"M. John Harrison - Isobel Avens returns to Stepney in the spring" - читать интересную книгу автора (Harrison John M)

Isobel Avens returns to Stepney in the spring
by M. John Harrison

The third of September this year I spent the evening watching TV in an upstairs flat
in North London. Some story of love and transfiguration, cropped into all the wrong
proportions for the small screen. The flat wasnтАЩt mine. It belonged to a friend I was
staying with. There were French posters on the walls, dusty CDs stacked on the
old-fashioned sideboard, piles of newspapers subsiding day by day into yellowing
fans on the carpet. Outside, Tottenham stretched away, Greek driving schools,
Turkish social clubs. Turn the TV off and you could hear nothing. Turn it back on
and the film unrolled, passages of guilt with lost edges, photographed in white and
blue light. At about half past eleven the phone rang. I picked it up. тАЬHello?тАЭ
It was Isobel Avens.
тАЬOh, China,тАЭ she said. She burst into tears.
I said: тАЬCan you drive?тАЭ
тАЬNo,тАЭ she said.
I looked at my watch. тАЬIтАЩll come and fetch you.тАЭ
тАЬYou canтАЩt,тАЭ she said. тАЬIтАЩm here. You canтАЩt come here.тАЭ
I said: тАЬBe outside, love. Just try and get yourself downstairs. Be outside and
IтАЩll pick you up on the pavement there.тАЭ
There was a silence.
тАЬCan you do that?тАЭ
тАЬYes,тАЭ she said.
Oh, Chian. The first two days she wouldnтАЩt get much further than that.
тАЬDonтАЩt try to talk,тАЭ I advised.
London was as quiet as a nursing home corridor. I turned up the car stereo.
Tom Waits, Downtown Train. Music stuffed with sentiments you recognise but
darenтАЩt admit to yourself. I let the BMW slip down Green Lanes, through Camden
into the centre; then west. I was pushing the odd traffic light at orange, clipping the
apex off a safe bend here and there. I told myself I wasnтАЩt going to get killed for her.
What I meant was that if I did she would have no one left. I took the Embankment at
eight thousand revs in fifth gear, nosing down heavily on the brakes at Chelsea
Wharf to get round into Gunter Grove. No one was there to see. By half past twelve
I was on Queensborough Road, where I found her standing very straight in the
mercury light outside AlexanderтАЩs building, the jacket of a Karl Lagerfeld suit thrown
across her shoulders and one piece of expensive leather luggage at her feet. She bent
into the car. Her face was white and exhausted and her breath stank. The way
Alexander had dumped her was as cruel as everything else he did. She had flown
back steerage from the Miami clinic reeling from jet lag, expecting to fall into his
arms and be loved and comforted. He told her, тАЬAs a doctor I donтАЩt think I can do
any more for you.тАЭ The ground hadnтАЩt just shifted on her: it was out from under her
feet. Suddenly she was only his patient again. In the metallic glare of the street lamps,
I noticed a stipple of ulceration across her collarbones. I switched on the courtesy
light to look closer. Tiny hectic sores, closely spaced.
I said: тАЬChrist, Isobel.тАЭ
тАЬItтАЩs just a virus,тАЭ she said. тАЬJust a side effect.тАЭ
тАЬIs anything worth this?тАЭ
She put her arms around me and sobbed.
тАЬOh, China, China.тАЭ
It isnтАЩt that she wants me; only that she has no one else. Yet every time I smell