Turquoiselle

  Turquoiselle

  Tanith Lee

  Turquoiselle

  By Tanith Lee

  © 2014

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people, or events, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  The right of Tanith Lee to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.

  Cover by John Kaiine from artwork by Tanith Lee

  New (future) Author Web Site, as the original has been stolen: http://www.tanith-lee.com

  Immanion Press Edition 2014

  Kindle Edition 2014

  http://www.immanion–press.com

  info@immanion–press.com

  Whisky, wine and shiny pins –

  Pour them out and stick them in;

  All the graces, all the sins,

  All the games that you can win:

  And so the Fighters’ Feast begins.

  One

  The shed looked like a railway carriage, especially through the trees that grew up beyond the property. Some were silver birches, which gave a Russian effect, something Chekovian, Tolstoyan...

  The shed itself had once been the colour of marmalade, but had faded through the several wet English seasons it had had to endure. Now it was a pale rusty brown. Only by night, however, did the shed seem truly a little strange, for this was when an unusual muted glow began to be visible through the glazed windows. The colour was soft and faded. Some sort of Christmas lights might seem to have caused it, old ones that still, unusually, worked, and all in this one shade, this vague eerie greenish–blue,.

  Johnston, who lived farther along the lane, had concluded it was something like that. The few people who otherwise went that way after dark, drinkers from the local pub mostly, and assuming even they paid it any attention, took it for various illuminatory devices. Even, now and then, a bit of plastic over an ordinary household bulb. Or maybe an old–fashioned oil–lamp with that colour glass.

  It was none of those things, of course. Just as the shed was a shed and not a railway carriage. And the area was not late nineteenth century Russia. Not much is what it seems. Some things are not even – what they are.

  “Oh shit,” said Donna, “oh shit.” And getting up quickly she ran out of the kitchen.

  She was going to the downstairs cloakroom, he supposed, in order to vomit.

  Yes, he could hear her.

  Carver turned up the sound of the TV she always liked to have going above the breakfast bar. Not that he enjoyed or valued the early morning news show that was on, but he needed a sound to block out the noises from Donna. (The TV flickered, settled; weather interference – it was prone to that.)

  At first he had judged she had bulimia, but then she had said she believed she was pregnant. She said too she was pleased, and would go to the health centre in a week or so to get the idea confirmed. “Won’t it be wonderful,” she said to him, “a child.” She spoke as if a “child” was another must–have thing, like the mile–long TV in the front room, and all the other appliances, and her clothes and cosmetics, and the exercise club and the pedicure place and so on. One more lovely yet essential addition to her existence. Although she seemed not to like being sick. Nor had she been, so far as he knew, to the doctor, though her first fertility announcement was currently two months old.

  He had never grasped she wanted a child.

  He had simply thought she liked having sex.

  Or really, he had simply never thought about that aspect of her needs and wants, even though, or perhaps because, the rest of them generally seemed omnipresent. Donna had never said to him, “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if I had a baby – would you like that? Shall we try?” Or, she had never said, “I want a baby so much. Is that all right? Could we? Can we? Yes?”

  It had only been her throwing up suddenly, and then: “I think I’m pregnant. I’ll go to the doctor soon and then we’ll know.” Or words to that effect.

  When she returned from the lavatory, he quietened the TV down a little and poured himself another coffee. He said did she want some water.

  “No, can’t – just – not yet.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No – it’s – OK. God.” She scowled, then relaxed, and abruptly, looking blissfully up at him, she said, “But it’s worth it, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” A genuine question.

  Donna laughed in a patient and archly knowing way.

  “Yes, darling. It is. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I am already. It never lasts.”

  “I’m glad.”

  She had golden hair, slightly enhanced, cut to a luxuriant shoulder-length, and this morning caught by a window-full of the early autumnal sun. It was like an aureole, the hair, a halo round her, beaming. Such beauty nature and false contrivance between them could erect.

  “You are happy, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “If you are. But,” he hesitated, trying not to push beyond their ordinary limits of lack-of-communication, “you still have to see Chenin–”

  “The doctor. Yes, I know. But well, it’s a formality really. I know, don’t I?”

  She was just thirty-one, and had no fears. No one could insist she must undergo over-intrusive checks to be sure whatever cargo she carried was unharmed by excessive extra years. And she was slim, not over or under weight, healthy, mentally active, and in a five-year-old relationship with a solvent male partner, apparently committed.

  He smiled at her.

  Donna smiled back from her golden nimbus.

  He thought, she isn’t pregnant. She’s just so certain she is she’s got the symptoms. Bleakly he glanced out of the window into the joyous brightness of the morning. In twenty more minutes he would need to leave for work.

  Carver’s journey into central London routinely took an hour and a half. But today, leaving at about eight, the traffic was far more heavy and obdurate. He did not have to reach the Mantik building before ten-fifteen, which was just as well: he reached it at ten-ten.

