“I don’t even know what that is.”
“You’ve never heard of it?”
“No. What is it, a morgue, a cemetery?”
“Both, in a way. And a giver of life, a wellspring.” Dreylock smiled at the metaphors. “The Body Library is a novel, a book, and a rather special one at that.” He reached over to his side and picked up a sheet of paper from the bedcovers. “We found this in your pocket.”
“I took it from Wellborn’s jacket.”
“This is one page from the sacred manuscript. Have you read it?”
“I tried. But it makes no sense, the words are all messed up.”
“Quite, quite. Cut-ups and splinters.” He paused and sucked in a breath. Pain flickered on his face. “Everything…” He struggled to speak. “Everything that happens in this tower – our meeting here in this room – and all things other than this: every single thing happens because of The Body Library…”
Dreylock’s expression suddenly changed; anger flooded his face, causing the scars to enflame. He clapped his hands together and pressed the bell at his bedside, and then shouted out loud for good measure. “Bring her in! The woman. Zelda. Bring her!” After only a moment the door opened and Vito entered, dragging Zelda with him. She struggled a little in his grasp, but from the look of her she was still drowsy.
Nyquist stood up from the chair as Vito pushed Zelda forward. She almost fell. Nyquist grabbed her, keeping her upright.
“What a fine pair they make,” Dreylock announced. “The king and queen of a tale long lost in time.”
Nyquist cried out, “Dreylock, let her go!”
“That can’t happen. It’s time for payment.” Dreylock’s eyes blazed as he said this, his entire body taken over by the need to be cured. He started to shout to the room: “Calvin! Calvin, I know you can hear me. Calvin!” His voice ranged higher with each calling. “Calvin! Calvin, where are you! I’ve brought Oberon a present. Zelda is here!”
It sounded to Nyquist as though the man was calling up a demon, or trying to, reaching out from one world to another.
“CALVIN!”
The name was now a single cry of fear and despair, repeated over and over. Dreylock’s hands rose up with each utterance, the way a preacher’s might. Zelda was struggling in Vito’s grasp, obviously frightened by what she was seeing and hearing, the madness in this room. Nyquist made a move towards Dreylock, but then he stopped, staring ahead.
Dreylock had stopped speaking. He looked feverish, and a tremor came to his eyes, and his cheeks and brow, a signal from far away, a warning sign.
Nyquist asked him, “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Dreylock opened his mouth. It stayed open, the words not yet released. His hands were still raised in the air. And then a terrible racking pain shot all the way through him, and his body jerked on the bed, dislodging the covers. His arms thrashed about wildly and the back of his head banged again and again at the pillow and the headboard behind him. His eyes popped wide open, seeing monsters. Blood poured down from the cracks in his face and his pajama top was already red and saturated from the wounds that had reopened in his chest.
At last Dreylock screamed.
Nyquist had never heard anything like it, not in all his days.
Vito let go of Zelda. He moved towards the bed, but it was obvious that he hardly knew what to do. Dreylock was in too much pain, a pain that filled the room with its presence.
Voices could be heard from beyond the bedroom door and soon it burst open and Lionel and Amber appeared. They rushed into the room. Lionel looked as if a ghost had taken up residence in his face: the tough guy was scared stiff. But Amber immediately took charge. Nyquist moved back to let her closer to the bed. She reached for Dreylock, trying to calm him, but it was hopeless. The patient screamed further and knocked his nurse’s arms away in a violent spasm. The blood was by now spewing from the visible cuts and from those below, out of sight: the bedsheets were crimson with the flow. Many of the sutures on his face had snapped and the scars were wide apart, revealing the muscles of the face beneath.
Vito came to Amber’s side and together they wrestled with Dreylock. Lionel was still frozen to the spot. Vito called to him urgently.
“Lionel! Help us. Come on!”
At last the third member of the party broke into action and joined them at the bed, not that he could do much; his big hands flapped around uselessly.
“Hold him down!”
Vito’s orders had an effect at last. Lionel threw himself on the bed, forcing Dreylock to be still. It was the best they could do. Their boss howled from the black pit of his heart. Amber was scrabbling through the medicines on the cabinet, evidently unable to find what she was looking for. Then she bent down and picked up a syringe from the floor. She started to fill it from a bottle of clear fluid. This was Nyquist’s cue, now they were all occupied. He took Zelda by the hand and together they made their way to the door of the room. They were halfway down the corridor when Vito’s voice called out.
“Lionel, stop him!”
Nyquist pulled open the front door of the apartment and pushed Zelda through, out into the corridor, yelling at her to run. She did, stumbling at first, then picking up speed.
He turned, only to see Lionel barreling down towards him.
Nyquist’s mind was empty but for one thought: Not this time. Danger acted as a prod to his body and he met the big man’s forward motion with a fist. All his attention went into it: those curled fingers, the tensed muscles of his arm, whatever skill he’d picked up along the way, in the streets, the endless nights of peril, the years and years of being lost, alone, in search of peace. Everything. And even in the midst of the long twisted pathway that he found himself on, his body half wrecked by the drug, and by confusion, he made contact.
Pure. Golden. On target.
Flesh on flesh.
