Around the Corner就在拐角处

桑德拉·伍利 马婧

The landing was dark. He stood for a moment while his eyes adjusted to it. The walls were drab and damp. He stared at the dingy paintwork on the door， trying hard to swallow the saliva collecting in the well of his mouth. Fingers trembled slightly as he fumbled deep into his trouser pockets for the key. He paused before placing the key in the lock， afraid to enter the flat. She wouldnt be there. On the last visit shed told him so. But then shed said exactly the same before his last release. He leaned against the dark paneling and listened. Afraid to hear only silence—which was precisely all he did hear.

The key turned easily and the door opened a few feet. It was dark inside. He took a well-aimed flick at the familiar switch and the sudden glare stung his eyes. There was nothing to see—no picture， no furniture， no Maisie.

He walked through the flat as though expecting someone to leap out and wrap him in warm， welcoming arms， like the last time—Maisies warm， welcoming arms. But he was dreaming. Back in hallway there was an old kitchen stool， forlorn and forgotten， leaning against the wall. He sat down shakily and looked around.

Why hadnt she believed him？ Hed mean every word when hed said that this was the last time. God！ Hed had two years to stew on it—hadnt he？ Shed looked back at him through hurt eyes. Eyes etched with concern and worry. Her words came back to him clearly. “Why should I believe you， Tom？ Its all been said before. How much waiting do you think I can take？ Id like a bit of security for a change， but more than that—Id like to have a husband.”

On the top of the small square table separating them， he had gripped her hands， hard. Pleaded with her. Tears had begun to trickle down her face. Shed grabbed her bag and backed away from him. Tom had started after her， only to be restrained by one of the guards. “Cmon Tom，” the guard urged. “No sense in losing remission. Shell be waiting. Shes a goodn—I can tell. You see boy， there are women and women…”

But she was right. He had said it all before. Why should she believe him now？ Hed been inside for two years this time and things change after two years. People change.

He reached inside his pocket for cigarettes. The packet was empty. He crushed it between both hands and watched it drop to the floor.

“Want a fag， mister？” Tom jerked round. A young， mucky-faced boy was staring at him from the door， curiously. “Why， you got some？” Tom asked. The boy removed a crumpled packet from his jacket and offered one. Tom accepted eagerly.

“You been inside， havent you？” Tom stared at his visitor in amazement. “You cheeky young…”

Before he could think of an answer the boy disappeared with a hasty： “Waitere a minute—I wanna show you something.”

Tom wandered back into what had been the living room. He saw the faded wallpaper with familiar marks in the shape of ornaments that once were his possessions—his and Maisies. The mirror， the brass clock that never did work for more than half a day at a time. The chipped tile on the fire-surround—hed always meant to replace it. Suddenly he heard a sound behind him. His visitor was back.

“For a minute I thought youd gone.” The boy resumed his crouching position and continued the previous conversation as though it had never been interrupted.  “Whats it like inside？”

Tom was feeling a bit browned off by the topic. “Whats it to you？”

“I got my reasons.”

Tom wagged a finger at him. “Ummh， well maybe Ive got mine for keeping quiet. What do you think of that？”

The boy put his head on one side and squinted. “Not a lot—considerin youre smoking my fag.”

Tom laughed for the first time in a week. “All right then—I suppose for a fag you deserve some kind of answer.” Elbows on knees and face in hands the boy concentrated.

Tom thought for a minute， then said： “Its lonely. Prison is the loneliest place on earth—thats the thing that really hurts.”

“Gosh—thats awful.” The boy looked very sad and disappeared into his own thoughts. Tom interrupted. “Why are you so interested in the subject—are you in trouble？”

The boy ignored him and carried on staring into space. Tom asked： “Anyway， how come you know all about me？”

The boy stood up. “Well youre Tom Jarvis， arent you？ Used to live here—didnt you？”

“Thats right. How do you know？”

“Cos I live over the road and you went to prison same day as my dad.” Not quite the recognition Tom had wanted—but it answered a lot of questions.

“Hes got another two years， my dad，” the boy added. Then he whipped out a well-creased photograph and thrust it at Tom.

“Thats him—thats my dad.” Tom realized that he was highly privileged.

“What did he do get himself nicked？”

“Pinched a van.”

Tom frowned. “Sentence seems a bit strong for nicking a van.”

The boy looked up at him and smiled. “Yeah—well it had a bank guard and a months wages in it at the time， didnt it？”

Tom smiled back. “I see.”

The boy carefully tucked the photograph back into his pocket. Tom couldnt resist asking. “Wheres your mother？”

“Gone. Cleared off with the landlord from the White Horse. Not one to hang about， my mum.”

“Whos looking after you then？”

“Me Gran. She moved in with me. Were gonna stay together me and Gran—waiting.”

“For what？”

“For me dad to come home.” The boys eyes misted over unexpectedly. “She tells me about him all the time. Things like when he was a kid like me.” The boy lowered his eyes.

“Hes a good man， really.”

Tom thought about the prison guard. “therere women and women… Shell be waiting—you see. A goodn if ever I saw one.”