  Throughout the drive the sun had blazed on the roads and highways. In London, even the city’s polluted ceiling scarcely marred its brightness. The terrace of dull white buildings that stretched along Trench Street behind Whitehall had a veneer of blurred shine, all save the last three, which were encased in scaffolding and tarpaulins. Carver parked in the little side street where normally he left his car – someone would garage it later – walked around the corner and went past the scaffolded facade of the last building, to the side door. Here he used his three security keys to let himself in.

  Beyond the door, the wide windowless hall was sunlit by uplighters. Reception today was the young guy known as MY or, in the parlance of the office, ‘Mum’s Youngest.’

  He checked Carver’s ID carefully. Carver was still novel to him.

  “Morning, Mr Carver. Nice weather.” He did not speak like a young man particularly, or had been told not to.

  “Sure,” said Carver, and took the lift to the fourth floor.

  His room, free outside, as some of the upper storeys were, of tarpaulin, and in aspect looking away from the river towards Holland Row, had the window-blind down. He glanced out through the tiny hole. Everything seemed as expected, the backs of tall houses, high walls, the small pub generally known as Long’s squashed in between the parked cars, the occasional pedestrian. The sun here described, he thought, a kind of barrenness. A cityscape of blank stone, with toy people wandering about until their batteries ran down.

  He had been in the room less than five minutes when the intercom buzzed him to go up. His appointment with Jack S
tuart was for a quarter to eleven, but he would have to wait, he knew; one always had to wait for Stuart, five minutes or twenty-five.

  It might have been a ploy. If it was, today Stuart did not resort to it. Instead his door stood half open.

  “Come in, Carver.”

  Stuart’s room, unlike Carver’s, was quite large, with brown leather chairs and a brown polished side table. Paper files and boxed discs were neatly stacked on shelves. The coffee-making machine gave off its eternally cheerful aroma, a scent that was more alluring than the subsequent taste.

  “Have a seat,” said Stuart.

  Carver sat.

  The windows here too had the blinds down. The blinds were always down. There had been net curtains in the old days.

  “How’s life?” Stuart asked. He was a slim man, warmly dark skinned and haired, with cooled grey eyes.

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “And Donna?” Stuart always remembered their names, the current wife or partner, any offspring, or other remaining relatives.

  “She’s fine, thanks.”

  “Good, good.” And playfully: “Will she let you off this evening?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “That’s good. It’s just a five to eight-nine-ish. Avondale. OK?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. Your piece on the switch was good, by the way. You received my memo?”

  “Yes, Mr Stuart.”

  “We’re all up to level then, Carver. Well, have a good day.”

  “Thanks. You too, sir.”

  When Carver got back to his room, the relevant brief and tab for the evening had already arrived. The table was booked and office credit card awaiting collection. He would not bother to let Donna know, he had warned her of the possibility he might be late. Even though getting out of London just after ten, which is what it would amount to, could be worse than later, since the post-theatre traffic would be starting to crawl in all directions. And Avondale was a bore.

  In the lower corridor Silvia Dusa had passed Carver and flashed her black eyes at him in apparent hatred. She looked in a controlled yet flaming temper, as ever. Perhaps her problem was hormonal; a beautiful woman, yet she must be in her forties, a “dangerous time”, as Maggie put it, for “all women”. Maggie should know. Donna’s mother was well past her forties by now, “over the hump but not over the hill”, as Maggie also would declare.

  Carver shut the door of his room, and began to search for various necessary impedimenta. Not finding what he wanted, he went out again and taking the side stair now went to the half-floor for supplies. The rest of the morning would pass in its expected dull and formulaic manner, then lunch in the canteen. He had to call in on Latham at 2.30, get the next piece of the latest office puzzle. And then off to Rattles with unlimited expenses to jolly up Avondale, before piling him into a Mantik chauffeured car for the airport.

  The day ticked and trickled down its sun-gold drains. Autumn came much later recently. Twenty years ago, when Carver was a kid, already the leaves on the trees would have been mostly orange, and yellow, or rich brown, as the table in Stuart’s office, the foliage thinned out, falling. Almost every leaf now was still thick green, only tarnished a little here and there as if lightly scorched.

  Carver reflected on this sparely. Thinking of his childhood reminded him of things seldom pleasant, such as his father, a drunken bully. If Donna finally produced the child she said she was going to have – if it really were a fact – what sort of father would Carver make? Would he be any good at it? (‘Good’ seemed to have been Jack Stuart’s Word for the Day. Sometimes Stuart did that, used one particular word, on and on, over and over. And then that word was dispensed with and another used: perhaps ‘solid’, like last Friday, when so-and-so was a solid guy and someone had solid grounds for a premise of some sort. Was this an affectation of Stuart’s, did he choose that day’s word before he set up shop in his room? Or was it some nervous or Asperger-type peculiarity, a kind of vernacular stammer? Stuart however did seem to play tricks, did he not? For example, during the past five or six months, when called up to see him for either the most trifling or urgent matter, everybody had to wait in the reception area, which even had magazines littered about like a dentist’s. Then today, Stuart’s door was already open.)

