"Conrad Williams - The Bone Garden" - читать интересную книгу автора (Williams Conrad)

'Humour her. You'd like to see her go to the grave miserable?'
'No. Of course not.' I suppose in that moment, my need to leave home grew
to the point where I could no longer let it simmer as just another fancy
of mine.
The water was getting cold.
I spent the day sorting out boxes in the kind of resigned melancholy that
only people who've experienced a large scale move can understand. I was
sure these boxes and the crap they contained had multiplied overnight.
Once I'd established a pile in each room I set about cleaning windows.
Silly really, when so much hoovering and dusting needed to be done; when I
got round to it all the stirred up muck would settle on the windows again
but I didn't mind, it's a part of housework I find almost soporific. Maybe
it's the rhythm of the task or the squeegee's magic which, since
childhood, I've regarded with a kind of awe. It took on a deeper
significance now though as I went from room to room because I saw the
garden differently each time. It wasn't so much a fresh angle that
intrigued me but the misting I caused on the glass with mycloth and polish
through which the body of grass took on a novel complexion. Was it my
imagination that suggested, beyond the pink scars of Windolene, a twisted
frame of bone or was it simply shadows and greenery, coercing the thought?
I'm famed for seeing shapes in clouds nobody else can discern; I oughtn't
become frantic about a suggestion of rippled grey that looks like a grid
of ribs or a softly shaded globe punched with moments of black where eyes
might once have cradled.
My squeegee cut through the haze and made everything clear, including my
foolishness. The grass was flattened in one area, the well it created
pooling with shadows that were so bland and unambiguous I found myself
straining to pinpoint the foundations of my unease in their shapes.
Harriet arrived shortly after a meagre dinner of beans, crackers and half
a tube of Smarties. She helped me stack my paperbacks on shelves and
suggested some colours for the bathroom; she'd be able to get the gear
cheap as her father worked in one of the vast home improvement stores that
were slowly surrounding the town. I kissed her, not expecting, or
particularly wanting it to lead to anything - I was tired - but it did,
and she led me out through the back door into the rasping garden.
'Let's christen this pristine lawn of yours,' she whispered into my mouth,
pulling me down till the grass became deafening. It didn't last long,
partly because I hadn't seen Harriet for a week and needed her warmth but
also because I was wondering about the flattened patch of grass and why it
should be like that. It could have been eager lovers, like us, stealing in
from the main road but my mind was trying to convince me that it was
something buried beneath the grass, poisoning its roots and halting any
growth. I tried to remember, as I looked into Harriet's liquid eyes, if
the shape had resembled a body.
Harriet didn't mention my haste. I hoped it was because she needed me too
but I couldn't ask. She stayed with me and I was glad because near
midnight I heard the slow shush of footsteps circling above my room.
I checked the attic in the morning while Harriet made French toast. I felt
vaguely daft once I'd poked around: what the hell did I expect to find?
There was nothing up there but an old wardrobe. Inside, my grandparents'