Free The Influence by Ramsey Campbell Page A

herself or someone close to her? He stood with a handful of files half off the shelf, trying to force his paralysed thoughts to take one more step, and then he started guiltily and moved to vacate the aisle.
    But nobody was watching him. He must have imagined it, not only because he would have heard if someone had made her way to the end of the basement away from the door, but because the figure he’d thought he glimpsed had been half his size. The doctors couldn’t have quelled his imagination as thoroughly as they were supposed to, he thought uneasily, almost choking on the smell of old paper.
    Yet it was that glimpse of a child which made him start awake that night, realising that he’d meant to speak to Alison about her little girl. It was important, he knew, but even the sense of being needed couldn’t part the fog of his slowness. Perhaps he would remember by the time he had Alison’s number. He couldn’t ask his father, and he had to wait until his father was taking a shower before he could call Hermione. Talking was so hard that when he managed to, he said too much. He told Hermione that he wanted to speak to Alison about her little girl.
    He tried to pretend he’d meant something else, something about Queenie and her will. Surely that would make Alison call him, and by then he might know what he needed to tell her. His little niece needed his help; he was sure she did. As he waited for Alison to call he grew tense, unable to let memories form by themselves. Even next day at work, whenever he seemed to be close to remembering he felt as if someone was watching him from the shadowy end of the aisle. The homegoing crowds were a relief from the smell of stale paper. But when he arrived home his father was waiting grimly for him. “So you’re up to your old tricks,” his father said.
    “I don’t know what you mean.”
    “Don’t try to pretend you’ve forgotten that too. The quacks said they’d cured you, but I think they’ve made you worse.”
    Lance felt his words slowing until he could barely speak. “I never did anything.”
    “Nor will you while I’m able to prevent it. You didn’t anticipate that your cousin might call while you weren’t here, did you? If she really didn’t know what you wanted with her child she’s as great a fool as you are. I should have told her, and told her to alert the police.”
    Lance felt as if events were conspiring to ensure he didn’t speak to Alison, and that made him nervous for the child, a nervousness that felt like being close to remembering. “What’s her number?” he said as his father stared incredulously. “I’ve got to talk to her. I’ll let you listen.”
    “You won’t speak to her on my phone,” his father said, his voice rising, “or on any other while you’re under my roof, and I swear that on your mother’s grave.”
    Lance felt as if his father was driving the memory further out of reach. “Then I’ll go and see her.”
    “You’ll stay here or I’ll have you taken into custody.” When Lance stood up, his father lunged to catch him and fell back into his chair, panting. “Don’t you dare leave this flat. Don’t you dare touch that door.” He was shouting “Come back here to me” as Lance hurried downstairs.
    What if he called the police? Lance made himself walk through the crowds instead of running, shrinking against walls rather than risk bumping into someone and drawing attention to himself. When he caught sight of himself in the window display of a children’s boutique, his beard poking out like a caricature of his chin, he wished he could cover his face with his hands.
    The railway station was crowded. Lance sat with his back against the window of the car, lifting his shoulder to obscure his face, until he realised that the women seated opposite were whispering about him. He expected every moment to see policemen marching down the platform, searching for him on the train that was so weighed down it felt like his slowness