Creeping Jenny Page 20

  But the haze enclosed him, totally.

  He could see the pavement below his feet. Looking up he saw only the haze.

  No sun, no sky.

  He moved forward carefully, into the road… but then he hesitated. Not a step could be taken.

  What if a car hits me?

  A woman entered his circle.

  It shocked him.

  The woman nodded and smiled and moved on into the dark of the mist, vanishing.

  He was alone once more.

  Somewhere, somewhere there had to be an end to this, to these limits he was trapped inside. He stepped forward, without knowing which way he was going, with no knowledge beyond the short distance he could see around him. Other people met him and moved on, appearing and disappearing. One of them knocked into him and cursed, telling him to look where he was going! But Nyquist could not do that. It was impossible.

  He stopped where he was, waiting, waiting…

  By some means he had walked across the road. The corner shop was visible, just about. Nyquist moved towards it and sat down on a bench. He let a few minutes pass by, and his breathing eased at last, and his heart slowed.

  The haze lay before him, and all around, its surface a constantly shifting swirl of black and gray and lilac. Living smoke. That was the phrase that came to him. He had experienced something similar in his journey into the dusklands, back in the city of his birth; but that had been a vast landscape filled with silvery fog. This was different. This wasn’t fog or mist or any kind of vapor, it was localized, concerned with his body, or his mind. Yes, it could be an illusion, a trick of the eyes brought on in some way by the power of suggestion. It billowed like a cloud. Tiny lights flickered in its depths, blue and red and yellow. He hadn’t noticed these before. They lasted only a moment, these sparkles, before others took their place: orange, green, blue once more. He noticed that the lights flickered mostly around the part where his hand had penetrated. Had he disturbed the haze, causing it to react to his presence?

  The haze was linked to him, it was part of his body, emanating from him.

  Aura. That was the word.

  The thought made him feel sick. He got to his feet, taking careful steps this time, with one hand keeping contact with the wall, the other stretched out before him as a guide and a warning. Voices. Footsteps. Laughter. Other people were moving along. Occasionally they entered his circle of view and then moved on. They too had their hands out before them, or else used raised walking sticks as a guide. And he thought: they are the same as I am, encased as I am. Every person in the village has this same condition, is that it? Was this the ruling of the day, that all should be held within their own little worlds?

  A young child surprised Nyquist, running along the pavement at speed, a stick banging on the ground repeatedly. He was screaming with joy. The kid’s mum followed, shouting for him, “Brian! Brian, come back here!” The boy ran on into the haze, the mother also. They were far more adept at this than he was, the haze wasn’t a hindrance to them, but just another delight, another saintly effect, something to revel in.

  Nyquist was steadier now, more confident. He wouldn’t fall over, he wouldn’t bump into people, as long as he stayed calm and in control. And then he stopped again, and he closed his eyes and wondered just how far he had come, how close he was to being crazy, that he was accepting such a thing as this. It was true, he had seen other wonders in his life, and experienced strangeness and the irresistible bounty of the hidden world. But never before had he thought of himself as mad – only as a wanderer, a fighter, a struggler against doubt and pain and the unknown.

  He looked around and saw that he’d reached by chance The Swan With Two Necks. The pub’s sign loomed out of the surrounding mist. He made his way inside and took the stairs up to his room. Nigel and Mavis were getting ready for the dinner time opening: he could hear their voices. His little room was a haven, and the haze both followed him and led him onwards. They were bound together, man and cloud. And so it was that they both sat on the bed together, and when Nyquist bowed his head down, the haze bowed with him. And when his head rose once more, the haze rose with him, and when he got to his feet, the haze stood with him. Always, it surrounded him. He was a prisoner. And this would be true for all of this terrible day.

  His side ached and he lifted his shirt to examine the bandage; it was deep red where the blood was seeping through. He needed another dose of painkillers, urgently. Damn it! He should’ve let Higgs take care of him. The haze was to blame; he thought he could outrun it, but no, it stayed with him, it clung on. He thought of cutting it loose in some way, finding a magical knife, a rusty old kitchen-drawer vorpal blade: locating the points of contact between flesh and smoke. And then… a quick slice. Slicing it clean!

  Instead he turned in a slow circle, navigating the clouded world of his room. A new icon sat on the cabinet, the clay man with the wrapped head. There was a naming card: Saint Athelstan. He noticed that the saint’s arms were not only held behind his back, they were caught there, the wrists bound together by wire.

  He moved to the sink. The mirror.

  His own face emerged through the haze as he approached the glass.

  He hadn’t had a shave in days, and his clothes were dirty. And he could smell himself, the unwashed flesh, the dirt, the sweat, the stink of the antiseptic that Higgs had put on his wound. He clung to the edge of the sink with both hands, confronting the well-known stranger in the glass. The eyes that asked so many questions of their reflected selves, riddles without end or answer. Behind his head in the mirror he could see the reflected image of the haze, billowing softly, slowly, waiting patiently for Nyquist’s next move. But he didn’t know what that might be. He wanted only to stay here, frozen before himself, or perhaps to climb into bed and sleep until the day had passed and the world had opened up once more in all directions. That was his only desire.

