Turquoiselle by Tanith Lee (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

“Oh,no,” said Heavy’ssoft turgid somehow browsing voice, “no, they do that when they do like you.To get your scent in their mouvfs and over them, and taste you and beremembering.”

“You’vegot shit for brains,” said Andy. “Who told that shit?”

“Mymoth–er.” He mispronounced some things, Heavy, curious ways. And he said ‘mother’as if she were a flying insect: moth-ah.

“Yourmother’s a cunt.”

Heavylooked back at him. He was still quietly smiling, unphased, happy. “She isn’t a cund. But she’sgot a cund. All womendo. Like we have pricks.”

“Goto hell,” said Andy, lamely, he thought. And took off up the road at a rate ofknots, leaving Heavy far behind – if he had even reckoned to follow – just asif Heavy were the bully and Andy the weak misfitted coward.

Buthe had the stuff from Woolworths. And he had the X–film. And Cox had perhapslost a tooth. Not too bad for an hour’s work.

Asa rule a film could not be on the cards. But his mother would be out latetonight. She was cleaning the big Kirkpatrick house, six in the evening untilabout 11 p.m., while the happy owners were off getting rat-arsed. So he could easilywatch the film before she returned. He had taken it the usual way. He had amodus operandi, (he knew the term for it), for each and all his thefts. Allwere slightly, or very, different. His technique here too had never let himdown. Part of the secret was, he had found, in casualness. He could act casualness, ashe could act quite a few states of mind and body, had learned this, perhaps, ashe had how to fight dirtily and to effect, watching others.

Whenhe reached home, a small flat which had been provided for Sara and himself overan electrical shop, once they had got away, he climbed up the iron staircaseand let himself in. There was a front room and kitchenette facing the street, akitchenette-sizedbathroom and two rabbit-hutch bedrooms that looked out the other way acrossgarages to some strips of rear garden, and the rear-ends of houses, and achurch sometimes known locally as St Crudes. Andy opened the bedside cabinet inhis bedroom. It was his private storage area, and as such Sara respected it.She believed everyone needed secret places, apart from those locked up in theirbrains.

Adeep shadow by now was filling the tiny back rooms, which faced north. Insidethe cupboard was darkness, but to Andy a vague glow seemed to open there, thelonger he gazed in. The upper shelf and the lower, boxlike area, seemed to shinewith the heaps of booty he had accumulated. Some liquid soap from a cafetoilet, two library books he had taken unseen and not returned, a glass from someother café, and a general litter that included a knife and fork from a schooldinner, a watch-strap, safety pins in a container... and so on. Andy slotted today’strophies with some care in among these already established items, then sat backon his heels to review the assembly, the still–life he had created, was creating,would always, presumably create. One day he would run out of room, of course.But not yet. He piled the bigger and the littler things together with suchcleverness.

Andystayed there on the floor, his head slightly to one side, then grew aware ofthis mannerism and corrected it. (Mannerisms were not helpful, he had found; atbest they were silly, at worst they could be giveaways.)

Theglow bloomed and floated on the things in the cabinet. They seemed to grow evenpaler, and lose individuality, as he stared at them, unblinking. Like a softamalgam of some dim darkish snow.

Whenhe had had enough he shut the door.

Hehad left the lipstick and the toffees out, on his bed, (which Sara had made),for the present-giving. It would not matter too much if Sara saw thembeforehand. They had a purpose and so were not secret.

Stealing,to Andy, had no purpose that interested him or that he grasped. It waswhat he did, and was good at. Nor had he any interest in, or want of, what hestole for brief use – an action figure, a film – such things he would return. Thevalue was never in the stolen article he retained, but in the act. Itsskill – and the afterimage. (His skill in taking what he might like, momentarily, tohave was simply incidental.) A private affair indeed.

There was a deadsparrowhawk on the patio paving when Carver looked out the next morning. Heunlocked the kitchen door went to see.

Abeautiful form, even dead.

Thecurved wings, already ossifying, held his eyes some while. Like fanned andfolded greyish palm fronds. And the cruel perfect head. What had brought itdown? A consummate predator, it would grip another bird on the wing, everythingseen to in an instant. But the hunting was done for this one.

Perhapssomeone had poisoned it, some Keeper guarding pheasants for humans alone tokill.

Presently,raising the hawk on a shovel, he carried it down the garden and cast it overthe outside wall by the shed. If it was wholesome a fox would take it, not ifit was venomous; they seemed to know.

Ashe was turning to go back to the house, he saw old Robby Johnston amblingcrookedly up the lane through the morning trees towards him.

“Hi,Car. How’re things?”

“OK,thanks. You?”

“Oh,not much changes for me.” Johnston stepped off the lane and crookedly ambled upto the wall. Though partly disabled now, by some never-detailed leg injury,which had got worse, it looked, in recent days, he had been and still was atall, lean man. The ground sloped up just at this point. Standing on the risebetween the tree roots and the scuffle of silver-russet leaves, Johnston raisedhis face to the sunshine. “Wind’s fucked off any way,” he remarked, cordially.He had a handsome face, if creased and lined as if pleated and pressed, and hadkept a strong longish mop of steely hair. Late sixties, Carver surmised. He hadnever bothered to check up on Robby J. No doubt the office had. Maybe nowCarver ought to as well.

“Yes.The wind’s dropped,” Carver agreed. He leaned the spade by a shed door, one ofthe ones that did not open.

Johnstonglanced at him. “Your