by Jeff Noon
“OK, OK,” Nyquist whispered. “I’m not–”
“Keep off me!” It was a man’s voice.
Nyquist thought for a moment if this person was connected in some way to Kinkaid’s murder, but then he noticed that the knife was in fact a rusty old garden trowel. It was comical. He lurched forward, knocking the thrust-out implement to the side and then moved in fast, wrestling the man to the ground.
“No, no! It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t!”
The stranger was babbling. Nyquist got him to hold still as he shone the torch on target, revealing a startled face.
“It wasn’t me!”
Nyquist gritted his teeth. “Keep quiet. I’m not hurting you.”
The man calmed down a little, more from the exhaustion of fear than anything else.
“Get up.”
The stranger did so. Nyquist took a good look at him.
He was a middle-aged man, dressed from head to foot in ragged white overalls, with a woollen hood of the same colour hanging down his back. His clothing made it seem that he properly belonged to the silver-misted landscape of the duskline. An unruly mop of greying hair fell over his brow, the strands stained at the tips in nicotine yellow. Only the man’s face was fully visible, and this was almost as white as his clothes, covered in some kind of make-up, and set with a pair of eyes that had a washed-out, albino cast to them.
“What were you doing?” Nyquist asked. “Spying on me?”
“No! No, I was…”
“What?”
“I was scared!”
Nyquist realised the man was a scavenger of the outskirts, that was all. “What’s your name?”
“George Frederick Carlisle. At your service, sir.”
Nyquist shone the torch onto the ground, until the trowel was caught in the beam. He bent down to pick it up.
Carlisle wailed. “No, no! Don’t kill me!”
“You were going to use this?”
“No, sir. Only for protection.”
Nyquist threw the makeshift weapon away. He asked, “Do you live round here?”
“Yes. In the hut there. I keep charge of the instruments.” He pointed to the weather station where the crows were still sitting, their wings gently rising and falling as though in preparation for takeoff.
“Show me,” Nyquist said.
Carlisle responded with glee. “This way, sir. Right this way. Follow me.” He moved quickly, obviously well accustomed to the rough ground and the dismal air. The crows seemed glad of his company, some of them raising their wings in full salute, others hopping to new perches, their beaks clacking against the steel supports. “For years now I’ve been on duty.” He moved from instrument to instrument, checking the panels. “Every day. Day to day. Day in, day out. Daily. Taking the measurements.”
Nyquist couldn’t see how any of the instruments could still be working. “Why are you doing this?”
Carlisle raised a hand. “It’s getting closer.”
“What is?”
“This is what I’ve found, by the measurements. It’s getting nearer, every day.”
“You mean the dusk?”
“Yes, sir.” Carlisle ducked under a swinging steel beam. “Moment by moment, and shade by shade. The dusk is creeping forward. Towards us. Towards the light of day. Do you understand me? Do you? It’s a consequence of the city, and all this experimenting with time. It’s not natural, is it? And this is why people gather here, you see, at the edges. With their magic spells, and the witchcraft. And the ritual killings of chickens and rats. It’s to keep the dead at bay, sir.”
“What are you saying?”
The meteorologist stared at Nyquist. “The dusk has jaws made of mist, it has needs. It must be fed. Or else it will creep upon us entirely.” He chanted a phrase: “The dead need the living. They do. They need the living. They feed on breath and blood and the vital energies.” His pink eyes danced in their sockets. “It keeps them alive!”
Nyquist shook his head. He walked past the weather station and then hesitated. The old fear trembled at the back of his neck like a crouched spider. “Did you know the man?” he asked. “The one who died in the house over there?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Just tell me the truth, did you know him?”
Carlisle started babbling once again. “It wasn’t me! It wasn’t me that killed him. No. Not me.”
“You’re talking about Kinkaid?”
“I didn’t know his name. The poor sufferer.” Carlisle pointed to billows of fog just over the borderline. “He came from the dusk. But the dusk pulled him back.”