  It was not to be. He was in danger. He’d been stabbed. And he thought of the things he had seen yesterday, inside Madelyn Arkwright’s head: all the villagers contained there, and his own father among them, hidden away, and the knife in the hands of Mrs Sutton. And then the knife in the hands of Madelyn.

  Two knives, two worlds. Both operating at the same time, one guiding the other. Jane Sutton acting as a kind of inner force, compelling Madelyn to make the attack. Or else Madelyn herself had simply played out her madness to the ultimate degree, seeing him as the intruder, the unwanted guest, attacking him. He had no way of knowing which it was; Hoxley-on-the-Hale had taken away all sense of reason.

  He moved from the mirror, over to the bed. He lifted the mattress, to bring out the revolver. If it was true, that this gun would have to be used one day, well then he would have it ready. Protection, if nothing else. His hand groped further under the mattress, searching for the weapon. There was nothing there. He raised the mattress with both hands and shoved it onto the floor. The sprung base of the bed was bare. And there was nothing on the floor beneath. The handgun had been stolen, taken away. He went over to the bedside cabinet and searched the bottom shelf. The teacup and the book of birds were also missing. All three, all three of the magical objects with their tendrils. But who would take them, and why? His mind ached with doubt.

  Nyquist made his way out of the room, hand over hand along the wall, downstairs again. He called out for the landlord and received a swift response from the bar. But Nigel Coombes could not be seen, not yet. The room was obscured.

  He called out, “Where are you?”

  “I’m right here, at the bar. Where are you, Mr Nyquist?”

  “I’m here.”

  And by their voices they found each other, two circles of haze merging, coinciding. Nigel had a mop and bucket in his hands.

  “Someone’s been in my room,” Nyquist said. “Things have been stolen.”

  The landlord looked worried. “Are you sure? What is missing?”

  Nyquist couldn’t answer. He couldn’t mention the gun, without it seeming crazy, or a
threat. He said instead, “I need to find the culprit.”

  “Are you… are you blaming me? Or my daughter for this?”

  Nyquist looked at him fiercely. He saw the landlord’s hands tighten on the handle of the mop, as though it might be used as a weapon. But the moment passed. Coombes sighed and placed the mop and bucket on the floor and he tapped Nyquist on the shoulder and said, “Let’s have a look together. You might have mislaid it, that’s all.”

  Yes, yes, it was possible. In the current mood, with his restricted vision, Nyquist felt it might be true. He let himself be led towards the stairs but they both came to a halt as Becca Fairclough appeared in the corridor. Nyquist heard her first, and then saw her as she shared his circle of haze. She looked terrible, fearful, her eyes wide open, and at first she couldn’t speak. She was in shock.

  “What is it?” Coombes asked her. “What’s wrong?”

  At last she found her voice. “Something’s happened at the school, an accident.”

  “What kind of accident?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know.” Becca was stricken. “It’s Mrs Sutton… I think she’s… I need to find Doctor Higgs. Where is she?”

  The landlord shook his head in answer. Nyquist said, “She was at her surgery. I saw her there, not long ago.”

  “She’s not there now.”

  Becca ran off. Nyquist followed her, out of the door. But only the haze existed now, she was no longer seen. He moved along the street, hurrying his pace, hands groping ahead for fear of meeting obstruction. He simply moved in what he thought was the right direction, trusting to the saint’s power and grace, and soon enough came to the end of the street where the school resided. He saw the metal fence, and then heard the children playing in the yard, running and laughing together. Two girls were just about visible on the other side of the fence, skipping and chanting inside their twin circles of haze. It was song about a familiar subject.

  Two steps forward, one step back,

  Widdershins, widdershins, turn and clap.

  Call for Jimmy and call for Jack,

  Creeping Jenny is at my back!

  With this final line, the two girls screamed in merry shock, and the game was repeated, each taking turns to play the monster.

  Nyquist reached the school gate. He walked across the yard. He could hear children all around him, unseen, and then suddenly appearing, running at great speed across his field of vision. He reached out and caught one boy by the shoulder. The kid – he was seven or eight – looked up at him in shock at first, and then anger, and tried to run away. Nyquist hung on tight. “I need to see your headmistress. Do you know where she is?”

  The kid tried to escape.

  “Mrs Sutton. Take me to her! Come on, there’s a tanner in it for you.”

  “One shilling, please.”

  “If you like. But hurry.”

  That was incentive enough. The boy led him safely through the murk of the playground over to the main entrance of the school. At one point Teddy Fairclough appeared, his eyes wild and his face set in a fierce expression. He looked like a crazed beast, completely at home in this half-hidden world, in this cloud that once more engulfed him.

  Nyquist and the boy went inside the building and straight away the atmosphere changed. Murmurs were heard, whispers, a hissing sound. The kid was worried now. He said, “I’m scared. My fret doesn’t feel right. It’s the wrong color.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “The fret. It’s what we call Saint Athelstan’s mist.” The boy stopped moving. He looked up at Nyquist and said, “Has something bad happened?”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Harry Clegg.”

