”
“I’m not getting any reading for a Zelda Courtland, not just now.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, I’m afraid, that I don’t know where she is.”
Nyquist swore under his breath.
“But I can tell you where she was three nights ago. If that’s any use?”
“Yes, it might be.”
“Apartment 37. Can you remember that?”
“Number 37. I’ve got it.”
“Very good. Of course, it’s not an exact science.” A deep sigh escaped his lips. “Some people have a habit, unfortunately, of wandering off their pathways just for the sake of it. But it is unusual, I must say… to have no presence at all.”
“Does that mean Zelda’s dead?”
“Yes, sometimes it means that. But not always.”
Nyquist stepped closer. He said, “I woke up today in apartment 49, and I can’t remember where I was before then. Can you help me?”
Bradshaw stared at him. There was a spot of squashed alphabug flesh on his cheek. He looked embarrassed.
The private eye continued: “All I have is this photograph of a woman, and her name: Zelda. It’s my only clue.”
“I see.”
“I don’t know who I am,” Nyquist continued. “Not truly.”
“Well, that’s… well, I don’t know what to say…”
“Of all the people in this building, you must know.” Nyquist felt suddenly desperate. “You’ve studied every room, the comings and goings, the layout. You must know!”
A look of frustration entered Bradshaw’s eyes and he said in a low voice, “I’m as lost as you are, my friend.”
