by Jeff Noon
“And this was Dominic Kinkaid?”
Bale turned away from the painting. “Yes.” His face gave nothing away saying this, not a trace of pain or loss.
Nyquist pressed on with the story. “So your wife starts seeing this guy, and then what, she falls pregnant?”
A nod in reply.
“And so Eleanor was born?”
Bale smiled briefly. “All that matters is that I’ve brought her up as my own. My own child. How many men would do such a thing? Yes, I’ve given Eleanor everything she could possibly want from life. I’m speaking in purely material terms, of course. Whatever else she might need, well, I don’t know. I can’t be the judge of my own ability to love. Can anyone?”
“I guess not. No.”
The two men stood in silence. The room seemed to echo with sound where none was made, and the frozen landscapes on the walls offered glimpses of other worlds, as though through a series of moonlit doorways. The subtle lighting devices hummed with carefully controlled power. For the first time Nyquist felt a connection with the other man. He asked, “What happened?”
Bale murmured, awoken from some dream or other. “I’m sorry?”
“What made Eleanor leave home?”
“She found out about Kinkaid.”
“You never told her?”
He shook his head. “She has taken me as her father, all these years. As I have viewed her as my daughter.” Bale looked pained. “Of course, she was upset when she found out. Well, you can imagine.”
Nyquist paused. He had to ask the question, the difficult one. He said, “What about your other child?”
“My what? I don’t have another child.”
Nyquist tried another guess. “Really? I thought she was called Elisa?”
Bale’s face was cast in shadow. He said, quite calmly, “I have one child only. Her name is Eleanor.”
“It was something your wife said, about her daughter having died. Passed over…”
“Elisa? It does ring a bell. Ah yes. That was the name we had first chosen for Eleanor, before she was born. Later, we changed our minds.”
“I see,” said Nyquist. “That might explain it.”
“A woman’s ravaged mind playing tricks upon itself.” Bale stepped forward slightly, allowing his face to be seen. “I’m sure you have realised by now, Nyquist, that our family has been through great pain in its time, and a good part of that was caused by a problem of my own.”
“Which is?”
Without hesitation Bale said, “I’m sterile.”
Nyquist was taken aback. He was still trying to find a word to say in reply when Bale continued: “My dear wife could hardly bear such a thing. Perhaps it drove her into the arms of another man, who can say? And who can say what demons still arise from all this?”
“In whose mind?”
Bale didn’t answer. He closed his eyes momentarily. “There. Now you have it. I have admitted to being less of a man. Are you happy with such knowledge?”
Nyquist nodded. “I was curious. It goes with the job.”
“I suppose it does.”
“Where is Eleanor?”
“My daughter… and I make no apologies for the word; my daughter has been deeply disturbed by the events of the last few weeks or so. But rest assured, she’s being well looked after.”
“I have some things of hers.”
“Leave them with me.”
“I can’t do that. I have to see her.”
The steel came back into Bale’s voice. “That’s not going to happen.” But it was only momentary, as though the very act of putting on the armour had weighed his soul down, and a sadness came over his features. He came towards Nyquist, reaching out a hand. He said, “I don’t know what to do for the best. I love my wife dearly, but… well, you have seen how she is. Really, Eleanor is all that I have now.”
“Yes. I can see that.”
“I’m doing the best I can, Nyquist. But you know, I’m alone in this.” He shook his head. “I’m alone.” Just then the grandfather clock that stood against the far wall began to chime; once, twice, a third time, the toll of the bell seeming far too loud for the size of the room. Yet Bale was lulled by the sound of it. His eyes took on a sleepy cast. He said, “When all is said and done, we all want one thing only. To escape from time, and to live. To live forever. On such dreams are fortunes made, my own included.” Then he made a little bow, a kind of signing off ritual. “And now I really must see if Catherine is all right. Goodbye, Mr Nyquist. I trust our paths will not cross again. You will take this I hope in the spirit it’s intended.”
These were the last words spoken.
One Rule Only
A few minutes later Nyquist walked out to his car. He was watched by the same or another security guard, completely unidentifiable behind the night-vision mask, whose vicious-looking dog strained at the leash. Patrick Bale’s limousine was parked nearby, its silver paintwork sparkling under the patio lamps. Nyquist looked back at the house. Above, at a dimly lit window, the lonely figure of Catherine Bale could be seen. He remembered what she had said: There are certain times of the day and night that must never be forgotten…
The rain fell more gently now, as the hire car moved slowly down the drive. The trees were dark on both sides, the colourful bulbs having been turned off. As he drove along, Nyquist thought about the case, or rather, the jigsaw puzzle, as he now considered it. He felt he had a few more pieces in place, with many others still missing. There was a hidden shape, a form in the dusk just out of reach.
The last drops of rain fell through the headlamp beams. Nyquist was lost in thought, his eyes scarcely aware of the road ahead. Patrick Bale had opened up, a little way at least, and there was an air of truth around his words. But he still didn’t trust him, not fully, especially when it came to Eleanor.
If only he could find the girl! That was still his number one task.