Nyquist tried to keep things clear. He was getting caught up in the tangles of Carlisle’s wounded psyche. “But you talked to Kinkaid?”
“A little. Yes. Of course. A tiny little.”
“What was he doing there, in the house?”
Instead of answering, Carlisle busied himself with the instruments. His gloved fingers set the decorations jangling. The crows hopped from strut to strut, calling to their master, or their servant, whichever it was. Colours twinkled in the torchlight. Nyquist was dazzled by the shivering movements. He blinked a few times and then focused his mind afresh, asking once again, “What was Kinkaid doing here?”
Carlisle’s face tightened. “Waiting, sir.”
“Waiting?”
“Yes, sir.”
“For what?”
“Ah well. We spoke only once or twice, sir. And even then, not properly.”
“Still, you must know something.”
Carlisle opened and closed his eyes rapidly. “He was a magician, a conjurer. He travelled into the dusk, over the line.”
“He walked there?”
“That he did. To mingle with the spirits of twilight. Crazy! I told him. No good would come of such ventures.”
Nyquist could see that the man was getting more and more overtaken by his own obsessions. He asked, “Did you see him talk to anyone else?”
“The girl. She came a few times.”
“More than once?”
“A beauty. I watched her. I watched her carefully, hidden away.”
Nyquist thought about this: so Eleanor had visited Kinkaid before.
Carlisle clapped his hands. “Be careful, sir. The idolaters will get you. Verily, they will stake you out, and bind thy person hand and foot.”
“Really? You believe this?”
“They will leave you here, to appease the spirits of the dusk. The hungry ghosts. They will eat you!”
“Ghosts?”
“Yes sir. Oh, the noises I have heard. The words, without mouths to speak them. The whisperings. The screaming. And the shapes that move in the fog. Oh, I have been a witness, truly!” Carlisle made a series of elaborate gestures towards the fogline. The crows responded with their own cries and rustlings.
Nyquist moved closer. “Carlisle! Tell me what you’ve seen.”
“Hush now! The hour is almost upon us.”
A sudden and unexpected silence gathered. All the birds clung to their perches, their beaks quiet at last, their wings carefully folded.
Nyquist was worried. He could feel a tension in the air. “What is it?” He spoke in a hush. “What’s happening?”
“Only the birds can tell the true time.” Carlisle too was whispering. “Only they know when the night truly begins, when it is time to move on, towards the sleeping grounds. Wait now! Wait…”
Nyquist held his breath; the landscape all around did the same.
Silence, stillness.
And then, as one and entirely without warning, the entire flock of crows took off from the weather station. They made a dreadful noise, a mass beating of wings, and a raucous cawing sound. And other similar clouds of ragged black birds rose up from other parts of Fade Away, all of them conjoining in the murky air. Carlisle was going crazy at this, flapping his arms in imitation of wings, and making his own discordant calls. “Caw! Caw! Caw!” And with that he ran off into the surrounding gloom
, his tatty white clothes giving him the look of a runaway spirit. Nyquist let him go. His whole attention was fixed upon the crows as they flew away into the misted lands of Dusk. The yellow face of the moon was speckled by them, wave after wave.
Waiting on Sunset
The nearest train station was a small tumbledown affair some way off either of the main lines. Nyquist found an empty space in the long-stay car park. He bought a ticket from a machine on the concourse and then walked out onto the platform, taking a spot some distance from the few other people waiting there. This side of the station, where the tracks led into the mist towards Nocturna, was called Sunset. The platform clock showed the time to be ten minutes to four. Nyquist adjusted his wristwatch to match. The train would be here soon. He could feel the uneasiness starting already, bringing up the memory of his last journey across the dusklands, from Night to Day, at the start of this case. He had almost lost control on the way over, and his fellow passengers had moved away from him in disgust, or in fear. They must have thought he was crazy. And now he would have to do the same thing again. And he felt worse this time, far worse.
