by Jeff Noon
Nyquist froze, Eleanor with him.
Then they saw her.
The old woman appeared out of the fog. For a moment she stared at them both, almost without seeing. Her ghastly yellow eyes were lost, held by other things, other people.
“Where is she?” she cried. “Have you seen her?”
Neither of them answered.
Aisha screamed again. “Eliza! Eliza! Come to me. Where are you?” And she moved off back into the fog, her cries, her sobs heard long after she had vanished: “Don’t leave me, Eliza. Come back! Come back to me. Forgive me…”
And then the voice faded also.
Nyquist felt an overwhelming desire to stay where he was, to be accepted as part of the dusklands, to rest here forever. But Eleanor took his hand once more. She urged him on, even though his limbs were so tired they hardly supported him. The blood drained away. Each movement was painful. Many times he almost fell.
Step by step by step…
Eleanor was moving ahead of him, too quickly now, he couldn’t keep up with her.
Nyquist tried to call out, but his voice was weak.
He was staggering now, almost falling.
The fog folded around Eleanor, taking her from him.
He was alone.
Alone…
Alone here in the enclosing fog.
And the loss of that one other true human presence almost stopped him.
He could barely move.
Yet he saw a light flickering at his eye’s corner and turned his head in that direction. He heard music playing, quietly, distantly, a slow waltz-like theme.
The two young women were turning slowly in a moonlit circle of mist, holding each other carefully, gracefully, hand on shoulder, hand on waist, each on each, turning in this slow almost silent dance they had made for themselves, out of their own separate lives and needs and love and loss, dancing in the fog, two girls of eighteen years, one in blue and one in white, their faces identical, each one a perfect reflection of the other.
Twins.
Eleanor.
Elizabeth.
Flesh and fog.
And the fog danced around the flesh, the flesh within the fog, as one now, as one.
Nyquist watched. He watched until the music ended and the dance came to an end, and the two women parted and returned each to their own worlds.
Eleanor walked towards him.
He knew it was her by her blue tunic. And he knew straightaway that something had happened, something crazy, probably bad, something between the two of them, the two women, something he couldn’t understand but he saw it in her eyes, once her eyes were close enough to be seen. In her eyes and in her stance and her movement, everything just too slow, too weary, too sluggish, as though she’d given something away of herself, a gift from one sister to another.
Their very own private magic.
And she was brave about it until the very last steps, when she fell into his arms.
There were no words, nothing to be said. Nothing that could be said. Only the journey that lay ahead. Nyquist had to carry on, helping the girl as he could, with the both of them wounded in their very different ways. That was all. It was all he could do. He would have to keep on like this, one small slow step at a time with his blood dripping to the ground, walking on together like this until eventually they would reach the limits of Dusk and cross over into Day or Night, whichever borderline they came to first, whichever direction they might be going in, yes, he would do that, however many hours it took, however many miles he would have to travel, he would bring Eleanor to safety, no matter what else happened. Or else die trying. And then she fell to the ground and lay there, moaning a little. He bent down and picked her up. He carried her in his arms one painful step after another. It was a pure fantasy, he knew that, a vision in his head. A goal. It was the task he had taken on, a goddamn task he had taken on a long time ago now, days ago, weeks ago, months ago, whenever it was when all this started, some time ago, and he would do it, he would keep moving on through the fog until he came to the very edge of himself, of his own physical limits, until he dropped, tired suddenly and drained of all strength, like this, with too much blood lost, until he fell like this to his knees in the soft dirt, like this, weighed down by his burden, like this, his legs bending under him and the girl sliding to the ground, slipping away from his hold.
Nyquist’s eyes closed. A great wave of sadness moved through him, that he had come so far and failed even now, even in the final moments.
And even in the final moments…
A noise. He could hear a noise. A faraway sound, slowed down, like metal shivering against itself, like a wheel turning, or wheels turning, a number of them, demons crying out in the twilight for their hunger, for all the lost souls that have ended up here. Nyquist looked up, following the sound, giving in to it, and he saw the light moving across the land, coming closer. There it was. He picked Eleanor up once more and struggled to his feet with his last strength and together they set off, even more slowly this time, haltingly. His feet nearly tripped on the iron rails of the track but he kept on walking forward, stumbling. Towards the noise, towards the light that burned ever brighter now, cutting through the fog.
At last they stopped and waited. He could go no further.
Nyquist was standing directly on the rail track itself, on the wooden sleepers, waiting for the wagon to approach and the workers on board to recognise him as a fellow outcast; not a denizen of this wasted realm, but of theirs, another human being. And despite whatever he might look like, despite the wounds and the blood and the scars and the dirt and the haunted look in his eyes; despite all this he was the same as them, drawn from the same mould as the burnt-out cases that worked the maintenance wagons.
It was his only hope, this fragile connection.
The wagon came into view, slowing to a halt. The track workers were big ugly rough hewn specimens, the men and the women both. They stood impassively inside the protective cage, peering down silently at the sight that greeted them. Their features were grey-streaked from the smoke and the soot of the small engine that dragged them here.
