Composite Creatures by Caroline Hardaker (best story books to read .TXT) 📗

perfectly still, staring at the radio’s grille with eyes that never seemed to move. But the apparatus was silent: no voices, no music.

Nyquist coughed and looked around the room, taking in the sideboard complete with a set of decorative plates, a birdcage on a tall stand, a painting showing a dismal seascape. He went over to the fireplace and warmed his hands.

The woman sat in silence.

The clock on the mantel ticked gently.

He turned to the birdcage, peering through the bars at a blue and yellow budgerigar. He made a chirruping noise, but the bird was too busy examining itself in a small oval mirror.

He looked again at the woman: she was as still as before, staring, staring, staring.

The man who had let him in came into the room, carrying a teapot and cups on a tray. He put these down on a side table and poured Nyquist a cup of tea. Biscuits were offered. The woman in the chair was ignored. The two men sat adjacent to each other at a table and drank their tea and ate their custard creams.

Introductions were made: “We are the Bainbridges. Ian, and Hilda.” He nodded to the woman in the armchair, but she didn’t turn to look his way. “My wife.” He said it with a heavy heart.

Nyquist gave his name in turn. Then he said, “I need your help.” He knew of no other opening.

Bainbridge looked nervous and he spoke in a sudden rush, “As you might ascertain I am a man of some intelligence, but really, this is beyond my comprehension, that such a thing might happen on today of all days.” He was in his forties, yet he seemed older in his speech patterns, his mannerisms, and the way he dressed: a brown jumper over a check shirt, cavalry twill trousers and polished brogues. His hair was shiny with brilliantine, a lot of it. He was healthy looking, well-bred, yet his eyes were the oldest part of him: all the pains of his life had collected here. He rubbed at them now, spreading tears on his cheeks, and he repeated: “Today of all days!”

“It’s a Thursday,” Nyquist said. “I don’t understand.”

“Not any old Thursday. It’s Saint Switten’s Day.”

The very mention of the saint was enough to cause Bainbridge’s head to bow down so low that his chin was tucked into his chest. He was mumbling a prayer, the words unheard until the final amen. The budgerigar sang sweetly in its cage.

Bainbridge looked up, a calmness on his face as he explained: “We’re not supposed to go outside on Switten’s Day, not until midnight.”

“That’s when the curfew ends?”

“It’s not a curfew. It is time put aside for silent contemplation. Of course, not everyone follows this to the letter, darting from house to pub and back, thinking a few minutes here and there don’t count. Or else they cover their heads with an umbrella, so the sunrays or the moonlight doesn’t touch them.” He tutted. “Ridiculous.”

“What’s the punishment?”

The man showed a set of yellowing teeth. “This is not a day for flippancy.”

Nyquist was scrutinized. The table was cleared of crumbs. More tea was poured. The Queen’s face smiled demurely from the curve of the cup, a souvenir of the coronation.

“Tell me about Saint Switten’s Day.”

“We have our traditions. Our ritual observances. This one goes back to when Switten himself walked these fields around, centuries past.” Bainbridge tapped on the birdcage, causing the occupant to flap its wings uselessly. “Abel Switten was punished terribly for his beliefs, stripped bare and staked out in the dirt.” He made a blessing, his hands descending from brow to stomach, tapping at five points in between in a serpentine curve. “We are beholden to our benefactors.”

Nyquist felt the day was getting the better of him. He said, “I’ve been traveling by train since eight this morning. I haven’t eaten, not properly. And then a long wait for a bus, and a ride across country. Another hour of that. And then I had to walk through the fields, through a wood! A goddamn wood! In the rain.”

Bainbridge shook his head in wonder.

Nyquist cursed. “I’ve never stood in a field before, not one so large.”

“Never?”

“The sky hurts me.”

The budgerigar started pecking at the bars of its cage repeatedly, making a racket. Mr Bainbridge tried to calm the bird, rubbing fingers and thumb together and speaking softly: “Here, Bertie. Here, Bertie, Bertie.” And so on. It had a suitable effect and the creature was quiet once more.

Nyquist placed the photograph of the house on the table. Bainbridge looked surprised. “That is my house. Yew Tree Cottage. Why do you have a picture of my house?”

“And this is you?” Nyquist tapped at one of the two people depicted. “It looks like you. And the other person looks very like your wife.”

Bainbridge picked up the photograph and studied it more closely.

“I’m sorry, Mr Nyquist. I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re asking–”

The radio crackled suddenly. Hilda Bainbridge bent forward slightly in response to the single burst of static.

Her husband held his breath.

Nyquist looked from one person to the other, expecting a deeper reaction or a speech. But none came.

The budgerigar sang the same few notes over and over, like a broken recording.

Nyquist decided to tell the truth. He took the other five photographs from the envelope and laid them out on the tablecloth so that each image was visible.

“I received these in the post a few days ago. There was no accompanying letter. So I don’t know who sent them. Or why.” He paused. “But I intend to find out.”

Bainbridge looked at the photographs without speaking.

Nyquist carried on: “All of them show scenes from this village. Look.” He showed the postmark on the envelope: “Hoxley. There are a number of villages called that, so I had to do a little detective work. The name of the church, and the shop, and this delivery van, here.” He pointed to the photograph of the high street, to a parked van. “Sutton’s. A bakers. You