by Jeff Noon
“It is. An old, old name. But these days we call it Fanshaw’s.”
“Why?”
“To make more time for saying other things, why else?”
“Doesn’t the shopkeeper mind?”
“Oh she does, she does. After all, she’s paid all that money to have the sign painted, so much per letter. Sad, really.”
Nyquist looked around the green. “So what’s happening here?”
“A period of respite before bedtime, now that Saint Switten has been put aside for the year, thank heavens.” She studied the stranger’s face, noting each scar and furrow. “You’ll be Mr Nyquist, then, our man of mystery?”
“As far as I know, that’s me.”
“A stranger in the midst.”
“So word gets around? Even when no one’s allowed outside.”
She laughed. “Don’t worry. You’ll find us an amiable lot, once you’ve got to know our little idiosyncrasies.”
“I’m sure.”
“I live at number 17, on the high street. The one over there, with the gables? Drop in anytime for a chat and a bowlful.”
“I might just do that, thank you.”
“I’m Doctor Higgs, by the way. Sawbones. So then, any ailments I need to know about?”
“Does existential doubt count?”
She laughed again. “So, you’re a pupil of Sartre and that crowd, are you?”
“In practice, not theory.”
“Now I’m intrigued. Here, hold this, will you?”
She handed him the tankard of ale and reached into her pocket, pulling out a briar pipe, ready loaded with tobacco. “Take a sip, if you like,” she said, indicating the beer. Nyquist did so. He watched intrigued as the doctor lit the pipe with a Swan Vesta, first skimming the lighted match around the top of the bowl in a circular motion, to get the contents charring. Once happy with the result, she sucked mightily on the hard-bitten stem and the tobacco was soon burning fully. It glowed with a warm red light, and the smoke reached his nostrils. His eyes blinked rapidly.
“What’s wrong? Have you never seen a spinster smoke a pipe before?”
“Not with such pleasure and expertise.”
Now she looked at him sideways through a wreathe of tobacco smoke. “I like you, Mr Nyquist. You’re a man of the world.”
“I’m a man of a world. I lived all my life in one city alone, and never traveled beyond it until half a year ago.”
“You did better than me. Hoxley born and bred. And no doubt I’ll pop my clogs here.”
Directly on cue, her enjoyment of the pipe was cut short by a series of harsh coughs. He could practically hear her lungs rattling.
“Are you alright, doctor?”
“Oh cruel life, that pleasure must always turn into its opposite.” She emptied her pipe out onto the ground. “So, what brings you here?” Her voice was strained.
“On the lookout.”
“A place to live?”
“A person.”
“Well, if they’re in the village, there’s a good chance they’ll be on the green tonight. The end of Saint Switten’s Day always brings them out.”
“I’ll take a wander.”
He handed back the tankard to Doctor Higgs, only to hear her call out, “Watch out for the Tolly Man.”
“And who would that be?”
“It’s a greeting, that’s all.” Her eyes sparkled. “A friendly greeting.”
She was soon lost in the crowd. Nyquist found himself at the maypole amid a gang of teenagers. They were village kids, their faces set in a universal expression of surliness. One of them cocked her head at Nyquist and called him a name. He didn’t catch it, and didn’t care to, but her loyal companions laughed on cue. He moved on, nodding at Mr Bainbridge in passing. Mrs Bainbridge was with him, her hand in his, her eyes void of all feeling. The couple stood apart from the others, the occupants of a lonely circle. The landlord was also there, with his daughter Mavis, who helped out in the pub. The landlord looked like a six-foot pile of house bricks wrapped in thick skin. His daughter was dressed in black, a shadow of a girl. Both of them had an air of melancholy that Nyquist could not yet fathom.
