Nyquist stood by the window. Looking out, he could see the mists of Dusk rolling in vast banks of cloud, and a milk-white moon hanging within them, bringing its deathly colour to the long-lost suburb of Fade Away.
Guide Book
Besmeared With Sluttish Time
First-time visitors to Dayzone are often confused by the problem of timekeeping. Mundane questions such as, “When are we having dinner?” seem difficult enough to answer, never mind more important matters reliant on punctuality.
Soon…
Many travellers and newcomers prefer to keep their clocks and watches set to the timescale of their hometowns, where the skies move through more natural periods of light and dark. However, only when such devices are put aside will the true Dayzone experience be fully appreciated. At first this letting go will invariably lead to feelings of disorientation. Originally conceived as a Glorious Realm of Eternal Pleasure, the city, with its perpetual daylight, seems to exist somewhere outside of normal time.
Soon. Soon…
More inexperienced visitors will often feel they are drifting through chaos. It is a pity that so many leave the city in fear at this point. They have failed to understand that Dayzone is not a time-free region; rather, it holds within its boundaries many different chronologies. The most popular of these, the one that most first-time visitors will choose to follow, is known as Authorised Standard Time. This scale, provided free of charge, divides the day into thirty-six equal units, each marked by a signal given out by Radio DZ1.
So soon…
After a while many people feel the urge to purchase one of the more exotic standards, such as Artificial Real Time, Alternative Public Time, or even Independent Abstract Time. In addition, separate scales are used by the different business communities, by political parties, by the police, the medical profession, and so on. Institutions, clubs, football teams and religious orders will have their own timelines. Television and radio programmes are listed under Constructed Reality Time. Families or groups of friends often find their own ways of dividing the day into suitable units. Meanwhile, those in love often move to a tangled chronology called Florid Passion Time, where the day consists of forty-nine unequal units, some of which move faster or slower than others, depending on the current level of ardour between the parties. An increasing number of companies are now sponsoring their own timelines. Other standards are created by local interest groups.
So very soon…
Dayzone has freed itself from the restrictive cycles of day and night, summer and winter. Because of this, time has evolved in many new ways, each with its own unique pathway. From the corporate down to the personal, across all scales in-between, these timelines coexist in the same moment, ever more numerous, covering the city’s streets in a complex, invisible web. Long-term residents pride themselves on their ability to step from one scale to another, quickly and with little confusion. The transition gives them pleasure. Just remember to adjust your timepiece as you cross over, and to limit the number of timelines used in any one period of waking. Also, please note that we have listed here only scales of a legal nature. There are many unlicensed chronologies. We advise that travellers avoid such illicit products, no matter how tempting they may appear; they have not been properly tested on the human psyche, and may well produce undue effects on the body’s internal clock. In extreme cases such abuse can lead to severe mental imbalance.
Soon. Soon. Soon…
Dayzone: the city of clocks, millions upon millions of them, each ticking at a different rate. Where will you find yourself? When will it happen?
Now…
Limbo Case
The Festival of the Sun God was in full swing on the streets. The district of Body Heat blazed with the light of a frozen noontime, creating such a mirage effect that the avenues and boulevards seemed to tremble with phantom figures. The latest songs of daylight could be heard, flowing in waves of heat from doorways and windows. Men, women and children were dressed up as Apollo, Helios, Hyperion, Chronos, Eos, or one of countless other such daytime deities, many of the celebrant’s own invention. People worshipped below a giant suspended globe which burned with fierce orange light, the congregation’s hands raised in supplication to this manmade sun. Each shop front, market stall, kiosk, office block, tower, church and department store had its own clock on display, illuminated with extra lighting just for the occasion, and all of them showing a different time. The crowds moved along beneath these displays, each person checking and then adjusting their wristwatch or pocket watch as they passed over from one timeline to the next, and laughing at their own audacity.
These were the streets of neon and glamour. These were the avenues and boulevards where all the citizens walked in a haze of colour, counting the seconds as though they were weighing particles of gold in their own possession. The glorious buzzing sound of electricity followed their every move. Bulbs popped from the overload, and were quickly replaced by passersby, or by a bulb monkey. In this manner, the light would never die.
Nyquist took no part in these rituals. Instead he had shut himself up in his office, eating when he remembered to do so, and dozing for an hour on the couch bed whenever he got tired. He had no other schedule to live by. His wristwatch and the wall clock differed by many hours and minutes and he had no understanding of which held the correct time, the safest time, the best time. He couldn’t remember how many days he’d been here like this, or even how those days might be measured out. Closing the curtain, drinking coffee or whisky, lying down again, burying his head under a pillow, opening the curtain, turning his face to the wall: anything to keep out the endless ticking of the clock. It was all to no avail. His body felt sticky, uncomfortable. Flashes of yellow and orange pulsed behind his eyelids. He feared the onset of chronostasis. If only he could get some proper sleep. Why was he suffering like this? The job was finished. One teenage runaway found and delivered, after a fashion. Really, he should head over to his place in Nocturna, to get some darkness around him. But the idea of making that train journey through the dusklands turned his stomach. But then his thoughts were roused and memories of the house on Angelcroft Lane would crawl into view once again. There was no escaping it.
