Boneland. Alan Garner

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      He waited.

      ‘Doctor Massey is ready now, Professor.’

      He was led into a bigger room, lined with books. French windows opened to lawns. A woman lay on a chaise longue, reading a file. She wore a suit of dark silk. ‘Hi,’ she said, without looking up.

      ‘You’re quite young,’ said Colin.

      ‘“Quite”.’

      ‘Your hair’s black.’

      ‘That’s this week, darling. Tomorrow may be a different story.’

      There was a diamond-paned cabinet. The tumblers and decanter inside were of crystal.

      ‘Are you looking for a drink?’ she said.

      ‘May I? Is it allowed?’

      ‘No. But there’s ice and water over there. Help yourself.’

      ‘Thanks.’

      ‘Cheers,’ she said, and continued her reading.

      Colin scanned the books. ‘You have a fascinating library. Eclectic.’

      ‘Yes, I have.’

      ‘I could make myself a tome here. That’s a pun; which is a play on words to exploit ambiguities and innuendoes in their meaning, usually for humorous effect.’

      ‘Oh, ha-bloody-ha. Sit down.’

      Colin sat in a deep leather chair on the other side of the marble fireplace from the chaise longue. By the chair there was a low table on casters, and an open box of tissues. He was facing the windows. The chaise longue and the woman were silhouettes, the light on the silk picking out her form.

      Colin held the tumbler in both hands and drank.

      She shut the file, swung her legs round and sat forward. Pendant earrings broke the light, and her eyes were violet green.

      ‘And—Action. You’re Colin. I’m Meg. What’s up?’

      ‘I—’

      A clock ticked. There were crystal chandeliers.

      ‘Do you like crows?’ he said.

      ‘I can take ’em or leave ’em.’

      ‘I—’

      ‘“I” what?’

      Colin drank again.

      ‘I—don’t know.’

      ‘Well, I’m buggered if I do,’ she said.

      ‘I—’

      Colin emptied the tumbler. ‘What am I supposed to say?’

      ‘What do you want to say?’

      ‘I—’

      ‘Where’s the pain?’

      ‘I don’t understand,’ said Colin.

      ‘So why have you come? Because you’re in pain. Right? Something hurts. Right? Go there.’

      ‘Go where?’

      ‘Go to where the pain is most and say what it tells you.’

      ‘Tells me what?’

      ‘Holy macaroli. Spare me the smart-arses. We’re not talking the square root of minus one.’

      ‘That’s i,’ said Colin. ‘i’s imaginary.’

      ‘Is you indeed?’ said Meg. ‘Is that a fact? Oh, switch your sodding brains off. Don’t think. Feel.’

      ‘How?’

      ‘He says “How?” How? Ask it. It hurts, too. It wants to tell you.’

      ‘“It”,’ said Colin. ‘What’s “it”?’

      ‘Search me.’

      Colin looked at the tumbler. The tumbler flashed. He looked around. The diamond glass. Light. Blue silver. He looked up. The chandeliers. Lightning.

      ‘Can’t. Can’t. Nothing. It’s—’

      Her earrings. Blue, silver. Blue silvers. Lightnings.

      ‘—No!’

      He stood, smashed the tumbler on the marble and fell back, curled, his arms covering his head. The blaze from the fragments lanced his mind. He roared. He screamed. The howl tore his chest, and ran to wordless snatches of sound. She leaned forward and passed him the box of tissues.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ said Colin. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I am so sorry.’

      ‘There’s nothing to be sorry for, Sunny Jim. It’s those question-begging reductive pharmaceutical plonkers that should be sorry. They’ve put you through the wringer. They’ve even fried your head. Or tried to. Eric suggested ECT? I’m surprised. Good job you stopped. But that’s spilt milk. Someone should have read this file before it got to me.’

      ‘What happens next?’

      ‘You go home,’ she said.

      ‘Go home. Yes. Go. Home. But then. I’ve only just come.’

      ‘You’ve been on the road to here for a long time, Colin, and you’ve had a trashing now. You need to settle. Same time next week? Sooner, if you want. Or not at all?’

      ‘Next week. Home. Thanks.’

      ‘You’re welcome.’

      ‘I’m—’

      ‘Mm?’ She put her feet up on the chaise longue.

      ‘I’m not being—difficult—on purpose.’

      ‘Who’s saying you’re difficult?’

      He left the room, to the corridor, out, and was sick into the rhododendrons.

      Colin lifted his bicycle, but could not ride. He pushed it. The traffic, the black windows. Trucks to and from the M6, so high that they were not a part of the world, but blocks moving. He walked on the verge and turned to Seven Sisters Lane.

      Here was quiet. Colin sat astride the saddle, and fell, retching. The spasm stopped. He tried again. He had balance. His legs moved. The need to pedal sucked air to his lungs and worked his heart, and by the time he came to Lindow he felt the chill off the Moss. The pull of Brook Lane parched his mouth, leaving the taste of bile on the skin. But he had to walk the Front Hill and rest at Castle Rock lay-by. His empty stomach spewed more СКАЧАТЬ