Killing Violets by Tanith Lee (android pdf ebook reader txt) 📕

For a moment the city pulsed out, but then came back, complete and steady, as if nothing whatsoever had happened.

“Perhaps,” he said, “you’ll let me take you somewhere.”

Anna said, “Yes, of course. But I’m afraid I need money rather badly.”

“I thought that you might. Let’s go somewhere for a quiet drink. That’s what they say here, you know. A quiet drink. Not a noisy one. I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”

A weight lifted away from Anna. This man would be her salvation. But as the weight dispersed, she sensed how it had held her to the earth. Now she was in the air, with nothing to hold on to.

He offered his arm, then. When he did this, deep pain stirred inside her. But it was only memory. What she was accustomed to. It was of no importance, the slight mark on his face beneath the dark blue eye. It had not marred him or driven him into the wilderness.

She took his arm, and he was real and ordinary. They walked at an even pace over the burned cracked paving, and up a hill, and there was a public house with a curious sign, not a dragon, but a headless woman, holding her head up in one hand.

He glanced at this. His mouth was wry. “They have an odd way of looking at things, the English.”

Inside, the smoke had made a mist. There was the odour of beer and spirits, sawdust, and a tinge of vomit and disinfectant.

She went into a booth, a high fence of wood, and sat at a wooden table almost black, scarred with cigarettes and ringed by past glasses.

He brought her a present glass of gin, very strong, three or four measures, and also with something sweet in it she didn’t really like. And some sandwiches, coarsely cut, on a plate.

“Their beef is good,” he said. “Eat something.”

She ate a mouthful or two. But her hunger had gone. It had no longer seemed necessary to be hungry.

She drank about half the gin, and parts of her rose and left her. She felt relaxed now, and sad without urgence.

“My name is Virág,” he said. “May I call you Anna?”

She must have told him her name, she always did. They tended to ask, liking to have a label for you. And sometimes you got one back, “Call me George, Arthur, Bertie.” Or it was, “I won’t give my name. Don’t mind, do you?”

Virág. Oh, not an English name. She would have liked better a French name.

They smoked two more cigarettes.

“You see,” she said, “I find I need to cross the Channel.”

“I understand. Don’t, worry, Anna. Maybe we’ll go together. Would you object to that?”

Her heart tried to fly up with relief, but could not summon the energy. And she was already adrift in the air.

“No. Not at all.”

“We may need to go somewhere first. That would be all right, wouldn’t it?”

She smiled. Her smile felt tired and stiff. She must be cautious. Not put him off. This was so lucky.

“Let’s talk a while,” he said. “The streets are so crowded now. In an hour or so it will be easy to find a taxi.”

(He was not like Raoul.) He was not like Árpád. She had been terrified that he was, and longed for that, and now her disappointment engulfed her.

She had not said good-bye to him. She hadn’t looked for him. She had left him lying on the floor of the room, untidily, with the ripped curtain blowing. It seemed like yesterday.

This man – Virág – had asked her something.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Have you been in London long?”

“Oh. No. Only a few days.”

“It’s a bad city. Unfriendly.”

“Yes, I think so.”

“But you were somewhere else before?”

He was offering her another cigarette. She took it. “In the countryside.”

“How interesting,” he said. “But it’s been wet.”

“Yes, it rained.”

“They don’t like foreigners here,” he said, “especially in the country. Don’t you find?”

She said nothing.

The man – Virág – said, “Were you working somewhere?”

“I was in a house. A friend’s house.”

“That must have been interesting,” he said.

“Not really. He wasn’t truly a friend to me.”

Virág’s lips curled into his smile. “The villain. Did you run away?”

“Yes. I ran away.”

“I’m surprised he let you go.”

“Oh – he didn’t stop me.”

“Didn’t he?”

“No.”

“I’d have thought,” said Virág, “he’d have tried to make you stay. Just for another night. What a wretch. An Englishman, of course.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps you had some difficulty with his family. They’re prudish, here. Don’t you find that?”

“I didn’t find that, no.”

“And they treat their servants badly.” Anna had finished her drink. He took the glass. “We’ll have another. The streets will be less crowded soon.”

He went with their glasses back towards the bar.

The room had filled up inside its fulvous haze of smokes and fumes. In the corner, some old men were playing a game of some sort on the table. And a crone was going about with a basket of mauve flowers.

Anna had an urge to get up and walk out of the pub that was a headless woman, while Virág was busy buying her another drink. It would be straightforward, surely.

But she couldn’t be bothered really. It was all right. So she sat where she was, and the cigarette burned down in her fingers.

When he returned, he put the full glass before her, and pushed the plate of uneaten sandwiches aside.

She saw he was quite handsome. His eyes were clear and intense. His mouth was classically shaped, and his hands. As a lover, he might be exciting. His smile was kind, yes, kind, and thoughtful. When his fingers brushed hers, she sensed that he took great care with her.

All this augured well. But she was tired now. The drink made her tired.

The old woman with the flowers came up to their table.

“Violets for your young lady?”

There was a tired face. To be so old. All those years of living, on and on, without remit. One could never grow old. The old were another species.

“Here,” he said. He gave the