Free Ramsey Campbell - 1976 - The Doll Who Ate His Mother by Ramsey Campbell

           “He’s
certain to have changed his name,” Edmund said hastily.
                 “The
police still ought to know,” George said.
                 “We
can follow it up as quickly as they can. We’ve agreed not to tell them until
we’ve finished our enquiries,” Edmund said, glaring toward Clare, who was
hiding in the shadows near the pond and feeling as she might if she’d
distracted the villain in a wrestling match. “I ask you as a gentleman not to
reveal what you’ve heard,” Edmund said.
                 “I
can’t promise that. Why should I?”
                 “Because you won’t be helping the police at all. You know
they’re undermanned. If they have to put someone on our line of enquiry,
they’ll be taking him off something else. That’s why we will be genuinely
helping them.” George was hesitating, gazing down the road like a runner
anxious for the start. “At least think it over,” Edmund said. “I can tell you
aren’t an impulsive man.”
                 George
said nothing. He wasn’t going to win, Clare thought, disillusioned.
                 “Thank
you for being so patient,” Edmund said. “Perhaps I could have a word with you
tomorrow. I’ll be at the inquest. That is, if you don’t mind.”
                 “I
can’t stop you.”
                 “You
aren’t forbidding me to be there, are you?”
                 Wearily
George said, “No, I’m not forbidding you.”
                 He
hurried away down the empty gleaming road, beneath the crescent moon. Edmund began
to walk back toward the Newsham , to their cars.
Incredibly, he seemed triumphant. “I don’t think he’s the sort who’ll tell,” he
said, and she could hear that he was forgiving her. “I don’t think we’ve
anything to worry about.”
                 Friday, September 5
                 As
George entered Castle Chambers he saw Edmund Hall on the stairs ahead of him.
                 He
halted. He wouldn’t go into the inquest with the man. All right, he had a job
to do. Probably the boy’s name would be more of a hindrance than a help to the
police, a false trail. He wouldn’t prevent Edmund from doing his job. That
didn’t mean he had to like the man.
                 As
he entered the cream- coloured corridor off the
landing he saw Edmund step through a doorway marked ENQUIRIES. George hurried
past to the glass double doors outside the courtroom, but they were immovable,
like false doors on a stage set. They added to the sense of unreality he was
already beginning to feel. He’d never expected to visit such a place; he’d
shown courtrooms in too many films. He retreated to the ENQUIRIES door.
                 At
the end of an inner corridor was a waiting room for witnesses. A few people
stood outside, smoking; inside sat a sobbing woman, rattling a cup of tea.
George’s mother’s friend Ruby was comforting her, gazing at her with eyes that
drowned in themselves , slapping her own heart as if to
quicken its emotion. She was an actress, of course. That was how his mother had
known her.
                 He
stood outside the glass door. He didn’t feel equal to Ruby’s effusiveness
today. As he stared at the lettering on the door he felt wholly unlike a
witness—as if he’d undertaken the part without preparation. “ All
the world’s a stage”—yes, yes, all right.
                 He
had insisted on being a witness. He had to be there, to make sure nothing wrong
was said about his mother. He only hoped the inquest wouldn’t take long. Bill
Williams had seemed to understand the projection this morning, but George
wanted to be at the Newsham this afternoon, in case
the projection went wrong again: he didn’t want the children running riot.
                 “Will
the witnesses take their places in court,