Charles Web Debugging Proxy 4.2.8 with Keygen

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Charles Lambert The Crack I get there almost two hours early, but it doesn’t matter. I know I’ll be welcome. I ring the bell and already I can hear Susan’s delighted cry from the kitchen as I lower my finger – ‘It must be Simon’ – and see her form divided into a dozen concave images by the shell-pattern of the front-door glass, each miniature Susan stretching her arms out towards me. She opens the door and I’m drawn in and hugged, my rucksack slumped over on the step. She is wearing a pullover and a long cotton skirt.
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Charles Lambert The Crack I get there almost two hours early, but it doesn’t matter. I know I’ll be welcome. I ring the bell and already I can hear Susan’s delighted cry from the kitchen as I lower my finger – ‘It must be Simon’ – and see her form divided into a dozen concave images by the shell-pattern of the front-door glass, each miniature Susan stretching her arms out towards me.

She opens the door and I’m drawn in and hugged, my rucksack slumped over on the step. She is wearing a pullover and a long cotton skirt. I feel her stomach and the prickle of the rough wool through my shirt. She smells of cumin and fennel seed; she must be cooking for this evening.

Stepping back to look at me, she lets me go and smiles, looping her hair behind her ears, then reaches to pick up the rucksack. I follow her into the broad, uncluttered hall. I love this house. The walls are white, but there’s something about the height and placing of the windows that makes them seem amber, as though the hall were plugged straight into some source of warm, entirely natural light. Susan’s eyes are hazel as she turns to beam at me again and the scent of cumin on her clothes is slowly overlaid by cinnamon as we walk to the kitchen.

I try to take my rucksack from her, protesting, and we tussle playfully until I give in, with a gesture of mock courtesy. Her fingers brush against mine, their dry floury warmth like that of a husk. She opens the oven and takes out a tray of biscuits, testing one with her finger to make sure they’re done. It crumbles as I eat. It must be someone who knows my name, I think, and I am curious, even shy. I expected Joey to be here. Susan smiles, licking a finger to dab up crumbs from her skirt, then reaches down beneath the table.

She makes a crooning noise until a cat I have never seen moves warily in her direction. She’s still rather disorientated. I didn’t mean that to be a pun. Aren’t you, Sorrel? I try to stroke behind the animal’s ears, the scruff of her neck, but she pulls away, and I feel a wave of hostility that jars with the mood of the house. When she turns her head to stare, I notice her eyes. She gets up on the top of that cupboard by the door, and when anybody comes in she flings herself at them.

It’s a good thing she’s slightly cross-eyed. Who knows what damage she’d do if she actually made contact with anyone? As it is, she just skids across the kitchen floor. It’s terribly precious, isn’t it? I call her Sourpuss behind her back. Which is probably as bad. The sitting room is hardly ever used except to sleep in, and to play the untuned piano. The room smells of dust.

A sofa and two armchairs covered with Indian bedspreads surround the empty fireplace; a single mattress has been propped against the wall, between the piano and the window.

I put down my rucksack beside the mattress and look at Joey with affection. As usual, we are shy with each other. The first time I met him, he danced around the room, deflecting questions with a giggle, then stared intensely at me through his tortoiseshell-framed glasses when I laughed, as though he hadn’t expected approval.

Now we confront each other with the skewed intimacy of pen-pals. Anyone would think it was Susan I’d known for years, not Joey. I want to ask him about her, but the ballast of small talk is needed first. Joey is agitated and energetic, bouncing on the balls of his feet. I mention a friend neither of us has seen since the summer, who is planning to go to France, and Joey tells me about his brother-in-law, a bagpipe-player with a wounded hand who busks the south coast of France with Joey’s sister and a Polish fire-eater.

They are in Nice for the autumn, he tells me. The fire-eater’s arms are covered with a lacework of puckered scars, his breath smells of petrol and garlic sausage. His stories are full of details, small sparkling things that seem to be smuggled in from a place where their brightness is natural. I listen and feel that the poetry of the world is ours. We breathe it in, like cinnamon.

The stairs run round three walls of the hall, and at each of the two landings there is a window. On the sill of the first window someone has put a pincushion in the form of a cat. I pick it up and feel it rustle between my fingers. It seems to be filled with dried herbs; it has a musty smell. She thinks it brings her luck. The last time we saw each other in this house he was emerging from a period of more than a year during which he’d done nothing but sleep.

He showed me a text he’d written, an account of his dreams that had gradually started to make narrative sense. Characters had reappeared, episodes weaving together to form a story in which he was either marginal, or a feeble accomplice to disaster.

When it began to seem that his moments of waking were there solely to feed the world of the dream and its inhabitants he’d abandoned the project. Shortly after, he fell in love with Susan, whom he’d known since childhood – as though he’d opened his eyes and discovered her there, he said – and the honeymoon began.

Now he is laughing, his hair lit up from behind like a dandelion clock by the light from the landing window, and I still don’t know if he’s joking. I mean, it’s precision work. I think she sees our bodies as shells, with only the eyes as proof they’re inhabited.

As soon as she’s prised the lids open she sits back and washes behind her ears. I’ve seen her do it. I want to sit next to Susan, where I feel safe, but she is beating eggs and I don’t know which place is hers.

Everyone stops to look at me, to smile, to welcome me to the room, which is hot and filled with smoke. She points to a baking tray of aubergines, curling and charred like petrified wood. People laugh and I relax slightly, looking round for Joey. He is playing with the cat. He glances up and smiles. I looked across and saw a man with a box of beer cans in his arms pass through the glass door.

I had spent the evening with friends, in a pub in Holloway and, what with drink and a number of joints at a friend’s flat, I thought I was hallucinating. I watched him disappear round the corner, then stared at the door, to make sure it was closed. I saw the frame and the handle of the door, the keyhole of the Yale lock glinting in the light from the street.

And then I saw another movement and a second man swayed up from the dark interior of the shop. He lifted his foot to step over the bottom part of the frame and, once again, passed through the glass. I could have sworn I saw the shimmer of it parting. I was standing there with my mouth open when he turned and saw me. His arms were laden with cartons of cigarettes.

He put the cigarettes on the pavement and took my arm. I tried to pull away, but he dragged me towards the door. He pushed his hand through the glass. I waited to see the surface ripple like water, but nothing happened. Tentatively, I reached out. My hand went into the shop.

The till’s been forced and there’s no more spirits. But there’s loads of stuff left. The phone works too. I’ve just been on to Belgium. Ten minutes later, I had loaded a friend’s car with beer. There must be a moral, they’re thinking; that can’t be all there is to it.

The story can’t just be about the joy of theft, the magic of the glassless door. They’re waiting for the glass to grow back and trap the hand, and the surface of the world to be whole again. I look at their faces and wonder how long they’ve been staring at me like this.

I wonder at what point it began to dawn on them that I don’t belong to their world. But she is still confused. The man she is with strokes her arm. The crack is like a – what is it in English? Like a space, I mean, isn’t it? Joey will understand.

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