by Jeff Noon
“When was this?”
“A couple of weeks ago. Saint Pepper’s Day, when everybody looks the other way, and walks sideways instead of going forward. Agnes took advantage of this, to always be out of people’s sight… until she walked into mine.”
Nyquist thought about the days when the two deaths had occurred: Bainbridge had died when nobody could make a sound, and Jane Sutton when the mists of the fret clouded the village. The killer was taking advantage of the rulings, to move in secret.
“Go on. What did she want of you?”
Sadler’s eyes told the whole story even before he spoke. “I thought she wanted to be with me. That she’d left her husband.” He blinked sadly. “It wasn’t to be.”
Nyquist persisted, keeping Sadler on course: “What did she want?”
“To tell me the truth, of what she’d done. Or rather, what she was about to do.” He paused, and licked his lips. “I need a drink.”
“Not yet. Keep going.”
“God damn you, Nyquist. Can’t you leave a man be?”
“No.”
Sadler moaned. He said, “Agnes wanted to punish the villagers who had harmed her husband, Thomas Dunne. But I don’t think she meant to kill them.”
Nyquist had to feel for the man: his love for Agnes had blinded him to the truth, or at least a possible truth.
“And what had happened to her husband, what was the harm done?”
Sadler looked away. “She wouldn’t tell me that. And pretty soon afterwards, she went on her way. I tried to make her stay, but it was no good. We kissed in the doorway. That was it. And I realized…” His face seemed to crumple, and his fret followed suit, shuddering in blue and black. “I knew then that she loved her husband far more than she did me.” He clenched his jaw tight. “I’ve been a fool.”
Nyquist thought the conversation was over, that Sadler would have nothing more to say – but after a moment he looked up and said, “There is one place. We used to go there, the two of us, when we were teenagers. But I can’t tell you where it is.”
“Sadler. Come on. It’s time.”
“Listen to me.” He spoke slowly and deliberately. “I cannot tell you where it is. I would come to great harm, if I did so.”
The conversation ended abruptly as Sadler stood up and walked off, his colors fading into the night. Nyquist made his way back to the high street. There was only one thing on his mind now, one destination. The idea came to him from deep down. But as he set off, he saw another fret merging with his. It was the doctor. She looked agitated.
“Nyquist, what are you playing at?”
“I was wondering when you’d admit to it.”
“I’m not admitting anything. I just need you to be careful–”
“You keep saying that.”
“Haven’t I been your friend here, your confidant?”
“You’ve been checking up on me, that’s true, every step of the way. Keeping close.”
Now Higgs looked irritated. She shouted at him, “Maybe I’m protecting you, John, have you thought about that?” But her outburst only brought on a coughing fit. She put a hand over her mouth. Her face turned red, her fret also, and the coughs made their way as waves of disturbance through the mist.
Nyquist said, “I’m not here to fight you. You do know that?”
Higgs stared at him. For a moment it seemed she might have some kind of rejoinder. But her body gave in, and then her mind, and she told him for the first time of her fears, of the sickness, and how little time she had left.
“Maude Bryars will help you,” Nyquist said. “She will care for you, I’m sure.”
“That’s not enough.”
Nyquist thought about what she was saying. “Irene. Please tell me you haven’t made some kind of deal, a deal with the devil? You know that never goes right.”
“I need to get better.”
“And this is the way, is it?”
“It’s the only way.”
Nyquist shook his head in despair. “I don’t know what it is that you’ve done, not really. And I don’t care, I really don’t. Except that my father’s involved in some way.” He glared at her. “And that really pisses me off.”
“Yes. I didn’t know that would happen…”
“What? Higgs? That what would happen?”
“None of us did. I’m sorry.”
“All I want is the truth. Do you know where my father is?”
“He’s waiting for you. And when the time is right, you’ll find each other.”
She was moving away, her fret separating from his. He called out, “Higgs, wait! Tell me where he is!”