There was a crack of bone.
Lionel stumbled back, his eyes dazed. Drops of blood fell from his nose onto the carpet. He leaned against the wall for support, his useless hands still reaching out. Nyquist dodged them, and turned back to the door. Lionel grabbed at his jacket. With a lurch Nyquist pulled away and made it through the doorway. He set off on a staggering run in Zelda’s direction. But he couldn’t see her, the corridor was empty. Had she darted into another apartment for safety? Or maybe she’d taken the elevator without him? But where was the elevator? Nothing seemed clear. He ran on and reached the end of the corridor and saw that it branched off, in two directions. These upper floors had a different layout from those below.
Nyquist took a look behind: the way was clear, no one had come out of Dreylock’s apartment yet. This was his chance. He chose a direction at will and ran as fast as he could. The breath rattled in his lungs and he rocked on his feet, almost falling. But he steadied himself and felt the need to escape as a powerful force, a surge of energy that carried him forward. He could only hope that he’d chosen the right way to go.
There was a closed door at the end of the corridor. He pulled at the catch, willing his hands to obey him, willing his eyes to stay in focus. He was falling again, going under. But the door opened. He was through. At the end of another, much shorter corridor he saw the door to a service elevator. To each side stood a pair of potted plants, the stems tall and overflowing with leaves. Zelda was standing there, waving at him.
“Quickly. Quickly!”
Her voice was far away, further away than her body was, but Nyquist knew that his only hope now lay with her. He ran on. Her face was cut, dripping red. In a strange state of bliss, he reached up and cleaned a little of the blood away from her cheeks. “Nyquist. Look…” He turned. Vito was standing at the doorway, some few yards away. He glared at Nyquist and then started to walk down towards them.
The elevator car was heard, approaching from below.
It was too late. Vito was already upon them, his pistol in his hand. His suit jacket was stained crimson from Dreylock’s wounds. Nyquist tried to swing for h
im, but he was suddenly too weak. Vito easily stepped out of the way.
Zelda clung to Nyquist.
The gun moved from one person to the other, making its decision.
Amber called from the corridor, unseen, but her voice loud. “Vito. He’s in shock. I need help!”
The elevator doors were opening.
Amber called again. She appeared at the corridor doorway. “Now!”
The gun hand hesitated. Vito looked back towards Amber and that was all that Nyquist needed. With all his remaining strength he took another swing. It was parried easily and Vito pushed back, causing them both to tumble. Here they struggled. Nyquist could see three or four of his opponents at once, each slightly blurred, not quite superimposed. He shoved one of them away and hit out wildly at another, neither action having any effect at all. Sweat rolled down into his eyes. He was passing out.
And then the blows came down.
Vito delivered them methodically, punch after punch. No, not punches. It was worse than that: he was being hit with the gun stock, metal on flesh. Nyquist’s eyesight blossomed red and he slipped to the floor, bringing Vito with him. Another blow met his temple and this one worse than the last, the worst of them all. He blacked out for a second, roused only by another hit to his face. This time the side of his head collided with the corner of a wall and he lay there unmoving, only his right hand outstretched showing any kind of life as the fingers twitched on the hard floor: a code that nobody could hear or understand.
Death stood over him, dressed in a smart suit and a purple tie.
From a far-off place he heard his name being called, a woman’s voice.
Nyquist.
Nyquist…
And then death stopped moving. Death stood there staring at him. Death tumbled to the floor, slowly, slowly, landing next to Nyquist just outside the elevator.
The mist cleared a little.
Zelda was standing over the two men. Her body was shaking. On the floor lay the smashed remains of a large plant pot, its shards scattered everywhere. “I did it,” she said. “I did it.” Nyquist stared ahead. Fine grains of soil and root fiber hung in the air, bits of leaf, petals, pollen, strands of cobweb, a dead fly, all suspended. Slowly drifting. It was the dream or a nightmare a plant might have when the sun went down and predators moved in. He saw it all, every tiny green thing, every particle, every speck of dust, his mind fully engaged with the sight. The sound of the breaking pot still reverberated around the space.
There was a hole in the wall some few inches from Nyquist’s head. He hadn’t even heard the gun go off.
Vito groaned from where he lay on the floor, his head bloodied.
Worms and All
THEY WERE holed up in a room on a lower floor. The service elevator had taken them down only so far and then stopped. For a while they had wandered the endless, empty corridors searching for a stairwell, another elevator or a fire escape even. But there were none of these things: the corridors led only around corners into other corridors. There were no numbers on any of the doors they passed. Nyquist had stumbled on at Zelda’s side, kept upright and guided by her. A trail of blood stained the carpeted floor behind them, a marked trail through the labyrinth that only served to show just how lost they were. Something had happened to them both, the after-effects of drugs they’d been given perhaps, or of whatever process had taken place in Dreylock’s rooms. Seemingly the building had closed itself around them, holding them in its spell. Yes, it was easy to believe in such things: the story had taken them over.
Zelda offered him a slice from a tin of peaches. “I found this in a cupboard. There’s a dozen tins, all the same brand.”
Nyquist felt the cold fruit slither down his throat.
