Turquoiselle Read Free Page A

room and the hall, vivid with
incandescent irritation and a sort of fear.
    Carver
looked at her.
    “You
know where I’ve been.”
    “ Do I? Where ?”
    “At
work, and then at the bloody dinner for the client afterwards. As I told you I’d
probably have to be.”
    “Yes, told me. You told me. Do you know
what fucking time it is?”
    “Thirty-three
minutes past one.”
    “You
said – you said – if you were
going to be later than midnight you would call me.”
    “No,
Donna, I didn’t say that.”
    “You did . You did – and then no
call – and when I tried your mobile it’s off – as it always is off when you’re
out–”
    “No,
Donna. Only I can’t always get a signal or clear reception when I’m driving.
You know that.”
    “I
know so much , don’t I? Not
enough though. Where have you been ? There is someone, isn’t there? Some shitty bitch you’re seeing – and I’m pregnant , Carver, I’m going
to have your baby –”
    Donna
was crying. “Look,” he said, “let’s go and sit down. I’ve been held up by
roadworks all the way. Let’s have a drink...”
    “I can’t have a fucking drink – can I – I’m fucking pregnant –”
    He
returned her into the room, her unseen sparks of frustration and rage and
sorrow flying off her – he could sense her own primitive electricity; in the
half-light that now illumined everything, he could almost see the glitter of
it. He organised her sitting on the couch. He went out to the kitchen and
brought her back half a glass of white wine from the fridge. “It won’t hurt
you.”
    “It will . You want it to hurt me.”
    He
sat beside her as her momentum ran down, (like the batteries he had visualised
inside the doll-people between Trench Street and Holland Row). She sipped the
drink, staring at the enormous, currently blank screen of the TV.
    “You
misunderstood what I said, Donna,” he told her.
    “I
thought you’d been in an accident,” she whimpered, “I thought you were dead.”
    When
finally he had got her up to bed, helped her undress, and arranged the duvet
over her, fetched her hot rosehip and camomile tea, tucked her in, he left her,
with the bedside lamp on the lowest turn of the dimmer, like a difficult child
scared of a monster under the bed. Presumably there would soon be two of those,
two children, her and the child; maybe two monsters as well. As he passed the
spare room on the way downstairs again, he abruptly registered unexpected proof
of the intention of this.
    On
top of the double bed was spread a magazine. It demonstrated, in articles and
garish photographs, how the changing of such a space might be accomplished:
spare room to something suitable for a baby, a toddler, a kid of five to
fifteen.
    Below
in the kitchen Carver turned off the light. He stood looking out into the
garden behind the house. The night remained, still on watch and staring back.
But, his eyes adjusting, he could see stars now, sharply bright as if with
frost, between the trees of the wood beyond. He had a late start tomorrow, did
not need to leave the house until twelve o’clock.
    Carver
placed his hand inside the pocket of his coat. He turned an object there
loosely over and over, but not removing it. Tomorrow morning he would put the
object out in the shed. With the other stuff. He could just see the shed’s
glimmer from here, faintly. It might only be starlight. One could never be
certain, until closer. On nights of full moon you could not be sure at all.
    Once
a thief, always a thief. Heavy had pronounced the word Theave however, those
countless ill-assorted years ago.
    Carver
went to sleep swiftly, but Donna woke him about 5 a.m., being sick in the
second bathroom nearest the spare room, instead of in the more private en
suite. He listened, monitoring her now, but the noises soon stopped. She
retreated to her bed again, slamming the door, with a strong healthy
vandalistic crash.
     
     
    Heavy said, in
Carver’s dream, “What’s it mean, your