The train moved slowly on, its rhythm more lulling now. Nyquist was neither asleep nor awake, but in some place halfway between. His mind flitted here and there across an array of memories, some good, and many not so good; his thoughts were a series of tiny lamps, each one being lit in turn, lit and then extinguished until he felt his mind settling upon one particular memory, entirely unbidden. It was an incident he hadn’t thought of in such a long while. His mother’s death.
Fragments, splinters of light, a young boy cowering in fear on the pavement.
Seven years old, by the family’s chosen timescale.
Helpless.
His mother’s stricken face as she went into a sudden spasm.
He could not move, yet neither could he take his eyes away from the sight.
Her body convulsing, those last gasps for strangled breath.
Somebody rushing up to help her.
Too late, far too late…
The train moved over a cracked rail and he woke up. The lights flickered. How long had he been asleep? He couldn’t tell. He looked at his watch but the numbers meant nothing to him. It was an alien language. Perhaps by now they had left the dusklands behind; but no, when he lifted his head to look out through the windows, he saw the silvered mist lingering there. The train seemed to be moving even more slowly than before. He pressed at his eyes with the fingers and thumb of one hand. As he did so, the man in the business suit moved in closer, leaning against him from the side. Nyquist shifted his body away, as far as it could in the tight space.
“Look at that for a sight,” the neighbour said.
“What do you want?”
“It’s pathetic, isn’t it? Don’t you think?” He was nodding over to the young woman with the ten or so watches strapped around her wrists and arms. “All the energy these people waste, trying to keep track of things. You don’t mind me talking?”
“I just want to rest, that’s all.”
“I know the feeling. It’s been a hell of a day, I can tell you. A day and a half of hell.”
Nyquist didn’t respond.
“Are you tired? You look tired. I’m just asking. Because you see, what you really need is one of these.” The businessman rolled up his sleeve to show off his watch, a monster of a timepiece even more elaborate than the one advertised on the poster opposite. “You see this? Bold, alluring, and dare I say it, more than a little avant-garde! Quartz crystal with sapphire movement. One hundred and fifty official timescales. Another fifty completely user-definable. Any which way you want it. Fully programmable. Look here. Click, click, click!” The man was pressing buttons on his chronometer. Nyquist could see the hands on the dial changing positions. The man kept on pressing and the hands speeded up, becoming a blur of movement. “Click, click! You need never be late again.” Nyquist’s hand shot out to grasp the man’s wrist, covering up the watch face. “Hey! That… that hurts. Let go of me! Let go.” The grip tightened. Nyquist could feel the watch digging into his palm, bringing a pain of its own, but no matter: this would happen, he would break this thing, he would tear it clear off the stupid man’s fragile wrist, he would break the hand itself, if need be.
The victim cried out in pain.
Other passengers were looking over. The young boy was shrieking with laughter. His mother tried to make him turn away.
Fear had spread all over the businessman’s face. “Please. Let me go. Please!”
Nyquist was blanked out to all other feelings but for the power in his hand, the fingers tightening, twisting. And then somebody tapped him on the shoulder, another passenger, and Nyquist saw clearly what he was doing, how far he had gone. He stood up, releasing the businessman’s wrist. He muttered some words of apology and then tried to get away, to find a space of his own. The air was suffocating. He felt faint. It was the gathered heat of the carriage, that was all, the flickering overhead lights, the brightly coloured adverts, the shapes in the fog at the windows, the constant rattle and groan of the train, the closeness of other people’s flesh. That was all! A woman’s gaze met his own and then jerked away as though ashamed of what she saw in Nyquist’s face.
This was crazy. He had to stay calm. His hand reached up to grab a vacant strap. The train moved on its way down the track and his body swayed with the rhythm.
Nyquist closed his eyes once more. And now the varied sounds of the carriage melted away, until only one remained. Tick tick tick tick. It was the sound of his own wristwatch, and the watch of the man standing next to him, also ticking. The sounds rose up. Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick. And now other tiny mechanisms were joining in, until every wristwatch in that long carriage could be heard clearly. Together, they made the sound of a giant clock, a funeral clock. Tolling, tolling. But not for himself, not for Nyquist. But for Eleanor. Death had marked her out. And he was suddenly back in that terrible room, in that house in Angelcroft Lane. Kinkaid died again.
The murderer a shape in the fog…
Nyquist forced his eyes open. The ticking sound remained, even though nobody else seemed to notice it; louder now, more insistent, a tinny beat, blurring the air, glittering, the sound of it. It worked upon his senses like a swarm of hyperactive insects. All the people nearby were staring at him like he was some kind of animal; not clean, not bathed and not sweetly smelling, not smart, not suitably dressed for the night to come. None of those things. Not on time. No. He would be late, too late, always late. Or else too early, far too early. No time. None at all! The young woman to his left moved away from him, as far as she could manage in the crowded space. Voices were raised, hands pushing at him. The clock, the clock: turning, ticking, the hands, turning, the chimes, turning, whirring, measuring, alerting, reminding, alarming. He found himself alone near a window. People had squeezed even more tightly together, to make this space for him. The children were staring, a little scared, thrilled even. The madman, the crazy man. Oh, look at him. Look!