“Nothing else on offer?”
“Tins of corned beef. Stacks of them.” She smiled. “We could survive here for a few days, eating corned beef and peaches. It’s like an adventure novel. Two castaways on a desert island, forced by circumstances into each other’s arms.”
He looked at her. She was his mirror and he saw her eyes dart from one wound to another on his face. He must look a wreck. He certainly felt it.
“I did what I could with your face.”
He nodded his thanks. Her face also showed evidence of damage, but she’d attended to that as best she could.
“How do you like my hair?” she asked. “It’s the new style. All the rage.” She gave him a half smile. “Ragged Chic.”
“It suits you.”
“You fell asleep,” she told him.
“Did I?”
“Only for a few minutes. You were mumbling.”
“Oh right, yes. I was dreaming.”
“What about?”
“I saw your face.”
She grinned. “Dearie me. What was it, a nightmare?”
“Your face, covered in words. But they were moving around, spelling out different phrases, sentences, whole stories.”
“I hope you didn’t read any of them. What on earth was I saying?”
“I don’t know,” he answered in all seriousness. “I can’t remember.”
They sat in silence, side by side on the bed. She reached for him and pulled him close and from there it was an easy movement to be lying in his arms. They stayed like that for a while, perfectly still, not speaking. Nyquist took comfort from her, and he hoped he was giving something in return.
“It’s John, by the way. My name.”
“Thank you,” she murmured. “I shall call you that from now on. Or maybe Johnny. Yes, I think that suits you more.” She settled deeper into rest.
His mind wandered, the worries returned. He slipped away from her arms and went to stand by the window. He was still high up enough to see the city spread out before him. Only a few of the lamps of Storyville remained alight, marking the place where the nocturnal storytellers gathered in bedsits and lofts, swapping their tales of night-bound creatures and demons. He could almost imagine the sound they made, the words breathing through the air, the listeners keen and wide awake to hear the adventure. He felt a longing to return to the streets.
Zelda’s voice broke his mood. “What are you looking at?”
“The city, the lights.”
“It’s always so beautiful. I never tire of it.”
“So you were born here, in Storyville?”
She sat up on the bed. “Yes. Born, raised, written about, written off, written out, rewritten by my own hand. You know, the usual biography.” She stretched her arms wide and then said, “I haven’t seen my mother in such a long time now, years and years. Would you like to see a picture of her?”
“Of course.”
Zelda pulled at a chain around her neck, revealing a silver locket. She slipped it over her head and handed it to him. He clicked open the lid. Inside was a piece of white card cut into an oval to perfectly fit the insides of the locket. There was no image, only a line of text handwritten on the card. It said:
A picture of my mother.
He smiled at this. “This is all you have of her?”
“It’s my most treasured possession. She looks very good in it, don’t you think.”
“She’s beautiful. And you look just like her.”
“Yes.” She clicked shut the locket and replaced it round her neck. “People say that.”
Nyquist took a seat at the dressing table. He avoided his face in the mirror.
Zelda asked, “What about you?”
“Me?”
“Your parents.”
“What’s to tell?”
“There’s always a story.”
“My own mother died when I was very young.”
“Oh, I see. I’m sorry.”
“And my father walked off and left me a few years later.” He held up a hand to still Zelda’s voice. “I was brought up in one foster home after another, and then I ran away and looked after myself as best I could, on the street, in hovels, abandoned houses, air raid shelters, wherever a bit of warmth and shelter could b
e found.”
He paused.
Zelda held the silence.
He looked at her and said, “We have walked similar pathways, I imagine.”
“Yes. Two versions of the same story.” She touched his hand. “How did you survive?”
“I learned. One thing at a time.”
“You were alone?”
“Most of the time. I remember…”
Zelda leaned in a little closer. “Yes?”
“He left me a note, my father. I found it when I arrived back at the house, after he’d disappeared. It was propped up on the mantelpiece, above the fireplace. A white envelope, yes, I see it now, addressed to me. I opened it…”
He hesitated, but Zelda let him be. She knew the tale would tell itself, when he was ready.
“I opened it.” He stopped again and this time his voice caught on the words and he turned his eyes away from her.
“Johnny… you don’t have to…”
But he looked back to her, his eyes fierce now, fierce with the anger of years.
“I read the first line and that was enough. The words… the words blurred on the page, my hands were shaking. Oh God.”
Zelda spoke quietly: “What did you do?”
“I tore it up.” He laughed bitterly. “Yes, I remember now! I think I must have seen a spy do it with a secret coded message, in a film, or maybe I read it in a book. I tore up the letter into tiny pieces and I put them in my mouth and swallowed them. Neither I nor anyone else would ever read those words. No one.”
Neither of them spoke for a while. The night gathered around them, in the corners of the room, in the holes in the floor and walls where the insects crawled, behind the mirror’s surface. Zelda played with her locket, turning it over and over in her hand. Far away, a languid strain of music was heard.
And then Nyquist said, “Tell me everything. All that you know about Wellborn, the truth. Can you do that?”
“Yes, I can try.” A moment. “Patrick came up to me on the corner of Lawrence and Nin, where the working girls hang out. All that’s true.”