He put his arm around the boys shoulders. “Any idea where I can get a bed for the night？”

“Cor. Clean forgot didnt I？ Your missus sent me round here to wait for you. Shes moved into No.56， around the corner. Theyre pulling this lot down tomorrow.”              ■

楼梯平台一片漆黑。他站了一会儿，让眼睛适应这片黑暗。墙壁灰暗潮湿。他盯着门上褪色的油漆，用劲儿吞下一口唾液。伸进裤袋深处摸索钥匙时手指微微发抖。他把钥匙插进锁孔前停顿了一下，不敢进屋。她不会在屋里的，上次探视时便已言明。不过他上次获释之前，她也说过同样的话。他靠在深色嵌板上，侧耳倾听。他害怕听到的只有沉寂，而这正是他所听到的一切。

钥匙轻松一转，门开了几英尺。里面黑洞洞的。啪的一声，他不偏不歪，打开了熟悉的开关，突然的光亮刺痛了双眼。屋里什么都没有——没有照片，没有家具，也没有梅茜。

他穿过公寓，似乎盼着有人突然冲过来用温暖热情的双臂拥抱他，就像上次梅茜温暖热情的拥抱一样。他不过在做梦罢了。回到门厅，那儿有个被遗弃的旧厨凳，孤零零靠墙放着。他浑身颤抖，坐下来环顾四周。

她那会儿为什么不相信他呢？当他说这是最后一次时，每个字都是认真的。上帝啊！两年时间，他一直为此担心，不是吗？她用受伤的眼神望向他，眼中流露出担心和忧虑。她的话清晰地传来：“为什么我要相信你，汤姆？这都是你之前就说过的。你认为我还能等多久呢？我想换个活法，能有点儿安全感，但更重要的是——我想有个丈夫。”

在把他们隔开的小方桌上面，他紧紧握住她的双手，苦苦哀求。泪水开始顺着她的脸颊流下。她抓起自己的包，向后退去。汤姆起身去追她，却被一个看守拦住了。“好了，汤姆。”看守劝道，“因此失去减刑没有意义。她会等你的。我看得出她是个好女人。要知道，老兄，女人和女人可不一样……”

但她说得没错。这些话是他以前说的了。为什么她现在还要相信他呢？他在里面已经两年，再过两年事情会变。人也会变。

他把手伸进口袋掏香烟。烟盒空空的。他双手捏扁了烟盒，看着它掉落在地板上。

“想抽支烟吗，先生？”汤姆猛地转身。一个满脸污渍的小男孩好奇地从门口盯着他。“噢，你有烟吗？”汤姆问。男孩从夹克里掏出一个皱巴巴的烟盒，递过来一根烟。汤姆迫不及待地接住。

“你坐过牢是吗？”汤姆惊讶地盯着来人，“你这调皮的小……”

没等他想好如何回答，男孩匆匆说了一句“在这儿等一下——我想给你看样东西”，就不见了踪影。

汤姆溜达着回到曾经的起居室。他看到褪色的墙纸上有熟悉的印痕，那是他的——他的和梅茜的装饰物留下的痕迹。一面镜子，一座每次从未运行超过半天的黄铜钟。壁炉包边上的那片碎瓷砖——他曾经一直想换掉。突然，他听到身后传来了响声。那个男孩回来了。

“刚刚我以为你走了呢。”男孩又蹲了下来，继续先前的话题，像是从未被打断似的。“里面是什么样子？”

汤姆对這个话题有点儿厌烦，“这和你有什么关系？”

“我有我的理由。”

汤姆冲他晃了晃手指，“嗯……不过，也许我也有我的理由保持沉默。你觉得呢？”

男孩把头歪向一边，眯起了眼睛。“没什么意见——可是你抽的是我给的烟。”

汤姆一周来第一次笑了。“那好吧——看在这支烟的分儿上，我想我应该稍稍回答你。”男孩膝撑手肘，双手托脸，聚精会神。

汤姆想了一会儿，说道：“孤独。监狱是世界上最孤独的地方——那是真正令人伤心的事情。”

“天哪——这太糟了。”男孩一脸悲伤，陷入了沉思。汤姆插话说：“你为什么对这个话题如此感兴趣——你遇到麻烦了吗？”

男孩没有理他，继续茫然凝视前方。汤姆问：“不管怎么说，你是怎么知道我的事的？”

男孩站了起来。“好吧，你是汤姆·贾维斯，对吗？以前住在这里，对吗？”

“没错。你是怎么知道的？”

“因为我住在路对面，你和我爸爸同一天进了监狱。”虽然不全是汤姆想要的答案，但回答了很多问题。

“我爸爸，他还有两年。”男孩补充道。然后，他迅速掏出了一张皱巴巴的照片，塞给汤姆。

“这就是他——这就是我爸爸。”汤姆意识到自己得到了很高的礼遇。

“他是做了什么才被捕的？”

“偷了一辆货车。”

汤姆皱了皱眉。“偷一辆货车，判得似乎有点儿重了。”

男孩抬头望着他，露出了笑容。“是啊——呃，当时车上不是还有一名银行保安和一个月的工资吗？”

汤姆也露出了微笑。“我明白了。”

男孩小心翼翼地把照片掖回口袋。汤姆禁不住问道：“你的母亲在哪儿？”

“走了。跟房东一起从白马镇走了。不会拖拖拉拉，我的妈妈。”

“那谁在照顾你呢？”

“我奶奶，她搬来跟我一起住。我们要守在一起，我和奶奶——等着。”

“等什么？”

“等我爸爸回家呀。”男孩顿时泪眼模糊。“她总是对我说起他。比如他像我这么大时发生的事情。”男孩垂下了目光。

“他是个好人，真的。”

汤姆想起了那个监狱看守。“女人和女人可不一样……你知道吗，她会等着你的。我从未见过像她一样的好女人。”

他伸出一只胳膊搂住男孩的肩膀。“你知道我在哪里可以找张床过夜吗？”

“当然知道。我这不是完全忘记了吗？你太太派我来这附近等你。她已经搬到了56号，就在拐角处。他们明天就要拆掉这个地方了。”     □