The Book of Rapture. Nikki Gemmell
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Название: The Book of Rapture
Автор: Nikki Gemmell
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Зарубежные любовные романы
isbn: 9780007335718
isbn:
So. You both decided on a new word. Measures. Your life would now swing like an ocean liner changing its course. The plan was to flee the sparkly new house until your country worked itself out. You’d all vanish in a night. The past wouldn’t find you any more; you’d be too far away, too remote. You’d find an old wreck of a place in the middle of nowhere, where your family could weather any trouble flat-broke but far away, and safe.
You whisper that lovely word now.
Safe.
It’s the most luminous word in the world, don’t you think?
When making your choice in life, do not neglect to live.
Their doorknob’s now rattling like someone wants to shake it right off.
A bang.
The door shudders. Everything is quiet. Not good quiet, creepy quiet. And the only noise is their jagged breathing too loud and they can’t still their breaths as the three of them stare at that feral door wondering what on earth it’s springing on them next. And you. Watching. Glary with guilt and helplessness, riddled with rangy light. Your middle child, Tidge, is bone white. He clutches his chest, at a mothy flittery something inside him batting away like a sparrow in a room, trying to find sky, get out. He reaches across and finds his little brother’s hand but Mouse’s pulse is leaping like a flea on steroids and Tidge winces, he’s not good with blood and bone, he can’t hold any more, lets go. ‘Thanks, dude,’ Mouse says, soft, ‘great.’ So his siblings can hear it but the person out there can’t.
His wiliness constantly surprises you. That guile of the third-born. He can’t compete physically so he’s always competed with something else. Cunning. Irony. An aware heart. One day perhaps he’ll run rings around his brother, you’ve always said that, but is he wily enough to get out of this? Can any of them? You can’t help them, they’re by themselves.
Everything ahead, wide open, like a bull on the loose.
Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling.
When they woke up they were in another world entirely. A room pale all over as if a big milky tongue had licked it into stillness. With a hush like all the silence of the world had gathered in it. A congregation of quiet. As if the space had been waiting patiently, just for them, its breath held like a morning frost.
‘This room doesn’t like us,’ Mouse whispered.
‘We have to get out,’ Tidge.
‘We can’t.’ Soli. Miss Practical, raising her eyebrows at the door.
‘It doesn’t like us,’ Mouse repeated.
As fear tiptoed up your spine like a daddy-long-legs.
These are the unbelievers, the impure.
Salt Cottage. That was its name. The little house purchased in the name of a friend who would never be traced back to you. Dirt roads faltered to it, lost their will and almost petered out. ‘No, no, no,’ Mouse protested on first seeing it, twisting his head as if possessed. He didn’t do rural, didn’t get it. But the land had kidnapped your heart. It was near to where you’d grown up and the sanctuary of home, the thought of its embrace as the world darkened around you, stilled you down.
‘It has the same sky’ You twirled under it and laughed. ‘Trust me.’ You bent to your scowly little man — ‘it’ll worm its way under your skin, just you wait’ — and a tickle under his chin unlocked a smile. lust. Because for you, this place was like striding into calm. You were in control again, you’d grow quiet here, relax. And if you were happy the kids would be happy, you’d learned that.
The cottage clung tenaciously to the farthest edge of your country, a tiny stone blip among the endless squally chatter of sea and sky. The approach was impossible by sea: jagged rocks and furious waves deterred any boat. Seagulls poured down to daily scraps and the wind could blow a dog off a chain, but after six months of hard work a new roof sat snug and the cottage’s thick stone walls shielded you from the weather that whined day after day to get in. The aim: to create a little bauble of serenity far away from that niggle of anxiety that now followed you in the city wherever you went. Because it wasn’t safe for your type to go to cinemas or public pools any more, to markets and shopping malls, anywhere that people would congregate. Then petrol stations became a worry. Theatres. Airports. And far, far away from all that Motl and you were determined to make your world like a furnace lit, a furnace of warmth and light. Fat lovely life of love, in your little glow home, and how fiercely you cherished it. The pleasing circularity of your life. You were reclaiming childhood here, and simplicity; shedding the city crust.
Free yourself of ties as a fish breaks through a net.
The three of them spin, talking through the bewilderment.
‘Look. The bed’s wider than it’s long …’
‘… which only happens when you’re rich.’
‘The coat hangers in the cupboard are really stubborn …’
‘… they won’t come off.’
‘The shower head’s as big as a dinner plate …’
‘You know, I don’t think Mum and Dad have anything to do with this. It’s all too … careful.’
‘They’re not here. Anywhere. They’re not. I know it.’
At Mouse’s bitter conclusion, absolute quiet. Because they’re utterly alone. And the realisation is like stepping from the warmth of a fire-toasty house into the formal cold of a deep winter night. Tidge paces the room. Brushes the walls. Recoils. Too cold, too soundproofed. Mouse slides down the door, his hands cupped in horror at his mouth. Your worrier, always thinking too much. His anxiety’s demanding like a toddler fresh from sleep.
‘The window!’ Tidge exclaims suddenly. They scramble.
A street. An old office building across the road. The eyes of its empty windows as blank as the freshly dead. Everything abandoned, everything quiet. Traffic lights changing but no traffic anywhere, not a car, not a bike. Endlessly and obediently the traffic lights changing but no people anywhere. No life.
‘It feels like the proper world has stopped,’ Tidge says quietly, in wonder, pressing into thick glass that doesn’t bend.
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