Secret Story

by Ramsey Campbell

  “I suppose so,” she said, barely in his direction. “What is it, then?”

  It was about to be her, and a pity that it would go unrecognised as such. “Have you got something I can scribble it down on?” he said.

  “Haven’t you? I thought you were meant to be a writer.”

  She succeeded in conveying both impatience and reluctance as she stumped to a bow-legged table next to the thickly padded stairs and picked up a note-pad from beside a modern antique phone. “I’ll close this, shall I?” said Dudley and shut himself into the house.

  At the muted thud of the door she swung around, but whatever she did now was too late. She still had the note-pad in her hand. As Dudley strode at her he glimpsed his decisive progress in a mirror to his right and, more importantly, how there was nobody in the street to notice him. In a moment he was out of range of any mirror and within arms’ length of Eamonn’s wife. “Here’s your writing material,” she said, apparently as her notion of a joke.

  Indeed she was. Dudley was beguiled by the insight and by realising that he was acting out the character Vincent thought he’d created for him. He was less inclined to resent the presumption this involved since the character had helped him slip into Eamonn’s house. He had only to sidle by her as though he intended to rest the pad on the table, and then he would be at her back. His stomach felt exquisitely tight, his mouth was deliciously dry. He held out his left hand and took a pace past the end of the stairs just as she stood her glass on the table so as to offer him a pencil.

  He almost clutched the glass and thrust it into her hand. Barely in time he remembered not to touch it with his fingertips. He reached for it with the pad in his hand and took hold of the glass through the paper. “Here you are,” he said and felt as if he was proposing an ironic final toast to her.

  As she accepted the glass a blink seemed to spread down her small pouchy face, twitching her snub nose at the same time as her permanently pouting mouth. She had noticed how he was keeping his prints off the glass, which simply made her fate still more inevitable. In less than a breath he was past her and dropping the pad on the table. She turned her head towards the sound, and his left hand sailed up beyond her vision to grab the back of her neck. He hadn’t caught her when the door at the far end of the hall sprang open like a trap, releasing the no longer muffled sound of children in a garden and revealing a woman at least as squat as Eamonn’s wife in a dress that resembled a cartoon of a flower-bed. “Julia, would you like me to—” she called before lowering her voice. “Oh, I didn’t realise you had company.”

  “I won’t have in a minute. Don’t go away, Sue. Mr Swift is almost on his way.”

  “Don’t be on my account,” the woman said with a smile that appeared ready to be secretive. “What were you doing just then?”

  “Finding Mr Swift the tools of his trade.”

  “Not you, your friend. He looked as if he was going to give you a massage if you want me to leave you to that.”

  “I most emphatically don’t,” Eamonn’s wife said and swung to confront Dudley. “What’s she talking about, may I ask?”

  He thought of making them his first double act, but the newcomer was carrying no glass, and what would he have to do about the children? Dealing with them would take longer than was safe, especially since he was running out of ideas. The situation had grown so intensely frustrating that he was scarcely able to manufacture an answer or pronounce it. “I was just after the pencil,” he mumbled.

  “Is that what you call it?” the flowered woman said as a version of innocence widened her eyes. “I’d have said he was after you, Julia.”

  “Was it more of your research, Mr Swift? Trying to find out if a woman would spot someone like you skulking behind her. Well, I did.”

  “Heavens, why would he be interested in that?”

  “Mr Swift fancies himself as a bit of a storyteller. Not our kind, though. Nasty stories from what Eamonn says.”

  “Should I have heard of you, Mr Swift? Have you had anything published?”

  “It isn’t Swift, it’s Smith. Smith. Smith. Smith. Smith.” Each parched repetition, emphasised by the fists he shook, sent him farther backwards, away from the women and the children’s laughter. “Dudley Smith,” he said louder still. “Some people don’t want me to be known, but I am.”

