As the traveller enters Dayzone a constant haze will be seen over the streets, caused by the many billions of light sources the city uses in its tireless quest for brightness. The sky, the real sky, which even the oldest residents cannot remember seeing, is hidden behind a vast tangled web of neon signs, fluorescent images, fiery lamps, gas flames, polished steel struts, and decorative mosaics of glass. Light cascades from this canopy, its radiant chaotic beams caught, reflected, multiplied, back and forth between the shining walls of the office blocks and municipal buildings. Lower down, further sources of illumination are fixed to every available surface, adding their own brilliance to the city. Chinese lanterns swing from cables stretched across the roads, floodlights bathe the scene, powerful spotlights follow cars and pedestrians as they move along. At street level, bare glittering bulbs dazzle in red, white, yellow, orange; every shop front, bench, notice board and kiosk dances with colour. Crystal chandeliers hang down from traffic signs. Some of these lights are set in place by the council of Dayzone in its official capacity, but many others are added by the citizens themselves. The trees that line the walkways are woven with strings of luminous globes, while from the pavements and tarmac a great sweep of cat’s eyes sparkle like fallen stars. The air is heavy with gold and silver particles, adhering where they land, on the passing cars, the walls, the people themselves. And everywhere you look, around, above and below, tiny fragments of mirrored glass break and scatter the light. A constant buzzing noise is heard, the low-level hum of electricity. Strands of loose wiring will flash and fuse. The city crackles with heat. And whenever rain falls, making its slow way through the overhead canopy, showers of sparks fly from broken contacts; and then, like a series of colourful ghosts, numerous rainbows float above the streets. The people worship such sights, taking them as evidence of the God of Light and Heat looking upon them favourably. For darkness has been banished from Dayzone, sent into exile. This is the great achievement. The city pulses with a universal radiance. People talk of the sacrifices needed, by society, by the individual, in order to maintain the Glow, as they call it. Votive offerings are woven round lamp posts, or carefully arranged at junction boxes and electrical substations. Prayers are chanted. But despite these efforts on occasion a bulb will come loose from one of the high lamps. It will drop down from the neon sky, appearing to be just one more dash of colour in the spectrum, only to be noticed when the pavement suddenly explodes into a fountain of glass. And the people will look upwards then, suddenly fearful of night, that it might descend once more and smother their city in darkness.
Chronostasis
On his way back into the centre Nyquist stopped off in Shimmer Town, an area where many new arrivals to the city first find a home, and a job. Some of the latest arrivals could be seen, looking dazed and worried as they tried to throw off their old ideas of time and light. They looked out of step, pained even, adrift in the crosscurrents. It would take years for their body clocks to adjust fully to the new rhythms. He saw one older man almost fall over as his psyche attempted to keep up with his feverish watch-turning: he looked like a man teetering on a highwire. Whereas a younger couple nearby had recently made themselves at home in the city; this was obvious from way they were skipping lightly from one timescale to another, adjusting their wristwatches to match, broad smiles on their faces. Oh, it was such a wonderful feeling, to escape from the rigours of a universal clock!
Nyquist, like many native-born citizens, often used to ask newcomers about the world outside the city, desperate for knowledge. Not anymore. He was resigned to his place in the world, and now he walked down the main street scarcely noticing the different cultures on view. The constant buzz, crackle and hiss of electrical circuits and gas flames accompanied him. A chronologist was selling her wares from a shop doorway: New timelines now available. Get yours here! Above the street, giant billboards glowed with radiant light. The most prominent of them featured the image of the famous actress, Annabella Tempo, who held within her hands a clock face, the two hands of which revolved at speed around the dial, worked by a hidden mechanism. Annabella was advertising Shiny Happy Daze, one of the latest commercial timelines. Her teeth gleamed, as bright as arc lights.
Nyquist stepped inside a bar. He chose it purely because it looked emptier than any of the others. He ordered a sandwich and a beer. The barman was wiping the bar down with a towel and it took him a while to look up. “What time have you got?” he asked. Nyquist looked at his wristwatch in automatic response.
