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

– was it fear? Anger? Or anirrational plan of hers, a kind of madness that, to her, seemed essential ofexecution, and that she must have dealt with by someone else. “Will you speakto Stuart for me, Carver?”Both her hands were on him now, flat on his chest, burning through the jacketand his shirt, immediate and familiar, unwanted.

“Stopthis, Silvia,” he said quite briskly. “I can’t do anything. I’m notimportant in the office, you know. I’m no one. An errand boy. Speak to Lathamif you’re too scared to go straight to Stuart.”

Shedropped her hands, the way a cat would put down its paws, seeing no advantageand losing interest. Where their heat had been he felt the warmish day striketwo cold blows.

SilviaDusa lowered her eyes. She was not crying any more, not breathing fast, perhapsnot really breathing.

“Ishouldn’t have come to you.”

“No.”

“I’lldo what you say.”

“It’sthe only way for you to sort this out, Silvia.”

Hethought, stop using her first name. It set up a fake intimacy that was uselessand had no part here. It had served its purpose.

Heturned and began to walk, without hurry or delay, away from her over thepathway, then the wobbly boards. He had an urge to look back once, hearingbehind him a woman’s running steps on the open grass. But it was not Dusa, tooheavy for her, and the shoes were trainers. He saw he was quite correct when abig young woman presently passed him, and went thumping off through the parktowards Horse Guards Road.

Whathad she done? Pointless to wonder even. Probably nothing much. Or elsesomething vast and irredemable. Did he care? He was unsure. His own reactionany way by now would be tangled up in her attempted involvement of him, and thegeneral repercussions any inane or insane mistake could always throw up foreveryone, whether let in on the error or not.

Thatevening he left the car stabled at the office – there had indeed been a slightfault with the engine – he should no doubt not have risked coming back intoLondon with it that morning, but it would often allow you a couple of hoursgrace before at last giving out. He took the train down as far as Lynchoak. Hewas meeting Latham in a steakhouse off the Maidstone Road.

“Weirdbloody names these villages have round here,” said Latham, as they sat drinkingred wine, the meal ordered; it was not yet 8 p.m. “Lynchoak – a hangingtree, one assumes. Christ. And that by-way back there near the motorway. TokyoLane? Tokyo – I ask you.”

“Yes,”said Carver.

Hismind had skewed abruptly over, as it kept on doing, to the tussle with Dusaearlier. He could still, now and then, feel the heat of her two hands on hischest, and the later cold patches that followed, as if she had leechedsomething out of him to keep her warm for the winter to come.

“You’vegot some bloody weird places near you, haven’t you, Car. What is it – BeeChurch.”

“Beechurst.”

“Oh,I see. God knows,” said Latham, chomping his way along a piece of garlic breadwith cheese and evident enjoyment.

Heliked, Latham, what he called “Plebfood” – pizza, steak, chips ice-cream. “Bee–churst,” herepeated, reflectively. “Be cursed.”

Thewaiter came to refill their glasses. The first bottle was done and Lathamordered a second. Driving would not be a hurdle, for either of them. “What didyou think of the new script?” Latham asked. His face, a minute before sanguineand relaxed, had put on a lizard-like, snake-like concentration, emotionless butentirely focussed.

“Itdoesn’t make much sense,” said Carver.

“No,”mused Latham. “What I thought too. But with that set of directors – what canyou expect.” And the greedy mask popped back.

Theirspeech followed its formulas, but no one could overhear. Not only obscured bythe canned music but the turgid scrambled egg of other voices and cutlery.Besides that, the two recording/listening devices (Third Persons), Carver’s andLatham’s, were both on reverse, creating a mostly inaudible but interferingflit and flux of white noise. Enough to muddle most eavesdroppers whether humanor electronic.

Themeal came, the steaks – Latham’s double – with fries, salads and various dips.

Carverhad considered if Latham would ask him anything about Dusa’s outburst in thepark. Did they know? You assumed they always must, to some extent. Particularlyif she had done what Carver warned her she must, and gone to Jack Stuart to confess.But Latham’s main concern seemed to be to eat.

“Knowwhat there’s a whole lot of round here?” Latham asked as he studied the dessertmenu. “Full of lamas.”

It had beenautumn then too, but the leaves had turned and many were down, coating thepavements of the side streets in crisply rustling tides that the wind blew highor low.

Hewas walking home from school, one of the first schools, when he was about eightand still bothered with lessons. He was alone, as he usually was. A solitarychild, for his own assorted and unanalysed reasons.

Hepaused outside the shop that had one window all sweets, to look in. Everythingwas in glamorous reds and purples tinselled gold and silver. The wrappersalone looked eatable. And some had free gifts with them – model figures that moved.

Thedoor flew wide and someone stamped out in a hurry, some oldishly grown-upwoman, who knocked against him and snapped “Watch out, can’t you?” as thoughhe, not she, had done the barging.

Hisface did not alter. He was used generally to a bad press. It never occurred tohim that in ten years time he would be taller and stronger than she, and sheten years older. It would take Heavy, who he would meet when he, Carver, waseleven, to come out with funny speculations like that.

Carver,once the angry woman was gone, walked on slowly up the road, passing the Co-Opand the greengrocers, and the ‘Lovely’ Laundrette. He was in no hurry. It wasgetting on towards five o’clock, but that would make no difference. No onewould be home, unless his father was, but he as a rule would be out again bythis time of day.

Thesun was dipping, going west, smoky and golden as if chocolate foil had beenpinned up there then fumed with smoke.

Carverturned the corner and walked up the hill where the bigger houses stood, withproper gardens, and you had enough