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

showed in the house. Occasionally Donna did turn them out, even in thehall and inside the glassed-in front door. Only a security bulb flared ontherefore as he got near, as it did anyway for every fox, badger orneighbourhood cat.

Carverunlocked the entrances, using another three keys, here, one for the glass paneland two for the main door.

Havinggained the inner doorway, he glanced out again, and noted the night staringback at him as the security bulb extinguished: the primal and unnegotiabledarkness. Quietly he shut outer and inner doors.

Livingsound sprang up without warning, not twenty feet away in the unlit enclosure.

Fora moment Carver, if anyone could have seen, became an invisibly distended andsparkling electric wire of attention. But in another moment, just before thelightning strike came of all the hall lights bursting on together from a masterswitch, he had relaxed, shrunk down again into an uninterested traveller re-enteringhis home.

“Wherethe fuck haveyou been?”Donna screamed, standing between the main room and the hall, vivid withincandescent irritation and a sort of fear.

Carverlooked at her.

“Youknow where I’ve been.”

“DoI? Where?”

“Atwork, and then at the bloody dinner for the client afterwards. As I told you I’dprobably have to be.”

“Yes,told me. You told me. Do you knowwhat fucking time it is?”

“Thirty-threeminutes past one.”

“Yousaid – you said – if you weregoing to be later than midnight you would call me.”

“No,Donna, I didn’t say that.”

“Youdid. You did – and then nocall – and when I tried your mobile it’s off – as it always is off when you’reout–”

“No,Donna. Only I can’t always get a signal or clear reception when I’m driving.You know that.”

“Iknow so much, don’t I? Notenough though. Where have you been? There issomeone, isn’t there? Some shitty bitch you’re seeing – and I’m pregnant, Carver, I’m goingto have your baby–”

Donnawas crying. “Look,” he said, “let’s go and sit down. I’ve been held up byroadworks all the way. Let’s have a drink...”

“Ican’t have a fucking drink – can I – I’m fucking pregnant–”

Hereturned her into the room, her unseen sparks of frustration and rage andsorrow flying off her – he could sense her own primitive electricity; in thehalf-light that now illumined everything, he could almost see the glitter ofit. He organised her sitting on the couch. He went out to the kitchen andbrought her back half a glass of white wine from the fridge. “It won’t hurtyou.”

“Itwill. You want it to hurt me.”

Hesat beside her as her momentum ran down, (like the batteries he had visualisedinside the doll-people between Trench Street and Holland Row). She sipped thedrink, staring at the enormous, currently blank screen of the TV.

“Youmisunderstood what I said, Donna,” he told her.

“Ithought you’d been in an accident,” she whimpered, “I thought you were dead.”

Whenfinally he had got her up to bed, helped her undress, and arranged the duvetover her, fetched her hot rosehip and camomile tea, tucked her in, he left her,with the bedside lamp on the lowest turn of the dimmer, like a difficult childscared of a monster under the bed. Presumably there would soon be two of those,two children, her and the child; maybe two monsters as well. As he passed thespare room on the way downstairs again, he abruptly registered unexpected proofof the intention of this.

Ontop of the double bed was spread a magazine. It demonstrated, in articles andgarish photographs, how the changing of such a space might be accomplished:spare room to something suitable for a baby, a toddler, a kid of five tofifteen.

Belowin the kitchen Carver turned off the light. He stood looking out into thegarden behind the house. The night remained, still on watch and staring back.But, his eyes adjusting, he could see stars now, sharply bright as if withfrost, between the trees of the wood beyond. He had a late start tomorrow, didnot need to leave the house until twelve o’clock.

Carverplaced his hand inside the pocket of his coat. He turned an object thereloosely over and over, but not removing it. Tomorrow morning he would put theobject out in the shed. With the other stuff. He could just see the shed’sglimmer from here, faintly. It might only be starlight. One could never becertain, until closer. On nights of full moon you could not be sure at all.

Oncea thief, always a thief. Heavy had pronounced the word Theave however, thosecountless ill-assorted years ago.

Carverwent to sleep swiftly, but Donna woke him about 5 a.m., being sick in thesecond bathroom nearest the spare room, instead of in the more private ensuite. He listened, monitoring her now, but the noises soon stopped. Sheretreated to her bed again, slamming the door, with a strong healthyvandalistic crash.

Heavy said, inCarver’s dream, “What’s it mean, your name? Is it means to be you’re asculptoror, you know, carvingthings – or you carve stuff in stones for dead bodies. Or you’re a butcher? Youcarve up meat?” ShutupCarver answered. Heavy screamed at him on a high metallic note. Carver undidhis eyes, and the alarm clock said 9 a.m. He killed its siren, and went to thesecond bathroom along the corridor. It was untouched, it seemed, by anything –even the towels were dry when he used them after the shower.

Two

Silvia Dusa wasstanding by the fourth floor annex coffee machine, weeping. In the half-lightthrough the blind and the tarpaulin that covered the window-glass also on theoutside, her tears shone spectacularly, like mercury.

Carverhalted. He said and did nothing for a moment.

Butthis was, in the most bizarre way, like a direct piece of continuity, followingsomehow instantly, (despite the interval of domestic attendance, sleep, waking,and the drive back to London) on that other sobbing outcry of Donna’s lastnight. They resembled two takes in a movie. Only the actress had changed.

Aftera minute, “Can I help,” he said. A neutral tone.

Nocondemnation, no kindness, no pulsing rush to know or assist.

“Goto hell,” she hissed, and turned away.

Hetoo turned instantly, but as he did so she said, in a low, crushed voice, “No –wait. Wait–”

Dusawas perhaps, ethnically, if only partly, of Italian origin. But she had aSpanish glaze to her, her hair thick and coal-black, eyes dark, and everythingclad in a fawn,