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

tone and timbre – Donnadid not laugh like that, that smooth contralto ripple. But one of the malelaughters – could that be Herons?

Carversnatched up and put on the clothing, his clothing. He went to the bedroom doorand tried it. Without protest, it opened.

Outside,again, utter unfamiliarity. The corridor was long, painted pale, and veeredsharply from sight at two corners, one to the left and one the right. Threeother doors, these closed, marked both the walls either side of his door.Facing him across the corridor there were no doors, only two windows, separatedby some five featureless metres.

Hetried each of the doors, all were locked shut. Then he went to each of thewindows.

Theylooked inland, away from the sea, and up across a wild park or large overgrowngarden. He barely took this in. There on a rise, whose summit ascended lessthan a quarter mile off, and reasonably visible through the big green trees,had been stationed a Russian train, ( circa 1900?), of many carriages.

Theywere, unvaryingly, of a rich marmalade colour. Something... Chekovian, Tolstoyan... Everycarriage was Carver’s shed from the house, and by day, their windows were blankof any glow, merely catching the sheen of the sun as it flew slowly upward overand across this unknown building, by this unknown summer sea.

Neitherman was Herons.

Heknew neither of them. Nor the woman.

Themen were both of fairly average appearance, shortish hair. The older had along, rather gangly loose frame, like that of a teenager suddenly aged into hisfull-grown fifties. He raised one hand in a token of greeting and said he wasVan Sedden Then the shorter man said, in a slightly amused way, “I’m Ball.Singular. Like Soccer. Or a dance.” The woman did not speak, although unlikethe men she stared directly at Carver, seemingly taking in every atom thatvisually she could. She was black, light-skinned, with cropped brown-blackfleecy curls. Her body was heavy but voluptuously curved, if fittedunbecomingly in a scarlet shell-suit and trainers. Her eyes were blue. Thatcould happen, though he had never seen it before. She had no expression, herperfectly-shaped lips held still, as if they were for decoration only. The twomen both wore suits, tieless shirts, everyday shoes. Ball wore a watch, aRolex, and a silver wedding ring.

Carversaid, “Carver. Where is this place?”

Noone replied. Then Van Sedden murmured, almost reproachfully, “God, Heknows. Not I.”

“Soyou don’t know,” said Carver. He looked at Ball. “How about you?”

“Nope.Haven’t a fucking clue, baby.”

Carverlooked at the woman. She continued to meet his eyes with her hot-sky blue ones,and she spoke after all: “Why don’t you have some coffee?” Her voice wasordinary. A London voice. Somehow he did not believe in her voice. It was some sort ofdisguise – but to think so was probably irrational.

Whynot, though, be irrational?

Lookwhere rationality had got him.

Hesat down at the long wooden kitchen table, and pulled the coffee pot towardshim. Filter. It would do. Ball had passed him a plain shiny black mug. They allhad those, and black plates with crumbs of toast, and Ball’s plate with agleaming after-effect of bacon and butter. There was one unused plate.

Carverpoured himself coffee.

Wasthis what he had scented upstairs? How? The scent had been pumped up into hisroom...?

Perhapsthe coffee had something in it.

Hedid not try it.

Thewoman drew the pot away from him, topped up her own mug, and drank. She hadstopped looking at him, as if there was nothing more to see in him at all.

Carvertook a slow mouthful from his own mug. The fluid was hot. The taste filled hismouth and flowed down his already moist and comfortable throat. (Somewhere inthe recesses of the drugged dark, they had roused him and bathed him, or he hadbathed himself and cleaned his teeth, and drunk water, and seen to any otherbodily functions outstanding. Only he could recall nothing of it.) Carverthought about the first time he had drunk coffee. He had made it for himself ina house Sara had gone to clean, lugging him with her because he was too youngto be left, while the people whose house it was were on holiday and would notknow. He had been five, he thought. Something like that. Sara had slapped himwhen she saw what he had done. But her slaps were nothing after the beatings ofhis father. And he had liked the coffee, even if it was instant and had burnthis tongue. Forbidden fruit always had a sting in the tail.

Thiskitchen was very small. The table and four chairs crowded most of any space. Tothe sides were squeezed in a pair of little sinks, a microwave and doll’s houseoven, shelves of things in packets and cans and boxes, a tall fridge-freezernarrow as a giant pencil.

Abruptlya door, partly wedged behind the freezer, came open, and a brisk young womanjigged in with a tray of bacon sandwiches and another smoking coffee pot. Sheput these on the table without a word, and without a word the people in thekitchen received them.

Whenshe had gone, the narrow door shambled awkwardly shut again behind the pencil.The two men helped themselves to the food. Carver took a sandwich. He bit intoit carefully, as if afraid of breaking a tooth. But it seemed only to be bacon,butter, bread, exactly what it had pretended to be.

Outside,beyond the large window closed over by a thick matt-blond blind, unseenseagulls were screeching along the edges of the rocky height.

Chewthe bacon, taste, swallow. Swallow the coffee.

Maybea drug had been wiped into the mug, or on to the spare plate. Too late now.

Hefelt nothing like that. Yet the inevitable tension, the adrenalin-readinessthat should be in him, and now building, was not really there at all, or – itwas far off, about one quarter of a mile away, like the line of carriage-shedson the rise. Just near enough to see and understand without effort. Not closeenough to touch, or feel.

Carver,instead, felt a strange depression. It was very likely the residue of the drugleaving him – both the removal of feeling and now this subterranean dragginglethargy, like some of the symptoms he had heard described with insipient ME.What could he do? Nothing, as yet. Or ever? Nothing.

Heleft the