Normal: The Most Original Thriller Of The Year. Graeme Cameron

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      At night, the checkouts are deserted. In the absence of queueing customers, there is no sense in paying the staff to chew gum and stare into space. I was alone as I loaded the conveyor; the echo of cage doors, dropped boxes and idle chatter was disembodied and distant. I nudged the trolley to the end of the belt, folded my arms and turned around to rest against the counter, idly reading the covers of the leaflets on the stand opposite. Car insurance. Home insurance. Pet, travel and life insurance. Broadband internet and pay-as-you-go mobile phones. Banking and credit cards. I thought back to a time when supermarkets simply sold groceries; when a loaf of bread was a loaf of bread, and beans really did mean Heinz. A time when, on a Friday afternoon, I’d obediently follow my mother through a fluorescent maze of checkered tiles and bright white freezers in the hope of being rewarded with a Crunchie bar and a—

      “Hi. Are you all right with your packing?”

      There was something in the voice, something so barely there that the question of what it was kept me from turning even after the effect had passed.

      “Hey!” Masked now by a broad smile, a teasing melody: “Hello! Wake up! I’m over here!”

      I could feel those eyes playing on the back of my neck and spiking my hair before I turned clumsily to face them.

      Blue and green and aquamarine, like pools of sunlit gasoline. The kind of eyes that make men like me walk into doors and spill our tea.

      The base of my spine wound itself into a twitching, tingling knot. “Hello,” I croaked. “Yes, thank you, I’m well versed in the art of packing my bags.”

      Caroline pursed her lips, narrowed her startling eyes at me. Studied me for a split second with the intensity of a prowling panther before her face softened to a bemused smile. “Nope,” she said. “I don’t think I’m going to ask.”

      “Sorry, long night. Very tired.” Dry, oilless fingers were making hard work of separating the slippery plastic bags. I could feel the frustration welling again inside me as I grasped and fumbled vainly at the neck of each in turn.

      “I know, me, too.” She gathered up the fine cascade of dirty-blond hair from her shoulders and threw it into a careless ponytail, held in place with a simple black band from around her wrist. As she did so, her name badge rode up under her chin. “Rachel,” it said. “Here to help.” She caught me looking, and a fragment of a smile told me she knew I’d been reading “Caroline” in taillights all night.

      I hoped, then, as she set about swiping my pitiful collection of rabbit food through the scanner, that she’d blindly pass each item in front of her without pausing to read the labels; that she had no interest in judging me by my shopping list. Sadly, though, I had her full attention. “Tell you what,” she remarked. “It’s a nice change to meet a herbivore who hasn’t got that pale, scrawny thing going on.”

      I smiled, absurdly willing myself to believe it a greater compliment than it really was. Maddeningly, the food was coming thick and fast and I still had nothing to put it in. “Actually, I think I do need some help here.”

      “Here...” She slid gracefully from her chair and reached over the counter, her plain white blouse tightening across a modest bust, sleeves riding up to reveal the faint specter of symmetrical scars adorning the underside of each wrist. Her approach to the separation and opening of carrier bags was swift and effective, though I unfortunately failed to note her precise method before she melted back into her seat, distracted as I was by the lithe twist of her hips.

      “You can’t learn by watching,” she said, presumably just to let me know that she could read my fucking mind, though which part of it I wasn’t quite sure. “You’re not a conscientious objector, are you?” she noted, eyebrows raised behind an upheld fillet of cod. “Clearly, you can’t get enough white meat.”

      “No,” I agreed. “I lapse just about every other day.”

      “Ah, well, we all need at least one vice. Nobody’s perfect.”

      My eyes fell to the loose, flowing cuffs of her blouse as she passed tuna steaks and potato bakes from hand to hand. “I don’t know,” I replied. “Maybe the perfection is in the flaws.”

      Her hands trembled then, barely perceptibly and for the merest sliver of a moment as she overrode the impulse to tug at her sleeves. She reddened half a shade, and her eyes drilled into mine, luring them away from the door to her self-consciousness. “Meaning?” she pressed, with a challenging smile.

      “Well,” I said, “look at it this way. Some collectors are only interested in things that are like new, factory fresh, mint in the box. If something looks like it’s had a life before they got their hands on it, it loses its value. But then, other people believe that an object’s worth more if it’s been used for whatever it was designed for, so a stamp should have been stuck to an envelope and posted to somewhere a long way away, and a comic book is meant to be read and enjoyed, not sealed in a protective case and never opened, and an old racing car should be scuffed and grimy and—” with no particular emphasis “—scarred. And it’s the same with people. How much time do you think you’d want to spend with Barbie and Ken? Anodyne, by definition, is not entertaining.”

      She gave a tight nod and handed me my plums. “So,” she said, slapping her totalizer and twisting the display for me to survey the damage, “what exactly is it that you collect? I mean, apart from frozen fish.”

      I shan’t repeat what I said. Suffice it to say the ensuing silence was awkward enough that I might as well have just told her the truth.

      It was on the dot of 6:00 a.m. that I wearily slammed the door of the Transit, remote-locked the garage and hauled my half-dozen bags of flora and fish into the house. The melodic, almost hypnotic sound of Caroline/Rachel’s voice still rang in my ears, our conversation looping over and over in my head. I knew nothing of her, and yet somehow I knew everything I needed to know. I knew the conversation wasn’t over.

      An unprecedented calm enveloped me as I made space in the pantry freezer, between the joints of topside beef and the waitress from the Hungry Horse.

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      I cooked a late breakfast of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, picturing Caroline-or-possibly-Rachel passing me each ingredient and implement as I needed it. I presented the result to Erica with a steaming cup of fresh coffee. She threw it at me.

      Having chained her to the floor and cleaned up the mess, I brought her a sealed box of Rice Krispies and an unopened carton of milk. She threw those at me, too. Since no contents were spilled, however, I chose to leave them where they fell. I laid a plastic bowl and spoon beside them on the mat and left her to it.

      I gave her an hour to sort herself out, then returned to the garage to fetch the hooker from the van. Naturally, she’d remained where I’d left her, slung hammock-like from the roof; secured with four-inch nylon webbing and suspended, spreadeagled, five feet from the floor, there was little chance of her wriggling free. What did surprise me, though, was that she’d managed to fall asleep. She didn’t even stir as I blindfolded her, and it wasn’t until I’d released her extremities and stood her upright that she began to flail and scratch like a cat in a bath. Needless to say, she no longer wanted to go anywhere quiet with me, and I literally had to throw her down the stairs.

      Erica regarded her new cellmate with a mixture СКАЧАТЬ