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

Carryingeverything openly, he went out. There was never any human security on any ofthe doors, at least, not to be seen.

Outside,it was remorselessly there again, the Wonderful Weather. But this place wassome sort of movie-set after all. Conceivably they had finally cracked thescientific formulae for weather control, just as the USA and Russia had beenrumoured to have done as far back as the 1960’s. Weather control: peoplecontrol. And here, just sufficient rain, endless warmth and light. Keep theleaves green. Keep summer up and running.

Carver waswalking back along the rise towards the line of railway-carriage sheds when thefat cycling enthusiast burst from the trees below, and called out to him.

“Hi!Car!”

Theyall used the office abbreviation of his name now. It would have been in theinevitable file on him.

Carverturned, stopped, waited for the out-of-breath young man to reach him. Thismorning Charlie, if that was his name, wore jeans, overstretchedfrom hip to knee, too loose at calves and ankles – he did not, certainly, havea cyclist’s legs. Additionally he had on another white tent of T-shirt, thisone written over by the optimistic motto Long Life. As before, under duress, he wasscarlet, and puffing from exertion.

“Somehill,” puffed Charlie. He reached out and clapped Carver on the arm, man toman.

Carverwaited.

Charlieregained his breath. “How are you doing?”

“Fine.”Carver paused. “How’s your bicycle?”

“OhGod, she’s lovely. Did nearly thirty miles on her yesterday. Getting there. Nolie. Getting... Where you headed?”

WhenCarver did not comment, Charlie decided. “The sheds. I’ll trot up there with you.”

Theytrotted very slowly.

“Shameyou can’t see the sea this side,” said Charlie.

Thesea lay to the south, the sheds northerly.

“Shouldyou be able to? Is this an island?” Carver asked.

“Anisle of adventure, old mate,” gasped Charlie.

“Imeant, is this place surrounded by sea?”

Charliestopped, so Carver stopped. Charlie frowned at him and for a moment Carverthought something useful might be said. But then Charlie exclaimed, “You know,old son, you’re the spitting image of my dad – I mean, about sixteen years ago,”

“Whatyear was that, then?”

“Oh,when he was younger. You know what I mean.”

“SoI look like your father. When younger.”

“Youreally do. Although –” Charlie tilted his head, quizzically, “more like myuncle, maybe.”

Carverstarted to go on up the hill.

Ajolly dog, Charlie scampered after him, just too out-of-breath to bark.

Bynow the sheds were clearly in front of them. The sun had not yet topped thehigher parts of the building behind. But light still fell on the golden syrupshed-wood in thick separated slices, somehow optically doubling several ofthem, so seven became eleven.

Crofthad left Carver the three-way keys.

Carverundid the centre door of the central (light–doubled) shed.

“Iwon’t come in, OK...” said Charlie, as if anxious not to offend by not doingso. “I’m off to get in some cycling.”

“Doyou find you have a lot of time for that?”

“Everyday, old mate. Regular as a clock.”

“Whathappens the rest of the time?”

Charliewould not, as he had not, give a direct answer. Or would he? Charlie said, “I’mjust an errand boy, Car.” And for a moment he looked sly. It was, of course,how Carver had described himself.

ThenCharlie let out a somehow surprising bray of laughter, spun round and hurtledoff down the slope, waving his arms and ungainly as a drunken windmill so thatCarver too, for a second, was reminded of someone from the past. Heavy.

Carverwent into the shed, and shut and locked the door behind him.

Therewas a narrow table in there now. A plain, clean, modern table of renewablewood. Waiting to receive anything he might want to set down on it. Displaying,en passant, they too had keptkeys.

Carverput the pens, batteries, notebook, soap, mug, in a group at the centre. Thearrangement seemed very foreign to him. All this was as unlike anything he hadever done as it could be. He too, he felt, was unlike anything he could properlytarget as himself. Whatever caused this effect, it disturbed him only to adegree. Because perhaps the different Carver might find a way out ofthis mess.

Lunch was asandwich got from the take-out annexe between the canteen and the bar. He had asmall bottle of beer (label unknown) to go with it, mostly for the fluidcontent. He ate and drank outside, sitting on the bench he had shared withCroft.

Carversat and thought about Croft, going over all the points he could remember. “Londonwasn’t built in a day.” What had been the other off-kilter word or phrase? Itwould not come. (Charlie too had said something just off the generalphraseology. Regular as, not clockwork, but a clock. But people got mixed up. Or alteredthings to be ‘clever’.)

Noneof this was remotely like the takes, adornments, extrapolations, transpositionsof someone like Heavy. Theave. Wolfs. Underland for Sunderland. The wind runs backward.

Carverwatched the light breeze dapple about in the leaves. He tried to gauge if anytiny giveaway blink or shimmer indicated a spying device. He could not detectanything. Yet he knew they were there. They had to be, with such otherwise lax security.And besides he could sense the faint reflected buzz of their electronics on theskin of his bare forearms, his forehead. Sometimes at the tip of his tongue. Hehad experienced that with women, too, once or twice, when intimately kissingand licking them. Never with Donna. With the black woman he had, Anjeela. Hehad half expected to. Oddly, suddenly, he recalled Silvia Dusa. The pressure ofher hands on his chest, so hot, then the impression of them left behindafterwards, so cold. Like the codednumbers, letters, that had splintered over his eyes in semi-sleep, he saw againthat terrible image of her mortuary corpse, the inert body eviscerated of life,her riven and evacuated arm–

Carverlurched on the bench. He had been sleeping again now. And now, was awake.

Hechecked the sky. The sun was deep in the nests of trees. They had not left, orgiven him, a watch to tell the time, (unlike Ball?), but he could judgereasonably well by the sun. Nearly five again? He planned to go in. He wouldretreat to his room from the bustle, the beaming smiles and hotelish fake camaraderie– or reticence. As with the college, they all seemed to live in. When darknessarrived he would go into the