  Yes, it was better to consider the games or aberrations of Stuart. Not to go back too much to the autumns of childhood, the violence and silence, or the secret adventures, and their sequels, if they had ever been found out.

  “You know,” said Alex Avondale, after his second V and T, and once they were shown through to their table at Rattles, “I miss it. Down here.”

  His said this with the lugubrious nostalgia of a demon redeemed into Heaven, but pining for the ‘old place’ below.

  He had, apparently, a vast estate in Scotland, Highland country, where snow sculpted the spring and autumn peaks of mountains, and turned them to Antarctica in winter. But London was his homeland. With Avondale Scotland was not only a separate kingdom but another continent.

  Carver had really only to listen, be an appreciative audience. He was good (Stuart’s Word for the Day again) at that.

  It had been his stock-in-trade, when he decided to apply it, from his early years, being able if he must to listen, and to offer, now and then, the correct response. He did not suppose he had learnt this from the bullying of his father, from the terror his father had imposed. It was not self defence, rather absenting of self – absenteeism.

  Avondale had rambled on since the car first brought them to the restaurant. And in the bar, as the golden evening melted into the nocturnal version of the London ceiling, and was slit all over in neon slices, Avondale continued. He drank quite a lot, and talked a vast amount during their meal – for him, alefish, and then some sort of exemplified liver stew. (It was a quieter menu for Carver.) Rattles had been reputedly so named for its more exotic dishes, curious fish and fowl and flesh, including rattlesnake. And the bill, when established, after the dessert and cheese, coffee and brandy, was fabulous, but the courtesy card took care of it, and the petty cash took care of the tip.

  The limousine and driver came back promptly at twenty minutes to nine.

  “There’s a matter I’d really like to run through with you, we didn’t get to it this evening,” Avondale said, in the last two minutes before his journey to the docklands and the plane. “A venture – I’d like to cut you in, Carver. It might be lucrative.”

  Carver had nodded, smiling, looking pleased but not too much so. Such proposals were broached sometimes, freelance like this, here and there. A couple had been bizarre (a man called Simpson) and one discoloured enough Carver had carried it straight back to Stuart. Most were cigar-dreams, brandy-fantasies, not worth even recollecting, and this one, unspecified, seemed exactly like that.

  They shook hands out in the stuffy chilliness of an autumn London night.

  “Take care, son,” said Avondale, as the immaculate door was shut on him.

  Carver watched as he rode away between the prickly bristles of the city lights, red-faced and gentle with false sentimentality, irrelevant and over. The end of another day.

  And now, for Carver, back to Trench Street, drop off the Third Person, then the short wait to get his car, and next, his own long drive home.

  Though with regular irregularity Carver varied his homeward route, he knew all the variations by now quite well. Tonight he got across the London miles, cutting out through the suburbs into Peckham and Lewisham, eventually reaching the narrow by-lanes of Kent. Tree-massed dark then, but for the scaley wink of the catseyes, and the isolated gleam from a closed-up pub, cottagey terrace, or the sudden towering gate of some secretive club. He passed the abandoned school with broken windows, the distant vague group of squatting towers on the hill. The woods were thick, jet-black on moonless navy clumps of sky. Black leaves caught the headlamps and grew wetly drily green. At intervals a fresh blinding blaze of lights announced wider thoroughfares, then it was back again into
the uncoiling serpent’s bowel of the lanes. Eight or ten years before, this late, often there was not that much else on the road but for Carver. But now many cars light-splashed by, or the tottery jingling behemoths of giant lorry-transports, like robot things from some computer game.

  Carver, a careful, intelligent driver, alert but not involved, had again space to think. He thought over the day, assessing its routine, and any short moments it had had of the unusual – Stuart’s promptness at his appointment, the fat woman in the canteen who had lost her temper, as he passed her, over some disarrangement of her food, the new file Latham had given him that afternoon to read, with the latest on Scar.

  All told, Carver had made slow time tonight. Reception after nine had been old BBS, (nickname Bugger Back-Scratcher), who could be officious and over-detailed, so that returning the Third Person, and putting in the receipt and card from dinner, took nearly half an hour. The London traffic was augmented too by some maintenance work near the park; Carver had wondered if this was a cover for something else, as roadworks so often were. Whatever it was had caused more delay. As he finally gained the approach to the village, his watch showed almost 1 a.m.

  He doubted Donna would still be up. He hoped she would not be. Mother Maggie had probably come over. They would have watched TV and drunk wine, (or orange juice for Donna perhaps, if she thought she was pregnant). Maggie tended to come by cab for such evenings, and to take a cab back to her own place at Beechurst before eleven, and then Donna, alone, wandered about, had a bath and went to bed, read and fell asleep with the bedside lamp turned on full – to welcome or chide, as she said, when he arrived “hours” after. Of course, sometimes it was hours after, three or four in the morning. “Mag thinks you have a girlfriend,” Donna had said.

  “Oh, does she?”