by Jeff Noon
“That’s good.”
Sorrow touched at him. He drew Agnes into the hallway and said, “The coroner has made his decision, about Jane Sutton, and about Ian Bainbridge. It’s suicide.”
“I know.”
“I would leave it at that.”
“I haven’t yet made my mind up.”
“I’m the only other person who knows the truth. And I assure you… I won’t be telling anybody.”
She nodded at this. Nyquist picked up his suitcase and slipped away. People were going about their everyday lives, working, shopping, chatting to neighbors, walking the dog. He noticed confusion on quite a few faces. One person was simply standing still, in a daze of indecision. It was Becca Fairclough. And he knew that today was a no saint’s day: there was no required behavior. It was a strange feeling, even for him, a visitor. He missed being told what to do and was a little fearful of the choices that lay ahead.
He passed the doctor’s surgery and he saw Higgs at the window, looking out. Perhaps the spell had worked for her, perhaps not. He thought of knocking on the door and speaking to her. But no, it was best to move on.
Nyquist took his leave from Hoxley-on-the-Hale.
Within a short while he was approaching Morden Wood. The shadows welcomed him. On occasion, his father’s face came to him, as it was when young. A ghost in the trees. It made him think of a dream he’d had, a couple of nights ago. A dream of the dead coming to life, and being with others on the village green, and he wondered for a moment whether his parents might yet find one another.
He walked on. It was a fine winter’s morning, and the upper canopy glinted with light as the sun came up. Sylvia Keepsake was taking down the labels from the branches, while her sister stood beside her, helping. Hilda Bainbridge was talking. It was quite a thing to hear. She repeated each word carefully out loud, as Hilda showed her the labels. Each word, each phrase, each name: Witch’s Knot, Scatter Seed, Aerial, Pretty Pattern, Long to Depart. He watched them for a moment from the safety of a thicket, then he took the pathway that led to the country road, and the bus stop. It was seven minutes to nine. The road stretched away across the moors. He could see the number 16 bus approaching in the far distance, its bright red paintwork stark against the open sky, the endless fields. It dipped into and out of view as it made its progress. A pair of crows joined him on a fence. One of them cawed, the other turned a yellow eye to the sun.
Nyquist looked down at his right hand, at the palm. It was marked with a small scabbed over wound, a single line of dark red. It ached slightly. Here, a sharing had taken place. Here in the flesh, where one world ended and another began, a story had been written: by these wings, with this blood.
EPILOGUE
THE SOMNAMBULIST
Six weeks later, on a Friday afternoon, John Nyquist was getting ready to finish work early when the bell to his office rang. He opened the door and saw Teddy Fairclough standing there. For a good few moments the private eye didn’t know what to say, he was so surprised. But he asked the young man inside, and offered him a drink. They drank beer together. It was odd to see Teddy drinking alcohol, but it wasn’t the only thing that had changed: despite his ragged clothes and his dirty neck and uncut hair, he looked more confident, his mood entirely suited to the new decade. It was late January, 1960. Things were changing, especially for the young. Nyquist asked to hear his story.
“It all started on Saint Yorick’s Day. Do you remember that one?”
“You’ll have to remind me.”
“It’s the day that we all miss, that we sleep through.”
“Of course.”
Teddy would not keep still. He paced the room. “Well, I woke up. I woke up early. I was standing on the green, and the entire village was there with me, all gathered together. I couldn’t believe it.”
“I was there?”
“Everybody was.” He came to a halt. “It was so strange. People were fully dressed, moving about, but I think I was the only one awake. All the other villagers were sleepwalking.”
“The effect of the saint?”
“Yes. But it only lasted a minute or so, my wakefulness. I kept slipping back into sleep, into a dream. And whether awake or otherwise, I decided to walk away. The idea just took me over!” His eyes brightened. “It was twenty past six in the evening: the church clock told me. I took the road that led to the woods. It was a pathway I knew by heart, from years of running wild as a kid. I remember the glade of labeled trees. I walked past Best Ever Twig and Waiting for Springtime and Snapped in Two. And here I must have reached the limits of Saint Yorick’s power, for the hypnotic effect fell away. I was now fully awake.”
The young man paused. He took a breath. His focus had left Nyquist’s office; instead he was staring at the far-off trees of Morden Wood.
“I carried on walking and was soon at the country road, near the bus stop. I knew there would be no bus until the morning, but I waited there, giving myself an hour’s leeway. If nothing happened by then, I’d go back home. That was my promise. I tried to thumb a lift. Only three cars went by. The first two ignored me, the third one stopped. I knew the driver. It was Mr Ainsworth, the solicitor from Lockhampton who had taken my father’s court case, and he was happy to give me a lift. I had enough money in my pocket to purchase a train ticket, and a little left over. The five pound note you gave me really helped.”
“Good. I’m glad.”
“Mr Ainsworth helped me out. At Lockhampton station I boarded the first train heading south. Since then I’ve been wandering, taking on work where I could find it.”
Nyquist finished his drink. “What about your family? Becca? She was worried about you.”
“I know. But I sent her a letter, telling her I was alright. Not born to follow, this is what I told her. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I do.” Nyquist recalled the name that Sylvia of the Woods had given Teddy.
“But it’s so difficult. I never know where to go next. And the saints… they keep calling to me, asking me to obey.” His face screwed up in pain.
Nyquist had to wonder: this young man had managed to escape Hoxley, the town of his birth. Not many could say such a thing. And the struggle continued.
“What do you want of me, Teddy?”
“I don’t know. A job, maybe?”
Nyquist laughed. “I’m not sure…”
“I’ll do anything.”
“Well, there’s always odds and ends to be done.”
“I don’t care what it is. I just want to work.”
“Sit down.”
Teddy did so. He looked at Nyquist with gratitude. And then his eyes downturned. He was on the edge of tears.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I can’t believe I’ve made it this far.”
“No, neither can I. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Sometimes…” His voice broke.
“Yes?”
“Sometimes I think I’m still back there, in the woods. That I haven’t yet woken up from Yorick’s spell.” Again he paused.
“I know, son. It’s difficult to say, to admit to.”
Teddy blinked rapidly. “Even now… I feel like I’m still moving on, walking in my own darkness.”
Nyquist nodded. He knew the feeling well. And so he spoke kindly.
“Only in the sleepwalker’s eyes…”
It was a poem his father had taught him. It rose up from memory.
Only in the sleepwalker’s eyes, only in the things he believes he is touching, holding, gathering, when his hands are empty: there is truth.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First and foremost, thanks to Bridget Penney, who helped with the story from the beginning, and without whose notes and insights, this novel would be far less than it is.
All the good people at Angry Robot Books – Eleanor, Gemma, Sam, Etan, and especially my editor Paul Simpson, for bringing the book into the world.
Michelle Kass, Russell Franklin, a
nd the team at my agent’s office, for their advice and support over the years.
As always, I’ve plagued a number of friends for feedback on ideas in progress: Vana, Steve, Grant, Karen, Paul. Thank you for your input.