He was suddenly whacked on the shoulder, and a loud jovial voice greeted him: “You’ll be the strange cove that everyone’s chatting about.” The owner of the voice was a heavyset man, sporting a ruddy face above waxed platinum whiskers. “Gerald Sutton.” He shook Nyquist’s hand until the bones ached. “Baker. Factory owner. Major employer around these parts. You’ll have eaten our produce, no doubt?” Nyquist shook his head. “What? You’re staying at the Swan, aren’t you? They serve Sutton’s rolls and cakes every breakfast, dinner and tea. Come on, let me make the introductions.” He manhandled Nyquist over to a group of people, local dignitaries, a whirl of names and faces: the vicar, the keeper of the corner shop (pronounced Fanshaw, as predicted), a former magistrate, and a local councilor who looked like he’d been drinking for most of the day. A young police constable stood close by. Sutton steered Nyquist quickly on. “The landlord you’ll have met. Nigel Coombes. Poor chap. A terrible tragedy. And his girl. Terrible, terrible. Ah, now then, the pearl in my crown, here she is. My good wife, Mrs Jane Sutton. Or, my sweet Lady Jane, as I like to call her. Ha ha.” His laughter shook through him, fold upon fold of flesh. “We were born too low for such titles, but my God, by all the saints, I’ll raise myself up one day and spit in the eye of my so-called betters, you wait and see!”
Jane Sutton was opposite in shape and manner to her husband – svelte and tall and very well-dressed, with lovingly coiffured hair. Nyquist learned that she was the headmistress of the local school. Sutton described Nyquist to his wife as, “A man from afar, a private enquiry agent, no less.” He chuckled. “Perhaps he’s come all this way to investigate us.” Cue laughter from the gathered circle of friends. Where Sutton got this information from, Nyquist couldn’t guess: he had said nothing of his purpose on booking his room. Perhaps Ian Bainbridge had been gossiping. There were no secrets here. A series of well-mannered jokes ensued, none of which Nyquist understood, even if he suspected they were at his expense. Twice, he tried a witticism himself and failed miserably both times. He smiled dutifully. At one point he found himself alone with Jane Sutton – alone on purpose as he found out when a manicured hand slipped into the crook of his elbow and she whispered close in his ear, “I do hope you won’t cause us any trouble, Mr Nyquist.” He examined her face for signs to match the slight threat in her voice, but the smile was fixed, and her eyes the same, all charm and bonhomie.
Now the crowd thinned out as people started to make their way home. Nyquist moved among them, searching each face in turn, hoping for a glimpse of his father. He thought of shouting his father’s name aloud. But he kept quiet and he moved on. No sign, no shape, no remembered expression, no one calling out to his son in the cold night air. Nyquist shivered and pulled his overcoat tighter around him. He didn’t want to be left out here alone, so he made his way back to The Swan With Two Necks. The publican locked the door behind him and bid him goodnight. One word, no more. Nyquist remembered Gerald Sutton’s remarks about a tragedy for the Coombes, but refrained from asking any questions. He climbed the stairs. He wasn’t tired anymore, he was excited. He wanted to explore the village, to knock on every door. Tomorrow, he would do just that. Yes. He made a bargain with himself. He would spend a full day searching and if nothing came up by sunset then he would walk back through the woods and across the field and catch the evening bus. He’d leave this place and tear up the photographs, or better yet, burn them. A ceremony of his own.
Nyquist stopped at the door to his room.
It was slightly ajar, less than an inch. There was no lock and key, and he’d made sure to pull it to, when he’d left. Cautiously, he opened the door. Everything looked the same as it was, but he knew that his things had been searched through. His suitcase was on the bed, but in a different position. He opened it up and checked the contents. The photograph was still wr
apped in the handkerchief. To be honest, he had nothing to steal, nothing of monetary value – he had traveled light and his wallet was in his jacket pocket. But a tremor went through him. He reached for the envelope and drew out the six photographs. All were present, but the one of his father had been damaged, or rather augmented.
George Nyquist’s mouth had been closed up with thread, the stitches woven through the paper, from lip to lip and back again, five times, and then tied in a knot.
