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

“Who?Ah, yes. The fellow in the diver’s suit, the black face-mask – or was it abalaclava? Can’t remember. I’ll have to check.”

“Hewas inside the garden. That night.”

“Yes,he was, wasn’t he. A bit dottery, apparently. Lucky we could step in.”

“Ibelieved,” said Carver, “from what’s been said, it was Mantik that had theproblem with me. Not Johnston.”

“Quite.Seems they both did. Not connected, obviously. Had you offended him, thisJohnston chap?”

“No.”

“Sometimes,Car, we can offend without meaning to. Or noticing we have.”

Awarning? They had reached the sheds, were less than two metres away. Sunlightsoaked them, maple syrup. They glowed. The windows of each one, polished immaculately,gleamed hard as steel. The gleam helped to disguise – eradicate – anything thatmight be inside. But sunlight no longer affected Carver’s eyes. He counted thesheds, from left to right. Seven. Seven carriages, halted at some stationbeyond Moscow. In reality, or on a movie-set. They were even coupled together,in just that sort of way, or realistically enough. No engine (a steam engine,obviously) to pull them on. Stalled? They could travel no farther.

“You’rewondering,” said Croft, “why they resemble your own shed from that littlesuburbanly rural house, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Ourcompliment,” said Croft, “to you. They’re all for your use. You can come outhere and be alone, and think. You can store anything here you want to.”

“Likewhat,” Carver said without inflexion.

“Thingsyou take. As before.”

“ThingsI stole or steal.”

“Ifyou prefer to express your activity in that way.”

“Itreflects the fact of my activity.”

“You’vedone it since childhood, haven’t you, Carver? It started with – what was it,now? Sweets of some sort, I seem to recollect.”

“Chocolate.”

“Yes,of course. Chocolate in shiny coloured wrappers. And then later, other things.Bits and pieces you never used, or if you did, you took them back, didn’t you?”

Carversaid nothing.

Croftsaid, “You’re free to do exactly as you want here, Carver. I, we, want you tounderstand this.”

Carvernodded, not speaking, or crediting.

Beforehe spoke again, some more empty space ebbed by.

Timewas moving, the sun was moving, even if neither he nor Croft nor the railwaycarriages did.

“What’shappened to my partner, Donna?”

“She’sfine. She’s with her mother. She thinks you’re on a special assignment. That’sapproximately what Mantik have told her. No cause for alarm, and a niceincrement in pay.”

“Shehas never known what the office – what Mantik actually involves.”

“No.She doesn’t now. She thinks it’s just some big business deal, with you as anecessary dogsbody. They do know how to play it, Carver. They’re looking for you, yousee. They don’t want her in their way. Or, if she knows anything, they’d prefershe panicked and led them to you, not tried to put them off the scent.”

“Andwhat will you do with her?”

Croftgave a soft gravel-spill of a laugh.

“Nothingwhatever. She’s of no interest to us.”

“Whencan I see her?” Carver asked sharply.

Croftwent on smiling at him. (No, the hair was not a piece... or if it were, it wasan incredibly convincing one.)

“Areyou saying you really wantto see her, Car? Are you?”

Theyhad been watching him then some while, and rather intimately. They knew hisinterest in Donna had cooled to clinker.

“I’dlike to be sure she’s OK.”

“I’llsee if I can arrange that, Car. But I have to warn you, you’re not going tomeet her. That will have to wait.”

“Untilwhen?”

“Untilour new working relationship has been established.”

“Whichis?”

“I’vetold you, dear fellow. We all have to wait a little while for that too. Londonwasn’t built in a day.”

(Something... Somethingfor sure – the expression was wrong. Croft had said something earlier too thathad not quite been in its normal mode – Carver could not think what. Had notedit, until now, only subconsciously. But anyway, Croft might simply beattempting originality.)

Carversaid, “So you want me for some use I have, but won’t tell me what. And Donna isfine but I can’t see her to decide for myself.”

“Youcan’t leave this place,” said Croft. “Not yet. It wouldn’t be safe. Remember,Mantik want you. They believe you are a traitor and that probably you corruptedyour colleague, Silvia Dusa, so they had to kill her. No, Carver, I’m sorry, butyou must be patient, and settle down. For your own sake. In a few months thingswill be ironed out, and then you’ll be free as air. If rather better paid. Giveit time. Relax. Would you like to see the inside of one of the sheds? Choosewhich. They’re all alike.”

Carverfelt a wave of cold dark dread. He squashed it at once. “All right.”

Croftimmediately went up the brief steps of the central shed, to the central of thethree doors. Precisely the same as the shed at the house in this too, thesteps, the way the middle door was triple-opened, inward.

NowCroft came down again, and left the undone door, keys in the last lock, forCarver to go through, alone. No doubt, if wanted, Croft could then slam thedoor triply locked-shut by remote control, and from any reasonable distanceaway. Even from inside the up-and-down building. So what? Carver must do asrequested.

Hewent up the steps and walked in through the door.

Nothinghad glowed but the woodwork, the flat black roof, the sun on the panes. Withinthe shed too, nothing was unusual. The doors with door-windows, and four otherwindows: front; four windows only to the rear. It was empty, both of furniture –and of purloined objects. But Croft, apparently, was quite happy (entirelydetermined?) that Carver should pocket objects and bring them here. And would aturquoise sheen then begin to rise up from them, as in the other shed?

Thecentral door remained open, but when Carver turned back to it and looked out, thetree-flowered rise was otherwise vacant. Omitting farewell, the urbane Mr Crofthad taken his large and powerful presence off, noiseless as an iron-grey tiger.

Carverhad begun to think about this in the night bed, over and over, the walk, thetalk, the neat vanishment; Croft’s odd relocation of words, so that in Croft’stake it was London, not Rome, that was not ‘builtin a day’. Another trick? It was all a sort of trick, surely?

Whathad they done to him, that he could no longer feel or recapture, or findphysical clues to, there in that first space of confining and voiceless and thenvocal dark? How faroff it seemed