Turquoiselle (12 page)

No
longer did he regard Heavy as a monstrosity. Heavy had his own inexplicable
coordination. He did
not
blunder or shamble. It was... not like that. And here and there too, as if a
blurred curtain were lifted between them, as when Heavy rose up from the bully’s
push, or leapt to save the little black dog, you could see there was to his
movements a kind of purest animal adjustment. Leopard, panther, mammoth. And
surely, he was indestructible? Attack and livid mechanical danger had not
seemed able to hurt him. While his mad Old Testament prophet mind, rich in its
own panorama, never yielded to the would-be ruination of external threats or
deeds.

Andy
did not wonder if his own view-point ever became tinted by any of Heavy’s. Andy
did not stick a definition on what, years in the future, he recognised as Heavy’s
joi de vivre.

Andy
never considered either if he loved Heavy, as it was possible to love someone
asexually yet deeply – as one might love a wonderful father, or mother – as Heavy
himself seemed to love his
own
mother, her death an utter irrelevance.

Andy
thought, but did not think. Which was surely how one survived.

When
Andy located Heavy, he was standing by the ‘lake’ in the park, watching the
shining green ducks move over the dark green polished surface, and showing his
habitual duck-approval.

“If
you could wish for something,” said Andy, “what would it be?”

Heavy
apparently pondered.

“An
oransh,” said Heavy, truthfully.

Andy
burst out laughing. All the strain and bewilderment, vague spurts of what might
be excitement, or sheer misgiving, left clinging to him from the evening
before, sprayed off and dissolved, for the moment harmless, in the air.

“There
was this guy called Sunderland,” said Andy eventually.

“Underland,”
said Heavy.

“
Sun
derland.”

“Sun
under land,” said Heavy. The prophet had proclaimed a secret clue?

But
Andy went on, telling Heavy in a rush not common to him, about the interview.
About the College.

“It’s
not in London. Some dump in the country. But I’ll be a – boarder. Only they
give you your own room – it sounds... all right...”

Heavy
watched him, nodding once.

“I
don’t know if I want to go. I don’t know if it’s good – or fucking shit. Only I’d
get away from her,” (he meant, of course, Sara), “it sounds – OK. Perhaps. I’ll
piss off out if it isn’t.” Andy turned to the lake. He did
not
know what he
thought. He did not want to go. Felt they might force him. Was too
anxious
to go – or to
refuse –

They
stood there, he and Heavy, about three feet apart, watching the ducks whose
heads, Heavy had formerly explained, were the colour of “Jait” or “Corianta
leafs.”

“He
said, Sunderland, if I didn’t go I’d wish I had. He said what did
I
wish
for?” said Andy. “And what did I? Not an orange. Make a proper wish,” demanded
Andy. Conceivably he wanted Heavy to wish him good luck.

Heavy
did not speak.

Andy
said, “I wish it’s OK.”

Heavy
spoke then to the lake. His voice sounded old and strong and strangely fined.
An actor’s voice, but not a modern one.

“May
all the good be happy,” said Heavy to the lake. “And all the bad be good.”

They
separated about two minutes later, without another direct look, without
touching. Aside from unexpected dreams, or in sudden glints of memory, Andy had
never seen Heavy again.

Eleven

From
the darkness someone replied.

“Hello, Car.”

Carver:
Where am I?

Someone:
Where do you think you are?

Carver:
(Pause) I don’t know.

Someone:
Perhaps
I
don’t, either.

PAUSE

Carver:
Is there anyone there?

Someone:
I’m here.

Carver:
Who are you?

Someone:
Who are
you
?

Carver:
You – know who I am.

Someone:
Do I know?

Carver:
What’s my name?

Someone:
Can’t you remember?

Carver:
Can’t
you
remember?

Someone:
Ask another question.

Carver:
You – ask another question

SILENCE

Are you still
there?

SILENCE

*****

The
Voice: You’re awake again, Car?

Carver:
(Pause) I think I am.

The
Voice: Shall we resume? Do you think that’s something we should do?

Carver:
Why am I here?

PAUSE

The
Voice: Why shouldn’t you be here?

PAUSE

Carver:
The last thing I remember was the shed. And then...

The
Voice: Yes?

Carver:
Was it gas, the drug?

The
Voice: Something like that.

Carver:
What happened to Johnston?

The
Voice: Who is Johnston?

