by Jeff Noon
It used to be, he could work this city with no trouble. He’d lived here for all of his life, learning to survive on his wits, walking confidently along the various interlocking timelines, jumping from one to the other with ease. He’d move through the web of the hours and the minutes, and still manage to be more or less where he wanted to be, at something like the correct time. His eyes and his feet, his body in general, had felt at one with the different chronologies, as though time itself was slowly infecting his flesh, possessing him. But increasingly these days he found himself lost in the moments. Bewildered, dazed. He was living on a series of shifting plates, each one corresponding to a certain idea of what time was, or might be. The plates kept slipping and sliding, and crashing against each other. Sometimes he would come out of a black void to find himself staring at a clock face, just staring, staring, willing the hands to keep still on the dial, to close their circles down to one final second. Where he could stay, stay forever. Clockbound, as they called it.
Bad timing. Wound up tight. That’s what his wife had said: “You’re all wound up, John. Your bloody spring’s going to snap right in two. There’s no excuse for it.”
And she’d been right, of course. No excuses.
He lifted up the window, feeling the temperature rise by degrees. He searched in his filing cabinet until he found his collection of spare light bulbs, and then, using a rag to protect his hand, he replaced the broken bulbs one by one. He didn’t really understand why he did this. Really, despite his best efforts and his moments of doubt, was he any different from near enough the whole population of Dayzone? Like them, he was obsessed with the light, the ever-burning flame.
Nyquist closed the window again and drew the curtain back across the scene. He emptied the contents of the girl’s duffle bag on his desk. There were four items of prime interest: the telephone number on the slip of paper, the shadow puppet, the photograph of the young man, the vials of orange fluid. Also, he reached for the travelogue the Lindseys had lent him. He stared at these collected objects for a while. The wall clock ticked away the seconds. He picked up the telephone and dialled the number on the slip of paper. The ringing tone sounded distant. A faint hiss in the background. It rang on for a while, but nobody answered. Maybe it’s not important, he thought: just the number of a relative, a shop, or a taxi company?
Nyquist studied the face of the longhaired man. He turned the photograph over: Angelcroft Silhouette. It was puzzling. He found his telephone directory and looked for each word, supposing them to be names. There was one Angelcroft listed: Edward Thomas, with an address in the Rosy Glow precinct, one of the more exclusive areas of Dayzone. There was no listing for anyone with the surname Silhouette, although a few businesses used the name, mostly located in Nocturna. He called the Angelcroft number and had a very brief and very irate conversation with a man who had obviously just been roused from sleep. Two people moving to their own timelines, arguing with each other: the usual cross-connections. It was predicted that eventually there would be a different highly personal timeline for every single Dayzone citizen. And what then? What kind of society would it lead to? Would it bring utter chaos, or a strange, unforeseen peace? Of course, it was too late to stop the process now, the twenty million clocks were ticking, ticking, ticking…
Nyquist stared at the items on his desk. These were the clues. If he could only place these few bits and pieces into some kind of pattern, perhaps he would find himself moving towards the missing girl. Nyquist felt certain that Eleanor Bale was in danger, either from herself or from some other party. It was a feeling, nothing more, but too powerful to be ignored. And the question remained: what was she running from?
He read through the relevant section of the old travelogue.
Finally, the evening of the performance arrived. What I saw absolutely fascinated me, and stays with me even now, years later, within the more general comforts of England. There was no theatre or building of any kind, no stage but for a patch of open ground between the trees. The “dalang”, the puppeteer, travelled the district, putting on these shows in each village he came to. He brought with him all that he needed: the white cloth screen, the oil lamp, the bamboo sticks, the various “wayang kulit”, as they call the puppets, these last items safely bound in a wooden carrying case. The performance lasted all night, taking seven hours altogether, from dusk till dawn.
I learned from my enquiries that only a select few have the particular qualities needed to become a dalang. This particular one had learned the art from his father, and will pass it on to his son, who helped out with the night’s performance. It is a serious undertaking, and a life’s work; the dalang has to recite the story, manipulate the puppets, as well as speaking the dialogue for each character. Every so often his right foot will reach out to strike a kind of rattle, to mark off the different sections of the story. And all of this while sitting cross-legged for the full seven hours, never moving from the spot, and never daring to fall asleep.
The night that I attended, the puppeteer brought to life the old epic, the Ramayana, with its noble warriors, monstrous beasts, monkey kings, bawdy clowns, beautiful princesses, banished lovers, and great battles fought between the powers of darkness and light. The audience were gathered on both sides of the screen, some of them watching the puppets themselves, whilst many others, myself included, preferred to watch the shadows as they moved and danced and came to blows on the white cloth. I felt myself hypnotised by the artistry of the dalang, and by the puppets themselves in all their ghostly life. Insects flitted around the flame of the oil lamp, and the creatures of the night could be heard, calling from the forests that surrounded the village. I must admit that I lost all track of time, often coming to with a start, to realise that many minutes had passed without my noticing them.