VILLAGE MUTE
He woke up late on Friday morning to find that someone, the landlord most probably, had been in the room early on and replaced Saint Switten. This new saint was female, her body formed from fired clay. Drapes of hair hung down on each side of her face; it looked like real hair – human or animal. A metal band was wrapped around the lower part of her face, hiding the mouth. Probably a scold’s bridle, or some other instrument of torture. It was a crude figurine, far more primitive looking than yesterday’s illuminated icon.
Nyquist washed himself at the sink, and then shaved. He had a feeling the people of Hoxley would appreciate a well-groomed specimen, and he needed to get them on his side. He combed a dab of brilliantine through his hair.
The Swan was quiet at this hour, with only the daughter of the house working in the bar, wiping the tables down with a cloth. She looked up at him. He found the dining room, where he was served eggs, bacon and mushrooms. It looked like he was the only guest, which is how he liked it: no forced conversations. And the food was good. He hadn’t eaten since the custard creams and the poisoned tea of yesterday evening. The daughter, Mavis, also acted as waitress, and cook. It seemed that she did most of the work around the place. She brought him extra slices of toast without being asked, and left again without a word spoken. Nyquist’s thoughts were elsewhere throughout the meal. All he could see was his father’s face with the lips sewn together. It was a horrible image.
As the plates were being cleared away, he felt the need to ask a few questions. He said, “Mavis, someone came in my room last night, when I was out. They went through my property. Do you know anything about this?”
The girl shook her head vigorously, her face filled with worry.
Nyquist took her at her word, or lack of words. He placed the defaced photograph of his father on the tabletop, saying, “One more thing. Have you ever seen this man?”
Mavis barely glanced at the image before again shaking her head. Her hands moved in a series of elaborate gestures.
“You’ve never seen him, anywhere around the village? Mavis, I really need to know.”
His anger upset her. She brought her hand up to her mouth, covering her lips.
“Where’s your dad? Perhaps he knows more?”
There was no response. Mavis simply stood there in silence, her hand still in place over her mouth, her eyes staring coldly at him. And then, at the merest sign that he was going to ask another question, she turned and hurried into the kitchen. Nyquist was dumbfounded. He placed some coins on the table as a tip and then left the dining room. He looked into the bar, and in the office next to the stairs, but there was no sign of the publican.
Outside the sunlight was soft, the air crisp and clear, a perfect winter’s day. People were going about their business, walking along the high street, popping in and out of the corner shop. Nyquist walked by the school. It was playtime, and the kids were running around madly, skipping along a hopscotch pattern chalked on the ground, dancing and leaping, pretending to shoot each other with Tommy guns, but all in deathly silence. No shrieks of joy, no howls of made-up pain. He moved on. A man and woman waved at each other from opposite sides of the street, a dog trotted by pulling an elderly man on a lead. The dog’s jaws were covered in a leather muzzle. Two women bumped into each other outside the shop. They stopped to chat but Nyquist could hear no words exchanged between them. Their hands moved rapidly, forming shapes. Was it a kind of sign language?
“Excuse me.”
His voice froze them, mid gesture.
“Would you mind taking a look at this picture?”
They looked at him in abject horror, there was no other way to describe it. Their eyes told a story, shared between them, a story with a bad ending. One of the women took a few halting steps away from Nyquist, while the other stood her ground. Both of them raised their hands to their faces to cover their mouths, just as Mavis had done in the dining room of the pub. He tried again to speak, but a single word from his lips caused both women to take off down the street in a hurry.
He walked along the edge of the village green. A few people were gathered around the old oak tree, two of them reaching up to touch the trunk. A Sutton’s delivery van drove down the high street and turned onto a side road. As the last rumbles of the engine died away, Nyquist was suddenly aware of the intense silence that followed. He was trapped at the center of it, this great silence, as though captured inside a bubble. People nodded at him in passing, or they made hand gestures in his direction. But that was all. And it came to him then – not a single person was speaking, or even making a noise of any kind, and he started to wonder if an order had gone out, a warning not to speak to the stranger. He couldn’t think why, and he started to feel uncomfortable. One word! One word was all he desired. A single sentence at the most. It would be a message from the heart of the village, to tell him that all was good, that he was welcome here.
