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

when Andy ran Heavy let him go – maybe because physically, Heavywas not equipped to pursue. While they were ‘together’ Heavy would offer hiscurious observations, mis-takes, musings. And sometimes, as partially with theginger cat, and fully the flying, Heavy would, at last, now and thenhimself leave Andy.

WhyAndy never physically went for Heavy remained unsure. Andy suspected it wouldbe useless. Like the push-induced fall. Heavy would simply once more rise up.Possibly, too, Andy pitied him. Though it did not seem like that.

Andthen the other thing happened.

Itwas on the final day when he finished at the primary school. Andy had gone inmainly to see what he could steal, since thereafter these venues could be off-limits,short of breaking in. And that Andy never did. Had never had to.

“Therewas a wolve in the garden,” said Heavy.

Andygoing home – had been, and now they jointly were – walking along HawthorneRoad.

“Fox,”Andy corrected.

“No,it was a wolve,” said Heavy gently, prepared to be patient with such ignorance.

“Youdon’t get fucking wolves here,” said Andy. But without real anger. It evencrossed his mind that a wolf had got out from somewhere, and with luck wouldkill and eat Heavy.

“Youget wolfs,” said Heavy. “Just people lie about it.”

Twowomen were walking towards them down the sloping street. One had a small blackpuppy on a lead, eager and intrigued, even it seemed by the noisy, reeking flowof traffic.

Andythought it was best if he just kept quiet and let cracked fucking Heavy rambleon. Andy could make his own getaway in the usual place. (Andy’s pockets werelined with little thieved bits and pieces. Nothing needful. Nothing really ofvalue . His.)

Saramight already be home. Her cleaning work had been rather sketchy in the pastseven months. Some regular clients had moved. Others were economising, (or hadsacked her). She would not though, even if in, stay long. It would be a ‘girls’night out’, like all evenings when she washed her hair the previous morning,as she had today.

Theywere almost level with the two women and the dog. Heavy, Andy saw, was staringat the dog, yet not with his usual mesmerised-by-animal pleasure. Heavy looked –concerned –

“Oh,Joan,” said one woman to the other who held the dog’s lead, “your –”

“Fuck–” said Andy.

Rush,grunt and roar said the traffic, breaking open, leaving a space, as someoneturned off into a driveway – with oncoming vehicles speeding adjacently forwardfrom each side –

Andthe eager, intrigued puppy-dog, which had, with its antics, somehow snapped itslead, went bounding forward –

Hurlingitself out –

Onto the mindless, lethal, hungry road.

Whathappened then remained for Andy a puzzle, its images kaleidoscopic, only reallyassimilated afterwards, and perhaps incorrectly.

Thedog had managed to gallop across half the road, due to the brief gap caused bya single car leaving the stream; a bus ran along behind it, moving rather moreslowly.

Butthe traffic on the far side, pouring left to right, was at full charge.

Andnow once more, as the bus hove forward, the near side – right to left – wasalso congesting and pouring, an urgent glittering snot of vehicles.

Inthe split second that followed the dog’s dive into this murdering sandwich,something else had shot forward, off the pavement and into the river of death.

Themotion of this second springing thing was lumbering and big, was a senselessrubbery tumble. But also – it was swift, honed, imperious, coordinate. Aleopard springing that was, too, a jelly-lead balloon.

Soundsaltered.

Screechingand bumping, tinkle of tiny things that shattered, horns, psychopathic shouts.

Andat the centre of the sounds, a scene. A bundle was curled up on the road,somehow glimpsed, seen fully,in the middle of a formless chaos where speed became stasis, a stopped frame, astill.

Hugeand incongruous, Heavy curled up on the ground in a ball, with motionlesstraffic inches from him.

Thetwo women who had been with the dog were crying. One had screamed, yes, Andycould hear the scream even now, hung up, snagged in the air, with the newvoices crashing about below it.

Driverswere gabbling in their cars, some getting out.

Bothtraffic lanes had been stalled by the stop-frame, but they remained animate.How odd, no one seemed hurt, only unnerved and made feral by rage.

Heavy,of course, was dead. At least one car must have struck him. The dog would bedead too, somewhere under or furled into his bulk, when he tried to save it –

Andthen Heavy unfolded himself, again with that ungainly, ugly, and somehowperfect physical connectedness. Up he stood, holding the small black dog in hisarms. And the dog was wagging its tail – Andy could see it clearly, waggling, atiny black penis of joy. It was licking Heavy’s face, joyously. Rather thanminced, it had apparently just had the best thrill of its immature life.

Withhis usual shamble Heavy clumbered off the road on to the the pavement, ignoringthe bluster of the various drivers, none of whom really anyway seemed toregister Heavy completely, so busy were they inspecting wing mirrors from whichthe glass had fallen out, or bumpers and fenders scraped by fellow motorists’motors. The line of stalled left to right traffic stretched quite a way. Peoplewere crowding on to the pavements farther along, craning to see what the fusswas about. The near side had resumed its forward momentum.

Withoutany bother at all Heavy came over, and presented the laughing puppy to itsweeping owner.

“Here,Mrs Joan,” said Heavy, kindly.

Presentlystunned, reason switched off, all she said was, “Thank you.” And held the puppytight.

Heavycame nextly to Andy, and they walked on up the road.

Nobodythundered after Heavy. Nobody called out to him, tried to assault or arrest orcongratulate him. Nobody seemed to know quite what had occurred. Andy includedhimself in that.

Whenthey reached the turn-off, Andy stopped.

“Heavy,how did you do that?”

“What?”Heavy asked amiably.

“Thatdog. How did you –?”

“Didn’twant him squashed,” said Heavy. “I’ve got money for an ice-chrome. You wantone?”

“He’s notsupposed to run,” Andy said now, standing on the grass field at Sucks, as thesturdy games teacher pounded up, red as any London bus and scowling withentirely extraneous wrath.

“Whoare you?” he snarled.He was breathless after all despite his own constant work-outs and joggings. “Whyaren’t you in your class?”

“Freeperiod, sir,” lied Andy. The second lie. “But this boy isn’t supposed to run.”Andy nodded at Heavy, who waited, smiling cordially, as