But her face and form were merging into the darkness all around, as her last strands of mist drifted away. Her voice came out of the gloom, saying, “It’s too late now. We have gone too far, and cannot step back into the lighted path.”
And then Nyquist was alone. He rushed forward, trying to find her. But his fret never seemed to move in the right direction; the doctor was too skilled in hiding, in the use of the mist as a place of safety, and of secrets.
Well, let it be; he had more important things to consider.
It was coming up on half past eight. He made his way to the outskirts of the village, and carried on across a field. He climbed the gentle hill, and as he did so, he thought about the case, and all that he knew. Two people had died. He couldn’t help thinking that he was to blame in some way, for the deaths, as Gerald Sutton had claimed. His arrival in the village had set off a series of unforeseen events. The only hope he had was to find the killer before another poisoning took place. And always at the back of his mind lingered a thought he hadn’t dared to consider, until now: that his own father, George Nyquist, was in some way involved in the deaths. Saints forbid, he might even be the killer. Madelyn Arkwright had hinted at such a connection.
If he could prove otherwise, that at least would be a result. Of a kind.
Nyquist reached a borderline of trees. Beyond was Morden Wood, as he now knew it. He entered the arched doorway of the branches, his fret lighting the way a little, enough that he could make his way forward, one careful step at a time. He brought to mind the directions Professor Bryars had given him at their meeting: Walk through Morden Wood and take the left-hand path at Sylvia’s Glade. And then keep on walking. Yes, he would follow that route, perfectly contained inside his globe of light. The trees came into sight, one by one, each branch momentarily illuminated, each tangle of twigs, each cluster of white berries. And so he moved on in this manner, taking his own body lamp with him, and leaving darkness in his wake.
Soon he was in the myre wood, at the center of the forest. He saw a first label hanging from a branch, and then another, and then many of them, the further he went along. Sylvia’s calling cards. The names were lit by the fret and easily read, even as they turned and fluttered in the night breeze: Black Hearted, Collector of Cuckoo Spit, Home to Squirrels, Beetle Bath, Eye of Skull, Mr Hollow, Mystery Twig. His face and hair brushed against them as he passed along. The hoot of an owl shivered at Nyquist’s fret and set it trembling – the sound moved across the haze as a streak of color, and then faded from sight.
A few more steps brought him to a wooden hut in a clearing. Sylvia’s Glade. He rapped on the door of the hut and called out, “Sylvia, it’s John Nyquist. Are you in?” He tried again, using a different name: “It’s me, Written in Blood.” But even this brought no response. He pushed at the door and it swung open, and he stepped inside. There was no sign of any occupant. Hundreds of labels hung down on pieces of cotton and string from the low ceiling. He read a few as he moved further inside: Read Me Slowly, Spell of Speech, Message for a Ghost, Silent Name, Sylvia’s Favorite, White Wing, Cocoon Poem. The room was sparsely furnished. There was a table and chair, and an iron grate and chimney breast, where pieces of wood were stacked in readiness of a fire. It was all very neat and tidy, every surface spotless. He examined the table where a set of boxes held her supplies of string, blank cards and wax
crayons. Even the table and chair, and the boxes had their own labels attached: Waiting for Words, Midnight’s Ink, Sit Down Here. A series of ledgers were slotted together on a small shelf. He took up the latest one – Sylvia Keepsake’s Record of Taxonomy, Volume 4 – and he opened it to find an entry for every branch and tree, with its new name. Also named were birds and animals, and people. Nyquist leafed back through the pages. He saw Edward Fairclough: Born to Follow. He saw Gladys Coombes: Lady of the Lake. And so on. A few other villagers he didn’t recognize. He found his own entry from last Thursday: I met a stranger in the woods. A lost soul. I called him Written in Blood. And this, from just two days ago: Mrs Agnes Dunne gathering berries. She was rude to me. I called her Twig Stealer. That was enough: one more clue to add to his collection.
