Secret Story

by Ramsey Campbell

  “How’s the star?” an unexpectedly American voice enquired. “We’re all anxious to meet you, one of us in particular.”

  “You, you mean.”

  “Nobody more so but no, not me right now. A young moviemaker called Vincent Davis. He’s made a bunch of short movies around Liverpool that we’re giving away with our first issue. He’s fired up to make a feature, which is why you need to get together pronto.”

  “Why do I, do we?”

  “For the movie of your story. He wants more ideas from you.”

  In an instant Dudley’s brain was empty of ideas and even of words he could risk uttering. He was gazing at the display that appeared to be built of fragments of charred matchsticks, as if it could somehow help him think, when the mobile said “Let’s plan for the world to know your name and Vincent’s by the time we’re through. He’s away this weekend, but I’ll track him down. See you very soon. Let me have Patricia.”

  “It’s fixed, then?” she asked the phone. “Good enough,” she said and dropped the mobile in her handbag. “Shall we continue?”

  “I don’t want to answer any more questions,” Dudley blurted. “I’ve got one. Suppose I don’t want my story filmed?”

  “I think you’ve given us the right, if you remember what you signed.”

  Dudley would have shouted that he didn’t, but Patricia was swifter. “Thanks for looking after us, Kathy. It was good to meet you both.”

  Dudley watched his mother let her and Tom out of the house, and then he used the carving-knife to flick typescripts aside. “Do be careful,” Kathy said as she rejoined him. “You don’t want to hurt anyone with that.”

  He felt the blade nick the margin of a story and imagined it cutting into flesh. The contract with the magazine was almost at the bottom of the pile. All subsidiary rights, including reprint, translation, cartoon, merchandising, electronic, motion picture, television, dramatic—his gaze fled across the text until several phrases arrested it—will be negotiated by the Publisher and/or their Agents on behalf of the Author, all proceeds to be shared equally between the Publisher and the Author after deduction of any Agent’s fees. He jabbed at the clause with the knife, almost pinning the page to the table. “You made me sign it. You didn’t even give me time to see what it said.”

  “You could have taken the time, Dudley. You’re a grown man, after all.” She ventured to stand next to him and used a fingertip to slant the contract towards her. “I suppose you can’t expect too much when you’re just starting out,” she said. “Once you’re established they’ll have to give you the terms you deserve.”

  The division of his income hadn’t been the issue, but now it aggravated his trapped rage. “Do put the knife down,” his mother said. “You’re making me nervous.”

  Was she leaving her hand beside it to coax him? Stabbing her might be a substitute for teaching his own hand not to obey anyone except him. He imagined driving the point between the tendons and twisting the blade, but there would be no pain for him to feel. He dropped the knife, which spun like a compass blade and ended up indicating him as he gathered the contract and typescripts. He was in the hall when Kathy said “You aren’t worrying what the film will be like, are you? I’m sure they won’t spoil your story if they’re asking you to be involved.”

  He told himself that she wasn’t deliberately taunting him, and retreated to his bedroom, where he stared hot-eyed out of the window. He had to be even more careful now that so much was out of his hands—and then a smile crept over his face. Kathy had meant to reassure him, and perhaps she had inadvertently succeeded. Hardly any films stayed true to the stories they were based on, but that was no reason to assume this one would stray closer to reality. Indeed, he would be able to ensure that it went nowhere near.

  SEVEN

  As Dudley’s client—a fat pallid twenty-year-old in baggy purple shorts and sandals with a shirt tied around his waist—set forth from the counter to take up stacking shelves in Frugo, a woman seated on the front row of bucket chairs stood up. She was dressed in a white sleeveless blouse with pearl or at any rate pearly buttons and a loose yellow ankle-length skirt of little shape. Though she wasn’t holding the next ticket, she hurried to Dudley’s booth, fanning herself with a wide-brimmed straw hat. “You’re the one, aren’t you?” she said. “You’re the man I’m looking for.”

