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

(there was a clock on the wall), entailedeach of the four men being told to speak, and speaking, saying what hepersonally had seen and done, generally prompted, asked to elaborate, or trippedup by the presiding bench of eight-person desk. They all asked questions orbroke in with side-long thrusts – “But if you were fighting/ being sick/asleepat that point, how can you be quite certain?”

Theman who seemed to be Chinese, and spoke with a soft Mancunian accent, hadpicked remorselessly on Ball. But Ball seemed, though uneasy and utterlydrained, to recognise it all as a gambit. He answered with leaden pragmatismeach time. The red-haired Celt, conversely, had it in for Sedden.

Whydid they – these people, this ‘Place’, “Us” – need to act out so much? Itdecidedly was like a caricature drama of a courtroom, once more on TV. Or agame of charades in a pub.

Thefat woman picked on Sedden as well. She drove him mad. In the end he slumpeddown in his chair and seemed on the verge of fainting. That was when they hadthe second break, which lasted six minutes.

Carverthey neither questioned (interrupted) nor psychologically pawed at.

Theylet him speak. Listened. Said “thank you”, and moved on.

Hehad, as conceivably they grasped, not been drunk, ill, in a rage or a fight orasleep. But why trust him, why not subject him to the twiddling, needlingprocess the rest had to put up with? They (the ‘Place’, “Us”) knew it all anyway. They had the visuals and the sound records. Unless, maybe, there truly hadbeen a major glitch. It seemed unlikely.

Whenthe three hours of hearing and breaks was over, the panel withdrew again. Wouldthey pace back and pass sentence? It seemed not. A woman in a short dress, anda boyish 1940’s US crew-cut, danced in and said they could all get over totheir ‘Work’ now. And the outer door was left wide. No Security stood there inits un-Charlie-ish well-tailored jeans.

Thebicycle did not get up to follow them out. Nobody had referred to it.

Outsidenone of them spoke to the others. Not even Sedden to Ball. They wandered offalong the corridor beyond the hot room, and the corridor was breathing througha high up open window, showing leaves stitched on a cloudy windless mauve sky.

“Storm,”announced Fiddy, portentously.

Thatwas all.

CharlesMichael Slade Hemel. C.M.S.H. Something flicked through Carver’s thoughts,like a hare through long grass. You knew what it was, but could not see.

Hehad no idea where the corridor led, but followed it round. No need to makeplans. Another young woman, blonde in a completely un-Donna way, stood waiting.She too wore a dress, but carried a clipboard.

“Oh,Mr Carver. Here you are. Just follow me. Mr Croft is waiting.”

Croft satagainst the blinded, lighted window, and was in silhouette. An old trick, clichéd– exactly how he had played it the last time. The first time.

“Pleasesit down, Car,” he said. “The nicer chair.”

Thewindow behind him, though, today was less luminous, the sun in cloud... Hissilhouette had faded, and drew less significance. Carver had seen its face anyway.

Carver’seyes, now, did not water.

“Nastybusiness,” said Croft pleasantly.

“Yes.”

“Whatdid you make of it?”

“Idon’t know.”

“Charliealways had this thing about cycling. Kept a bicycle, but hardly ever got on themachine. They’ll have to investigate all the background rubbish, of course.Some emotional problem perhaps.”

Carverdid not speak. He wondered if they had yet recovered the body from theshoreline below. They must have done. They would be testing it, what wasuseable, for substances, irregularities, giving it the third degree asit was now impossible to give that to Charlie.

Croftshifted. His profile appeared, the large nose and jaw, the heavy-lidded eyethat today in the gloom did not glint.

Croftrose. “Why not we go outside, have a stroll. Probably be a downpour later. Whatdo you say?”

Asbefore, Carver went after him to the doorway, the corridor, lift etc.

Notlong after they were again sitting on the bench on the rise, where they had satthe first time. The mood of the weather had changed everything. There was no hintof a breeze, nothing moved. The sky had thickly darkened, and the trees hadloosely darkened, out of shade into a premature twilight. The world, or thispiece of it, seemed to have stopped.

Sarahad been frightened of storms. That got worse as the years went on. Carverrecalled how once she had run in screaming from the street, seeming to bringthe pursuit of lightning and thunder inside with her. She had flown into herbedroom and ripped shut the ineffectual curtains before slamming the door tokeep her in. But he had stayed in the outer room, watching at the window.

“Weshall just have to get on with things,” said Croft, who had not spoken againuntil now. (What test was this one?) “How have you been, Carver?” as ifinquiring after a decent if not well-known acquaintance.

“I’vebeen here,” Carver said.

“Soyou have. Let’s see. You asked me one or two questions before, didn’t you? Iconsider, under the circumstances... I might try to reply to some of yourconcerns. Do you think?”

Croftgave every indication of now pedantically waiting for an answer himself.

“Yes.”

“Yes. A positiveaffirmative.” Croft’s new tactics were odd. But what else? Croft uncrossed andrecrossed his ankles. He had not, this time, taken off his jacket. The jacketwas a little rumpled. Had he slept in it? It looked that way. Just like thehair of some of the security men, sticking up unwashed and unsmoothed, unreadyfor action –

“Youwanted to know why we are so interested in you. Why your Mantik Corp were sointerested in you. Apart” (sarcasm?) “from your high intelligence rating andother splendid personal abilities, of course. Mantik Corp,” added Croft,musingly. He put his hands behind his neck, resting his iron-capped head backon them. “There’s a thought. Perhaps you never have thought of this, Carver.Even though that college place where they seeded you wasn’t bad, I don’t knowhow much of a classic or etheric educationthey offered... Mantik–” he paused, “Corp. Have you ever heard or read, Car, ofthe mythic Manticore – a fabledbeast, dear old chap. In several of the old Bestiaries that gave – you’ll know?– lists of magical animals supposedly seen, met with, documented, killed,stuffed and mounted. Indian in origin. Had a