He kept glancing at the platform clock. One moment the hands seemed to be stuck on the dial; then they jumped forward, or else moved backwards a minute or so. Nyquist felt that he was losing little pockets of time. He could only hope he wasn’t becoming seriously time sick. He turned away deliberately, setting his eyes on the opposite platform whose sign read “Sunrise”. He looked down the track in that direction towards the city, towards the light. How comforting it looked, how he longed to go back that way. It was not to be.
Just then a couple of people came close to where he was standing, to buy items from a vending machine. He went over to have a look. The machine was selling Cronopax tablets, specially designed “to ease your travels along the timelines”. Nyquist usually avoided such artificial preparations, preferring alcohol and brute will; trouble was, he had none of the former on his person, and as for his will power, well that was at an all-time low. He saw that the train was pulling in, so he placed the required number of coins in the slot, pressing the lever. Nothing happened. Nyquist couldn’t believe how angry he felt. He had really set his mind on getting this comfort inside his body before the journey started. This solace, this blissful relief, whatever the hell they called it on the advertisements. He jabbed at the lever again and again, he banged a fist against the side of the machine. Nothing. And yet he was certain it had worked fine for the other people. The tablets glistened within the little display window, so enticing in their foil wraps.
The steam train had stopped, the doors were opening. Smoke from the funnel settled around the engine.
Nyquist hit the vending machine a few more times. “Come on!” Glancing round he could see people entering the carriages. “Open up!” It was no good, the machine wasn’t working. He would have to look after himself.
He ran over to the nearest train door and climbed on board.
Crossing the Line
It must’ve been rush hour on one of the city’s more more popular timelines because the train was crowded, end to end. It was one of the cheaply built, post-war models, with seats down the sides and standing room in the middle. Nyquist made his way to the emptiest carriage, the one closest to the engine, where he managed to find a vacant seat. He pressed his shoulders and back against the hard cushioning. Eleanor’s green tartan duffle bag was nestled between his legs, the strap wound loosely around one of his hands. The train rocked along with an unsteady movement. The overhead lights spluttered fitfully, and most of the fixtures and fittings were in need of repair.
He turned to gaze through the window. They had not yet reached the borderline, and he could see the blasted remains of factories and warehouses. The whole area was lit by arc lamps which gave off an ultraviolet glow. Another much smaller train chugged slowly past, moving in the opposite direction, away from Dusk. It was a maintenance wagon, piled high with tools, old track and replacement sleepers. Rough-looking, dirt-covered men and women hung onto the wagon as it powered towards a train shed. They were caged in, held behind wires. The job of linesman was seen as just about the worst thing that could happen to a person. Prisoners used to do the work, until a major protest at the creation of modern day chain gangs brought the practice to an end. Nowadays the job was taken up by ex-criminals, failed soldiers, burnt-out cops, terminal drunks and addicts and other such outcasts. Nyquist had read a magazine article once, which included photographs of one team in action; the wagon had stopped somewhere in the middle of the dusklands, spotlights penetrating the fogbanks a little way as the workers mended the track, while armed guards kept their rifles trained at all times on the dismal mist-filled fields to either side of the railway line. It was a dangerous job. The next three pages showed close-up portraits of the workers. Their faces were prematurely creased, scarred, and their bones pressed tightly against their skin. But the eyes were the worst; you could not look upon such haunted stares without wondering about the things they must have seen and experienced in the mist, in the half-light. A low-hanging moon so cold as to freeze the blood, and then some nebulous shape moving through the fog…
Nyquist had torn the magazine into shreds.