Carver:
The man in the rubber diving suit.

The
Voice: How quaint. Something quaint in that.

Carver:
It was dark. He wore a mask.

The
Voice: If you say so.

Carver:
And then you drugged me.

The
Voice:
I
drugged you?

Carver:
Somebody. I want some water.

The
Voice: Maybe later. Something can be arranged. Later.

PAUSE

Carver:
Why am I secured?

The
Voice: Are you? Are you
sure
you are?

Carver:
Yes – I –
yes
. Christ – my
ankles and wrists. Some kind of electronic lock – I need a lavatory.

The
Voice: I’m afraid you’ll have to see to all that where you are.

Carver:
Why?

The
Voice: It will save us all time. Go on. Help out.

Carver:
Where is Stuart?

The
Voice: Who is Stuart?

Carver:
Jack Stuart. Mantik Corp.

The
Voice: Something tells me you are feeling a little stronger, Car.

Carver:
You keep repeating that word.
Something
.

The
Voice: Something. Some things do get repeated.

Carver:
I need some water.

SILENCE

Silence. Next a
sound of dripping, trickling, then a gush – a tap turned on, perhaps. But not
close enough. (And anyway it is, from the reek, alcohol again, some sort of too-sweet
gin.) Presently it stops, the sound if not the stink.

Scar.
Scarred. Scared. S car, Car, Carver.

Andreas
Cava.

Darkness.
Sleep returning, coming in even through the fear and the sullen ache in the
bladder, and the dry burning of the throat and mouth. Somewhere on the edges of
the new induced nothingness, stands Robby Johnston and his fixed black jellies
of eyes. Is it Robby that has taken him prisoner here? The voice was not Robby’s
voice. And it repeated one particular word. It
is
Mantik that have him, surely. And now
he is to be tried. And found wanting.

Twelve

Bright sunlight
seared a second window through the blind. Outside he could hear faintly the whirr
of big wings as birds crossed over the house from the back garden to the woods
and fields the far side of the lane. And downstairs, an occasionally chittering
monotone, without doubt the TV in the kitchen above the breakfast bar,
dispensing its obligatory sensation and inanity and horror. There was the scent
of coffee.

Something
(
something
) seemed
slightly odd to him as he got out of the spare bed. A dream maybe, now
forgotten. A dream of Heavy, had it been? Or Johnston – or was it about Sara
and the sandwich-size flat over the off-licence when he was a kid, and Mantik
had first reached out for him, and sent him off to the unusual college in the
country...?

He
had slept in pyjamas, as only rarely he did. He went to the window and let up
the blind.

The
back garden of the house in the village was not there after all.

The
house had transported itself, presumably during the night, to the summit of a
high rocky hill, or cliff, which now gazed directly outwards at a spangled blue
plain of daylit sea, the sun standing, rather to the left, on its own searing
tail of reflection.

Another
bird flew in and over. It was a gull.

Carver
remembered the black night-morning garden, the man in black rubber, the glare
and then the nothingness, the spaces of other darkness swelling and fading,
bound hands and feet, pissing himself, throat full of dry fire. And here he
was at this window, in a room that was – or entirely resembled – the spare room
of the house, its proportions and its furniture, everything but for the view
from its window. He was showered and fresh, his bladder even not urgent. The
taste of familiar toothpaste and mouthwash was in his fully-moisturised mouth.

But
he could hear the kitchen TV, which Donna had switched on as she always did
when she was the first down. He could smell coffee. A hint of bacon too. The
pyjamas though, now he looked at them, were not exactly anything he had worn
before.

The
sky was blue, bluer than the sea, as if to encourage it to extra effort. Was
this summer? It had been early autumn. Had it? Yes.

“
Something
...”

The
voice spoke again in Carver’s memory.

Carver
glanced about the room. His clothes lay on a chair, as he might have left them
in either of the house bedrooms. They were clean. The boxers were clean. But
they were, all of them, these things, the ones he had worn that night. The
night before. Or days ago perhaps. Or weeks.

Or
a month or a year.

He
did not know what the drug was they had used. Or what other, if any, medleys of
drugs had been employed to subdue, question, restrain, terrify, reassure him.

Was
he still under the influence of anything...?

“
Something
.”

He
could not tell.