The dial was blurred.
“I’m… I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure? What kind of answer is that?”
Nyquist concentrated on the dial. He felt faint, as though time was slipping away from him, but finally with relief he saw the numbers.
“It’s six twenty-five,” he answered.
But the stated time made no sense to him. He must have adjusted the hands at some point, surely? Why couldn’t he remember?
“In the morning?” The barman looked incredulous.
“Yes, I think so…”
“Well, I can’t serve you alcohol.”
Nyquist was directed to a display hanging over the bar, upon which were painted two glasses of foaming beer and a slogan: It’s Drinking Time! Sponsored by the Whitsuntide Beer Company. According to the clock below the slogan it was now twelve forty-six. The barman smiled. “Sorry bud, you’re way too early.”
Nyquist looked around. There were a couple of people sitting at separate tables, and a guy perched on a stool further down the bar, a professional drinker by the look of him. His lips were held tight in a cruel grin. He was reading a copy of the Beacon Fire. Nyquist turned back to the barman. “Just give me a beer.”
“No drinks before twelve. You want to get the place closed down?”
Nyquist held his anger in check. He pushed up his sleeve to get at his wristwatch, changing the time to match that of the bar’s clock. At this, a glass of beer was banged down on the bar in front of him. And roused by the noise the old drunkard laughed, his mouth spraying foam. He said in a loud voice, “Another victim, have you seen?” Nyquist shook his head, not wanting to get involved. But the man brandished the newspaper. “Quicksilver has killed again. In Fahrenheit Market this time. Right there in the crowd.” Nyquist had heard the news on his car radio: the latest in a series of killings, where a citizen had been attacked in a street or town square or even in a private home and yet neither the murderer nor his terrible act had been witnessed, only the immediate aftermath, the death of the victim. “Right smack bang in the middle of the crowd,” the old man repeated with a foamy grin. “And then he’s gone! Poof! Just slipped away. Unseen.” He paused to take another drink and then prayed to his saviour with clasped hands: “Lord Apollo protect us from all darkness!” Nyquist nodded in agreement without saying anything. But the barman joined in, saying, “Aye that’s right. I reckon Quicksilver moves so fast that no one can see him arrive, or kill, or depart.” The drunkard grimaced at this opinion. He showed his teeth in an evil blackened grin from which one scarlet glass jewel shone like a car’s brake indicator. “No, he’s invisible, like a ghost.” The barman cackled in response, which set the old man chanting. “Invisible, invisible!” The idea had taken him over completely: “Invisible, invisible, invisible!”
Nyquist turned away from the argument, carrying his drink and the girl’s bag over to a table. He passed a young woman whose body moved to a strange rhythm, while her eyes seemed incapable of fixing on any one object.
“Are you all right, miss?”
She turned to face him. There was a flicker of recognition and then her gaze quickly passed by, moving across to a poster on the wall. The barman came over, wiping the table. He said, “Don’t bother with Maria. She’s got no numbers left on her clock.” He tapped the side of his head. “Midnight of the soul. Sad. But there it is.” Nyquist nodded. Chronostasis. The syndrome was becoming more prevalent. Some Dayzone residents got so confused by all the different kinds
of time on offer, their minds couldn’t take it anymore. Time slowed down to zero, a space where nothing ever happened.
Nyquist looked at his watch again. The dial was still a little blurred. Were his eyes going? Yet he could see all other objects clearly.
Was this the start of the sickness, he wondered, of chronostasis?