But the silence followed him down the street.
He was about to turn onto Pyke Road when he spotted a woman waving at him from the open doorway of a house. He recognised her from last night. It was Doctor Higgs. A smiling face. She welcomed him into her house with a sweep of her hand. But she too was silent, and they stood together in her living room with the carriage clock on the mantel ticking away the seconds.
He knew better than to speak. And so he waited.
The air smelled of furniture polish and carbolic, and some other medicinal scents added on top. A portrait in oils looked down from above the fireplace, a severe-looking husband and wife dressed in dour, restrictive clothing. Perhaps the doctor’s parents? A scratching sound made him turn. The doctor was scribbling on a prescription pad with a fountain pen. She tore off this top sheet and handed it to him. He read the words to himself.
Don’t say anything. I won’t be able to answer. Not today.
He made an open gesture with his hands, as though to say, Why not? The doctor wrote another note.
Today is Saint Meade’s Day. She was struck dumb in the sight of the Lord. And so we follow her example.
He read this one while she quickly wrote another. Luckily, she was making an effort not to use a family doctor’s traditional unreadable scrawl. This third note said:
Don’t worry. It is a short day. We can all speak again at 8 o’clock tonight.
Nyquist cursed aloud, he couldn’t help himself. Higgs grew agitated, and she quickly covered her mouth with her hand. He was used to the gesture by now, and he took it to mean Be quiet, or even Shut up! But what could he do? He had set this day aside for his search through the village, asking everyone he met about his father, showing them the photograph, asking questions, many questions.
But none of that could happen now.
He took the pen from Higgs and wrote a note on the back of the current message.
Is there a new saint every day?
She answered:
Almost always. They run from one spring equinox to the next, in a random cycle. But we do have a No Saint’s Day every so often.
Higgs kept writing, using one leaf of paper after another, handing each one to Nyquist as she finished it, and then moving onto a new sheet. Altogether it read:
I hate No Saint’s Day! There are five of them scattered throughout the year, and six in a leap year. I never know what to do. It’s horrible. How am I supposed to behave? You see, each saint has a different way of behaving. It gives us control, all of us in the village. We are always governed by the same limitations, a different set for each day. It’s a per
fect system. But when a No Saint’s Day comes around, well then, confusion reigns!
Nyquist thought about this. Higgs handed him a pen of his own, and a new notepad. He responded with a simple message.
That sounds like a perfectly normal day, for me.
The doctor’s response was:
Ha ha. That’s a good joke. I am laughing.
Nyquist replied with a shrug:
It’s true. No rules. Only here. In the mind.
He tapped at the side of his head.
Now they both looked at each other, and for a moment neither of them communicated. Nyquist broke the silence of the page by writing:
What will tomorrow’s saint bring?
And the doctor answered:
I don’t know.
This puzzled Nyquist.
Why not?
And the answer came back:
I told you. They’re chosen at random. But it will probably be worse than today’s. For you anyway. Maybe you should leave?
He wrote quickly:
I can’t do that. I’m looking for my father. George Nyquist. I believe he’s in the village somewhere.
He handed her the photograph and asked:
Have you seen him anywhere?
The doctor’s fingers, stained from years of mixing herbs and medicines, touched gently at the black cotton threads around the lips. A conversation followed, back and forth on paper:
Sorry, no. He’s not one of my patients, that’s for sure. And I look after all the people who live here.
Perhaps he’s never been ill?
He looks ill.
Yes. He does.
Very ill.
OK. Don’t go on. There’s no need.
Nyquist’s words stopped on the page. There was nothing more to be said, nothing to be written out aloud in thickly etched lines, nor in a whisper of faintly brushed words.