One of them lifted a shotgun and pointed it forward.
The beam of a spotlight moved slowly across the fogbanks, coming to rest finally upon these two people, upon Nyquist and the girl, this strange and pitiful couple.
Into the dusk I have wandered, in the pale fog I have fallen and become lost, both lost and found.
And the wire door of the cage swung open.
Epilogue
Dayzone
Crawling at the Edges
The time crash – the third to hit the city – affected most of the central areas of Dayzone, many of the outlying districts, and at least half of the precincts of Nocturna. Measured on the council’s official timeline, the event lasted only seventy-nine seconds. Seventy-nine seconds during which eighteen people died, mainly in road and rail accidents, while many others were physically injured and even more suffered from mental disorders. Symptoms included disorientation, nausea, dizziness and feelings of being “lost in a void”. Chronopsychologists had long been predicting such an occurrence, concerned that the city’s overabundance of time would one day reach a critical level, collapsing in on itself.
One citizen described the effect of suddenly being thrust from one timeline to another, without warning: “I felt like I was caught in a hurricane, pulled into the air and set down in another place: or in this case, another time. I blinked, and at least two hours had gone by, just like that! It was frightening. Even now I can’t look at my wristwatch without seeing the hands jumping around like crazy.” Many others described similar effects. The streets were filled with screams and howls of pain; people were sobbing, many wandered in a daze as though lost, or blind, or caught in a bubble, unable to escape. Some people walked almost in slow motion, others sped past in a blur. In addition to these bodily effects a good number of businesses closed down as their timelines collapsed, often beyond repair. Every piece of machinery d
ependent on a regular beat, on clockwork, on a pulse of any kind – all stopped, or malfunctioned. Fortunes were lost. The city’s stock exchange fell into chaos. One expert explained that the merchant classes had actually invented time as we know it, back in the late middle ages, in order to synchronise their myriad business deals. In a very real sense, time is money: as one element fragmented, so did the other.
After the crash, groups of protesters marched through the streets, eventually meeting outside the Ariadne Centre, the central headquarters of Dayzone’s most prominent timeline management company. Here, the people showed their anger by smashing windows and daubing slogans on the walls and hoardings. They shouted the name of the company’s chief executive, Patrick Bale, demanding an explanation from him, and recompense for the fatalities, the injuries, the lost revenues. Bale did not make an appearance. In fact, he had not been seen inside the building for a good while, to the consternation of his staff. He was later arrested by police officers at his home in Darkness Falls on the charges of first-degree murder, the trafficking of illegal substances, and intent to cause grievous bodily harm. With him was his second-in-command, Margaret Pearce, who was also arrested. Bale’s wife Catherine refused to provide him with an alibi for the murder of Karl Sumak, a drug dealer.
Soon enough the city’s timelines returned to stability, and the citizens chose to forget the pain and discomfort they had felt during the crash. In fact, many new chronologies were introduced, under the guiding hand of Ariadne’s new CEO, Oliver Henley, whose previous experience had been in the financial sector. “A fresh start,” was promised. “We will never give up on our dream of a unique timescale for every single citizen!”
The official report on the crash uncovered an interesting anomaly: people suffering from the psychological condition known as chronostasis had been entirely unaffected by the effects of the upheaval, causing some experts to predict that the city’s fate might well rest with such beings.
But that was not the strangest mystery.
Shortly after the seventy-nine seconds had passed, George Frederick Carlisle – a retired meteorologist of the precinct of Fade Away – ventured out to check his wind gauges and barometers. He stumbled across the body of a woman lying prone at the very edge of Dusk. Carlisle told a reporter for the Beacon Fire newspaper that the dead woman’s flesh was “warm to the touch”, indicating that she had died recently, perhaps during the time crash, although there is no way of knowing for sure. She had one hand outstretched in front of her, the long black fingernails digging into the soil as though for purchase. The other hand lay at her side and clutched within it was a knife. Traces of blood were found on the blade, and the knife was subsequently identified as the weapon used in the so-called Quicksilver murders. The woman’s identity was never established, nor her role in that series of terrible crimes. Perhaps she had simply found the knife? Or perhaps she was the murderer herself, as unlikely as it might seem, given her age. For the dead woman was ancient: the pathologist estimated that she was more than a hundred years old.
George Carlisle described her as being “ravaged by life”: her face sunken, her bones in view through the skin, her eyes yellow and almost hollow, her hair a mass of long, knotted, insect-infested rags. He thought that she’d been crawling along the ground, when she died from sheer exhaustion. Her heart gave out and time finally caught up with her. What she was crawling away from or indeed towards, we do not know.
The newspaper’s report finished with an account of the old woman’s final expression, etched on her face.
She was terrified.
Another Sky
He got to the coach station early. The ticket-office clock told him it was twenty-five to nine, less than half an hour before departure. He bought his ticket, changed his wristwatch to the station’s time, and then went in search of the coffee bar.
Eleanor was already there.