His
stomach growled, abruptly hungry, a starved beast scenting and responding to
the aroma of coffee and food. Which now seemed to be evaporating. Had he imagined
them? How long besides had he been without such things? But he sensed no weakness.
His weight and stamina felt and seemed to him as usual.

He
checked his pulse. It was steady. Putting off the pyjamas he looked himself
over, turning to the wall mirror for confirmation. He had no bruises, raw or
fading, no signs of injury. His colour was normal. His eyes were neither
inflamed nor over-bright, the pupils reacting correctly to light or shadow.
There was no vertigo.

Downstairs
– if it was – it sounded as if it were – he heard a clear burst of laughter. A
male voice, or two, and a female one. No words, but the tone and timbre – Donna
did not laugh like that, that smooth contralto ripple. But one of the male
laughters – could that be Herons?

Carver
snatched up and put on the clothing,
his
clothing. He went to the bedroom door
and tried it. Without protest, it opened.

Outside,
again, utter unfamiliarity. The corridor was long, painted pale, and veered
sharply from sight at two corners, one to the left and one the right. Three
other doors, these closed, marked both the walls either side of his door.
Facing him across the corridor there were no doors, only two windows, separated
by some five featureless metres.

He
tried each of the doors, all were locked shut. Then he went to each of the
windows.

They
looked inland, away from the sea, and up across a wild park or large overgrown
garden. He barely took this in. There on a rise, whose summit ascended less
than a quarter mile off, and reasonably visible through the big green trees,
had been stationed a Russian train, ( circa 1900?), of many carriages.

They
were, unvaryingly, of a rich marmalade colour.
Something
... Chekovian, Tolstoyan... Every
carriage was Carver’s shed from the house, and by day, their windows were blank
of any glow, merely catching the sheen of the sun as it flew slowly upward over
and across this unknown building, by this unknown summer sea.

Neither
man was Herons.

He
knew neither of them. Nor the woman.

The
men were both of fairly average appearance, shortish hair. The older had a
long, rather gangly loose frame, like that of a teenager suddenly aged into his
full-grown fifties. He raised one hand in a token of greeting and said he was
Van Sedden Then the shorter man said, in a slightly amused way, “I’m Ball.
Singular. Like Soccer. Or a dance.” The woman did not speak, although unlike
the men she stared directly at Carver, seemingly taking in every atom that
visually she could. She was black, light-skinned, with cropped brown-black
fleecy curls. Her body was heavy but voluptuously curved, if fitted
unbecomingly in a scarlet shell-suit and trainers. Her eyes were blue. That
could happen, though he had never seen it before. She had no expression, her
perfectly-shaped lips held still, as if they were for decoration only. The two
men both wore suits, tieless shirts, everyday shoes. Ball wore a watch, a
Rolex, and a silver wedding ring.

Carver
said, “Carver. Where is this place?”

No
one replied. Then Van Sedden murmured, almost reproachfully, “God,
He
knows. Not I.”

“So
you don’t know,” said Carver. He looked at Ball. “How about you?”

“Nope.
Haven’t a fucking clue, baby.”

Carver
looked at the woman. She continued to meet his eyes with her hot-sky blue ones,
and she spoke after all: “Why don’t you have some coffee?” Her voice was
ordinary. A London voice. Somehow he did not
believe
in her voice. It was some sort of
disguise – but to think so was probably irrational.

Why
not, though, be irrational?

Look
where rationality had got him.

He
sat down at the long wooden kitchen table, and pulled the coffee pot towards
him. Filter. It would do. Ball had passed him a plain shiny black mug. They all
had those, and black plates with crumbs of toast, and Ball’s plate with a
gleaming after-effect of bacon and butter. There was one unused plate.

Carver
poured himself coffee.

Was
this what he had scented upstairs? How? The scent had been pumped up into his
room...?

Perhaps
the coffee had something in it.

He
did not try it.

The
woman drew the pot away from him, topped up her own mug, and drank. She had
stopped looking at him, as if there was nothing more to see in him at all.

Carver
took a slow mouthful from his own mug. The fluid was hot. The taste filled his
mouth and flowed down his already moist and comfortable throat. (Somewhere in
the recesses of the drugged dark, they had roused him and bathed him, or he had
bathed himself and cleaned his teeth, and drunk water, and seen to any other
bodily functions outstanding. Only he could recall nothing of it.) Carver
thought about the first time he had drunk coffee. He had made it for himself in
a house Sara had gone to clean, lugging him with her because he was too young
to be left, while the people whose house it was were on holiday and would not
know. He had been five, he thought. Something like that. Sara had slapped him
when she saw what he had done. But her slaps were nothing after the beatings of
his father. And he had liked the coffee, even if it was instant and had burnt
his tongue. Forbidden fruit always had a sting in the tail.