He made his way back outside. Contained within his very own bubble of moonlight, he felt he might be the only thing of flesh and blood for miles around: flesh, blood, mist and light, an intermingled creature, courtesy of Saint Athelstan. But as he left the glade, a strange and disturbing thing happened: his fret started to falter, to flicker and die around him, the sparkles of light popping out and the mist dissipating. So then: here at the glade, the power of the saints ran out, and the ordinary world took over. This was the borderzone. Nyquist was now unprotected, and he felt naked, exposed, and terribly cold. He checked the time on his wristwatch: well past nine o’clock. Shivering, banging his hands at his sides, he wondered about making his way back to the village? But no, he had to keep on, he had come too far. Too much was at stake.
He took the left-hand path from the clearing, as directed.
This deep into the wood, at this time of night, silence and darkness reigned. The trees grew closer together. He had to squeeze between their trunks. Here and there, ripe clusters of moonsilver brightened the branches with their promises of stillness, and sleep. Eternal sleep. But he kept on, and soon enough the woods thinned out and he came to a stretch of open land, where a low hill rose up from the wood’s edge.
And there on the hill’s summit stood his destination.
Clud Tower.
The clouds drifted away across the sky, leaving the moon to look over the land. Only one sliver of darkness remained at the moon’s edge; it was almost full, and he could see the building clearly. And he understood Sadler’s fear, for this was the one place that villagers could never name, or even admit to knowing about.
Nyquist walked the overgrown path that led to it. He stood in contemplation, looking at the tall structure. It wasn’t circular, as he’d imagined from the blurred photograph he’d been sent. Rather it was made of a series of flat walls, perhaps a pentagon, or a hexagon in cross-section. He would have to walk round to make sure. It was made of old stone, long darkened by age and the weather and moss and damp. There was a heavy wooden door, painted green, and padlocked shut.
Why had he been sent a photograph of this place?
From the crest of this hill Nyquist could look down into a further valley and across to the other side, faraway, where a few lights were seen, evidence of dwellings, farmhouses perhaps, or the homes of another village or town. Perhaps Bligh, or Lockhampton?
He set off around the tower, moving rapidly. He counted five walls, and then he came back to the green door. There was no sign of any other way in. He walked around it again, to check for details, this time going anticlockwise. He passed one wall, another, the third, a fourth, the fifth wall. But there was no sign of the door. He must have miscounted. He carried on around in the same direction, counting walls as he did so, and he reached twelve walls before he stopped, trembling with a sudden fear, that he might be lost and never find his way back again. A cloud covered the moon. It was pitch black. Something was rustling close by, an animal, or a spirit. It breathed. Quickly, Nyquist set off in the opposite direction and found the green doorway, after just five walls. He gasped with relief. By now, his face was damp with sweat and his hands shook, he couldn’t control them. It took him a good minute to regain a degree of calm.
The tower was pentagonal in shape, he had to keep that in mind.
Five sides. Five sides only!
He set off once more, widdershins, and quickly became lost again, for one wall after another passed by, and the doorway did not appear. Now he stopped. He was out of breath, as though he’d been on a long journey. He took a few more paces, still counting. Sixteen walls. Seventeen. He looked out over the valley and saw the same pattern of lights down below. After a moment’s rest he retraced his steps and counted the walls – one, two, three, four, five – and he came to the green door. He felt like he’d come home, that he was safe once more.
Here was the truth: walking around it in a clockwise direction, Clud Tower had five sides only. Walking around it anticlockwise, the tower had more than five sides. Many sides, Nyquist didn’t know how many. Perhaps they went on forever, never repeating, and he felt dizzy thinking about such a thing. But he knew this: he would never find what he was looking for in a tower of five sides only. He had to walk the other way around, and keep on walking until he found another door, or some object. Or a person.
