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

Donna’s skin, or her hair, and under his mouth the texture ofher neck was feral but very cool. He lifted away from her. Her eyes were there,abruptly seen, luminous as theeyes of Donna were not. He flung back from her and slammed on the bedside lamp.Both he and she, it seemed, knew to shut their eyes then, to protect them fromthe glare. And then open their eyes and see. They were ice-blue, her eyes. Shewas not Donna. She was the woman from the breakfast, Angela or AnjeelaMerville.

“Goodevening,” she said, with a softly calm politeness. And then she laughed. “Youbuzz with electricity. Did you know?

“Whatthe shit are you doing here?”

“Whatdo you think I am doing here?”

Carverswung himself over, off and out of the bed. He was naked, but the disturbedcovers now completely revealed that she was too.

Inthe low harsh light she looked young, desirable, her full breasts with theirblack strawberries of nipples, her heavy thighs, the mask of black fur nestledbetween them. Her hair looked darker too, and longer than he had thought. Thesmell of her was lush and tasty. Chocolate, honey –

Heswallowed, and the smell and taste of her entered him.

“MsMerville, thanks for your visit. I’d like you to get out now.”

Shelay looking at him. She said, “No, you wouldn’t.”

Hisbody had responded to hers. In the lamplight it was absurdly obvious.

“Don’tjudge a book by its cover,” he said.

“Noryou.”

Somethingthen – something odd – as if, in this quilted lacuna between the frames ofdrugged dark and copious alien greeting – anything could seem odd any longer –for a second, she looked familiar. He knew her. But he didnot.

“DidCroft send you?”

“No.”

“You’llbe aware, there will be,” he said, “hidden surveillance in this room. Sound,too. They can pump noise, even smells through from the kitchen, for example. Sowhy not the other way with every word intact?”

“Ifyou say so.”

“Youshould know,” he said. “Whatis it? Get me to fuck you and take pictures? Why –” he said, “why bother. You –they – have got me, haven’t they? Whoever they are. The nameless corporationhere, the guards who guard the guards. They’ve got me, though Christ knowswhy.”

Shemoved, fluid as a pelt, a silk cord, on to her spine. Her belly was soft andsmooth. Her mouth. Her hair –

“Comeback to me,” she said.

Hewent back to her.

Ashe leaned over her she said, so softly he barely heard her, “Remember my name,Car. Remember it. An-jee-la,”she whispered. “An-jeela. Mer–” But her voice vanished into hismouth. Instead she put up both her hands, taking hold of his body. Now hertouch burned him.

Heceased to care about the room and the cameras or the mikes, the Third Persons.He had forgotten Croft. Perhaps he had been drugged also to this intensity ofmindless lust and strength. Or it was another dream. It was a vehicle – a carat night, driving straight forward into a wall of fire. You did not stop. Youcrashed through into the flames. And then it was over. There was nothing moreto it, nothing at all.

Inthe renewal of the darkness she left him. Almost the last of her, her scent,and her voice again, close to his ear,

“AJ,” she whispered. “AJ, MV.” Nonsense, Irrelevant.

Butthat was nothing either. Everything was nothing. Nothing was anything. He heardthe door shut, quietly. How had she got in, the door had been secured...nothing. Anything. Nothing. He did not sleep, yet a sort of trance fell on him.He lay in the timeless quietness of near-dark, thinking of Nothing.

About tenminutes after Croft’s pronouncement, the big man had stirred again. As if aftera pleasant ordinary interval, a pair of old acquaintances, who had shared aleisure moment in the shade, resumed their everyday procedures. “Let’s walk onround the grounds, shall we? We can have a look at the sea from the south sideof the house – and there are the sheds. We’ll take a look at those first.”

Thesheds.

Thesheds, at least from the front, like Russian train carriages.

Likethe shed Carver had maintained back at his house in the village. The shed whosewindows, by night, glowed turquoise, the exact mixed tone of green (a bluishemerald) and blue (aquamarine) of the lower Second and Third Level UrgencyAlerts at Mantik.

Withoutrush or delay they strolled off through the trees and bushes, going east, awayfrom the sun. The building reappeared, the house, if it was. Aside from itssmall rear terrace and benches, it was very modern, a box-like construction,and of an odd design (some parts built tall, others of only one or two storeys;some of the roofs angled, most flat). Quite unlike, for instance, the college.There was a gravel drive visible from here that curled off round the house walls.Roses grew in terracotta pots. These flowers were all red, and well-groomed, atvariance with the ramble of the rest of the “grounds”.

Whenthe rise appeared, and the outlay of the scene matched with the version he hadlooked at from higher up, in the corridor outside his allotted room, Carver scrutinisedthe building. He believed he identified the corridor windows instantly. Theylacked blinds for one thing. For another they were in the top and second floorof that section. That there were only two floors made sense, as a stair, not alift, seemed to operate.

Afterone long establishing glance, Carver turned to survey the rise.

Croftpassed no comment. He was already powerfully ambling up the slope between thetrees. Carver followed.

Thesun caught the sheds, lightly but firmly coupled, like facets of a necklace.Each copied his own shed. He had purchased that shed. Chosen it. He did notknow why he had chosen a shed of that type, but it came ready-assembled. Andwhy should it not be attractive? There. Here. And privacy, he had wanted the shedfor that. Outside the house which Donna had had decorated and furnished as shewished, and set with the blaring screens of TVs. Somewhere to store things hestole, too. Naturally. Still a stupid kid. A theave, as Heavy would have called him, (onlyHeavy had never called Carver that), the same way that, for Heavy, a wolf was aWolve and wolves wereWolfs – theave,theafs.

Stop.Concentrate.

Saysomething to the man who named himself Croft.

“Whathappened,” said Carver quietly, “to Robby Johnston?”

AsCarver