by Jeff Noon
He was nervous. What would he find here?
The rain had come and gone: a short but violent downpour, enough to soak him through and to drive people indoors. The street was deserted. He walked along, passing the shop and the pub, both closed, and the expanse of a village green with a circular pond and an oak tree that looked as old as the village itself. A maypole stood at the center of the green, its revelries long passed. The clock on the church tower crept towards six The cold set in deep and his breath silvered the air.
He crossed over a stone bridge. The waters of the river Hale passed beneath, and the church and its graveyard waited for him on the other side. He walked around the building, left to right. It was a small church. The tombstones were laid out without pattern, many of them cracked or fallen over, pushed up by the roots of trees. The newest addition seemed to be Gladys Coombes. She’d died in the spring of this year, aged 38. A fresh bunch of flowers lay at her graveside. The doors to the church were locked. Beyond the church the woods took up again; no more houses. He walked back over the bridge onto the high street. The pub was called The Swan With Two Necks. It would probably open up soon and he could see if they had a room available. And a drink. He sat down on a bench. He was tired and dirty, having traveled all day to get here. What could he do next? Perhaps one of the customers in the pub would help him? Yes, that was it, he’d ask everyone about the person he had to find. But then he thought again: would such a move be wise? Maybe it was best to play it tight.
Across the way a light came on in the downstairs room of a house.
Nyquist examined the photographs by the glow of the street lamp. Each was dark in places, or spotted with white dots, or blurred.
A village street.
A church.
A corner shop.
A field with a tower visible in the distance.
Two people standing outside a house. Male, female. Talking to each other, their faces turned from the camera.
Another man, older, mid-fifties. The face as subject matter: a portrait of sorts. But his features were slightly distorted in parts, smeared across the surface.
Six images, each one taken through the same damaged lens.
The church was the same church he had walked round, and the shop across the street was identical to the one in the photo. Featherstonehaugh’s Store. The letters were squashed and tiny, in order to fit on the board.
A pair of winter moths fluttered above his head: his thoughts taking flight.
Nyquist slid the photographs back into their envelope, all except for one, the image of the couple standing outside a house. Perhaps if he found this residence, it would give him a way forward. He stood up and walked from end of the high street to the other, checking each house in turn against the one in the image, but none of them matched.
He took the first of the side streets, nearest the school. It was called Hodgepodge Lane: just six houses and then open country, the meagre light of the village waning quickly into a gray landscape. None of the houses corresponded to the one in the photograph. He moved on, exploring each side street in turn. One of them, Pyke Road, was much longer than the others, allowing the village to continue up the gentle slopes of the valley. He walked up, looking into one tiny side street after another. He was about to give up and head back down to the village center, when at last he found the cottage he was looking for. He’d already passed it once. He held the photograph up to his eye line, to match each feature and decoration in turn. The house was called Yew Tree Cottage. Nyquist rapped the crow’s head knocker against the door.
It took a while. It took a long while. Until at last he heard someone moving around inside and a voice calling out, “Go away. No visitors today.”
Nyquist rapped again, louder this time. “Hello. I need to talk to you. It’s important.”
Minutes passed. He was tempted to knock a third time, but then the door opened and a man peered out at him through a gap. One eye was visible.
“Yes, what do you want?”
“I’m trying to find someone.”
“There’s no one here to find.”
“You might be able to help. I was given this address.” It wasn’t quite true, but Nyquist needed to act.
The visible eye blinked a few times. “Who are you?”
“Can I come in, please? It’s freezing out here, and I got caught in the rain.”
“Quickly then, before someone sees you!”
The door opened wider and the man grabbed Nyquist by the arm and pulled him inside, dragging him roughly into the hallway. The door closed immediately. The man’s face loomed close. “What were you doing out there? You shouldn’t be outside, not today.” He gestured to an inner doorway. “Well then, make yourself at home. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
The householder walked off towards the kitchen at the back of the house, where the kettle was already whistling. Nyquist entered the living room. It was softly lit by a standard lamp, and it took him a few moments to realize he wasn’t alone. A woman was sitting in an armchair, facing the radio. He nodded to her. She remained as she was, perfectly still, staring at the radio’s grille with eyes that never seemed to move. But the apparatus was silent: no voices, no music.
Nyquist coughed and looked around the room, taking in the sideboard complete with a set of decorative plates, a birdcage on a tall stand, a painting showing a dismal seascape. He went over to the fireplace and warmed his hands.
The woman sat in silence.
The clock on the mantel ticked gently.
He turned to the birdcage, peering through the bars at a blue and yellow budgerigar. He made a chirruping noise, but the bird was too busy examining itself in a small oval mirror.
He looked again at the woman: she was as still as before, staring, staring, staring.
The man who had let him in came into the room, carrying a teapot and cups on a tray. He put these down on a side table and poured Nyquist a cup of tea. Biscuits were offered. The woman in the chair was ignored. The two men sat adjacent to each other at a table and drank their tea and ate their custard creams.
Introductions were made: “We are the Bainbridges. Ian, and Hilda.” He nodded to the woman in the armchair, but she didn’t turn to look his way. “My wife.” He said it with a heavy heart.
