If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things. Jon McGregor

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      It rained, towards the end of the afternoon, suddenly and heavily, but that was all, there was nothing else unusual or unexpected about the day.

      And somehow it seems wrong that there wasn’t a buildup, a feeling in the air, a premonition or a warning or a clue.

      I wonder if there was, actually, if there was something I missed because I wasn’t paying attention.

      The silence didn’t last long, people started rushing out into the street, shouting, flinging open windows and doors.

      A woman from down the road ran out towards them and stopped halfway, turning back, shaking her hands in front of her face.

      The man up the ladder made a call on his mobile before climbing down and leaving the last frame half-painted.

      There were people I didn’t even recognise coming out of their houses to join the others.

      But me and the other girl, Sarah, we just sat there, staring, holding our mouths open.

      If we’d been closer, or younger, we might have held hands, tightly, but we didn’t.

      I think she picked up her beer and drank a little more, and I think I drank as well.

      I can’t remember, all I can remember is staring at the curtain of legs in the street, trying to see through.

      Trying not to see through.

      After a few minutes, the noise in the street seemed to quieten again.

      The knot of people in the street loosened, turned aside.

      People were looking to the main road, looking at their watches, waiting.

      I remember noticing that there was still music coming out of half a dozen windows along the street, and then noticing that the songs were being silenced, one by one, like the lights going out at the end of The Waltons.

      I remember a smell of burning, and seeing that the boys opposite had left their meat on the barbecue.

      I could see the smoke starting to twist upwards.

      I could see faces at windows.

      I could see people glancing up, looking at the one door which was still closed.

      Waiting for it to open, hoping that it might not.

      I don’t understand why it seems so fresh in my mind, even now, three years later and a few hundred miles away.

      I think about it, and I can’t even remember people’s names.

      I just remember sitting there, those moments of waiting, murmurous and tense.

      People striding to the end of the street, looking up and down the main road, stretching to see round the corner.

      Turning back to the others and raising their hands.

      The old man from number twenty-five, the brush in his hand, dribbling a trail of pale blue paint, walking towards the closed door.

      Rubbing his bearded cheeks with the palm of his hand.

      Knocking.

      The distant careen of a siren, the man knocking at the door.

Chapter 2

      A taxi drifts into the end of the street, its engine clicketing loudly as the doors open and half a dozen young people spill brightly out onto the pavement.

      There is a pause; payment is made, the doors are slammed shut, and the taxi moves away, out of sight. And they stand there for a moment, blinking and grinning and waiting uncertainly, a tall thin girl with a short short skirt and eyes smudged with glitter, a boy with beige slacks and a ring through his eyebrow, a girl with enormous trainers and army trousers and her hair dyed pink and they are walking down the street, slowly, blissfully, their heads full of music and light, their nervous systems over-stimulated by hormones and chemicals and the exhilaration of the night.

      A very short girl wearing nothing but shorts and a bra, her toenails painted the same violets and pinks and greens as her fingernails, she claps her hands, she looks at the sanded bare windowsills of number twenty-five, she says look they look naked, she looks at the tins of pale blue paint, the blue spilling down the side of the tin, she looks at the brushes and the scrapers and she says it’s a nice colour it’s going to look nice but nobody’s listening.

      A boy wearing an almost clean white shirt, a tie looped loosely around his neck, he jumps up onto the garden wall of number nineteen, he balances on one leg, he says shush shush can you hear that and when the others stop and say what he says nothing, can you hear nothing it’s nice and he topples groundwards hoping the boy with the beige slacks and the pierced eyebrow can catch him.

      On the other side of the street, in an upstairs bedroom at number twenty-two, a girl wakes up and hears someone talking about the quietness of the morning. She listens to the loud voice, it sounds familiar, she sits up in bed and puts her glasses on and looks at the people in the street. She knows them, some of them live at number seventeen, she wonders where they’ve been as she takes off her glasses and gets back into bed.

      In the downstairs flat of number twenty, an old man with thinning hair and a carefully trimmed moustache is lying awake, listening to the noises outside. His eyes are open, frowning, focusing on what he can hear. He is listening for tell-tale signs, the crisp sound of a can being crumpled underfoot, the tinkle of a dropped bottle. His eyes sweep from side to side, concentrating, searching. But he doesn’t hear anything, and as the voices fade he closes his eyes again, turning face-down into the bed, away from the light, hoping for a little more sleep before the day begins.

      Outside, the boy with the white shirt opens the door of number seventeen and the others follow him inside, whirling slowly around, gathering the objects they need to keep them safe, cartons of fruit juice and bottles of coke, bars of chocolate and tubes of crisps, tapes, CDs, cushions, duvets, cigarette papers, cigarettes, candles and burners and matches and drugs. And in the back bedroom they are settling down and they are talking, the tall thin girl with glitter round her eyes says don’t be so fucking daft man it’d go all over the floor and down your legs and that, and she giggles and turns to reach for a drink and as her face catches the candle-light her skin sparkles like shattered glass in the sun.

      In the front first-floor bedroom of number nineteen a woman wakes suddenly. She looks at the clock, she looks at her sleeping husband, she wonders why she has woken. There is no noise from the street, the children are quiet. She eases softly out of bed, her bladder suddenly straining and full, she stands and she opens the door slowly enough for it not to squeak. On the way to the bathroom, she looks into the children’s bedroom and checks on each one of them, she crouches at the lower bunks and stretches up to the top one. She looks with sleepy love at the three of them, she watches their young bodies swelling and shrinking through her barely opened eyes, she holds her hand close to their faces to feel the warm give and suck of their breath. She murmurs a brief prayer for them and closes the door gently, soft-padding to the toilet, sitting and relieving herself and watching the shadows of pigeons flap across the bathroom wall.

      The short girl with the painted toenails, next door, she says oh but did you see СКАЧАТЬ