The story continued in this way until dawn broke at last, in fiery streaks of orange light seen through the trees, and the performance came to an end. I later learned a curious fact from one of the older men: for the duration of the shadow play, it is commonly believed that the villagers are protected from evil.
Nyquist poured himself a second shot of whisky. It was deathly quiet in the room. All he could hear was the ticking of the wall clock. He really should get up and synchronise it with his wristwatch, but it seemed like too much of a task. He had the feeling that many more timelines would have to be crossed before the girl was brought to safety, if he ever managed it. Something was missing, a connection. He groaned and brought a hand up to his damp face. He was shivering despite the heat. The fan circled around overhead, hardly disturbing the air; the bullet hole in the blade a reoccurring stutter in the cycle. The lights pulsed behind the drawn curtain. The room appeared in a haze.
Clock lag. It was finally catching up with him: too long spent nightside, and then entering Dayzone, the sudden flood of light. The minutes slid and tumbled, slowly coming to a halt. He dozed. And dreamt of the fog, the dusk…
Closing in, writhing around him, touching at his body.
A figure in the grey light.
Approaching. The face. That look in his eyes.
It was his father, calling, calling from the mist.
Help me, Johnny Boy. Save me…
Nyquist woke up, cursing. The same every time. The same dream, as though dusk had found its way inside him.
He finished off the dregs of whisky in the glass and walked over to the wall map. Dayzone was spread over the whole northern part of the city, taking up more than half the total land space. To the south lay Nocturna, where the darkness lived. Between them was the swathe of grey that marked the narrow border zone between the two major parts of the city. There was no official name for this area but most people referred to it as Dusk, or the dusklands, or even Precinct Zero, and spoke of it in whispers as a place never to be visited. It was beyond explanation; Dusk had grown of its own accord over the passing years like a slowly spreading disease. A stain on the chart. The city council reassured everyone that Dusk was under control, that it
posed no threat, its forward progress was infinitesimal. Yet people’s minds dwelled on the subject, rumours spread that Dayzone would be misted over within one, two or three generations. It was said that ghosts and other strange beings lived there, in the mist, in the desolate fields and moonlit woodlands and the old abandoned villages. But the area was free of all detail on the map except for the few train lines, the only means, since all the roads had been closed, of getting from Night to Day and back again. Nyquist placed a hand on the narrow grey area and then moved upwards to trace the brightly lit streets of Dayzone. Faint black lines crisscrossed the map from top to bottom, left to right: the grid system. An idea came to him. He took his A-Z street atlas from a desk drawer and looked up Angelcroft. There was a single mention, a lane on the borderline of Dusk and Dayzone. Silhouette was more popular, all of them located in Nocturna: Silhouette Road, Silhouette Avenue, Silhouette Way, Silhouette Villas, and so on.
Could the two words refer to addresses?
He dialled the telephone number again, and this time made a different connection. Somebody had picked up the receiver at the other end. But there was no voice, only sounds down the line, strange noises, he could hardly make them out.
“Hello? Whose number is this?”
Nobody answered him at first. A faint rustling sound, and then at last: “You rang me.” It was a man’s voice, faraway, garbled.
“Yes, that’s right–”
“You rang me! Why did you ring? What do you want?”
“My name’s John Nyquist. I was hoping to speak with Eleanor. Eleanor Bale.”
He thought he heard an intake of breath, but it might’ve been the static on the line.
The voice repeated the name in a surprised tone: “Eleanor?”
Nyquist squeezed the handset. “That’s right. I’ve been employed to bring her home, by her family. I found your number among her things.”
Silence. Steady breaths, one by one. And then: “I need you to help me.” It was a desperate plea.
Nyquist was surprised. “In what way?” he asked.
“Don’t let her find me.” The voice was clearer this time.
“Who is this? Who’s speaking?”
“Her father.”
Nyquist froze. He could barely think. It didn’t sound like Patrick Bale. “Look, is this some kind of joke–”
The voice squealed. “She mustn’t come near me. Not anymore!”
Nyquist pressed the handset hard against the side of his head, desperate to hear more. Electrical hum, susurration, distant cries. “Talk to me. Who is this, really?”
The voice asked, “What time is it?”
Nyquist looked at his wristwatch, at the wall clock, trying to decide between them. “I don’t know. I’m not sure.”
“The girl. Keep her away, do you hear me! It’s unsafe.” A sudden gasp. “Listen! Can you hear?”
Nyquist listened. He heard music over the line, a melody being played. There was an odd quality to it, something artificial. A windup gramophone, perhaps? And then he heard a cuckoo calling softly over the line. Weird, mutated, mechanical. Once, twice. The caller counted along with the chimes, as they came. A third time. Another. “Three. Four…” The cuckoo sounded a final time. “Five. It’s five o’clock. I don’t know how long I can last, before…” The voice murmured. “I can’t protect her for much longer.”
Nyquist spoke quickly. “Where are you?”
“I’m afraid. I’m afraid of what might happen to her.”
“To Eleanor?”
“Yes. Listen to me. She’s in danger.”
“You think she’s heading for you?”
The man didn’t answer directly, but he said, “I’ve warned her before, to stay away.” It was enough to make Nyquist fear the worst.