Nyquist gave his name in turn. Then he said, “I need your help.” He knew of no other opening.
Bainbridge looked nervous and he spoke in a sudden rush, “As you might ascertain I am a man of some intelligence, but really, this is beyond my comprehension, that such a thing might happen on today of all days.” He was in his forties, yet he seemed older in his speech patterns, his mannerisms, and the way he dressed: a brown jumper over a check shirt, cavalry twill trousers and polished brogues. His hair was shiny with brilliantine, a lot of it. He was healthy looking, well-bred, yet his eyes were the oldest part of him: all the pains of his life had collected here. He rubbed at them now, spreading tears on his cheeks, and he repeated: “Today of all days!”
“It’s a Thursday,” Nyquist said. “I don’t understand.”
“Not any old Thursday. It’s Saint Switten’s Day.”
The very mention of the saint was enough to cause Bainbridge’s head to bow down so low that his chin was tucked into his chest. He was mumbling a prayer, the words unheard until the final amen. The budgerigar sang sweetly in its cage.
Bainbridge looked up, a calmness on his face as he explained: “We’re not supposed to go outside on Switten’s Day, not until midnight.”
“That’s when the curfew ends?”
“It’s not a curfew. It is time put aside for silent contemplation. Of course, not everyone follows this to the letter, darting from house to pub and back, thinking a few minutes here and there don’t count. Or else they cover their heads with an umbrella, so the sunrays or the moonlight doesn’t touch them.” He tutted. “Ridiculous.”
“What’s the punishment?”
The man showed a set of yellowing teeth. “This is not a day
for flippancy.”
Nyquist was scrutinized. The table was cleared of crumbs. More tea was poured. The Queen’s face smiled demurely from the curve of the cup, a souvenir of the coronation.
“Tell me about Saint Switten’s Day.”
“We have our traditions. Our ritual observances. This one goes back to when Switten himself walked these fields around, centuries past.” Bainbridge tapped on the birdcage, causing the occupant to flap its wings uselessly. “Abel Switten was punished terribly for his beliefs, stripped bare and staked out in the dirt.” He made a blessing, his hands descending from brow to stomach, tapping at five points in between in a serpentine curve. “We are beholden to our benefactors.”
Nyquist felt the day was getting the better of him. He said, “I’ve been traveling by train since eight this morning. I haven’t eaten, not properly. And then a long wait for a bus, and a ride across country. Another hour of that. And then I had to walk through the fields, through a wood! A goddamn wood! In the rain.”
Bainbridge shook his head in wonder.
Nyquist cursed. “I’ve never stood in a field before, not one so large.”
“Never?”
“The sky hurts me.”
The budgerigar started pecking at the bars of its cage repeatedly, making a racket. Mr Bainbridge tried to calm the bird, rubbing fingers and thumb together and speaking softly: “Here, Bertie. Here, Bertie, Bertie.” And so on. It had a suitable effect and the creature was quiet once more.
Nyquist placed the photograph of the house on the table. Bainbridge looked surprised. “That is my house. Yew Tree Cottage. Why do you have a picture of my house?”
“And this is you?” Nyquist tapped at one of the two people depicted. “It looks like you. And the other person looks very like your wife.”
Bainbridge picked up the photograph and studied it more closely.
“I’m sorry, Mr Nyquist. I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re asking–”
The radio crackled suddenly. Hilda Bainbridge bent forward slightly in response to the single burst of static.
Her husband held his breath.
Nyquist looked from one person to the other, expecting a deeper reaction or a speech. But none came.
The budgerigar sang the same few notes over and over, like a broken recording.
Nyquist decided to tell the truth. He took the other five photographs from the envelope and laid them out on the tablecloth so that each image was visible.
“I received these in the post a few days ago. There was no accompanying letter. So I don’t know who sent them. Or why.” He paused. “But I intend to find out.”
Bainbridge looked at the photographs without speaking.
Nyquist carried on: “All of them show scenes from this village. Look.” He showed the postmark on the envelope: “Hoxley. There are a number of villages called that, so I had to do a little detective work. The name of the church, and the shop, and this delivery van, here.” He pointed to the photograph of the high street, to a parked van. “Sutton’s. A bakers. You can make out the address painted on the side. I needed a magnifying glass to read it.”
“The Suttons are well known around these parts,” Mr Bainbridge said. He pointed out the brand name on the one remaining custard cream. “They’re a local firm.”
“Exactly. A local firm.” Nyquist’s eye passed over each photograph. “So I did a bit of digging, and I put it all together.”
“I’m impressed.”
“It’s my job. How I make my living.”
Bainbridge looked at him in a new way. “You’re a police officer?”
“A private investigator.”
“I see. So, this a case you’re working on, for a client?”
Nyquist took a moment to answer. “This is for me. Entirely for me.”
Bainbridge turned his attention to another image, the one showing the tower in a field. He said, “I’ve never seen this building before. I don’t think it’s from around here.”
“It’s not very clear in the shot.”
“Still, I don’t recognize it.”
Nyquist turned one of the photographs over. “What about this? The photographer’s mark. It’s on all six pictures.” It was small pale blue-inked rectangle, somewhat faded, the stamp damaged. “But I can’t see the name properly. Nor the address.”