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick…
Nyquist put his hands to his ears. He pressed hard. It was no good. The sound could still be heard. The sweat dripped from his face, his hair; his hands were wet. He would have to make a noise, that was it, any noise, anything louder than the ticking sound, nothing else would make it go away. He would have to scream out loud. Which he did, but the terrible screeching came not only from his mouth but from the train itself. The two sounds joined together. The carriage rocked a little more than usual, and then a little less. The screeching noise continued. People had shifted their attention away from Nyquist. They were worried, their voices rising up in dread.
“What is it? What’s happening?”
“We’re slowing down.”
“No!”
“I can feel it. Can’t you feel it?”
“No. This can’t happen. It can’t!”
Voices bitten by fear. The train was definitely losing speed, the sound of the wheels lowering in pitch, growing quieter, the carriage settling down on the tracks as the train pulled up to a slow, slow standstill.
The lights fluttered.
Not a single movement could be felt.
Nyquist’s eyes darted to the window opposite, where the shapes of mist were sticking to the glass. Somebody started to pray out loud. The young boy was looking terrified now, all the moodiness gone out of him. His mother drew him to her. “It’s all right, Billy. Don’t worry now. Don’t worry.”
The businessman said, “We’ve stopped. Why? What is it? Why have we stopped?”
Nyquist told him to be quiet.
“What–”
“Shut up!”
The whole carriage obeyed him. A tomblike silence followed. Only a teenager dared to speak. “What’s going on?” Nobody answered, and then she too fell silent.
Quiet. Deathly quiet.
Nyquist listened.
Even the ticking noise had faded away.
The mist brushing against the glass; the low sound of breathing; that was all.
And then the lights went o
ut completely.
Panic flared. People were crying out, screaming, moving around and banging into each other, fear taking charge of them. Nyquist could feel his heart trying to crawl out of his chest. Now the lights flickered overhead, bright, then faint, then dark, failing to catch. And then clicking on and staying on, but low level, dim, so the carriage was painted in a ghastly yellow glow. All the windows were now covered in the thickness of mist, so that not one inch of glass remained untouched. It seemed that the glass itself was made out of fog.
Nyquist couldn’t stop shaking.
A voice came over the loudspeaker system. “This is your guard speaking. We are experiencing a small engineering difficulty. Please. Do not be alarmed.” The voice crackled and died.
The businessman stood up. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He shouted towards the loudspeaker, as though he might be heard: “What kind of trouble is this? Speak to me! Help me!”
Others joined in. “Help us! Help!”
The young mother looked petrified. She couldn’t move. Her son, Billy, slipped away from her grasp. The guard’s voice spoke again: “We are endeavouring to resolve the situation.”
“There, see,” said one passenger, a well-dressed woman in her forties. “They will send for help.”
“How will they do that?” asked the businessman. “We’re in the middle of Dusk! You know the radio doesn’t work out here. The signal gets messed up.”
“They have… they have cables. They’ve laid cables.”
“Yeah, and they get destroyed. I read about it.”
“Who does that?” asked Billy’s mother. “Who destroys them?”
The businessman shook his head. “Nobody knows.”
“Lord Apollo protect us!” The mother looked about her, desperate for somebody to offer comfort, anything, but then her gaze fell on a sight that disturbed her even more, and she called out, “Billy! Come here! Come back here.”
The boy had squeezed through to the nearest door. He was knocking against the panelling, trying to get it to come open. The door wouldn’t budge. His mother cried out to him, “Billy. Don’t do that!” She couldn’t reach him. There were too many passengers in the way. “Billy!” And then…
Thump. Something landed on the roof of the carriage. Something big, heavy. The lights flickered and died which set the people screaming once more.
“Sweet Helios! What was that?”
The thing, whatever it was, could be heard moving about on the roof, shifting about with a dull, dragging motion. It was scraping at the metal of the carriage. Every single passenger conjured up their own worst imaginings.
And then silence once again.
The mist that pressed itself against the window brought the only light, a silvery tint. It clung to the glass in patterns that seemed to be forming and reforming. Again the high-pitched scraping noises were heard through the ceiling, like sharpened claws on metal. Somebody flicked on a hand torch. The beam skidded about, finding a man’s face, a stark white expression of fear.
It was Nyquist, caught in the glow.
Somebody dared to whisper: “What is it? What’s out there?”
Nobody answered. Nobody. Until…
“The dead.”
It was said in a hushed tone. And really, what else could it be?
