Cruel Pink by Tanith Lee (uplifting book club books TXT) 📕

to try to lift the price. I’ve driven past and seen how half the trees are marked for culling, a vile act in this age of global warming. The bastard must have bribed the council. Driving by not long since, I parked again, and went to the unsecured back gate, looking over. One tree was already gone, revealing that there seemed to be some sort of grave in the garden. I went in and took a look. Quite a big grave, for what it was, because almost certainly a family pet had been buried there. The little marker read, in black waterproof paint, Rover. 13 years, one month. Be happy in Heaven, Dear.

For the record I’d better add there is, very definitely, no evidence at all that either I, or certain of my most reliable—if also nameless—contacts, were able to unearth that Dawn, when in her killer persona, ever harmed a soul, while the Clover personality stole nothing, except in Dawn’s fantasy.

OK

Split personality. Multiple personality. Classified terms for a particular form of certifiable madness.

But.

You know, we all do it—don’t we?—one way or another. I mean, of course, we lead many different lives inside our one.

One personality for work, and one for your sexual partner, another for the kids, if you have any. Another when you’re really elated, or when you’re angry, and another when you’re scared shitless. Every seven or ten years, too, you seem to grow into another skin as the old one shreds itself off. Older and wiser, older and more stupid. I’m not the guy I was at ten, or at twenty or even thirty-six. Who will I be when I’m forty-six, or fifty, or seventy-four? God knows.

And we have fantasy lives too, don’t we? Reading a book, or watching a good movie. At our console playing computer games of death and daring. If we write, or act, quite other lives. And when we dream—oh, sure, then we really do. Twenty or a hundred, or more, other little Us’s. Multiple Personality Syndrome. Once I dreamed I’d got to Mars, even if I wasn’t King of it, like Eric Verner Wassen. And once, only once, when I was a kid about five, I sleep-walked through our house, which was a two-up two-down terrace in Walthamstow. But in the dream all my toys were running and playing up and down the stairs, my train and my toy bus were rushing along the lino in the kitchen, and our recently deceased tom cat was flying, on silvery wings, harmlessly in and out of the shut glass of the windows. I saw this. I was there. It was real. My misery when I woke below in the kitchen, at 2 a.m., was temporarily insurmountable. But Dawn Jones, thank God, never did wake up. Or not in this life.

I have a feeling. This ‘dry run’, dress-rehearsal—now it’s done…

I may just hand over my three hundred pounds to Dimble. And suggest to D.C.W. he find another patsy. Rest in peace.

Let it go.

James Michael Pinkerton

London.

March 2011

Dawn:

102

After I got up, I had the soup, the way I like it, very hot, with two cream crackers and butter.

When I looked out, it was summer, the sky so blue and all the trees thick with green. I put on a light dress.

I took the dog for a walk.

He’s very good, the dog, but wilful. Sometimes he goes off on his own, he always has, especially to the park. We walked through the park. What a golden day. And over in the west, where the flats used to be, I could see the new bridge shining, just like gold itself in the light.

As we were coming back the dog indicated he had to go off again, but he’d be back tomorrow to see me. He always comes back. I stroked him, and told him to give my love to Ben.

When I got home there was cooked chicken in the fridge I’d forgotten about. I had a sherry, and then a long cool bath. Painted my toenails as I haven’t for so long. I admit, I admired myself in the mirror. It’s nice to be young again. I think I’m about twenty-four now. It suits me.

Played the piano until eight, no stiff fingers! Then had a nice cold chicken dinner with a glass of wine.

Went to bed at eleven-thirty. Wonderful music on the radio. Looking forward so much to tomorrow, and to getting news of Ben.

The moon is shining on the bridge. It’s silver now.

Emenie:

103

After I got out of the hospital I took advantage of the free offer and came out here. It’s wonderful country, and the weather, for autumn, is very good.

I climb the mountains and go for runs along the downs. There’s a waterfall that plunges down about a hundred feet. Off to the west I can just make out the bridge. Steel, and always shining, but always, too, half lost in the mist. I suppose one day it’ll come clear.

Killed twice yesterday. Both excellent. They were hikers, a couple, and we all enjoyed it a lot. Afterwards they shared their sandwiches with me. First time ever I’ve had caviar, and in a sandwich for God’s sake. But I liked that too.

Tonight I’m twenty-one, and going to some dinner at the hotel. There is a man there that I’ve promised to kill, but we haven’t been able to fit the time in yet. There’s such a lot to do. If we can’t tonight, I’ll try to make a proper date, and stick to it.

One small problem. That idiot called Alun, who keeps coming back for more. I have murdered him four times and all different ways. I think I’ll have to talk to him seriously about this. There are other people waiting. He will have to get to the back of the queue.

Rod:

104

After I got out of the hospital I carried on with my original plan. I