The city has closed its weary light-drenched eyes and found some rest here, in the southern precincts. In the dark, in the shadows; in the soft black cloudfall of the sky, beneath the gentle sparks and flashes of the stars.
Many citizens use Nocturna simply as their home base, travelling back here once their work or play in Dayzone is finished. Others partake of the darkness in a more symbolic manner. Lullabies sound from bedrooms, old blues songs issue quietly from open windows, and many people speak in whispers, if at all. This desire is easily understood; there are certain human activities both good and bad, joyous and wretched, that demand the cover of night.
First-time visitors often wonder how to find their way around, seeing that the street names and signposts are either cast in shadow or hidden completely by the pitch-black atmosphere. Only a few sources of light are visible. People do carry torches or lanterns, but this scarcely explains how long-term inhabitants so easily find their pathway from A to B to C and back again. The secret can best be explained by first of all offering a contrast with Dayzone, where people often walk along with their heads bowed. In the dark half of the city the opposite effect can be seen, for here people are constantly looking upwards to view the sky. They are in fact navigating by the map of the stars; it is the only sure way of orientating oneself in Nocturna.
Be warned that all normal expectations need to be set aside. It is always bewildering to the tourist that the night sky seems so very different from that seen outside the city, for not a single constellation relates in any way or form to those normally seen in the cosmos. The constellations of Nocturna are manmade. Also, the stars are fixed in their positions, making no progress at all across the sky. Here they rest above the buildings and avenues, ready to guide us. Each square, each street, each precinct has its own unique set of patterns, and local residents will have given names to these shapes.
Some of the more famous and easily spotted of the constellations and other heavenly bodies include: the Tiger’s Claw, the Broken Web, the Crashed Motor Vehicle, the Blot of Ink, the Peppered Moth, the Devil’s Mask, the Tie and Handkerchief, the Little Beetle, the Giant Beetle, the Swan with Two Necks, the Bride of Morpheus, the Pinpricks, the Wash of Milk, the Mad Hatter, the Last Leaf on the Tree, the Wound in the Night Sky, the Beggar Child, the Ghost of Tears, the Long Lost Dream, the Black Snow, the Wires, the Door in the Lion’s Face, the Stolen Kiss, the Hand with Six Fingers, a Melody of Jewels, a Sigh, a Gunshot.
These and other deities of the sky are soon picked out by careful study of the star maps, available from most of the local all-night stores, and from every coach and railway station. Please be aware that various parties offer their own alternative constellations; these should be avoided, at least until visitors feel more at home in the darkness. By these and other means, may you walk safely beneath the heavens.
Nocturne in Yellow, Silver and Cobalt Blue
The train pulled into a station called Cloudtown Hollow. The travellers moved in a daze as they stepped down from the carriage doorways, many of them being helped by station officials. Only Nyquist marched ahead, reaching the ticket barrier first. The concourse was lit by a few dim and shaded bulbs hanging down from the ceiling; between these scattered pools of light the place shaded into grey and then to black. Two police officers were standing beneath one of the lamps. Nyquist would have to pass them to get to the exit. He knew that it wouldn’t be long before someone complained about the gun incident, so he couldn’t take any risks. And then he saw a lamp vendor wandering across the concourse, his body so entirely covered in torches, lanterns and other light-giving devices that his shape was three times the size it would have been shorn of the goods. He kept one or two of these lamps alight in order to advertise his wares; otherwise he moved in darkness. Nyquist made a gesture, and the lamp vendor came over.
“What will it be?”
“One of those hand torches.”
“Good choice, excellent choice. Batteries included.”
Nyquist handed the seller some money, more than was needed, and said, “Keep the change.”
The seller nodded.
“Now, let’s walk together nice and easily, towards the exit over there.”
“I was going that way, as it happens.”
