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Abberlaine Arrol's voice comes back, 'It was to be near the marina. That was
why he had it built. Then they built the sports centre on top. He was too
proud to accept the compensation buy-out, so it stayed in the family. My
father is always talking about selling it, but we wouldn't get much for it; we
just use it for storage. There was some damp on the ceiling, but it's been
repaired.'
'I see,' I listen for the girl, but all I can hear is the sounds of the sea;
waves brush the rocks or the piers nearby. I can smell the sea, too; something
of its fresh dampness pervades the air.
'About bloody time,' Abberlaine Arrol says, her voice muffled. A click, and
all is revealed. I am standing near the door of a large apartment, mostly
open-plan and split-level and full of old furniture and packing cases. From a
high, damp-stained ceiling an assortment of complicated light clusters hang;
varnish peels from old, panelled walls. There are white sheets everywhere,
half covering ancient, heavy-looking sideboards, wardrobes, couches, chairs,
tables and chests of drawers. Other pieces are still totally covered, wrapped
and trussed like huge, dusty white presents. Where there were vague areas of
light before, there is now a single long screen of blackness where unshuttered
windows look out into the night. Abberlaine
Arrol appears, flat, broad hat still in place, clapping her hands together,
rubbing dust off them, from a side room.
'There, that's a bit better.' She looks around. 'Bit dusty and deserted, but
it's quiet, and a bit more private than your room on U7 or wherever.' She
hands me back my stick, then starts pacing through the assembled furniture,
whipping back sheets and covers, glacing underneath, raising a storm of dust
as she investigates the contents of the huge room. She sneezes. 'Should be a
bed around here somewhere.' She nods to the windows. 'Might be an idea to
close the shutters. It never gets very light in here, but you might
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the morning.'
I make my way down to the tall windows, a length of obsidian framed in
crackled white paint. The heavy shutters creak as they swing across the
dust-dimmed panes. Outside and below I can see a broken line of white surf,
and a few lights in the distance, mosdy navigation and harbour beacons. Above,
where I would expect to see the bridge, there is only darkness, starless and
complete. The waves glitter like a million dull knives.
'Here,' Abberlaine Arrol has found a bed. 'It might be a bit damp, but I'll
find some more sheets. Should be some in these cases.' The bed is huge, with a
headboard carved from oak to resemble a pair of immense, outspread wings.
Abberlaine stamps off through the clouds of dust to rummage through stacked
chests and packing cases. I test the bed.
'Abberlaine, this is really very kind of you, but are you sure you won't get
into trouble for it?' She sneezes powerfully from a distant packing case.
'Bless you,' I say.
'Thank you. No, I'm not certain,' she says, pulling out blankets and bundles
of newspapers from the chest, 'but in the unlikely event my father did find
out and was annoyed, I'm sure I could talk him round. Don't worry. No one ever
comes down here. Ah.' She discovers a large quilt and some sheets and pillows.
She buries her face in the quilt, breathing deeply. 'Yes, this seems dry
enough.' She brings the bedding over in a bundle and starts to make the huge
bed. I offer to help but am shooed away.
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I take my coat off and go in search of the bathroom. It is about six times the
size of room 306, level U7.
The bath alone looks as though it could float a sizeable yacht. The toilet
flushes, the sink runs too, the shower and bidet both spray efficiently. I
pause in front of the mirror, brushing my hair back, smoothing my shirt,
checking my teeth for bits of trapped food.
When I return to the main room, my bed has been made. The huge oaken wings are
spread over a white duvet of duckdown. Abberlaine Arrol has gone. The
apartment's front door swings gently to and fro.
I close the door, put out most of the lights. I find an old lamp and perch it
on a packing case by the side of my huge, cold bed. Before I put the light out
I lie for a while, looking at the great hollow circles long-
dried waters have left on the plaster above me.
Faded and dull, left-overs from an old complaint, they look down on me like
ancient painted images of my own chest-held stigmata.
I reach out to the old lamp, and turn the darkness on again.
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I luv the ded, this old basturt sez to me when I wiz trying to get some
innfurmashin out ov him. You fukin old pervirt I sez, gettin a bit fed up by
this time enyway, an slit his throate; ah asked you whare the fukin
Sleepin Byootie woz, no whit kind a humpin you lyke. No, no he sez, splutterin
sumthin awfy and gettin blud all ovir ma new curiearse, no he sez I sed Isle
of the Dead; Isle of the Dead that's whare yoo'l find the
Sleeping Beauty, but mind and watch out for the - then the basturt went and
dyed on me. Fukin nerv, eh?
Ah wiz ded upset but thare you go these things are scent to trie uz.
Canny remember whare it wiz I herd about this Sleepin Byootie but it must hav
bean sumwhare, ken. Av been gettin arownd a fare bit resently whot with all
that majic an that; playce is stowed owt with majishins and wizerds and
whitches these days; canny wolk intae sum citays withowt trippin over sum
barsturd doin wun aw they spels or incanntashins or turnin sumbudy inta a frog
or bumrag or a spitoon or sumhin.
Clevir bugirs but ye can hav to mutch majic ah rekin; sum bugirs got tae spred
the manure and bild hooses and plant seads an that sort ov stuff, ken? Things
that majic duzney wurk very well on. Fyne fur hydin gold and turnin peepil
intae things thayd rathir no be turnd intae an maykin foalk furget things an
that sort ov stuf, but no fur fixin a bugerd waggin wheel or sloppin the mud
oot yer detachit hovil aftir the rivir's burst itz banks. Dinnae ask me how
majic wurks maybe ther's onlie so mutch to go round or peepil who can do it
keep majicin up things that cantsel out whit uthers have dun, but wun way or
the uthir it canny be oll its craked up tae be or ah suppose the wurld woold
be toatally fukin wunderffil an happy an aw that an folk woold live in peece
an harminy an so on; thatill be the day, if ye ask me. Enyway its no like that [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]