  “I’ll look after you, Harry, don’t worry. I just need to speak with Mrs Sutton.”

  The boy blinked a few times. Then he took Nyquist’s hand and together they walked the length of the corridor until they reached a small group of teachers clustered at a doorway. They looked at Nyquist as he arrived, this stranger in the mist, in the fret, his face unshaven, his suit dirty and creased, and with a slight edge in his voice due to the increasing pain in his midriff.

  “Where’s Mrs Sutton? What’s happened to her?”

  Nobody answered at first. Their faces were either pained or dulled with shock.

  Nyquist fished a silver coin from his pocket and threw it to the boy, and then urged him to run back outside. Harry did so, with obvious relief.

  One of the teachers said, “Are you Mr Nyquist?”

  “That’s right. I’m a friend of Doctor Higgs. She’s on her way.”

  “We’re waiting for Joe Ferneyhough.”

  “The police constable?”

  “Yes. I don’t think we should disturb the…” The teacher couldn’t finish the sentence.

  Nyquist asked, “Is she dead?”

  Nobody answered. So many people, so many eyes, all looking at him. He pushed his way through, and entered the classroom. He could see very little at first, for his fret had closed in, and darkened itself, almost in fear. But he kept moving until he came to a row of school desks and chairs, and then a second row. All the chairs were empty. The room was deathly quiet. He moved on. More desks, more chairs. Exercise books set out, pencils and rulers in neat rows. Following the direction the chairs were facing, he walked to the front of the classroom. He called out and the fret took his voice; there was no answer. And then Jane Sutton appeared in the cloud of the fret: her hands, her upper body, her face.

  The headmistress was sitting at her desk, perfectly still. Nyquist moved closer, until he could see the blackboard behind her. Chalked here were the same words he’d seen in his father’s cottage, out at King’s Grave. Was this a final message from the victim, or a warning from a killer? Or just a line from the day’s lesson?

  Creeping Jenny is calling.

  Mrs Sutton was sitting crooked at the desk, with one hand resting on the tabletop and the other hanging down at her side. Her chest and upper body were twisted to the side and her face was thrust forward, almost savagely. She was dressed and presented as well as ever, in a blue cardigan and a tweed skirt, but the buttons were popped and torn on the cardigan, and one was missing. Many strands of hair had escaped the knot of her bun. Her eyes stared ahead, and for a moment Nyquist thought they moved to look at him. It was a startling effect and it made him reach out to touch her neck, searching for a pulse. But all was silent within, all unmoving.

  He stepped back a little, catching his breath.

  The skins and scarce remains of crushed myre berries were piled high in a bowl on the desk. The fruit had been eaten. The headmistress’s lips and chin were darkly colored with ruby. Her face was marked here and there with many tiny scratches. The blood was already drying on them.

  She had died as Ian Bainbridge had died. But whereas his eyes had looked out over miles and miles of distance, over emptiness, Jane Sutton had a very different point of focus: her eyes were filled with yearning. Nyquist could only think that – at the very end, when the final struggle was over – she had welcomed death.

  CONVERSATIONS WITH FIREFLIES

  That afternoon an inquest took place, originally planned to look into Ian Bainbridge’s death, and now to investigate Jane Sutton’s as well. A local magistrate acted as coroner for the day, and the community hall served as a makeshift court. Nyquist was sitting near the back of the packed hall. He could see only the people in front and to his side, nothing of the stage. The collected frets of the villagers obscured the undertakings. But he heard the witnesses’ voices, and the coroner’s questions. On occasion a person would pass through his tiny circle of sighted objects, on their way to the stage. Mr Gerald Sutton sounded stoical. He answered in a controlled monotone. But every so often his voice betrayed him as a word cracked: anger was brewing. Hilda Bainbridge was the opposite, refusing to answer any of the coroner’s questions. Her silence persisted, even now. Nyquist stared at the shifting contours of the fret and imagined Hilda’s expressions and gestures,
her fluttering hands, the sense of loss in her eyes, the shudder every time her husband’s name was spoken aloud.

  In her turn, Rebecca Fairclough described finding the body of the headmistress. “I help out at the school whenever I can,” she said. “Mrs Sutton was taking an English class that morning, for the older children.”

  “I see. And you found the body during the morning break?”

  “That’s right. The children were in the playground. I went into the classroom to clean the blackboard, and give the place a tidy. At first, I thought I was alone, but then I went to tidy up the teacher’s desk and that’s when I found Mrs Sutton, just… just sitting there, staring ahead.”

  “You didn’t see anyone else in the classroom, or anyone leaving? Or in the corridor?”

  “No.”

  “But your vision must have been limited, because of today’s saintly effect – the fret?”

  “It was. But, as you know, our other senses come into play, in compensation. I was alone, definitely.”

  Nyquist listened to this with interest, thinking of how he’d seen Becca’s brother Teddy in the playground. Was she hiding something?

  Doctor Higgs took the stage and wasted no time in describing the effects of the myre berry on the human nervous system: “If sufficient are taken, paralysis sets in quickly after ingestion. Death follows in five to ten minutes.”