There was a gasp of shock, and another.
The lights came back on, gloomier than before, a murky red colour. Young Billy had found the emergency door release panel. He lifted up the glass cover, exposing the handle. Nyquist saw this, but was unable to move; he witnessed the sight as a distant event, unconnected to his present life.
The loudspeaker crackled. The guard’s voice started a sentence, the first few words chopped off. “Don’t try to–” People listened, waiting, cowering in corners, holding onto themselves, each other, their neighbours, strangers, anybody. Again, the scratching sound. And then something slid down one of the windows, a presence in the mist, made of mist, but more viscous, alive almost. It was a darker shade of grey, streaked with thin swirls of orange. It seemed to have a face, a face that might once have been human.
“Oh my god, save me! Save me!”
A single voice. A trigger. Everybody moved at once, trying to get away, bunching together. All except Nyquist. He was standing apart, hypnotised, his eyes moving from the beast, the ghost, the monster, the demon at the window, whatever it was, and, over to the young kid at the door. He could see the boy’s hand wrapped around the release lever.
The mother shouted out, “Billy! Don’t.”
The boy was aware of his own need to escape, nothing more. He yanked at the lever. His face screwed tight, his hands gripped and pulled a second time. The handle dropped down at last. It made a creaking, tearing sound, and expelled air hissed from the mechanism. The door remained closed, the two halves pressed together at the rubber lip.
Something else hit the roof, a second monster. It scuttled and scraped.
The passengers clung even more tightly to each other, crawling as one away from the new fear.
Somebody gasped, trying to speak. “He’s got…”
Another person finished the sentence: “He’s got a gun!”
Everybody turned to look. It was Nyquist. He was standing there, with the gun pulled swift and clear from the holster, and directed straight and true towards the thing that clung to the glass.
Somebody said to him, “Shoot it! Go on.”
Another voice: “No. Don’t break the glass.”
Another: “You’ll let them all in.”
Now the gun trembled in his hands. Sweat stung his eyes. The target blurred. He could hear the boy working at the door, and the sounds of the carriage cut into the tender part of Nyquist’s brain.
He turned to face the boy, saying in a calm voice, “Don’t do that.”
Billy carried on. He was pressing against one half of the door, forcing a gap to open, a small gap. He was sobbing. “Let me out… please… let me out!”
The gap opened up a little more. Mist seeped inside.
Nyquist turned the gun towards the child. He spoke again, louder this time. “Kid, don’t do it.”
Billy could feel that something was wrong. His hands were still pressed against the rubber lip, but without moving. His body quivered.
Everybody was staring at Nyquist in disbelief.
Nyquist felt his body coming alive like a charge of pure hot electricity had travelled through him.
“Don’t open the door!”
Billy ignored the call. He pushed again, further, using all of his might. His mother looked terrified. She could hardly speak: “You can’t… you can’t!” This said to Nyquist, as he glanced back to the window. The thing was still clinging there, moving along as though seeking entrance. The glass appeared to be melting. Nyquist turned back to the boy.
“Step away!”
“No!” the mother wailed. And now she did find her strength, pushing aside all in her way, positioning herself between the boy and the gun. “Leave him alone! He’s my… he’s my child! You can’t do this!”
Nyquist took a step forward. Everybody had moved out of his way and now only the mother stood between himself and the boy at the door. He spoke again, more quietly now, coldly; it put the shivers in all who could hear.
“Let go of the door. Let go.”
The voice was deadly enough to cause an effect. The boy’s fingers uncurled from their grip, and the two halves of the door closed upon each other tightly. His mother immediately turned and gathered the child up in her arms. She screamed at Nyquist in wordless rage.
The carriage lamps flickered again. The sound of the train’s engine could be heard, straining for movement.
Nyquist’s face was a terrible sight to behold. Pain and doubt were twisted in his skin, in his eyes. He seemed to be coming out of a place of shadows, all of his own making. And realising what he’d done or was about to do, he slowly lowered his hands, taking the gun down from its target.
The l
ight sputtered for one last time and the train started to move, jerking into motion. A woman cried out, “We’re moving!” It was the voice of somebody brought back to life, and all in the carriage heard it gratefully. The lights returned to full brightness as the train picked up speed, the carriage rocking as before. The thing at the window clung on for a moment longer and was then sucked away by the rushing back draft, lost to the mist. Some people were crying, or even laughing, shot with nerves. Others could not speak, and would not speak, not for a good long while.
Nyquist had not moved from the spot. The gun was still in his hand, but lowered to his side. In a quiet voice he said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Nobody responded to his words. His fellow passengers only stared at him in horror and distaste. His own sight was locked on the window and whatever it was he saw there; his own reflection, the mist and what lay beyond, the dead land itself, the dusk unfolding as the train surged on and on towards the safety of night.
Part Two
Nocturna
Guide Book
The New Constellations