Читать книгу The Supine Cobbler - Jill Connell - Страница 8

The Doctor addresses the audience.

DOCTOR: You all remember the year we had no rain. The year Hassan Jarrar beat a hooker into a coma, same year as the HIV hate-mongering, fifty-three homicides, 243 suicides, that we know of in this city. Almost twenty years ago now. Same year the Cordovan house burnt clean to the ground in the middle of the night, mother and father inside. Two daughters camped in a tent nearby, twelve and fourteen – these the remains of the tragedy. The elder daughter got sent to the Winnipeg Ballet, while the younger took over the family business. Became a shoemaker. She grew into a nice, middle-of-the-road, nice, respectable, nice young woman. Well, not nice, but decent. Then one day she just fell off the map of decency. In the public eye. In the opinion of civilized society. You’ve heard the rumours. The Supine Cobbler, this and that. People talk. The Hashknives, the Nacogdoches, they talk. Now you and I keep quiet. Even though we know a lot of things. We keep quiet. Still. Nobody knows this here story I’m about to unfold. Nobody talks about this. Even though it happened this year. Ultimately this story is brutal and unforgiving. Pretty violent and heartbreaking overall. That’s because most of what follows is true.

Powder flash. Dusters drop to the ground. Lights expose the gang in a criminal line-up. They step forward one by one as their photographs are taken.

Francisca Cordovan, AKA Frankie. Thirty-three. The Cobbler’s older sister. Achieved some small fame as a dancer in the Winnipeg Ballet. Met her death by hanging. One tough son of a bitch, such is the way with dancers of the ballet.

Leigh Meloné. Twenty-nine. The Cobbler’s best friend. Just friends. Married to the Kestrel. He’s not the topic. Leigh went missing three or four years ago, leaving not so much as footprints in the snow, presumed dead.

Everett ‘the Kid’ McMurtrett-Howley-Réjean-Cournoyer. Twenty-two. The Cobbler’s apprentice. Man-woman-child, a charmer, turncoat, as it turns out. Lived down the street from the Cordovans. Still does.

Grace Volonté Cordovan. Thirty-something with no name. Well, she was thirty-one and she had a name but you wouldn’t recognize it. I’m not going to try to explain her, as that would be a disservice, and tonight’s soirée would not be needed if I could. But she was a plain genius, with a concern for doing the right thing. And that’s where the trouble begins.

This is the story of one particular event, one particular sally into the wilderness. I was there for some of it. Some good times we felt immortal but also some mix-ups. Half of them end up dead. At least half.

Gotta know what kind of funeral you want.

Silence.

A morning bird.

LOVER: What are you thinking about?

COBBLER: Lovin’.

Gunshot. Blackout.

Horses’ hooves morph into a train at full steam: loud. Or: an adventure song.