The train moved on. He was tired suddenly, the pains and turmoils catching up with him. He let his head bow down and his eyes close. With luck, he might be able to sleep out the entire journey. He had managed it before. But a noise disturbed him, as more passengers entered the carriage, seeking empty seats, amongst them a number of children who were overly excited at the prospect of travelling through Dusk. Their cries and shrieks of fearful delight made it impossible for Nyquist to find rest. People were standing in the aisle, strap-hanging. He felt a quickening anger at being trapped here in the carriage. All he wanted was to get this over with and to arrive in Nocturna without any trouble, or as little as possible. Most of all he could sense the fear building, and he looked around anxiously. Didn’t any of these passengers feel as he did? He studied the faces of those closest to him; their gazes were bleary-eyed from lack of sleep or red raw from clocklag, or else jammed wide open courtesy of one or other of the branded wake-up tablets. Nyquist turned away from each person just as the carriage lights blinked on and off. Moments later the whistle of the engine made its mournful call as the train passed over the boundary. It was a sound that Nyquist sometimes heard in his sleep, the crossing whistle. They were now in the dusklands. A hush fell over the carriage. Nyquist was glad about this, to know he wasn’t the only one living in fear. But the silence lasted for a few seconds only, and then people starting chatting again, quietly at first, and then louder as the journey progressed.
The carriage windows were now misted over. Nyquist imagined the train’s progress through the semi-darkness, the long caress of day turning into night. He could picture the clouds drifting away from the face of the nearest moon, the pale light falling on the gloom-laden landscape beneath, where the train moved through the grey air, through the shadows. To a creature out there, a wild dog or a rat, the carriage windows would be bright yellow squares, each one blurring as it passed. The passengers would seem like lost souls on their way to hell: adults, children, workers, strangers, wanderers, loners, saints and sinners, himself.
Nyquist forced his eyelids shut. It was all he could do.
Darkness, specks of colour, vibrations.
Now the voices made their plea. The passengers were talking; they were speaking of night-time things, of the darkness and what the darkness promised; they were sighing and breathing and whispering. A young couple could be heard, murmuring their dear sweet little endearments to each other. The group of children were giggling amongst themselves. How could they chatter so? This creaking metal box on its flimsy wheels could so easily fall apart, crash and crumble, the skin cracking open. Nyquist had heard stories of trains breaking down halfway across, and the problems that followed. People disappearing, almost certainly being killed, their bodies never found. And dreadful reasons and rum
ours were given for the stoppages: the mist clinging to the carriages, dragging the train to a standstill, the embrace of twilight.
Nyquist could feel sweat prickling his skin. He could hear the noise of the wheels as they hit the joints and the gaps between. The trapped air was sticky against his face, it was too warm, he could hardly breathe. His eyes opened and immediately darted across the gaudy images and slogans of the advertisements above the seats opposite, each with its own unique offer of time and how to spend it: Free time, work time, playtime, finding time, losing time, a loving time, endless time, easy time, overtime, borrowed time, accelerated time, out of time, slow time, a time for oneself, a time for others, a few brief moments of pleasure can be yours today! Send off now for Instant Gratification! Time waits for no one! Seize the day! One poster praised the latest kind of chronometer: “More than one hundred different timescales preloaded for easy lifestyle choice”. Nyquist started to read the advert a second time, to keep himself distracted, when he realised he was being stared at by a young boy sitting across the aisle. He was about six years old, his eyes carrying a sullen expression as they peered at Nyquist. A woman, presumably the boy’s mother, was sitting next to him, her face entirely hidden by the pages of the Beacon Fire. The headline on the front page read, Police No Nearer to Catching Quicksilver. Nyquist returned the boy’s stare but found that after only a few seconds he had to turn away. On this side of the carriage, in the seat to the right of him, a man in a business suit sat in silence. Every so often he would take a sip or two from a hip flask. Nyquist’s lips went dry at the sight. On his other side a young woman was humming a melody to herself. Her sleeves were rolled up above the elbow, and around each arm a series of watches had been fixed, each slightly higher than the last, the straps at different lengths to allow passage over the thin muscles. There must have been five or six watches on each arm, and no doubt each one was set to a different scale. Seeing this, Nyquist found himself settling into a rhythm of his own, that of the train mixed with his own body clock, tick tick ticking away. And once again his head lowered and his eyes closed.