This
kitchen was very small. The table and four chairs crowded most of any space. To
the sides were squeezed in a pair of little sinks, a microwave and doll’s house
oven, shelves of things in packets and cans and boxes, a tall fridge-freezer
narrow as a giant pencil.

Abruptly
a door, partly wedged behind the freezer, came open, and a brisk young woman
jigged in with a tray of bacon sandwiches and another smoking coffee pot. She
put these on the table without a word, and without a word the people in the
kitchen received them.

When
she had gone, the narrow door shambled awkwardly shut again behind the pencil.
The two men helped themselves to the food. Carver took a sandwich. He bit into
it carefully, as if afraid of breaking a tooth. But it seemed only to be bacon,
butter, bread, exactly what it had pretended to be.

Outside,
beyond the large window closed over by a thick matt-blond blind, unseen
seagulls were screeching along the edges of the rocky height.

Chew
the bacon, taste, swallow. Swallow the coffee.

Maybe
a drug had been wiped into the mug, or on to the spare plate. Too late now.

He
felt nothing like that. Yet the inevitable tension, the adrenalin-readiness
that should be in him, and now building, was not really there at all, or – it
was far off, about one quarter of a mile away, like the line of carriage-sheds
on the rise. Just near enough to see and understand without effort. Not close
enough to touch, or feel.

Carver,
instead, felt a strange depression. It was very likely the residue of the drug
leaving him – both the removal of feeling and now this subterranean dragging
lethargy, like some of the symptoms he had heard described with insipient ME.
What could he do? Nothing, as yet. Or ever? Nothing.

He
left the remainder of the sandwich. Finished the single coffee, and pushed the
mug a little away.

The
black woman had produced a small notebook and pen from her shell-suit pocket.
(No laptop then?) She was writing something down, tiny twitters of biro ink,
unreadable. Was she making notes on him?

Carver
spoke.

“Do
any of you know why you are here?”

The
man called Van Sedden laughed. It was certainly one of the laughters Carver had
detected from upstairs. Sound must have been electronically passed into his
room, if not smell.

“None
of us know. Like life. None of us know, beyond
the
physical
act, why we’re alive, and none of us know why we are here. So we invent
possible reasons. God caused us to be born. So then, did God decide we should
be brought
here
?”

Friendly,
Ball said, “Shut up, Seddy.”

Carver
said, “What
happens
here?”

“Apart
from breakfast, you mean?” asked Ball.

Carver
waited.

Ball
shrugged. “Nothing much.”

The
woman said, “People come and go, Carver.”

Carver
said, “You didn’t tell me your name.”

Her
head turned again to him, slowly, reminding him of a snake. Her face
appropriately had still no expression. And rather than speaking, she tore out
of the notebook one page, and wrote carefully on it, then passing the paper to
him. Carver read the name: ANJEELA MERVILLE. (
Anjeela
seemed to him more Asian than Caribbean
or African. Or was it a fanciful take on
Angela
? And
Mervi1le
– did the blue eyes come from
that side?) “Thank you.”

But
she had gone back to her tiny notations.

The
choked door behind the fridge was abruptly opened once more. A tall portly man
in a suit eased an awkward if practiced entrance around the fridge-freezer, and
stood smiling affably. “Morning, all. Ah, Mr Carver. Can you be ready in about
twenty minutes? Mr Croft would like to see you in his section. Somebody will
come down to show you the way.”

Carver
said, “All right.”

What
else was there to say?

The upstairs
corridor had led, on the eastern turn, to a locked double-doored cupboard. The
western end of the corridor went round its corner to a stairhead. The stairs
were wide and quite shallow, and descended between the pale clean painted walls
to a square hall lit with sidelights, and with brown tiles. Off this to one
side opened a cloakroom, with a small high frosted window, a lavatory and
washbasin, a mirror, and hooks for coats – nothing hung there. (Everything was
pristine, and newish, as everything else seemed to be.) The other room that
opened was a sort of storage area, lit from above by a neon strip, with
(locked) cupboards. Beyond this, through a square open arch, the kitchen.