  She was well past forty, and he’d been hoping someone else would have to tell her how few jobs she was eligible for, but now he saw that she wasn’t a client. “If it’s to do with my story I am,” he said.

  “Your story.”

  “The one that’s going to be published. Or the story of my life if that’s what you want.”

  “My daughter and I know quite enough about you, thank you.”

  “Are you the editor? She can ask me more things if she wants, or you can.”

  “What are you—” The woman sat forward so sharply that the hat in her lap creaked like an overloaded basket. “Yes, I’ll ask you something,” she said, raising her voice. “Why did you call her a prostitute when she came looking for work?”

  His expectations gave way, dumping him back into the banality of the office and worse. He was barely interested in protesting “I didn’t.”

  “She says you did. Just you tell me why she’d lie, which she never does. You’d better take more care what you say if you want to keep your job.”

  “Maybe I don’t. Maybe I won’t need it.” As he tried to keep his lips still while he muttered this, the stagnant heat grew perfumed. “Trouble, Dudley?” Mrs Wimbourne said as if echoing herself.

  “My daughter came looking for work I won’t pretend I approve of. But it isn’t up to anyone behind your counter to approve or disapprove of it, and your junior called her a prostitute.”

  “I’m nobody’s junior.”

  “All right, Dudley, I’m dealing with this.” To the woman Mrs Wimbourne said “I remember the incident. I believe there was a misunderstanding.”

  “All I told her was there are jobs we aren’t allowed to offer.”

  “I’m afraid that’s the case, madam.”

  “What is? That you set yourselves up in judgement on how people make a living or my daughter is a liar?”

  “I wouldn’t say either, and I’m sure Mr Smith—”

  “If you want my opinion or for that matter if you don’t, you’re surer of him than he deserves. I’d advise keeping an eye on him.” The woman demonstrated this before thrusting back her chair as if recoiling from him. “I expect you can get away with anything if you’re working for the state,” she said and immediately made for the door.

  As Lionel stood aside to let her out, Mrs Wimbourne said “What’s this about being published? Come and enlighten me.”

  Why did she want to talk in private? His colleagues were eager to hear. As he followed her into the staffroom he pretended to close the door but left it an inch ajar. Mrs Wimbourne reached into her handbag on the table before apparently realising that even she wasn’t allowed to smoke on the premises. Perhaps that was why her voice sharpened. “What’s it about, then?”

  “I’ve got a story in a magazine and it’s going to be filmed as well.”

  “How definite is that? You’re not just trying to impress Colette.”

  “I’m certainly not,” he said, indifferent whether Colette heard. “It’s very definite.”

  “The story’s not based on reality, is it?”

  Though they were shut away from the sun, the light seemed to flare up around him. “Why should it be? It’s a story.”

  “It isn’t based on what you do.”

  He cleared his throat, which helped him more to speak than think. “What? What do I do?”

  “Once you leave this office that’s no concern of mine. I mean your work here. You haven’t written about that.”

  He couldn’t quite suppress a splutter. “I wouldn’t. What’s there to write about?”

  “I didn’t know you thought so little of your job. Yo
u ought to have asked permission to be published.”

  “What’s that to do with anybody here?”

  “You may well ask, and a bit late too. You seemed to want everyone to hear about it before. Perhaps you’ve forgotten your conditions of service. You’re supposed to apply to us in writing before you accept any competing employment. Where are you going?”

  “The door isn’t shut.”

  “Leave it open, then. What have you to say for yourself?”

  “How can writing be competing? Except I won a competition.” When she received this with no esteem of his wit he complained “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I’ll decide that. Let me have full details. I want to be told, and right now.”

  “It’s about someone who gets herself murdered because she doesn’t appreciate someone and thinks she knows all about him.” Having given Mrs Wimbourne time to interpret that how she liked, he said “It’ll be in the first issue of Mersey Mouth.”

  “I’ll need to have a word with someone at the top. Meanwhile you’d better warn your magazine that there may be a problem. I certainly remember civil servants being forbidden to have all kinds of other jobs when I was your age. Are you going to give your magazine a quick call?”

  “Not yet.”

