Free Secret Story by Ramsey Campbell Page A
Authors: Ramsey Campbell
say,” she announced loud enough to hush the Japanese, “I’ll be at the Egremont Ferry on Dud’s side of the river on Friday. Hang on, though, it’s a girls’ night. You’ll just have to imagine what I may be saying about you, Dud.”
As the door shut behind her, wafting in more of the heat that appeared to be condensing on Dudley’s brow, Walt said “Is it easier for you to think now?”
“Not yet,” Dudley said and dragged his wrist across his forehead.
“If Shell’s got you thinking how to kill someone nobody would blame you,” Vincent said. “Use it if you can. It’s all material.”
“I’ll try,” Dudley said before risking a forkful of ratatouille that did away with whatever expression might otherwise have gained his face.
“That’s it, eat hearty,” Walt urged. “Maybe when we’re through dining you’ll find it’s fed your brain.”
Patricia saw that Dudley hadn’t much time for the notion, or perhaps only for revealing any more of his ideas. At least she needn’t blame herself. She shut off the tape recorder in case it was helping to inhibit him, but he seemed committed to clearing his plate. When a flash paled his face, she started as he did. It felt as if the tension Shell had left behind had exploded into lightning. Tom hadn’t sneaked a shot; the Japanese were photographing the interior. “Don’t worry, nobody’s spying on you,” she told Dudley, and caught sight of an answering glint in his eyes.
NINE
As Dudley took another pace up the concrete slipway, it began to rain. Across the river any lights in the warehouses appeared to have been put out by the nine o’clock darkness, while beside them the illuminated Liverpool waterfront glowed with a rainy aura. Beyond the top of the ramp he could see the low roof of the Egremont Ferry, but nobody would see him. Nevertheless when another wave of the rising tide sent him father up the slipway he crouched low as if he’d been seized by his bruised crotch. Before he could straighten up, the downpour that was visible across the river found him.
He hadn’t waited for hours below the promenade to be driven away now. At least the rain wasn’t as cold as the waves that had taken him unawares just once. In a very few moments it soaked his hair and was streaming down his face as it plastered his shirt and trousers to him. It enraged him, and so did a wave that tookadvantage of his distraction to slop over his ankle and spill into his shoe. None of this made him show his teeth in an expression he shared with the dark, however. It was the woman’s amplified voice that blundered out of the Egremont Ferry. “Here’s the treat you’ve been waiting for, girls. Shell Garridge and her world of wankers.”
As all the women he’d heard arriving at the pub began to cheer and clap and stamp, he trudged up the slipway until his eyes were above the edge of the promenade. A cyclist without lights was pedalling desperately towards Seacombe, where there was still a ferry, but otherwise the road overlooked by the town hall and large lit houses on top of grassy slopes was deserted. Across a wide space occupied by benches and a few dripping streetlamps, the windows of the pub reminded him of glass cases in an aquarium. In the case that contained the bar he saw Shell leap to her feet and throw her peaked cap down like a challenge in front of the beer-pumps, exposing a scalp that looked raw and bald through the distortions of water. She wrapped the cord of a microphone around her wrist and began to strut back and forth, putting Dudley in mind of an outsize bath toy bobbing on a string. “Men,” she said.
This brought a chorus of derision that sounded by no means entirely humorous. Dudley saw a figure behind the bar throw up his hands and use them to protect his head. No doubt the insecure blob of his face was amusingly defensive too. “No worries, no boos for your booze,” Shell told him. “Carry on pulling us pints and you’re safe. You
As the door shut behind her, wafting in more of the heat that appeared to be condensing on Dudley’s brow, Walt said “Is it easier for you to think now?”
“Not yet,” Dudley said and dragged his wrist across his forehead.
“If Shell’s got you thinking how to kill someone nobody would blame you,” Vincent said. “Use it if you can. It’s all material.”
“I’ll try,” Dudley said before risking a forkful of ratatouille that did away with whatever expression might otherwise have gained his face.
“That’s it, eat hearty,” Walt urged. “Maybe when we’re through dining you’ll find it’s fed your brain.”
Patricia saw that Dudley hadn’t much time for the notion, or perhaps only for revealing any more of his ideas. At least she needn’t blame herself. She shut off the tape recorder in case it was helping to inhibit him, but he seemed committed to clearing his plate. When a flash paled his face, she started as he did. It felt as if the tension Shell had left behind had exploded into lightning. Tom hadn’t sneaked a shot; the Japanese were photographing the interior. “Don’t worry, nobody’s spying on you,” she told Dudley, and caught sight of an answering glint in his eyes.
NINE
As Dudley took another pace up the concrete slipway, it began to rain. Across the river any lights in the warehouses appeared to have been put out by the nine o’clock darkness, while beside them the illuminated Liverpool waterfront glowed with a rainy aura. Beyond the top of the ramp he could see the low roof of the Egremont Ferry, but nobody would see him. Nevertheless when another wave of the rising tide sent him father up the slipway he crouched low as if he’d been seized by his bruised crotch. Before he could straighten up, the downpour that was visible across the river found him.
He hadn’t waited for hours below the promenade to be driven away now. At least the rain wasn’t as cold as the waves that had taken him unawares just once. In a very few moments it soaked his hair and was streaming down his face as it plastered his shirt and trousers to him. It enraged him, and so did a wave that tookadvantage of his distraction to slop over his ankle and spill into his shoe. None of this made him show his teeth in an expression he shared with the dark, however. It was the woman’s amplified voice that blundered out of the Egremont Ferry. “Here’s the treat you’ve been waiting for, girls. Shell Garridge and her world of wankers.”
As all the women he’d heard arriving at the pub began to cheer and clap and stamp, he trudged up the slipway until his eyes were above the edge of the promenade. A cyclist without lights was pedalling desperately towards Seacombe, where there was still a ferry, but otherwise the road overlooked by the town hall and large lit houses on top of grassy slopes was deserted. Across a wide space occupied by benches and a few dripping streetlamps, the windows of the pub reminded him of glass cases in an aquarium. In the case that contained the bar he saw Shell leap to her feet and throw her peaked cap down like a challenge in front of the beer-pumps, exposing a scalp that looked raw and bald through the distortions of water. She wrapped the cord of a microphone around her wrist and began to strut back and forth, putting Dudley in mind of an outsize bath toy bobbing on a string. “Men,” she said.
This brought a chorus of derision that sounded by no means entirely humorous. Dudley saw a figure behind the bar throw up his hands and use them to protect his head. No doubt the insecure blob of his face was amusingly defensive too. “No worries, no boos for your booze,” Shell told him. “Carry on pulling us pints and you’re safe. You