He ordered a coffee at the counter and walked over to sit down opposite her, placing his suitcase on the floor beside his feet. For a moment they sat in silence. She nursed her drink, staring through the window at the coaches as they came and went. Arrivals. Departures. People waiting around, looking worried or sad or elated. Nyquist looked at her. Some days and nights had gone by, and she had changed in a way he could barely fathom. He knew she’d been in hospital, like he had, and her face could not hide the recent experiences; her eyes, especially. She was still weak from her act of kindness, that much was clear. And yet he had the feeling that something else was being hidden, some other pain.
He tried conversation. “I gave the police evidence against Bale and Pearce.”
There was no response.
“I’m sure they’ll be found guilty. They’ll go to prison.”
Eleanor remained silent.
“So then…” Nyquist stood up slowly. His midriff still burned when he made sudden movements. “I might as well get in the queue.”
“No. Wait. Please. Sit down.”
He did so, and now she spoke in a rush: “Patrick will get away with it. I know him. He’ll fight his way out of the trouble, with his money and his greed and his power.”
Nyquist spoke quietly: “He’s a fallen man. Especially after the crash and the loss of his position. It’ll be a struggle, it really will.”
Eleanor tapped a spoon against her coffee cup. She was shivering even under the hot lamps fixed to the ceiling. The waitress brought Nyquist’s own drink to the table.
“Did you have any trouble?” he asked. “In the crash, I mean.”
“After what we’ve been through, that was nothing.”
“True. True.” He smiled. “Where are you living?”
“You remember Melissa? The maid?”
“I do. She helped me to find you.”
“I’ve moved in with her.”
Nyquist nodded at this. He said, “What about your mother? How is she?”
Eleanor shook her head slowly. “The same. For now.”
Nyquist could still picture Catherine Bale in her room of clocks, forever trying to hold time at that one particular setting.
“She’ll need your help,” he said.
“Yes. I know.”
Another moment of silence between them. But then she looked at him properly for the first time and asked, “What happened in there, John? In the dusk?”
“You can’t remember?”
“Just running, running away, trying to get away from Aisha and then dancing with Eliza, with my sister. And then the fog. Then, nothing. Like I’d fallen into sleep.”
Nyquist took a sip of his coffee. Casually, he said, “The fog took hold of you. You must’ve have become disoriented. It can happen.”
“Oh, right.”
“It’s easy to get lost.”
She gave him a look that he could hardly bear to receive, never mind give back. But he held the stare.
“What about Eliza, did she get away?”
“I think so,” he answered. “She was under her grandmother’s power, under a spell, but I believe she broke away at the end.”
“But she’s still in there, still in twilight?”
“Eleanor…”
“Yes?”
“You gave her life. A share of life. That’s…”
She stared at him, her eyes slowly blinking.
“That’s all you need to know.”
She nodded. “You tried to kill me in that hotel room. I remember that.”
It almost broke him to hear her say it, but then she smiled, just a trace at the corners of her mouth and she continued, “Don’t worry. I’m still here, still breathing.”
He let a moment pass. Then he said, “Eleanor, you asked to see me before I left.”
“I just want… I just wanted to see you off.”
She looked down at the table. He touched her hand across the food-stained surface, saying quietly, “Keep away from the dusk. Don’t let the past get hold of you. Or the future. This is what counts, this moment. Each passing moment.”
/> “And what about you?” she asked.
“Another city, some other starting point.”
Now she looked up. “Doing what?”
“Doing the only thing I can do. Being a hardhearted, knuckleheaded son of a bitch with no good chance in hell, but happy enough to help people for money.”
Here she smiled, properly this time. “Will I see you again?”
He kept his eyes on her. “There’s a part of me…” His voice faltered. “All the time I was in the dusk, even towards the end, I kept expecting to see my father, still alive, and that he’d recognise me and offer me something, some kind of love, I guess. Of course, such things don’t happen. They shouldn’t happen.” He pushed his cup away. “What can I say? You have to get tough on yourself, you know? Be wary of the things that pull you back.”
“By running away?”
“It doesn’t feel like I’m running away, not this time.”
They fell to silence once again. Nyquist looked through the window. “I think that’s my coach.”
“Right. You’d better…”
“Listen, Eleanor…”
“I can’t…”
She was tearful. Nyquist felt his heart moving at the sight of it.
“Please,” he said. “Don’t.”
“I’m not crying for you, don’t worry.”
“I’m guessing that.”
One more moment. She wiped at her face. “You’d better go. Quickly please.”
He stood, picking up his suitcase.
“Just keep on,” he said. “Keep on.”
Then he turned and walked out of the coffee bar. He didn’t look back. He walked across the tarmac to where his coach waited. People were getting on already. He joined the queue. No, he didn’t look back.
The coach left on time, on the dot, the exact second as stated, and travelled through the streets of Dayzone. This city of sparkle and glitter and life and dazzle and glamour and radiance and fire and neon-lit brilliance, and the twenty million clocks, and the countless billions of light bulbs, incandescent, luminous, as they flash and flicker with power and heat.
