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

honeyed skin. Her hot temper was a by-word in the office. Nowshe cried mercury tears in a breath-lisping near noiselessness, but with thepassion of a drama by Lorca.

Carverstood at the wall, and waited. Obviously, coffee right now was out of thequestion. He had not really wanted coffee anyway. He did not either want this.

“Imust talk to someone,” Dusa muttered, angrily.

“Yes?”He spoke warily. One had to remember, almost all the social spaces were opento Security. You should be careful what, even innocently, you said, did, unlessbeing careful might itself seem suspicious.

“It’smy mother,” said Dusa, now in a strangled tone. “She’s ill.”

“I’msorry.”

“Noyou’re not. Only I am sorry. She is my mother, not yours.” Sheshot him one of her laval glances, full of hate, loathing and despair. Some ofthem found this sexy. Carver wondered why. She pushed past him, her bodybrushing over his. (Neither was this at all arousing.) Her scent remained, ithad a strange theme of musk and oranges; something smoky, another elementacidulous and sharp.

Hefound she had put a piece of paper, half a page torn from a corner-shopnotebook, into his hand. He made himself the unwanted coffee, still holding thepaper, then walked off again, not looking at the note, neither concealing normaking anything of it, as if forgetting.

Backin his room he dropped the note on the table, left it there and sat before thescreen, next activating and running through the current disc-file on Scar.

The Third Scar: Remember, thecurse always has to do with the third one. Take the plot from this point to theother two possibilities: 1) A mark on the left hand, present since childhood,or the left arm, perhaps more recent. And 2) The terrain allocated for anyrelevant meeting.

Carver clearedthe screen. The second plot point was new. He would need to contact Latham, whotoday was on leave. As if catching sight of it and recollecting, he reached outand idly took up the paper note. Dusa’s pencilled scribble was eccentric butreadable. Long’s12.She had hardly chosen a secluded or private place then, which might indicateeither extreme caution or the genuinely mundane. Carver was inclined in anycase not to go, he had other things to do, and for all Dusa knew could haveanother unavoidable date, like the dinner the previous evening. In that event,however, he might as well visit Long’s and lyingly explain to her beforeescaping.

Heswitched off the computer, got his jacket, and went along the corridor to thelift. Downstairs, BBS was back on duty. “Can I just check you, Mr Carver?”

BuggerBack-Scratcher made a thorough job of this, he always did with the malecontingent. (“Gay as the Gordons,” Latham said.) Last night though Bugger hadnot wanted to feel Carver over, which in a way had been lucky, as last nightCarver had had the stolen object in his pocket. Then again, one could alwaysmake an excuse. The kind of things that would cause a problem – unauthorisedcash, cards, files or weaponry – were not involved.

Thesun was fully out again, shining down on Holland Row and its garlanded trees. Aslender creeping stain of orange was after all just burning through the leaves,fairly subtle as yet, as in Silvia Dusa’s perfume, and, just as Silvia Dusamaybe was, gathering speed and strength to pounce.

Shewas not inside the pub, a cramped and old-fashioned venue with nooks andcrannies, so Carver walked round it once, to be sure, then out again. And there she was, by thedoorway with her head arrogantly lifted.

“Thepark,” she said.

“Allright.”

Hewondered why he had acquiesced so quickly and pliantly. No doubt because of thetraces of tears still under her eyes. You learnt, he thought, to behave in thisway, or sometimes you did, less empathy and human decency than some type ofsocial conditioning. Or was he only curious?

They– Westminster Council, ostensibly – were having something done along the paths,blocking them. Boards were laid out in order pedestrians could, after all,trample over the grass. Birds poured across in clutches, protesting yet, fromforce of habit, indifferent to the always-disturbing interference of mankind.

Shedid not speak for a while. At last she said, “We will sit here.” A decree? Butthen, a hesitation: “Yes?”

“Yes.Why not.”

Theysat on a bench under the trees; a few leaves lay on the ground, for the path,just here, was unimpeded. A dull working rumble from some mechanical devicecame at measured, aggravating intervals.

“Yousee, Car,” she used his office nickname, “I have – I’ve done something stupid.”

Along, long gap, with three choruses of the rumbling machine.

Hesaid, “You mean about your mother.”

“No.This is not about mymother. Oh, she’s ill. Who cares, the old bitch. I hate her, always I have,from seven years of age. This is something stupid I did, when not thinkingclearly. I have – given something to...to someone.”

What? was what mostpeople would say, Carver thought. Instead he replied calmly, “You need to talkto Jack Stuart.”

“No.”

“Yes,Dusa. As quickly as you can.” (He could not use her own circulating officenickname – it was the obvious one, with the letters ME attached at the front.) “Youneed to talk to him before four this afternoon.”

Sheshook her head; or it was more that she shivered violently all over. “Then I’mdead. Aren’t I? Aren’t I, Car?”

“Idon’t know what you’ve done. No –” He looked directly at her, with aface of stone. “You don’t tell me. You tell Jack Stuart.”

“You’vebrought a Third Person,” she said, staring at him, “you have recorded what I’ve–”

“No.I didn’t think to bring one, Dusa. You said you were upset over your mother. Ibelieved you.”

“Shittalk.You believe nobody. Ibelieve nobody.”

“Believeme. Stuart. Before 4 p.m.”

Carverstood up, and at once she had risen too and caught his arm. “You bastard – you bastard!” Her voiceflared strongly now and piercing.

Alongthe board-path a couple of heads turned. He and she would look like twoquarrelling lovers.

“Letgo, Dusa,” he said, his own voice deliberately dropping, and icy. But this didnot work on her, as he had guessed it might not.

Sheleaned close, staring at him, her eyes grown huge, so he could see they werenot black, but a sort of dark mulled bronze. “Carver – help me.” It was nota plea, it was a demand.

Theywere struggling over some obscure mental abyss