“Tell me where you are!”
Only the noises continued over the line, a mixture of scrapes and wheezes and drawn breaths and almost silent animal cries. It was the sound of twilight, of the land called Dusk. The Hiss. His father’s name for it, from all the recordings they had made together.
And the noise silenced Nyquist. It terrified him.
He could still hear the man’s voice, but only just amid the static. These last few words: “Please. Don’t let Eleanor find me.” And then a clicking noise as the line went dead.
Nyquist snapped out of his fear. He flicked through the pages of the street atlas, finding the page with Angelcroft listed on it. Right there on Dusk’s edge. Could it be? Was that the man’s address in Dayzone? Angelcroft Lane?
He had to make a decision.
Was this really Eleanor’s father? Was she looking for him?
I can’t protect her for much longer. She’s in danger…
That voice, that terrible voice; it had sounded so hopeless, so desperate.
Nyquist moved over to the wall map. His fingers traced the location. There it was, in a district called Fade Away, situated on the southeastern edge of Day, many miles from where he now was. He would have to hurry. He reset his wristwatch in accordance with the cuckoo clock he had heard. Then he grabbed his jacket and was almost out of the office door before he stopped himself on the threshold.
Was this something he really needed to do?
It was the fear, the shivers. The place he was going to…
The old nightmare.
He had to face it.
The time was six minutes past five.
Entre Chien et Loup
He was heading south away from the centre. The streets grew colder and darker as the car, by slow degrees, left behind the constant illuminations of Dayzone. It was barely noticeable in passing but Nyquist saw each dead bulb, each blown-out neon sign, each switched-off advertisement as a small part of the night seeping into day. The buildings became more rundown, many doors and windows were broken. A few shops were still open along the way, their displays exhibiting ever feebler displays of brightness and colour. Many other establishments were closed, seemingly forever, their windows dark. Wooden boards covered the glass. Men and women scurried between each small patch of light as though in danger of being caught out. They seemed dreadfully poor and desperate. Or else half-crazed.
Nyquist drove on. Hands tight on the wheel, eyes wide open for the next turning. The traffic signs were no longer working. He had to slow the car every so often to check the page torn from the street atlas. Twice already he had lost his way. He passed through the town of Last Exit. Here the streets emptied further. What few people he saw looked at the car as if it were some mysterious beast.
A few people. And then none.
The streets were deserted. There was a noticeable change in the air quality, a slight thickening as though the atmosphere was smeared with an alien substance. One more turning and Nyquist noticed the first swirls of the grey mist. He drove on through a desolate industrial estate. Very few streetlamps were working. All the buildings were cast in shadow except for rare and intermittent lights flickering like lost spirits. Nyquist turned on the car’s headlamps. The beams were affected by the dimming air, barely showing the way forward. The mist wreathed around the car. Nyquist could no longer see clearly. Everything beyond the headlamps’ yellowing glow was lost to a murky grey world.
The car slowed to a halt.
He clicked on the interior light and picked up the single page of the map, finding the area he had marked with a red X. It seemed plain enough, the route he had to take, but when he looked out through the windscreen there was nothing to act as a landmark. He peered again through the car’s windows, forward and to each side. There was nobody in sight, no sound of life. He was alone here, close to the threshold of the dusklands. He turned off the engine, opened the door and stepped out of the vehicle. He kept a torch in the glove compartment, which he used now to light up his wristwatch. A quarter past six. The drive had taken longer than expected. He turned the beam of the torch onto the road ahead of him and set off walking. This was the closest he had ever been to the dusklands in his adult life, outside of a c
ar or a train carriage. And straight away he felt the dread building inside.
He hated with all his soul the dusk, the twilight and all that it held hidden.
The mist, as yet quite thin, seemed to reach out and touch at him as he walked on. This whole area was haunted. Unidentifiable noises sounded from the cold dark buildings as he passed. Disembodied shadows moved across the ground in front of him. More than once he wanted to run back to the car and give up on the girl, and the mysterious caller. Perhaps the whole thing was some kind of cruel joke. But the nagging impression remained, that he had in some way let Eleanor Bale down by allowing her to escape, back at the amusement arcade. Only these feelings kept Nyquist moving forward.
He approached a children’s playground, a set of rusty swings and a roundabout that creaked slowly in the mist, although there was little breeze at this point. Seeing these things, Nyquist knew that he had moved beyond the old factories and industrial units and was now heading toward a group of houses, whose black shapes loomed out of the semidarkness ahead. He passed a car parked by the roadside and then another a little further on, their doors hanging open and their paintwork heavily scarred. All the houses were dark and empty along this derelict estate. A forsaken place. And not a person to be seen. Inexplicably, the air smelt of smoke, of dead leaves, of autumn. Nyquist’s skin turned dry and tight against his bones. His mouth tasted of ashes. He had learned once of a French phrase for twilight: entre chien et loup, between the dog and the wolf, meaning that time of day when it’s impossible to tell these two animals – one benign and the other wild – apart. A dangerous time, when the senses could not be trusted.