They set off together, Nyquist keeping himself well hidden behind the seller’s bulbous and irregular shape, until they came to the arched doorway. Outside, the darkness was more or less total, broken only by the crisscrossing of the pedestrians’ torch beams as they made their way to and from the train station entrance. Nyquist had been in this area of the city a few times before and so he knew his way around. He looked up at the sky, noting the fixed stars of this precinct in their various patterns, and he opened his mouth wide to breathe in the clean sharp air. It always took the body a while to adjust to Nocturna’s temperature and climate. He shivered in the cold for a moment, and then followed his beam out along the exit ramp and into the main street.
Half an hour later he was driving along through the dark roads behind the wheel of a hire car. It was a good-looking, midnight blue saloon model, the windows made of tinted glass. Nyquist was tired but he had to keep moving. He had to find the girl. Keep her safe. This was his task. If only he could keep his mind clear of all the chatter, back and forth. The image of the kid on the train wouldn’t leave him alone. Why the hell had he taken the gun out like that, in a crowded space? He could’ve just gone over and pulled the kid’s hands loose from the door handle, it would’ve been easy. All the time he felt himself moving closer and closer to the dial’s edge. What would happen if he fell over, with the numbers one to twelve tumbling alongside?
Out of nowhere a thought came to him. Out of the night’s darkness a terrible thought that shocked him: how he wished that Quicksilver really did exist, that the invisible serial killer was in some way to blame for Kinkaid’s death. Because that would free both Eleanor Bale and himself from the murder, it would remove the knife from both their hands, it would wipe the blood from their fingers once and for all.
As it was, only the moment of blackout remained, the lost memories.
Nyquist glanced at the dashboard clock, which was still set to the scale used by the hire company. The time was thirteen past five. He turned on the radio, flipping through stations until he found something to keep the bad thoughts at bay. This was good: a minor key guitar melody, slow and weird, that crawled its way through the chord changes, setting a pattern for the singer to come dancing in on, off the beat, her voice bending low in the old style, like the nighthawk blues that Nyquist used to listen to in the Broken Filament club a few years back, when he used to go out at night for purposes other than chasing down losers and freaks. The blues of loss, the cold cold sky, unrequited love. Every night when the stars come shining, I lay down my weary bones and cry. The lyrics matched his mood perfectly as he drove on through the town’s outlying streets. The blocks of shadow, the shop windows with their faintly lit displays, the muted hoardings, the intermittent signals of torch beams moving along the pavement, the song, the loneliness; Nocturna welcomed him.
A short time later he left the built-up area behind and the darkness intensified, with fewer streetlamps to guide him and fewer lighted windows shining from houses along the way. Every so often he would pass another car, but even these fell away the deeper into Night he travelled. What people there were on the streets – their forms caught momentarily in the yellow of the headlamp beams – appeared as pale apparitions in the darkness, nothing more. They walked along slowly like benign creatures seeking their nests, or windup dolls winding down. Moths fluttered ahead of the car, their wings scattering a fine powder that sparkled in the headlights.
A sudden lantern flash, a slow fade; the face of a small child, startled.
And then darkness once more.
Nyquist worked the steering wheel with a lazy focus, his gaze hardly taking in the road ahead. The dial of the radio was glowing a shiny cobalt blue, currently the brightest thing in his un
iverse. It was hypnotic: the road, the music, the pulse of blue light.
The shadow man’s hands around his neck, tightening.
The whispering, hissing voice.
Quicksilver awaits you…
Nyquist gripped the wheel in panic. He felt the rush of white-hot adrenalin as his eyes popped open and the night swerved towards him and he reacted instantly, as though on the edge of crashing.
No. No, it was all right. Breathe again. The car was still under control. He’d dozed off. A few seconds, if that.
He pulled to a halt as an old lady crossed the road, her body preceded by a wavering, hesitant torch beam like a groping antenna, until she reached the other side and the night engulfed her. More slowly now, aware of his growing tiredness, Nyquist drove on. His face was illuminated by the blue light of the radio; a ghost himself, drifting into danger.