The police had taken him in, first for a preliminary statement and then a day or so later to answer a further set of questions. He knew the commanding officer, Detective Inspector Gardner, well enough from when his previous cases had crossed paths with police business. But he’d kept his mouth shut as much as he could, saying just enough and no more. And pretty soon he’d worked out that the cops knew even less than he did about what had really taken place out there on the edge of twilight.
“So what happened, Nyquist? And no holding back this time.”
“Like I said, the guy asked for help.”
“Saying what, precisely?”
“He wanted me to keep Eleanor Bale away from him.”
“He said that?”
“Something like that.”
“And did he say why he wanted this?”
“It was dangerous for her. That’s what he said.”
“You’re certain of that?”
“Yes. I think so. It was a bad line.”
“Is that so?”
“You saw the state of his telephone. It was a pirate job.”
“Sure.”
“I heard noises.”
“Noises?”
The interview room was small. The walls stank of all the sweat they had collected over the decades. Nyquist squinted at the overhead light with its bare bulb. “Noises on the line, you know. Spooky stuff. Breathing sounds, animal cries. That kind of thing.”
“So you took off for this house in the dusklands, just like that?”
“I had the feeling that the girl might be heading there, and you know how it is…”
“Enlighten me.”
“I was just doing my job, hoping to bring her back home.”
“Sure, Nyquist, you’re one of the good guys.” The inspector studie
d his notes. “Tell me. How well do you know Eleanor Bale?”
“I don’t. I was searching for her, that’s all.”
“A runaway?”
He nodded in response. “I tracked her down in Burn Out, and then lost her. And I didn’t see her again until I found her in the house on Angelcroft, talking with the victim.”
“What were they talking about?”
“I don’t know. Not for sure. He was trying to explain something to her, but I don’t think she believed it, whatever it was. And then everything went…”
Gardner waited, tapping his pen against the desktop.
“Everything went strange around then. I’m not sure what happened. I think I blacked out.”
“Christ, but you’re a pile of help, Nyquist, you really are.”
Silence settled back into the room. Gardner stared at him. Nyquist could feel his chest constricting. “Any idea who the victim is yet?” he asked.
“His name’s Kinkaid. Mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“What is it? Something on your mind?”
Nyquist thought for a moment. “No. Nothing.” He felt tired, still deeply affected by his time in the house of dusk. He asked, “What about the relationship between the dead man and the girl?”
Gardner shook his head. “There is no relationship. Eleanor Bale’s told us that.”
Nyquist worried at the knowledge: she had told him that Kinkaid was her real father. True or not, he would keep the confession secret. For now.
“An old family friend, is what she said.” Gardner turned serious. “So let me get this straight, you didn’t see Eleanor Bale stabbing this Kinkaid fellow?”
“Of course not. No.”
“You’re certain?”
“Well…”
“You fainted, right? Like an old lady in a Victorian novel.”
“I closed my eyes for a moment, that’s all.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
Nyquist rubbed at his face. “She didn’t do it, Gardner.”
“No?”
“She’s not the type.”
“Actually, I think I agree with you.” The inspector’s expression was set in stone. “There was a whole mess of prints on that knife, including yours.”
Nyquist frowned. “I took the knife off her.”
“So she was holding it?”
“Yes, I think she… she picked it up, after… after the man had…”
“You think he killed himself, is that it?”
Nyquist didn’t know how to answer, not clearly. All he could see in his memory was a blank, a black hole, a few moments of darkness.
“Well?”
“Yes, he killed himself.”
He couldn’t tell if he was lying, or telling the truth. Both options existed in the same mental space, each one valid.
Gardner was shaking his head in despair. “Touching the knife like that…”
“I know. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Nyquist, it’s rule number one: don’t contaminate the crime scene.”
The two men stared at each other, neither of them backing down.
Gardner sighed and threw a brass key down on the desk. “Does this mean anything to you?” It looked like a hotel room key with the symbol of a five-pointed star on the fob and the number 225. “We found it on Kinkaid’s body.”
Nyquist told him the truth: he’d never seen it before.
“What about the other person you saw…” The inspector consulted his notes. “Before you went inside. The blurred figure in grey?”
“It was a glimpse, that’s all. I might’ve been mistaken. They were standing near the house, just beyond the duskline.”
“Male or female?”
“I don’t know. It was–”
“It was misty. Sure, I get it.” Gardner banged the file down on the desktop. “Christ Almighty on his red and gold illuminated neon cross, I wish for the life of me I could get just one firm answer out of you.”
“I don’t think there is one…”
“One what?”
“One answer. It was a very confusing time.”
Gardner pondered. “Time… yes. Of course. The great unknowable.”
Nyquist needed a drink, badly. His throat was parched. Once again the memory of that strange room clouded his mind. The mist was still with him, that must be it. Still inside his skull. He had to stay focused.
