Ivoria by Tanith Lee (uplifting novels .txt) 📕

He blunders downstairs. This is the bloody locksmith, so early - not even eight o’clock. But they are always like this.

Nick had slept fully clothed. In flesh and garments. Mind and soul have now re-entered, but seem confused as to where they are. It is only instinct that has enabled Nick to recall the appointment.

“Yes?”

The voice says something incomprehensible, but he lets it in from the street. They all get in anyway. No doubt, of all people, a locksmith can break in. Nick half laughs at this, and is cleaning his teeth in the bathroom when the flat door is knocked on.

Nick, in the bathroom mirror. Christ, he looks old. The mirror is unforgiving. Better veil the mirror…

He feels hungover, though he is not. But all he has to do is tell the guy he is moving, so no longer needs a new lock. Doubtless compensate him, cash in hand, for a wasted journey.

Nick undoes the door.

The locksmith is quite tall, and burly, smoky-skinned (“I’d send them back - taking our work…”) blue-black hair gelled in short spikes. Behind him his mate, a white guy with dreads.

“Got a delivery for you,” says the locksmith, with enormous gravitas. That was what he had said from downstairs, Nick now guesses.

“I don’t need it now,” Nick says, realising bemusedly as he does so, he and the man are very likely at cross purposes. What delivery?

“No, you need it,” says the locksmith. “And you’ll receive it. Imp…” - he hesitates a second, almost stumbles in his speech, rectifying an error he had, it seems, often made before - “peraaative,” he concludes.

Nick gapes at him. But it is the other man behind who smiles. Then the locksmith shoulders straight in, and the other one closes the door after him, so now the locksmith and Nick are together in the flat, in the room, on the polished floor, under the gigantic grey of the morning window.

“You are Nick?” asks the locksmith.

Nick only stares.

“Yes, you are Nick. How she exactly describes you. Nick Loose.” That is the pronunciation; clearly the locksmith does not see he has made another mistake. “You know a lady called Jasmina, yes? He has said to tell you, she is with him. Not with you. His. Once he has learned it all, we have called you, leaving message, so you know. But you never pick up, still go to meet her. So now you are to take receipt.”

“Jazz? What message?” Nick says, astonished. “What delivery?”

“This,” says the locksmith. His hand is abruptly a blur then punched hard into Nick’s side. The hand feels very strange, as if it has grown very long and icily hot, and pierced Nick, penetrated him through. And when the hand next draws swiftly back, it seems it has, for it has one long straight steely claw on which a thick deep scarlet runs and shines.

“Shit,” Nick says. He is not aware he has said it.

“Shit for shit,” exemplifies the locksmith. And then he slides away backward, down a long tunnel where all the lights are calmly, mildly, redly smouldering out. Nick does not hear the door reopen, or close. He feels a vague impact, and sees the sheen of the wooden floor under his cheek, and then sinks into the brown lake of it. No, sleep was not, is not, like death. Nothing is like death.

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Without total concentration, the road seemed wide enough and well enough lit by its pale yellow lamps, to offer no hazard. There was no other moving traffic, only a few vehicles parked either side. Then the shining shadow of the car slid out into his path.

He braked, cursing. He had not been driving much faster than the limit; of course, dawdling a little now maybe, not especially eager to get back. But he had been drinking. And God knew, a maniac could drive on the wrong side of the road and crash right into you, and if you had a single vodka in your gut you got the fine and the points on your licence. Or, the way things were now, you probably ended up in the can. Aside from that too, there was the other worry he had - was it now confirmed?

Laurence felt the two cars touch. The collision was minimal, but it jerked him forward and back and the bloody seat-belt cut into him. He was angry again. He glanced instinctively about for benign corroboration of his own innocence. But on either side very large houses, closed as nunneries behind high walls and evergreens, had paid no heed.

There was no easy way by, the intruding car had now blocked his path. He could only sit, or should he…? Then the car’s door flew open and the other driver was out and moving quickly towards him. Even in the half dark between the lamps Laurence saw the idiot raised his hands in an expansive gesture of contrite peace, and mouthed Sorry, sorry. A complete bloody prat.

So Laurence put down his window.

“That was your fucking fault,” Laurence informed him coldly, presumably without need. “But you seem at least to have the sense to realise that.”

The man was bending near, now looking at him intently. He was quite thickset, with a solid bulldog sort of persona about him that had nothing to do with Churchill, either the WW2 P.M. or the advert. No doubt a good thing he could see he was to blame; Laurence was not in the mood for a fist fight.

“Had to get somewhere in a hurry, didn’t think,” said the man. He put both hands on the lowered window. He was wearing gloves that appeared rather bulky. “You’re Laurence Lewis?” he asked. “The writer? Makes the TV programmes?”

Oh Jesus. Just what Laurence wanted right now. A fan.

“Yes. However…”

“Just making sure,” said the man, in a flat matter-of-fact voice. “Now I’m going to get in.”

“You’re what?” Laurence assumed he had misheard.

“Get in. The passenger door - undo it.”

“You