  “He’s certainly got the temperament, hasn’t he, Julia? Let’s hope he has the talent to go with it.”

  “I’ve no intention of finding out. Won’t you be writing after all?”

  Even when he grasped that she was asking him Dudley was inclined to continue his retreat, but suppose she told Eamonn that he’d tricked his way into the house? His life was more than complicated enough just now. He marched to the table and scribbled Sorry missed you. Be in touch. He was signing the note when Eamonn’s wife craned to read it. “Hardly worth the paper, was it?” she said. “Why, they aren’t even sentences.”

  She would never know how much the presence of her friend was protecting her. “You ought to save it,” he said. “You might be able to sell it for a lot of money someday not too far off.”

  The women covered their mouths as if they thought not quite hiding their mirth was civil. They might as well have been practising ventriloquism, for the unseen children immediately burst out laughing. “I thought—” Dudley was provoked to blurt before he succeeded in controlling himself. “Aren’t those children meant to be at school?”

  “Only in the morning,” Sue told him. “They’re too little yet for all day.”

  Eamonn’s wife hadn’t finished staring hard at Dudley by the time she spoke. “Did you phone me this morning?”

  “Me?” Dudley said and, too late, simply “No.”

  Her stare wasn’t prepared to relent. “You didn’t pretend to be a salesman.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “That’s what I’m wondering. Did you? Why?”

  The gap between the questions was so tiny that he couldn’t be bothered to dissemble any further. “See if you can figure it out for yourself,” he said.

  “Research.” In case the contempt with which she filled the word was insufficient she added “Playing at being a criminal, in other words, like the way you held that glass. I think Eamonn’s right, you’re really rather sick.”

  With an effort Dudley managed to restrict his answer to words and a grin that stung almost as much as his eyes did. “You bet I am, and if this is how you have to live if you aren’t, I’m glad.”

  “Well, I won’t be reading any of his books,” he heard Sue promise as he slammed the door behind him.

  Emerging into open sunlight felt like a lucky escape. Suppose Eamonn had somehow connected his wife’s fate with Dudley—with the way she must have made Eamonn ashamed to own up to friendship? Dudley had to find someone who could never be suspected of giving him a motive to use them for research, and soon. Surely circumstance would bring him someone. It always had.

  The problem was that he couldn’t wait for a subject to present herself. He hurried to the station, no longer troubling to hide his face from the clerk in the ticket office. While he paced the deserted platform he heard childish laughter above the opposite side of the cutting, and had to keep telling himself that neither the children nor the sky nor any god it concealed could be mocking him. Eventually a train arrived, neglecting to position any of its doors in front of him. As he stamped on board, his mobile rang. “Dudley Smith,” he said, less a greeting than a challenge.

  “Dudley. Don’t let me interrupt if you’re busy,” Walt said, but also “Where are you?”

  “Trying to research.”

  “I’ll leave you to get on with it. We just wanted you to know that Vincent has emailed you his script so far.”

  “All right,” Dudley said with no sense of how ironic he was being.

  “And Patricia would like to sit in on your casting session. We thought we could run a journal of the whole production.”

  “Patricia.”


  “Patricia Martingale. Our journalist who wants to do her best for you.”

  “Think so?” said Dudley. “That’s good. I’m going underground now.”

  “We’ll be in touch, but I can tell Patricia she’s okay, yes?”

  “She definitely is. Thanks for calling.” Dudley clasped the mobile between his hot palms while he shook hands with himself. “Patricia,” he mouthed, and almost experienced a pang of regret as the train sped into the secretive dark.