“What will happen to Eleanor Bale now?” he asked.
“Don’t worry about that. We have this under control.”
“Really?”
Nyquist was beginning to see where this questioning was going: essentially, Gardner was checking to make sure that Eleanor Bale was removed from all suspicion. The police were under pressure, and it was easy to work out just where that pressure was coming from.
The inspector folded up his case notes.
“I think this is a safe call,” he said. “This Kinkaid guy is a drifter, a dropout. He ends up living on the edge of Dusk. It all gets too much for him, and he takes his own life. And…”
“And that’s it. Job done.”
“What can I say, it’s that kind of place, right?”
Nyquist closed his eyes. His thoughts revolved around one subject only, something he could barely bring into focus. Yet it plagued him. He had to let it free.
“Gardner?”
“What is it?”
He tried to speak clearly. “What happened to me in the room, with the girl, the knife, the man on the bed. With him dying like that, unseen. Unseen…”
“OK. Let’s not go there.”
“It was Quicksilver.”
Gardner leaned back in his chair. A moment passed. It seemed that a third occupant had entered the room, a ghost.
“Now listen. This isn’t–”
“Quicksilver. Another victim! What else can it be? Tell me.”
“Jesus, Apollo and all the saints of daylight!”
“It was just like they’ve described it, the witnesses, in the newspapers, on the radio. The invisible killer–”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.”
“The blackout, the sense of not knowing, of not seeing anything, confusion.” Nyquist felt he was losing control, but he couldn’t stop now. “It’s the same goddamn feeling!”
Gardner raised his own voice in turn. “Quicksilver doesn’t exist.”
“What the hell is it with you cops? Are you scared? Scared that the people will panic?” Nyquist leaned forward. “Well guess what, they’re already panicking.”
For a moment it looked as though Gardner might explode into rage. Instead, with a great effort he calmed himself.
“I don’t want you mentioning this idea to anyone, do you get me?”
Nyquist nodded. “Sure. I get it.”
“Kinkaid stabbed himself. That’s it.” Gardner shrugged. “Dusk makes people go mad. All the crazies gather there. I mean, you should know that. With your old dad, and all that.”
The inspector stared at him.
Nyquist wanted to answer clearly, and succinctly. His father was never like that, he wasn’t crazy. His father was a scientist, an explorer…
But he stayed off the subject.
“The girl’s family will be happy, anyway.”
“Now look–”
“It’s OK, Gardner. We’ve all got our job to do.”
The inspector looked at him, his eyes steady on their target. Nyquist felt sure he’d hit a sore spot: Patrick Bale was powerful enough to bring his influence to bear on the police, and the courts. The case would be wrapped up as quickly as possible, with little knowledge reaching the press.
Gardner smiled at last. “Find yourself a nice cheating husband or wife case, Nyquist. This one’s over with.”
“I will. I’ll do that.”
“Don’t make enemies.”
The cops had finished up with some routine stuff and sent him on his way. Nyquist had headed straight back to his office, locked the door, opened
the whisky. Every so often he’d send out for some food and more drink, and the latest copy of the Beacon Fire. The story started out on page three: “Dusk claims another victim.” As suspected, there was no mention at all of Eleanor Bale’s presence there. Or his own. And nobody speculated that this was another attack by Quicksilver. It’s simple: suicide goes on daily, but when it happens in or near twilight, nobody cares, certainly not the police. If you live close to the dusklands, you’re looking to die. Case closed. But Nyquist pieced together what he could from the news reports. The dead man was called Dominic Kinkaid. No fixed abode, no known employment, no next of kin coming forward to claim his body for burial. Nothing. The reporter, for want of a better or more truthful story, described the suicide victim as a typical example of the sort of person obsessively drawn to the edges of Dusk, and drew a fanciful picture of him staring with wild eyes into the mist as though looking for visions. More and more of these cults were springing up, the report stated, where strange desires were given a collective presence. They were known by the name Tenebrae, a term meaning a religious service or lesson from the shadows.
Nyquist knew only one thing for certain: something strange and unknowable had happened in that room. How had the knife ended up in Eleanor Bale’s hands? What had really taken place in those few seconds of blackout? And he kept going back to the words Eleanor Bale had said over Kinkaid’s body: This is my fault, it’s all my fault. Just what did she mean by that? He could not tell.
Soon enough the story slipped to a mention on page seven, edged out by a middle-aged woman found dead in her own bathtub, her wrists slashed, her body clock completely destroyed. A psychiatrist stated that the poor woman had been living on sixty-four different timelines at once. Warnings were given, questions were being asked in high office. Sir Patrick Bale was quoted, the usual platitudes: “We’re doing all we can to help the less fortunate. But really, you have to remember, the freedom of time is what makes this city of ours so great, and so very prosperous.”
Nyquist studied his photograph of Eleanor. A cheque from Patrick Bale had arrived at the office a few days ago. Nyquist couldn’t quite work out what he was being paid for, but the money was needed. And the girl was safe.