Nyquist’s journey began. He gave himself a limit by noting the time on his watch: half an hour of circling around, and then he would call it quits, and set off once more through the woods, back into Hoxley, and his room above The Swan With Two Necks. The thought of his bed filled him with yearning; he imagined himself under the sheets, warm and secure. Instead he was walking around Clud Tower, endlessly walking, counting the walls as he passed, and then miscounting them, and then giving up on keeping score. Only the thought that all he had to do was turn around, walk past five walls, and the door would be there for him: only this kept him sane. And so he carried on.
By his wristwatch he had been on the go now for twelve minutes.
And then he came across a feature he hadn’t seen before, a piece of chalked graffiti depicting a complex knotted shape. Opposite this was a small circle of stones and bricks set in the ground, forming a hearth with the remains of a campfire inside. Nyquist bent down. The ashes were cold. He should have felt glad at this, for now he had a sense that he was actually moving on, passing into new territories. But his whole body was shivering as he continued on his way. Widdershins, widdershins! He remembered what Doctor Higgs had told him, about never taking a left-hand path around a church, otherwise you might meet the devil. It certainly felt possible right now, in the dark, in the bitter cold. Every new wall that he reached, he expected to see someone waiting for him, a dark-eyed stranger holding a knife, or a wild beast, or a demon clinging halfway up the tower on hooked claws. His mind raced ahead, into fear and trepidation. One wall, another. One more. Around and around. Eighteen minutes on the dial. He reached the stone fireplace again; he knew it was the same one because of the graffiti on the wall opposite. But there was a difference; this time the ashes of the fire were smoking, and a few cinders were glowing red in the gray dust. He bent down and felt the warmth of a low heat on his palms. It made him wonder: perhaps he was traveling backwards in time, or forwards even? He felt nauseous. Could he even trust his wristwatch? He put it to his ear and listened. The ticks came at irregular intervals, like those of a damaged heart. Where the hell was he? What day was it? What was making that noise, that low soft whispering sound from the next corner? It sounded like a creature slithering along. Nyquist shivered with fright. Keep moving, keep moving! But as he got to his feet he stopped and looked down again. There was glint of bright silver in the embers. He picked up a stick and shifted the ashes around until the object was revealed. It was a coin, an old coin by the look of it. He moved it to the side of the stone hearth and then tried to flick it onto the ground, but something was holding it back. He shifted the ashes a little more to uncover a green thread attached to the coin. It was a tendril, of the kind he was now used to. Here was a fourth object of consequence. Nyquist flipped it onto the ground around the stones. The coin was warm to the touch. It was marked with the date 1666, and the portrai
t of a king, one of the Charleses, it looked like. A bewigged individual. The tendril emerged from the coin’s edge, and straightaway it made its way to his fingers, wrapping itself around one of them. He felt the series of tiny burrs hook themselves into his flesh, and a tiny dot of blood was formed, like that around a pinprick. But he forced himself not to panic, to stay true, even as his body flinched, even as the hooks cut deeper into his flesh. Having had the other three objects stolen, he had to be glad of this attachment, he had to welcome it. There was no other way.
He turned the next corner. The slithering sound stopped. He was still alone. Twenty-five minutes had passed since the commencement of his journey. One wall and then another, and another. One more! His mind was weakening, and his body was growing tired. His eyes blurred over. He focused on every last bit of damage to the stones as a marker of life, to know that he was moving on – and every scratch and mark of graffiti in the same way, the chalked names of long-forgotten loves serving as a compass. On, and on. Without thinking he was counting the walls, starting again from zero: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine… Now he stopped, for he could hear the Tolly song from around the next corner of the tower.
Sing along a Sally, O
The moon is in the valley, O
Nyquist walked around the corner, and stopped again. His entire body was bound to that moment, and not a further step could be taken.
Here was the mask, the living mask.
The mask of knotted twigs, bound with barbed wire.
The mask that hung suspended in the dark, just a few feet away.
The twigs that creaked and rustled together.
He knew a woman was wearing the mask, for her song continued a while longer, high and sweet in the night air.
Nyquist didn’t know what to do. His eyes blinked away sweat, and tried their best to see clearly through the gloom. He was frozen to the spot.
