Beach Bodies: Part Three. Ross Armstrong
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Название: Beach Bodies: Part Three
Автор: Ross Armstrong
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Приключения: прочее
isbn: 9780008361372
isbn:
While Zack at least managed to grab his yellow mac from the hallway, these three are making do with the thin maxi dresses and tight T-shirts they were wearing when the day began, before any of this was even vaguely foreseeable, to all but one of them.
The bedroom where their warmer clothes lie is exactly where Tabs, Liv and Justine are heading, having instantly opted to stay pro-active, and stay together. The three women turn the opposite way at the top of the stairs, away from the Love Nest, and down a slim corridor.
As sheet lightning continues in the distance, Tabs proceeds to remind them how little she wanted to come up here, but not wanting to be left on her own again, felt she had no option.
Cold air hits even before they get to the bedroom. Air they are all in need of; the extent to which smoke had filled the room from the fire was only visible when the power came on again. They’re thankful the dark is no longer adding to their high anxiety, but the foreboding of the cold shooting at them as they enter the bedroom confirms their suspicions.
These are strange days when the world turns upside down. When day becomes night. Black becomes white. When the sun turns cold. And it rains indoors.
The swirling rain pours onto them through the broken window. Liv is drawn to it immediately, joined by Justine, who whispers to herself in French as together they look down at the trajectory the body took and its landing point.
The wind claws at Liv, beckoning her out to join him. But Justine holds her hand, as they look out to the sea pounding against the rocks, mere metres beyond the boundary of the garden.
But Tabs stays back, hands partially over her eyes, looking at the two of them, their forms low lit by the mood lighting in the bedroom and occasional sparks from the heavens. She doesn’t think she can join the coven. Because she doesn’t trust all of its constituent parts. She ponders her way out of all this. And seeing only dead ends and bodies, she sprawls a hand over her mouth, and tears fall from her eyes.
Summer leads them around the small lip of wall, towards the window, and she sees it immediately.
Something. Poking out of it. It’s been soaked by rain until the matter is difficult to recognise. It resembles a piece of material, rag-dolled, muddied and bloodied by the elements.
Lance ducks down to see what it is in the darkness. It’s the eyes that give it away. Eyes he’s looked into in passion, eyes like stone, drained by lack of oxygen and fluid.
As Lance’s cries ring out, Roberto holds him and Summer kneels to get a closer look.
She mutters gentle words to Dawn as she examines her, but it’s no good. She’s half in, half out of that window, but resolutely the whole way out of this fragile world; her head nearly cut off by the shutters which have cleaved into her neck, until the bone and cartilage jammed the mechanism.
These shutters aren’t made to stop. They’re made to stop intruders.
Summer strokes the curls of hair she’d helped her highlight the same shade as her own. She kisses Dawn’s forehead. It’s one of those things that mammals do. A show of love when the dark around them suggests nothing but animal imperative and coldness. Which, after Lance kisses her head, running his thumb along a chicken pox mark still visible on her neck, they know they must get out of.
As they descend the stairs, having confirmed that Sly was indeed pushed from the communal bedroom window, Liv and Justine hold Tabs’ hands, as they too battle to grab some human warmth from the brutal end they have just witnessed.
Perhaps there are words, maybe thoughts and wishes to calm each other, touches that are intended to sooth, but none feel them. It’s like it’s happening to other people, as each woman falls into a state of stilled panic. It’s all rendered in slow motion, only the reality of the steps beneath them reminding them that this is happening now. That it’s real. That they are alive, and that that is a thing to be clung to, like a raft in a storm, for as long as they possibly can.
In the living room, they see wet footsteps lead to the sofa, where in front of the fire, a figure turns their head. The blinds are drawn, so the body can no longer be seen. The fire has had extra logs added to it for its health.
And warming his hands, wet shoes and socks strewn out in front of the fire, sits Simon who, as if without a care in the world, looks up at the three women and gives a gleeful smile.
London, Waterloo, Rennie Street…
Far away. But then, not really so, so far. The night watchman takes over from the day concierge.
‘Anything happening?’ says the Night man.
‘In this place?’ says Day.
‘Yeah. Any trouble?’
‘A hell of a lot. It never stops,’ laughs Day.
‘Sure,’ chuckles Night.
It’s an in-joke between the two. Not a hilarious one, by any measure, but a joke all the same. They’ve exchanged these exact words nearly a hundred times.
It’s not funny because of the content, not anymore. The content has faded away and the humour is in the repetition. The words have become sound; a musical leitmotif that describes their relationship. They allow themselves this moment of kinship, at 8 p.m. whenever the two meet: eight days out of every month.
You have to rotate people a lot in a place like this. Because concentration is difficult. It’s been worn away by smartphones and rolling news and constant content. And these guys need to stay ready, stay awake. Just in case.
The work isn’t strenuous. You just have to check around once in a while. Shine a torch around. It’s a waiting game unless the worst happens. Then it’s life and death.
So they rotate between six guys. But these two guys, they get on best.
What makes Day laugh even more, is that Night’s last name is actually Knight. Which would be even funnier if Day’s surname was actually Day. They have laughed about this many times. But it isn’t. It’s Lambert or Butler or Hedges or Rothman. Some brand of old cigarettes anyway. Knight can never remember which.
Knight takes a seat and assumes the posture, waving Day away. Years ago, he might’ve stuck his feet up on the desk, but these days a higher standard is expected, and someone is always watching.
Instead, he trains his mind. Mr Knight clears his inner chambers from intrusive thoughts and focuses on the phone, because sometimes it rings and it looks good if you pick up straight away. The odd phone call from some suit who wants you to check on a few things.
Some mad question, they always ask. Do this, do that. Makes a change from sitting watching the thing. They use an old white phone, a real one, from days gone by. It’s a professional joke, Mr Knight has been told. And he enjoys the opportunity to interact with old СКАЧАТЬ