  Her lips parted with a curt dry sound. “Then you’d best get back to work.”

  How dare she talk about his age and act like a headmistress? As he took his hot stiff face out of the staffroom he glared at the backs of his colleagues’ heads and at the scattered hopefuls, challenging any of them to betray that they’d overheard. “Thirtyseven,” he shouted, summoning a young mother and her baby, which commenced screaming at the sight of him. While she rocked it in its push-chair and then in her arms and attempted to placate it with a bottle that aggravated its distress, he yelled questions and eventually managed to select a job with a playgroup from the descriptions twitching up the computer screen. At last that rid him of the cries that made the screen appear to throb as if his headache had been rendered visible. He didn’t know if any aspect of his performance brought Mrs Wimbourne to stoop over him as Lionel opened the door for the strident push-chair. “Better take your lunch now,” Mrs Wimbourne said.

  Someone else would have to deal with the young man who strode into the office as if searching for a fight, his thin pale face mottled with more than the freckles that resembled faded samples of the red of his hair. Dudley was giving him a wide berth on the way to the door when his mobile rang. “Dudley Smith,” he said.

  “It’s Patricia from the Mouth.”

  “I’ll step outside,” he said and emerged into the crowded sunlight. “I’m here.”

  “Vincent’s back in town. Would tomorrow work? Walt suggests we all meet in Ringo’s Kit in Penny Lane.”

  “Tonight if you like.”

  “Don’t worry, meeting isn’t quite that urgent. Eight o’clock tomorrow, then? Vincent wants you to bring all your stories. I’ve been talking them up.”

  “Which?” he said so fiercely that his spit glistened on a woman’s back.

  “Just generally. None in particular.”

  “Then don’t tell him any more.”

  He only had to think up new ideas to offer the director. Dudley did away with Patricia and dropped the phone in his breast pocket. He was heading for the sandwich shop beyond the discount markets and charity stores when a man shouted “Dudley Smith.”

  He was unable to identify the speaker until the fellow took another step towards him. “Are you called Dudley Smith?”

  His thin pale face was blotchier than ever; even the freckles looked angry now. “I’m sorry,” Dudley felt bound to say. “Were you after me before?”

  “Still am.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Where does it sound like? Round here. What’s it to you?”

  This was more combative than Dudley thought reasonable. “Who sent you, I mean.”

  “Nobody sent me.” Pallor was turning the freckles virtually incandescent. “I came by myself.”

  “You’re freelance, you mean. Nothing wrong with that. You’re like me.”

  “I’m bloody not. Don’t you make out I am.”

  “Look, what exactly do you want? I’m supposed to be having my lunch.”

  “So you can get your strength up to hurt some more women?”

  All the heat and light seemed to converge on Dudley as if the sky had been transformed into a magnifying glass. He had to work his tongue inside his mouth and lick his lips to say “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Where did you get my name?”

  “Where do you think? You were shouting it all over the place before.”

  “Why shouldn’t I? I’m a writer.”

  “So that’s why you think you can sneer at anyone that comes to you for help.”

  “Who says I do?”

  “My sister and my mother. Go on, call her a liar as well.”

  His face blazed white and red as if ensuring Dudley recognised the similarity to the freckled would-be table dancer. “I didn’t say that about anyone,” Dudley said. “You’ll have to excuse me. I want my lunch.”

  As Dudley turned towards the sandwich shop the man stepped in front of him. “I won’t excuse you, no.”

  “Then you’ll be making a fool of yourself in public,” Dudley said loud enough to be heard by everyone near. “I’ll leave you to get on with it.”

  He sidestepped only for the man to mirror him. “I want to hear how you’re going to apologise when I bring them in.”

  “I’ve nothing to apologise for. Go and ask the woman in charge if you don’t believe me.”

  “You’re hiding behind a woman now, are you?” the man said, mimicking Dudley’s sidestep again. “What a completely pathetic little creep you are.”