  NINETEEN

  Less than half an hour before Dudley was due home from work, Kathy began to dread his arrival. How could she have invaded his room when she knew there was nothing he valued more than his privacy? Suppose he never trusted her or spoke to her again? Suppose he moved out of the house? The idea brought others with it that made her unhappy with herself. Wasn’t she indulging his untidiness to ensure he had no reason to leave? Did she secretly yearn for him not to grow up, or was she using him as her excuse not to find another partner? Perhaps she was as private as he liked to be, in which case her example was to blame. He wouldn’t always have her to look after him, and what would happen to him once he was alone? Should she invite Patricia Martingale for dinner again? She wouldn’t mind knowing the girl better or encouraging Dudley’s friendship with her, but she mustn’t let that distract her now. She had to decide what to do about the story she’d finished for him.

  She was in the kitchen, and emptily surrounded by evidence that she hadn’t yet thought about dinner. Shouldn’t she tell him as soon as she saw him how she’d helped? The prospect turned her mouth dry. She could postpone his discovery until she found the best moment to prepare him, she thought suddenly: she had only to rename the file that contained her additions and restore his work untouched under the original name. She hurried out of the kitchen and was almost at the stairs when she heard the clank of the latch of the garden gate.

  She dashed to the stairs and halted halfway up as footsteps that she did her best not to recognise arrived at the front door. If they were Dudley’s, could she sprint to his room and somehow keep him downstairs while she used his computer? If she claimed to be naked, might that deter him? She’d seized the banister to impel herself upwards when a key scraped at the lock. Before she could reach the landing, Dudley strode into the house.

  Kathy strove to tone down her surprised expression as she turned to him. “You’re early,” she no more than remarked.

  “There’s work I need to be doing,” he said and came fast up the stairs.

  She didn’t quite block his path, but her hand began to, though only so that she could blurt “How was your day?”

  He stared at the hand until it withdrew enough to let him sidle quickly by. “Same as usual. What do you expect?” he said, already with his back to her. “Wasn’t yours?”

  “Pretty much the kind of day I’d like.” There was her chance, but she flinched from taking it, not least because he was staring at her comment as if he couldn’t be bothered to grimace. “Except I haven’t made any dinner,” she said.

  That stopped him with one foot on the landing. “It doesn’t matter,” he grumbled and made for his room.

  “We don’t want you ill. Shall we get a Chinese?”

  “I haven’t time to go for it.”

  “I can go.” All at once she was anxious to be out of the house, but lingered to ask “Is there anything you’d particularly like?”

  “Yes,” he said and poked his head out of his room. “Being left alone.”

  “I’ll get your favourites, shall I,” she promised and hastened to put the front door between her and her son.

  She mustn’t feel demeaned by his brusqueness. Nothing was more important than his success. She hurried downhill to the Chinese takeaway on the main road. By now he must be reading the completion of his tale about Mish Mash. As Kathy ordered the dishes he liked—prawn crackers, chicken with water chestnuts, sweet and sour king prawns, chicken curry—she grew so dry-mouthed at the thought of learning his verdict that she hardly recognised her own voice. Might he be deleting all her work at that very moment? Surely he liked her writing too much to do that, unless he was enraged by her interference. She would have to bear whatever decision he made, but the extra heat of the tiled room didn’t help her prepare for it, nor did the incessant incomprehensible chatter in the open kitchen. Far too eventually, after several other customers had carried off fish and chips, her order arrived. She grabbed the plastic bag of metal containers, which bumped and scraped against her no matter how she held the flimsy handles, and sent herself uphill.

  Silence met her as she opened the front door. She was tempted to ease it shut, but dealt it a moderate slam. When this didn’t earn any audible reaction she called “I’m back.”

  The sound Dudley made was less than a word and certainly less than welcoming. Kathy retreated to the kitchen, where she entrusted the containers of food to the oven and set the table for two. The prawn crackers came in a bag, which she emptied into a dish. She tried eating one, but it squeaked like polystyrene between her teeth and left her mouth still drier. Having done her utmost not to mind being left alone with her imagination, she ventured to the foot of the stairs and cleared her desiccated throat. “Is there anything you’d like me to be doing?” she called.

