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Автор Пэт Баркер
Pat Barker
Another World
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Pat Barker was born in Thornaby-on-Tees in 1943. She was educated at the London School of Economics and has been a teacher of history and politics. Her books include
Pat Barker is married and lives in Durham.
ANOTHER WORLD
For David, Donna and Gillon
— with love
Remember: the past won’t fit into memory without something left over; it must have a future.
ONE
Cars queue bumper to bumper, edge forward, stop, edge forward again. Resting his bare arm along the open window, Nick drums his fingers. The Bigg Market on a Friday night. Litter of chip cartons, crushed lager cans, a gang of lads with stubble heads and tattooed arms looking for trouble — and this is early, it hasn’t got going yet. Two girls stroll past, one wearing a thin, almost transparent white cotton dress. At every stride her nipples show, dark circles beneath the cloth, fish rising. One of the lads calls her name: ‘Julie!’ She turns, and the two of them fall into each other’s arms.
Nick watches, pretending not to.
What is love’s highest aim?Four buttocks on a stem.
Can’t remember who said that — some poor sod made cynical by thwarted lust. Nothing wrong with the aim, as far as Nick can see — just doesn’t seem much hope of achieving it any more. And neither will these two, or not yet. The boy’s mates crowd round, grab him by the belt, haul him off her.
‘Jackie-no-balls,’ the other girl jeers. The boy thrusts his pelvis forward, makes wanking movements with his fist.Lights still red. Oh, come on. He’s going to be late, and he doesn’t want to leave Miranda waiting at the station. This is her first visit to the new house. Fran wanted to put it off, but then Barbara went into hospital and that settled it. Miranda had to come, and probably for the whole summer. Well, he was pleased, anyway.
The lights change, only to change back to red just as he reaches the crossing. Should be easier in the new house — more space. In the flat Gareth’s constant sniping at Miranda was starting to get on everybody’s nerves. And Miranda never hit back, which always made him want to strangle Gareth, and then it was shouts, tears, banged doors: ‘You’re not my father…’ So who was? he wanted to ask. Never did, of course.
Green — thank God. But now there’s a gang of lads crossing, snarled round two little buggers who’ve chosen this moment to start a fight. His fist hits the horn. When that doesn’t work he leans out of the window, yells, ‘Fuck off out of it, will you?’