A small flicker of colour shone in the trees near the roadside. The yellow light moved, faded, came back again, brighter now. It looked like some kind of deliberate signal. Or a warning. Nyquist stopped the car. He pulled the gun from beneath the driver’s seat, and then got out and moved towards the trees; as he did so, the light went out. He looked up and down the driveway, seeing only darkness. Nyquist turned to the trees again. The huge leaves were curled at the edges to form a series of green funnels, specially designed to channel all of the meagre rainwater down into the earth and the roots below.
“Who’s there?”
There was no answer to his call. But then somebody moved among the branches. Nyquist stepped closer, and the person came forward to meet him. It was the maid, Melissa. She said, “I have to be quick. They’ll notice I’m gone.”
“What do you want?”
“To help Eleanor. Here…” She handed Nyquist a small object. “Do your best for her.”
“I will do.”
“Let me see your face. Because you let her down last time.”
Nyquist moved closer. Melissa held up her lantern and searched his face for clues. “This time, I need to know for sure that you’ll do your very best for her.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Good.”
Melissa’s eyes were filled with the same loneliness he had seen in Eleanor’s. Despite their differing positions in life, they were two of a kind.
“Be careful. Mr Bale is not to be trusted, not when it comes to Eleanor.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s scared of her. Petrified.”
She gave a tight smile, a nod. Then she stepped back.
“Wait. I need more information.”
It was no use. The young woman moved away into the trees, becoming just another dark shape in the undergrowth. Nyquist took a step or two after her. The leaves were cold and wet around his face. Rain dripped down from the branches above.
Melissa had vanished.
He went back to the car, clicking on the interior light in order to examine the object s
he had given him. It was a business card, with a logo depicting the sun and moon joined together in harmony. Finally, Nyquist felt that he might be getting somewhere, closer to the source. And then his eye fell on the dashboard clock. With a shock he saw that the glass was broken in a single diagonal crack from top to bottom. The hands were frozen in place. Once again he thought of Catherine Bale and how one particular moment of time had caught her in its trap. Perhaps he was as much a victim as she was.
The time shown on the dashboard clock was seven minutes past seven.
He was still under the drug’s spell in some way.
Nyquist started the engine and drove on toward the gateway. When he got there, he saw that another car was entering the Bale estate. He slowed down as the two vehicles passed each other. The light from the gatekeeper’s hut shone directly on this new arrival, a large estate model. Nyquist saw the driver in his uniform, and then the passenger sitting alone in the rear. The man’s face was familiar – gaunt, a dark complexion, his hair pushed back from the forehead – but there was little enough time to make a recognition. Another of Bale’s associates, no doubt, legitimate or otherwise. Nyquist watched in the rear-view mirror as the other car vanished into the gloom of the driveway, then he made his own way through the gates and back onto the country road. He drove on a little way, until he came to a corner with a telephone box. He dialled the number on the business card that Melissa had given him.
A woman’s voice answered. “Hello. How may I help you?”
“Is that the Aeon Institute?”
“It is, yes.”
“I was hoping to come and see Eleanor Bale.”
“One moment… Ah, yes. I’m afraid Ms Bale is on our restricted access list.”
“I know that. I’m a close associate of her father, Sir Patrick Bale.”
“You would have to bring proof of your connection.”
Nyquist turned over the business card, looking at the single word handwritten there. “I’ll do that. It’s good that you’re taking so much care of Eleanor.”
“Of course, sir. That’s our job. Visiting hours end at nine o’clock.”
“Nine. OK. What time do you have now?”
“A quarter to eight.”
“Right. I can make it. I’ll be there.”
“I must inform you, sir. We only have one rule for visitors.”
“Go on?”
“No timepieces of any kind are allowed within the public areas of the institute. Will that be a problem?”
“No, of course not. Thank you.”
Nyquist left the phone box. He needed to adjust his wristwatch in order to arrive at the institute on time. He looked at the dial through half-closed eyes. Thankfully, the glass was in one piece, but the hands were still fixed on seven past seven. He pressed it to his ear; the instrument was ticking away with such a vigorous and beautiful sound he felt his heart beating faster to keep in step. He wound the hands into a new position and they moved easily enough. Thirteen minutes to eight. His mind took charge of a new determination.
He would not fail the girl this time.
The car was back on the road and heading towards the Central Darkness before he got to thinking about the estate car he had just seen arriving at Bale’s house; and with a shock Nyquist remembered where he had seen the passenger before. It was the dealer from the Noonday Underground club, Sumak, the man who supplied people with the kia drug.
Now what business did such a lowlife have with the man in charge of the city’s timelines?
A Shadow Passes Over
Bibleblack was a small town located some few miles to the southwest of Nocturna. Nyquist drove through the outskirts until he found the overly large, rambling building that housed the Aeon Institute. He found a parking space in the area provided near the main entrance. He took one last look at his watch and then unwrapped it from his wrist, placing it in the glove compartment. The time was eight fifteen. He would have forty minutes or so in which to see and talk to Eleanor Bale, and to make sure she was all right. He stashed the gun back under the driving seat, along with the one remaining vial of kia. He would play by the rules, until the rules started playing against him.