He shuddered at the thought as he sat down to wait for his sandwich to arrive. The table was near a window, where a number of bluebottles were banging against the glass, enraged by the heat and the light. The same way madness pressed at his skull, the need to break free. To focus his mind he opened the green duffle bag and started to look through Eleanor Bale’s possessions. First he pulled out a few items of clothing. Below these he found a leather purse. There was money inside, quite a lot of money, considering the girl was a runaway. In the purse’s zipped pocket he found a slip of paper with a seven-digit number written on it, a telephone number probably. He put this aside and went back to the bag, where he next found a postcard addressed to Eleanor at the Bale family’s Nocturna residence. The image showed a view of a beach in the south of France, and the message scrawled on the back read, “Amazing adventures! But missing you so much. Say hello to the Noonday Underground for me!” The card was signed by someone called Abigail. A girlfriend probably, travelling abroad while Eleanor stayed at home.
Nyquist moved on. He pulled out a white envelope with a single photograph inside it. It was a portrait of a man in his early twenties or so. Nyquist studied the man’s face. He looked like he hadn’t eaten in a while, but the sunken cheekbones only added to the intensity of his expression, framing his dark piercing eyes perfectly. Long black hair hung in curled folds down each side of the face. Two words were handwritten on the back of the photograph: Angelcroft Silhouette. Nyquist was thinking about what this could possibly mean as the barman brought over his food. Names, perhaps? Or one name? The name of the man in the photo?
He took a bite of sandwich, then went back to his survey of Eleanor’s bag. He found a few more personal items but nothing of pressing interest until he pulled out a couple of small glass vials each decorated with a tiny crescent moon shape, and each filled with a bright orange liquid. He thought of the young man in Room 347, with his stained lips. Nyquist had lived through at least six different fashions in stimulants, and had taken most of them in his youth. He let the vials rest in his palm. He’d seen such objects before in his travels but didn’t really have much knowledge of the drug they held.
There was one last item of interest in the bag, hidden right at the bottom: an object wrapped up inside a yellow dusting cloth. Nyquist unwrapped it carefully, revealing a figurine. It was a bizarre looking creature made of thin black leather. Long delicate jointed arms and legs were attached to the torso, and the face was viewed in profile, with a sharp snout and two horns protruding from a mass of hair on the domed head. Diamond-shaped holes had been punched into the leather all over the body, and these holes were covered with bits of transparent plastic of gold, red or sky blue. There was a primitive quality to the object, and yet the workmanship was skilfully rendered. More than anything, the creature looked demonic.
Nyquist put everything back into the bag. Here they were, the few precious belongings of Eleanor Bale, a puzzling collection. Where would they lead?
A cry from another table disturbed him. A glass shattered on the floor.
It was the chronostatic woman, Maria. She had risen to her feet. Her hands scrabbled at the air in front of her as though trying to grab at some elusive object. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly, until at last she found her voice: “What time is it? What time is it?” Nyquist stood up to help her but the barman got there first. He took hold of her wrists, one in each hand, as he spoke firmly but kindly to her, urging her to quiet. But Maria had not yet finished her appeal for knowledge, her endless question.
What time is it? What time is it? What time is it?
Scattering Dust
Multiple beams of light cascaded down from the shining windows of the financial district, crisscrossing in the air, to be captured on the web of silver threads which stretched above the forecourt of the Ariadne Centre. The effect made the whole structure shimmer and sparkle with a life of its own. Nyquist walked through the main entrance. The reception area was dominated by a long line of wall clocks. He kept his eyes facing straight ahead. He had never been here before, preferring usually to meet his clients in the neutral ground of cafes and bars, and he looked out of place, scruffy and tired and poor compared to the brisk well-dressed men and women who passed by him, all moving in step to the shared rhythm of a corporate timeline. He felt like a dancer with a broken foot, ruining the performance for the rest of the company. The receptionist at the desk gave him a disdainful look as he stated his business.
“I’m afraid Mr Bale cannot see you just now. He’s in a meeting.”
Nyquist frowned. “When can he see me?”
“Would you like to make an appointment?”
“It’s urgent.”
“On what business?”
“On private business.”
Nyquist could see that his attitude was getting to her. He had the feeling that she might well be pressing a hidden button beneath her desk.
“Would three-fifteen suit you?” she asked with a smile.