  He thrust his face so close that Dudley saw how every inflamed freckle was embedded in the skin, an oppressive proximity that drove him past caution. “Get out of my way,” he bellowed, “or—”

  “Or what, you sad snobby little sadist?”

  Dudley had hoped that his outburst would attract at least one of the security guards, but they seemed as idly amused by the confrontation as the passing audience. “Words don’t hurt,” he said and planted his hands on the thin shoulders, and pushed.

  His persecutor stumbled backwards until the edge of a metal bench caught him behind the knees. He rebounded with a grimace. “See if this hurts,” he snarled, jamming a hand between Dudley’s legs. “You’ve not got much, have you? No wonder all you can do to women is hurt them.”

  The ache that blazed in Dudley’s crotch seared away his ability to think. The man twisted his grip, widening his eyes in triumph or a challenge. Dudley imagined how they might swell if he dug his nails into them, but he was afraid of yielding to the impulse in public. “Help, someone,” he managed to shout more than scream. “Look what he’s doing. Stop him.”

  A woman laughed, but that was all. Beyond his tormentor he could see a litter of plastic dogs bumping mechanically against the sides of a carton on the pavement and staggering back to renew their mindless assault. The pain rose to impale his stomach. “Let go or I’ll kill you,” he said through his clamped teeth.

  “Go ahead if you aren’t going to apologise,” the man said and pressed against him.

  The back of the hand with which he was gripping Dudley shielded his own crotch. Dudley could choke him by his wiry mottled neck, but suppose he was unable to desist once the man was released? As he emitted a moan, which he wanted to be only of frustration, the man said “What was that? Sorry, was it?”

  “I’m sorry they thought I said something I didn’t.”

  “Not good enough,” the man said and twisted harder.

  Dudley’s next ruse came out nearer to a scream. “I’m sorry they heard me insult your sister.”

  Two passing women booed this, and the man considered it for several seconds before relinquishing his grip. “I’ll tell them,” he said. “Maybe you won’t
be seeing us again. Just don’t even dream of getting your own back.”

  As the man turned away, Dudley thought of flying after him and seizing him from behind by the eyes. He imagined how the mob would cry a warning, not in time. Instead he tried not to move while the man reverted to one of the crowd, which gradually became composed of people who hadn’t witnessed the incident. Once he was sure that nobody was observing him, he set about transporting the ache somewhere he could keep it still.

  Each of his paces threatened to sharpen it, and more than a few of them did. He was almost desperate enough to sit on a metal bench, but succeeded in waddling back to the job centre. He walked stiff with rage and pain to the door that admitted him behind the counter. He hadn’t reached the staffroom when Colette swung her chair around. As he managed not to scream at her to stop looking at him she said “Are you really going to have a story published and made into a film?”

  “Maybe,” he snarled and retreated into the staffroom.

  He was lowering himself gingerly onto the softest of the three chairs when Mrs Wimbourne plodded into the room. “Your attitude to your workmates needs improving in a hurry, Dudley. I suggest you give some thought to exactly what you want to do with your life,” she said and went out, leaving him crouched over an ache that felt as if it mightn’t be assuaged until he transferred it to someone else. The trouble was that he couldn’t remember ever having believed that anybody experienced pain but him.

  EIGHT

  “At least it isn’t us that’s late this time,” Tom said and took a mouthful of his second pint of McCartney’s Marvel. “Did you get much out of your interview? There’s questions I’d have asked him.”

  Patricia almost executed an impatient paradiddle on the table with her fingertips. After all, the crown of the table took the form of a drum. So did the seats of all the chairs in Ringo’s Kit, while their backs were skeletal metal guitars. Photographs of the Beatles in a selection of coiffures, images that Tom had already declared he could top, adorned the walls of the wine bar. Plastic notes lay cradled on foursomes of strings under the black ceiling of the long low room. None of this could distract her from realising that the photographer was only voicing the dissatisfaction she’d been levelling at herself ever since her pathetically feeble interview. She took a sip of Starr’s Sauvignon, though she had expected it to be white rather than a cabernet, on the way to saying “Don’t be shy if Walt’s agreeable.”