A little later the last house went dark, a solitary window shuttered. The yellow light blinked momentarily as though the person within had tensed with a sudden fear. The road signs all but disappeared, their bulbs long since removed, or broken. Now the darkness was complete. Only a scattering of artificial stars remained in the sky. Nyquist worked the dial to find another station, one playing louder, more insistent music. He had to stay awake, to keep watching the road. And then he saw the seven well-known stars of the Dark-Eyed Venus in the sky. Because of her distinctive shape she was amongst the most easily recognised of the constellations. On a more personal level Nyquist had always seen her as the guardian deity of his home precinct, her silvery body held aloft almost directly above his apartment, his few small rooms, his bed, as he slept, as he slept, as he slept, as he…
Something was wrong. His brain flashed with images, colours, a woman’s cry. His mother calling to him. And then he could feel his hands moving, sliding, the wheel turning. The wheel, what was this? The steering wheel? Another sound then: piercing, wailing. What was happening? You’re asleep. His own voice talking to him, loud, insistent. Wake up. Wake up! Nyquist forced his eyes open. He was blinded by lights ahead of him, twin beams, another car fast approaching, its horn screeching like some terrified night creature.
He jerked the wheel around as hard as he could.
The two vehicles passed within bare inches of each other.
The whole movement happened slowly in Nyquist’s sight: the touch of his fingers on the wheel trim; the cold air whispering on his skin; his eyes fixed on some distant point ahead, far ahead, where he could be alive once more, totally alive.
The passing car’s horn drifted away, deepening as it faded.
Nyquist pulled over to the side of the road.
He waited, willing his body to relax. A song was just coming to an end and the deep resonant voice of the radio presenter came in on the cross fade: “These are the Songs of the Night, with your favourite nocturnal host, Jeremiah Owl. Soothing your grooves with the smoothest of moves. And now let us check the time, my friends. The hands of the studio clock are slowly approaching half past ten.”
Nyquist looked at the dashboard clock. It was only a quarter to six.
“Now you know that’s the real time,” the presenter continued. “Brought to you courtesy of Easy Time, the city’s favourite chrono-palliative preparation. Easy Time… the only time.”
Another melody started, the first movement of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata”. The music affected Nyquist deeply, seeming to carry some emotional weight beyond the notes, powerful as they were. Then he recognised it as the tune he had listened to incessantly as a child, the one released from the little music box whenever he lifted the lid. He thought of the grave of Dominic Kinkaid, the tiny objects left there by Eleanor’s mother.
“Für Elise”. For Elisa.
He tried to remember who Elisa was, the woman or child to whom Beethoven had dedicated the piece of music. He had read about it once, he was certain of that, but like so many other things the knowledge had faded with the years.
He stared at the dashboard clock, and then at his wristwatch.
More than anything he wanted to change the both of them to the new time given out by the radio. His fingers twitched. But no. No. He would control himself, he would fight this. He would stick to one timescale only, for as long as possible, the one on his wrist. That was his promise to himself. The music played on, the rhythm so languorous; it held such a dreamlike quality that the hands of the pianist seemed barely capable of lifting themselves from the keyboard.
Nyquist started the car once more. He looked ahead, to where the Dark-Eyed Venus beckoned. He had meant to journey directly to the Bale household; instead, this goddess of the night sky had drawn him along some hidden pathway of her own choosing.
She was pointing the way home.
Wake-up Call
Like many people Nyquist kept two places where he could sleep, one in daylight and one in the dark. His Nocturna apartment was situated in Widow’s Veil, a low-rent area to the east of the Central Darkness. Living room, tiny bedroom, even tinier kitchen, a bathroom the size of a wardrobe. Returning here after a period in Dayzone, he always felt like he was visiting a small, out-of-season boarding house. The air of loneliness was palpable. On top of which, invariably he left the place in some kind of mess, forced away suddenly by work, or more likely by an urgent need for daylight, and heat.
He knew something was wrong as soon as he walked down the alleyway that led to his front door. The lock had been broken, the door hung partway open. He pulled the gun from its holster, checked the chamber. And then pushed open the door fully.
Moving quietly down the short hallway, he checked each room in turn.
There was no one to be seen.
But his living room and bedroom had both been ransacked, the furniture turned over, drawers pulled out, papers and books scattered everywhere.