  “Haven’t you done enough?” She heard him say that even though he hadn’t spoken. He must surely have heard her, which meant he would rather not speak to her, and that was worse than any retort he could make. She was drawing an effortful breath that might have turned into a plea when he said just audibly “I’m nearly finished.”

  She took refuge in the kitchen, where she used an oven glove to transfer the containers to laminated table-mats printed with various sizes of rainbow. As she deposited the last container and snatched her hands clear of the heat that was cutting through the padded glove she heard Dudley emerge from his room. Each of his unhurried if not deliberately ominous paces down the stairs seemed to add weight to a bar that was stiffening her shoulders and pressing on her inflamed neck. She had to turn her entire body to discover that he was withholding all expression from his face. “How hungry have you ended up?” she almost couldn’t ask.

  “I don’t know yet. Why don’t you stop going on about it?”

  “I will,” she said with the barest hint of rebuke. “I’ll let you serve yourself for a change.”

  She watched him load his plate with rice and dump tablespoonsful of the various courses on carefully separated quadrants of it. She had to derive some comfort from his taking so much. Once he’d swallowed a forkful of prawns she said “How is it?”

  “Same as last time.”

  “That can’t be bad, can it?” When he just about shook his preoccupied head she took a few spoonfuls. “I’d say that was fine,” she said, having lingered over tasting each item, and then she seemed to have no option but to ask “How’s anything else?”

  “I can fix it.”

  “That’s the main thing, isn’t it? I’m glad.”

  “So you’re glad.”

  “Seriously, I am. Whatever you have to do is fine as far as I’m concerned.”

  “I’ll remember you said that,” Dudley said, but looked not quite sure of her.

  “You should whenever you need to. This isn’t about me, it’s about you.”

  “I never thought it wasn’t.”

  She would have appreciated any praise he cared to dole out, but he must be too preoccupied with his own work. “You’ll have more time to get on with whatever you’re planning, won’t you?” she said.

  Lines like the marks of wires dug into his forehead and made her wince. “Who says?” he demanded, dropping his knife and fork on his plate with a single shrill clank. “Who’ve you been talking to?”

  “Only you, Dudley. Don’t finish yet.”

  “Somebody from work, was it? Did one of them call?”

  “Why would—” Kathy began and then saw he needn’t be referring to the job centre. “They haven’t put
off publishing you again, have they? They wouldn’t dare.”

  “That’s right, they wouldn’t. They better hadn’t.”

  “I haven’t made it harder for you to write.” When he merely stared at her she had to ask “Have I?”

  “You will if you keep going on. I’m trying to think. I’ve only just read the bloody thing.”

  “Is it so awful?”

  “Probably not awful. I can’t tell yet. I don’t know how much of me is in it.”

  “As much as you want there to be. I promise I won’t be upset.”

  “Why should you be?” His eyes had narrowed as though to trap whatever he was feeling. “What’s it got to do with you?”

  “I thought it might have a little. No more than you think it deserves to have.”

  “Look, Vincent is enough to deal with without you. It’s meant to be our script. Mine and his.”

  By no means for the first time that day Kathy felt as if an assumption had been wrenched from beneath her. “You’re talking about the film.”

  “He emailed me what he’s written and I’ve just read it. He says it may change once we’ve got our cast.”

  “Are they allowed to change things? They’re your characters, after all.”

  “They aren’t all mine at the moment. Mr Killogram will be, that’s for sure.” Dudley seemed as impatient with her as with the situation. “He wants me at the casting sessions,” he said. “He won’t be using anyone I don’t believe in.”

  Kathy opened her mouth and considered hushing it with a random forkful, but couldn’t even feign an appetite until she learned “What’s happening about the story you were trying to write this morning?”

  “I’m not any more.”

  Despite the risk of aggravating his impatience she said “What’s going to become of it, then?”

  “Nothing. It’s no good for publishing or putting in the film. It was just in the way. I’ve figured out how to write what I’ve got to write.”