Nyquist looked at his wristwatch, holding his focus as the hands trembled in place. It read twenty-two, or twenty-five minutes past one. Or was it nearer to half past? Something like that.
“Three fifteen?” he repeated.
“That’s right.”
Nyquist stared at the side wall, where every clockface showed a different time. Each had a plaque beneath, announcing the varied timelines on offer: Capital Business Time; International Communication Time; Executive Downtime; Financial Express Time, and so on. The dials blurred in his sight, and he could feel a headache coming on. It had been a mistake, having that second drink. He could no longer remember just how many hours had passed since he had stepped off the train at Morning Station.
“What time do you have now, precisely?” he asked.
The receptionist pointed to the wall to the right of her desk. Nyquist followed her direction to see a clock marked Ariadne Internal Time, according to which it was two forty-five inside the building.
“Would you like to wait?”
Nyquist hardly heard the receptionist’s voice. He had an overwhelming urge to change his watch to match the building’s timeline. His hands clenched and unclenched as he managed to bring the desire under control.
“Are you all right, sir? You don’t look well.”
“It’s about his daughter! Tell Mr Bale that. It’s about Eleanor.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t–”
Nyquist grabbed the edge of the desk for support. A dizziness came over him, and he was about to make his way to the exit when an imposing, smartly suited woman appeared from the nearest corridor. She immediately took charge of the situation, greeting Nyquist as though he were an old friend. “There you are! I do hope we’ve been looking after you. Mr Bale will see you now.”
Nyquist had never seen the woman before in his life.
They rode the elevator together. She introduced herself a as Pearce. No Mrs, no Miss, no first name. “Good news, I hope?” she said. “Mr Bale has been very troubled about this whole situation.”
Nyquist kept quiet.
“Well, I can understand your reticence. It’s a delicate matter.”
Nyquist nodded. Behind the alabaster foundation and fierce lipstick, Pearce’s face held not a shred of emotion. She had the confident shape and stance of somebody who spent more hours in the executive gym than she did at her desk, and her jacket and skirt was expertly tailored to display such a body. Her blonde hair was sculpted and lacquered into a precise style that reminded him of a warrior’s helmet. In contrast, Nyquist took a look at himself in the mirrored wall of the elevator car. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
A few minutes later he was sta
nding in the office of Sir Patrick Bale, being cut down to size for letting Eleanor get away. “I can’t believe this is happening,” Bale said. “If I’d wanted a bad job doing, I’d have asked the police to find her.”
Nyquist didn’t feel like he should be apologising. “At least…”
“Yes?”
“At least we know Eleanor’s alive. At least we’ve seen her.”
“I’m not paying you to look at her, Nyquist. Where is she?”
Patrick Bale was a tall, handsome, somewhat artificially preserved man in his early forties. His hair was a little too dark and his facial expression had that slightly shocked look that comes from being stretched beyond its natural limits by a doctor’s clamps and pulleys. His office was bland, corporate, showing little personality, whereas the man himself seemed to be filled with a pent-up anger, or a twisted desire, it was difficult to tell which.
Nyquist took Eleanor’s purse from his pocket. “Your daughter left this behind.”
Bale grabbed hold of it. He pulled out the bundle of notes, saying, “Well. She won’t last long with no money. The girl is spoilt beyond measure.”
“Were you aware of her taking drugs?”
Bale looked peeved at this proposition. “Drugs? No. No, she wouldn’t…”
“She wouldn’t?”
“She wouldn’t dare.”
It sounded to Nyquist’s ears more like a threat than an observation. He handed Bale the photograph of the young longhaired man, while keeping the other contents of the bag to himself for now. “Do you know this man?” he asked.
The ceiling fans purred softly as Bale stared at the photograph. He took a while before answering. “No. Should I?”
“Your daughter carries his picture around with her.”
“Will this help us find her?”
“Turn it over.”
Bale did so. He stared at the two words written there. “What is this?”