介绍:
（有朋友在后台留言想听本尼的声音，趁着国庆假期，小编放送本尼朗读的故事送给大家，一共有四个部分）
Flat of Angles – part 1
I hope you enjoyed Friendly Fire’s late tale selection. Welcome to the 1 part of 4-part late tale stories , written by Simon Cleary. And read by me, Benedict Cumberbatch.
I’ll miss you, I’ll miss our walks, try to pretend we are in perfect step. Out of step now. Sick on the floor, out of the room, fenced in, trapped. I can still hear the schoolchildren play outside at their usual 10:30. It always used to annoy me, as I was trying to sleep, but it doesn’t now. It seems alright. A replacement. A continuation. Their sound jangles around the room, it sounds so different from where I’ve been.
A party. Alone. Packed in with others, but never feeling so alone. People dance too close. She was there. I had only gone because I hoped she would be.
I had arrived early, as the streetlights were coming on, so I took a long walk around the block, taking a few extra lefts and rights, past the Chicken Cottage and Costcutter, than along a crescent that arced me out of my way, past a group of figures huddled under the entrance to the flats, shielding the flicking lighter from the wind.
This area is little more than a traffic island. A triangle around which cars and coaches streams into town of the bleak old Kent’s or out indicant into the coasts. The same faces trudge around for years. “Spare some changes please, much as possible!” “You wanna buy some weed?” “Do you have a spare cigarette?” You always wants one. And then that one about the weed was not a question.
This is a Samaritan’s office between the two severely dilapidated buildings of black brick Terrace. It has a for-moment-painting of ten foot wooden board nailed to outside. There is red paint up to the zero pound mark and ambitious 10 feet higher is written 200000 pounds. Never got any warmer there.
The man begging in the corner makes me take huge detour when going towards my flat. He looks up with a pitiful stare that makes me want to kick the misery out of him. He is deeply weak and unwanted comfy. A child sleeping back, JJB Sport. A crack. A release. He is poor exhaust. He was lost. The Broadway. The Town hall. Such a grand building. Oh nautical Renaissance is here. Far from water. It would be quite a sight if you can get far back enough from it to take a look. But my back is up against the black paneling of the gay sauna opposite.
A coach thunders by as I ran past video shop that I owe 5 pounds to. Meaning go way back. I may becoming one of those people you see in New cross. I have a book. Peeping out of one pocket. At least want to look vaguely intellectual if someone I know or someone who knows me walks by.
I throw down the finished can into the piles between 2 walls outside my flat. Look, there’s the hardware store. It has a large cutout of a radiant man and woman in overalls, the woman handing the man a tin of paint, up his ladder, beaming. It has faded in the sun. I bought creosote from there once.
What a night! Pure mental! It was messy! It was out of hand! It was out of space! I rapped on that track once, at Bayley’s, remember it? Skibbadee handed me the mic, I got shout “I’m gonna send him to outer space to find another race!” Absolutely fantastic, those days… The pills these days are not the same, they don’t work. No love.
I was chatting to this bloke in the kitchen, and he said something, I can’t remember what, but I have to push him over, crashed his arse on the coffee table, ash tinnies and CDs everywhere! Spilled the linens too, the fat bastard!
I can’t get you out of my head, your loving is all I think about, no , I can’t get you out of my head, something, something is all I think about. I can’t get this loop out of my head, no I think I’ll have to… I need to sit down. I can’t stop my leg jiggling; it wants to be somewhere else. I need to get out of here. I can hear sirens-can you hear them? Then again, they are always here, the background to day life here. When music is playing, and they come, they sometimes sync up. The New Cross Remix, I call it. I used to call it. This isn’t how it advertised itself. It was fun, it was Technicolour, the music made me fell liquid, I melted into the company and was chief among them.
I was in the kitchen, pouring pint after pint of water over myself, insisting to a stranger that “No, no… The drinks are on me!” I can’t remember what happened after that. Except her there. I had managed to talk to her, I was talking about an art gallery, I thought she’d be impressed, but her eyes kept dancing around the space behind me, smiles flickered on her lips as her eyes focused on scene I was oblivious to. I heard laughter. It was from my throat, but I didn’t feel it. I was just trying to breathe life into a long-dead persona.
You’ve been listening to late night tales. Music and stories worth staying up for.
大家还在听