At the reception desk, Nyquist was asked to write the password on a piece of card. He wrote the six-letter word that Melissa had written on the back of the business card. The card was then placed in a brass canister and sent on a journey along a series of pneumatic tubes that shot up through the ceiling above the reception desk. He pictured a dusty old man or woman in a dusty room on the dusty top floor checking the passwords against a ledger. As they waited for confirmation, Nyquist was searched by a member of staff. The duffle bag was emptied out, each item examined and then returned. The person in charge wanted to know what the leather figurine was. Nyquist told her it was a puppet, an item of personal value to Eleanor. All this was fine. But the metal canister had not yet returned. He started to panic. Perhaps the password had been changed? Or Melissa had got it wrong. He imagined somebody ringing Eleanor’s home at this very moment, asking to speak with Patrick Bale.
Nyquist smiled at the receptionist. He noticed a shelving unit behind the desk where a good number of wristwatches had been placed, each with a name tag attached. Visitors had left their time here, to be picked up later.
At last the canister arrived back, falling out of the tube into a wire basket. The card it contained was examined, and the receptionist smiled back at him.
“Have a pleasant visit, Mr Nyquist.”
A middle-aged gentleman in an ill-fitting suit met with him, introducing himself as Doctor Shapiro. Side by side they walked along a dimly-lit corridor. Shapiro was interested in Eleanor’s case, and he explained a little about the work they were doing, saying, “Aeon is a charitable foundation, dedicated to looking after people who suffer from temporal disorders.”
Two orderlies passed by, dressed in grey uniforms.
“Are you certain Eleanor has such problems,” Nyquist asked.
“They can be difficult to spot, if the sufferer is clever enough. But rest assured, we do know our job.”
They reached a locked, iron-barred gateway. This was opened by a guard, allowing Nyquist and the doctor to pass through and continue down another corridor. Shapiro continued with his spiel. “We offer our patients a more comforting cycle of night and day.”
“It’s a lock up?”
The doctor sighed at this. “We are governed by chronology. All of us. Reason itself is closely tied to our basic understanding of time. We make value judgments by comparing that which has passed, with that which might come to pass. If this understanding should fail, if the body’s clock gets sufficiently knocked out of joint, well then…”
“Go on.”
“Let us say that some of our more extreme patients have violent tendencies. Of course, Eleanor Bale is not in this category.”
A few discreet lamps cast their gentle balm over the corridor. “What’s she doing here?” Nyquist asked. “This doesn’t seem right.”
“Her father took the precaution of–”
“Patrick Bale?”
“Yes. A very generous, kind man.”
“Generous. I see.”
“Oh yes. Now…”
Howling sounds were heard in the distance. A number of orderlies hurried by, along an adjacent corridor.
Nyquist stopped. “What’s happening?”
“It is unfortunate. Some people are so ravaged by time, they lose all grip on reality.”
The cries of anguish drifted through the building.
Nyquist walked on, following the doctor. He said, “Personally, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with Eleanor.”
Shapiro smiled. “Really? But you are hardly in any fit state to make that judgment.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well. Your own sense of time is out of balance. Severely so, if you don’t mind me saying. You have four of the five classic telltale signs.”
“Now listen–”
“Ah. Here we are.” The doctor gestured towards an open doorway. “I shall leave you now, Mr Nyquist. But please be aware, Eleanor has been through a lot of pain lately.”
“I know.”
Shapiro nodded politely. “And remember, if you should ever decide to do something about your problem, we provide a free consultation service.”
“I’ll survive.”
“I don’t doubt it. In some form or other.”
The doctor moved off down the corridor. Nyquist was alone. He looked through the open doorway. All was dim and shady within the building, as it should be in Nocturna. But the space beyond the door was brightly lit in warm colours. He walked through and immediately felt himself overwhelmed. A golden haze of artificial sunlight streamed down through the high glass roof of a circular courtyard, and a beautiful, lush and extensive inner garden occupied the space within, complete with ornamental plants, goldfish ponds, benches and wire sculptures.
Nyquist was stunned by the vision.
He wandered through the garden along a gently twisting pathway. The atmosphere was humid. Many kinds of birds could be heard, whistling and singing from the trees and bushes. Insects buzzed amid tropical flowers and the calming sound of trickling water accompanied his every turn. Here and there he came across little groups of people, some of them obviously patients or clients or inmates or whatever they were called, all of them wearing the same outfit of a crisp blue smock over linen trousers. Their faces were dulled, their expressions betraying a soft and perhaps chemically induced smile. Other people, fewer in number, were visitors like himself, looking hot and uncomfortable in their darker, heavier clothing. There was a certain mood to these groupings, a sense of discomfort, as though everything of any use had been said and done already, and now the empty minutes of the rest of visiting time were to be somehow endured.
Nyquist found Eleanor sitting alone on a bench, gazing into a pool of water. His first thoughts were spoken out loud, entirely unbidden: “Thank Apollo, you’re all right. You’re alive.” But there was no active response to this. He carried on watching for a moment, unseen as yet. The girl looked different, healthier, with more weight to her body; but older too, sadder, subdued almost. She was dressed in the standard light blue tunic and was holding a closed paperback book in one hand.