He made a second check of each room.
He was alone. His breath steadied. He placed the gun on the coffee table, turned on a single lamp, heavily shaded, and then went in search of alcohol. He found a dirty tumbler and a bottle of whisky containing more air than liquid. He poured himself a drink and tried to relax. The wreckage lay around him. It could’ve been burglars, of course. But what did he have to steal? No, they were looking for Eleanor Bale, that was his first thought: or if not her, then an address, a location, a clue pointing towards her whereabouts.
If this was the work of the shadow men, of course. He had made a few other enemies these last days and nights.
His eyes lighted on the small carriage clock perched on top of the bookcase, according to which it was nine minutes to midnight. He walked over and turned the clock round, so the dial was turned to the wall. Next he went to the front door and dragged a chest of drawers into place, jamming the door shut. This would have to do for now until he could get a new lock fitted. It felt secure enough. In the bathroom he took a good long look at himself in the mirror over the basin. There was a single low-wattage bulb situated above, the only light Nyquist allowed himself in the room. Still, the sight that greeted him was quite shocking. He looked ghastly, a wasted spirit clinging on somehow or other inside the flesh. He said to himself, “Look at you. Who are you? What are you doing?” It was strange, but he only ever spoke to himself like this in Nocturna, never in the Day. And only ever in this particular room. Only here would his eyes lock on themselves, almost daring him to see the worst, the shadows inside that seemed to be rising ever closer to the surface.
A stray thought came to him, and his hands gripped the edge of the basin in fear. But once there, it would not go away. He could feel himself weakening, his curiosity taking over. And something else. A need. A giving in.
Back in the living room he emptied out Eleanor’s duffle bag and picked up one of the two vials of kia. He unscrewed the top. Strangely, the scent of flowers came to him. He tried to remember what he’d learned about the drug in the Noonday Underground club; the teenage girl, Sadie, had talked about being able to see what lies hidden inside every second, something lik
e that. She’d said that her friend, Daisy, was “zooming ahead”, and the dealer Sumak had also implied that the drug offered some kind of vision, or even a premonition. Nyquist remembered the way Sadie’s eyes darkened as she talked about her own inability to experience its pleasures.
Now he raised the vial to his face and moved it back and forth under his nose. He lifted it a little higher. It was a sweet aroma, cloying and overpowering. Words came to him, a distant cry, calling from the shadows of a hotel room…
Immediately he dropped the vial, spilling the contents. He felt sick from what little he’d taken. Damn it! He needed to keep straight, clean, lined up directly on target. He went back into the bathroom and washed his face and stared at his reflection. Already his lips were taking on an orange tinge, he was sure of it. He kept washing; it had no effect. The colour remained. He breathed out deeply a good few times, as though he could somehow dispel the chemicals from his system. A wave of tiredness came over him, so intense he could hardly stand upright. He headed for the bedroom, and sitting on the crumpled sheets he tried to empty his mind of all worry. A little rest would cure him. He would wake up refreshed and then get himself clean, a shower and a shave. He would dress up smartly, maybe even wear his one good tie, the blue and yellow one. Yes, that would do it. The colours of daylight, set against night-time’s dark. And then he would go out, visit the Bale homestead. Perfect. The alarm clock at his bedside told him it was ten to one. He fought back the urge to change it. Instead he dropped the alarm clock into the top drawer of the bedside cabinet. The drawers had all been pulled open by the intruders, the few things inside rifled through. He saw the photograph. It was a picture of himself and his parents, when Nyquist was young, the age of five. Just a few years before his mother’s death. He searched for more images, one of them showing his mother alone, her face in closeup. She was, he guessed, about thirty years old. That face, those eyes. It wasn’t just shyness that caused her to look away from the camera’s gaze; rather, there was another world to look upon, one of her own desiring. Nyquist turned the photograph over and saw written on the back, Darla, 1934. His father’s handwriting: Darling Darla, he had called her. But the stated year made his mind race. 1934? What did it mean? How could he possibly measure the time from then to now? The passing years opened like a chasm.