Bainbridge squinted. “No. It’s too faint.”
“There aren’t any photographers in the village, professional ones, I mean?”
“Oh, maybe, yes, but I don’t believe they live here anymore. I think they left the village a little while ago.”
“What were they called?”
“I really can’t remember. I don’t like having my photograph taken, neither does Hilda. We’re very private people.”
“But somebody took this picture of you and your wife.”
Bainbridge looked puzzled. “As you can see, it was taken without our knowledge. Why would anyone do that? It scares me, to think of it.”
“You’ve no idea?”
“Hilda and I, we lead ordinary lives. It sounds ridiculous to say it, but there is nothing to spy upon. Nothing at all.”
There was an awkward moment. Neither man spoke. Nyquist glanced at the clock on the mantel: ten past seven.
“What I don’t understand,” Bainbridge said, “is why you’ve come all this way? I mean to say, why is this so important to you?”
Nyquist gathered up the photographs until only one was left on the table, the portrait of the middle-aged man.
“Tell me, do you know this person?”
Bainbridge glanced at the image and shook his head. “No.”
“Take a closer look.”
“I’ve told you. I don’t know him.”
There was a noise from the corner of the room and Nyquist looked that way, hoping the woman was alert now, that she might have something to offer. But she was sitting there as before, gazing intently at the now silent radio set. Perhaps her eyes moved slightly, perhaps they flickered?
Bainbridge picked up the photograph. “I can see a family resemblance.”
“Yes. It’s my father.”
Nyquist could feel his heart being wound up tight, a fragile half-broken machine. “I haven’t seen him since I was a child. A boy. Twenty-four years have passed. I thought he was dead. And now…” He looked at the photograph. “And now this.”
Ian Bainbridge stared at his guest. This stranger, a wanderer, someone who didn’t know the rules, a lost soul. He said, “I swear. I swear on Saint Switten’s unmarked grave, in all my years I have never seen this man.”
Nyquist frowned. He gazed at his father’s face. Then he swallowed the last gulp of tea and said, “There’s something in my cup.”
“There is?”
“Christ. It’s moving about.”
Bainbridge was puzzled. “You know my mother used to read the shapes in tea leaves. She could view a person’s future through them.”
Nyquist was irritated. “What would she make of this?”
Bainbridge looked into the offered receptacle. “I cannot say.” But his eyes widened, as Nyquist reached into the cup and made to pull out the worm or insect or whatever it was. The creature’s squirming body stretched out, one end of it still clinging to the cup’s interior.
“What the hell are you feeding me?”
“I’m really sorry about this,” Bainbridge answered. “I don’t know what to say.”
The worm or whatever it was, was still clinging on, lengthening as Nyquist tried to pull it loose. He leaned forward to examine the foreign body.
“I don’t think it’s a worm. It’s the wrong color. Unless you have green worms around here?”
“No, of course not. Green? No. Nothing like that. Just normal worms, nothing special.”
“I think this is more like a plant.”
“A plant? Really?”
“It’s a tendril, or a piece of root.” Nyquist turned the teacup this way and that under the light. He sai
d, “But the way it moves, it’s more like a living creature.”
Bainbridge looked worried, terrified almost. His voice rose in pitch. “We only bring the coronation tea set out when we have guests, which is very rarely these days. And anyway, I keep a clean house!”
Now the two men were both looking at the strange fibrous substance held between cup, and Nyquist’s forefinger and thumb. It had stretched to about a foot in length and was still clinging onto the china by its suckered end. Queen Elizabeth II continued to smile gracefully from the cup’s outer surface.
“I can feel it pulling back at me,” Nyquist said. He felt lightheaded. His eyes couldn’t quite stay in focus. His tongue was thick in his mouth.
“I don’t feel well.”
The dark green fiber was wet and sticky. Tiny burrs hooked at his skin. He gave it a sharp tug, but instead of the sucker coming loose from the cup, the tendril extended itself even further and wrapped itself around his fingers.
“It’s got you!”
“The thing’s digging in.” It was beginning to hurt. “It’s tightening.” Nyquist pulled with all his strength, watching in a kind of horrified fascination as the tendril stretched out, further and further.
“I think it likes you,” Bainbridge whispered. The fear had left him. Now he had a look of wonder in his eyes. “It doesn’t like me. And it doesn’t like Hilda. It likes you.”
“Hold the cup!”
Bainbridge did so, as Nyquist backed away from the table, until he reached the limits of the creature’s physical hold. There was a bureau in the corner of the room, and his free hand scrabbled around until it closed on the handle of a paper knife. Bainbridge gasped, and he whispered, “Don’t hurt it.” Nyquist swore at him. Or tried to. Nothing made sense, not a single thought or word. Had he been poisoned? Was he hallucinating? Only one thing mattered now. He placed the blade against the tendril and started to slice into it. It was awkward using his left hand, and the thing was resilient, but eventually the knife did its work and the tendril snapped in two. Bainbridge groaned aloud. His wife looked on, her eyes turned at last to the scene before her, a lone silent member of the audience at an absurdist drama.
