Secret Story

by Ramsey Campbell

  “Well, that is rather what he’s about.”

  “He should be about doing what he promised his dad.” Monty flipped his mobile open. “What’s his number?”

  “What are you intending to say to him?”

  “Find out where he’s got to for starters. Maybe he needs directions.”

  “And if he’s so involved in his work he hasn’t left the house?”

  “He can still make it if he grabs a hackney. What’s his number?”

  “If someone has to speak to him I will.”

  Monty stared at her outstretched hand and then at her before planting the mobile in it. “See you tell him what I said.”

  She meant her words to be all hers. She typed Dudley’s mobile number and pressed the scrawny receiver against her ear to exclude some of the uproar of the club. Six rings brought her Dudley’s voice, but on a tape. “I’m a machine. Leave a message.”

  “Dudley, it’s Kathy. Sorry to bother you if I am. Don’t answer this if you’re hard at work, only I—”

  Monty looked inclined to snatch the phone, but it was Dudley who cut her short. “What do you want?”

  “We were just wondering where you might be.”

  He was silent, and she strained to hear the tapping of the keyboard. Instead she heard “Who’s with you?”

  “Your father and, well, your audience if you want it.”

  “Christ,” Dudley said so viciously that it felt aimed at her. “I was supposed to be on with him, wasn’t I?”

  “Are you busy?”

  Monty thrust a hand at her, but she turned her head away, taking the mobile further out of his reach, as Dudley said “I can’t leave now. I’m at an important part.”

  “We’ll make your apologies. Most of the people here seem to want to write. I’m sure they’ll understand.” Though she was anxious to leave him to work, she couldn’t help blurting “What was that?”

  “It’ll be where you are. There’s so much noise I can hardly hear you.”

  “I don’t think it was here.” In a moment she heard the high muffled sound again through the phone. “It sounds like somebody trying to scream,” she said.

  “I was watching television to relax,” he said with a good deal of resentment. “Then I got an idea and came to write it and it’s still switched on.”

  “Hadn’t you better turn it off? I don’t know about you, but it would distract me.” She was relieved to hear him slam a door, shutting out the noise. “I’ll leave you to be creative,” she said. “Do you think you’ll have finished tomorrow?”

  “Should have. I’ve still got a few ideas I want to try.”

  “Take all the time you need. I was hoping I could come home after work on Monday.”

  “I expect you can. I should have done it all by then.”

  “Good luck and be inventive,” Kathy said and released him. She was about to turn to Monty when she thought of a ruse. She thumbed the redial button so as to delete Dudley’s number digit by digit before handing back the phone. “He says he’s sorry but he absolutely can’t get away from what he’s working on.”

  Monty’s face grew patchily even redder. “You mean he doesn’t reckon this is worth as much.”

  “You’ll have to ask him, but not now.”

  “Don’t feel you’ve got to hang around without him,” Monty said and shut the mobile like a trap. “I don’t reckon this is your sort of thing. A bit beneath her,” he told the woman at the table, who displayed her lack of teeth.

  “I don’t want to put you off your work either,” Kathy felt able to say before turning her back on him. Once she was out of the building she relished the evening air while she gazed across the river. The sun was disappearing behind the ridge like a circular saw luminous with blood, and she was happy to take it as an omen. Perhaps it was the colour of Dudley’s latest inspiration.

  TWENTY-NINE

  “Good luck and be inventive,” Dudley’s mother said and then, to his surprise, rang off. He was expecting her to ask how he was coping on his own. He would have been frustrated to waste energy on repelling questions when he was enjoying himself so much. The idea reminded him that he was hungrier than usual, and he hurried down to the kitchen. No doubt she wouldn’t approve of his menu; he had never been comfortable with operating the microwave, let alone the larger oven, and he hadn’t been about to try when his mind was so bound up with the package in the bathroom. Last night he’d dined on bread and cheese, and there was plenty left despite their having done for lunch as well, since breakfast had consisted of two bowls of Sticky Rotters. Why, there was another loaf in the freezer. He laid it on the draining-board to thaw and was slicing a couple of hunks off its less frigid relative when a thought made him jab the point of the knife into the breadboard. Could Kathy have neglected to interrogate him about his meals because she didn’t need to ask?

  It surely wasn’t possible. That kind of surveillance belonged in a story, though not one Dudley would have written; Mr Killogram was far too wily to let himself be watched in his own home or anywhere else. Dudley resented having to peer out of the kitchen window, beyond which the garden wasn’t quite unkempt enough to conceal even a midget observer. He was angrier yet to feel impelled to skulk behind the front-room curtains as if understudying Brenda Staples. Beneath the crimson light that spilled through the trees the road was deserted, and he wasn’t going to imagine that anyone was lurking in the undergrowth opposite; they would never be able to spy into the back of the house. He had practically forgotten the source of all this unnecessary nervousness when he realised he’d only needed to check where Kathy had phoned from. As he strolled along the hall he called the number back, and then he stumbled to a halt. The banisters penned in the edge of his vision with bars while he stared at the number on the screen. It was a mobile, but not his mother’s.

  Of course there was no reason to assume that it related to the police. She must have borrowed someone else’s phone, that was all. He poked the key to dial it and gripped an upright of the banisters, which was creaking in its sockets by the time the ringing was replaced by a message. “It’s Monty the metre reader. That’s the metre you don’t need a uniform to read. Pomes produced and performed for the people . . .”

  Dudley silenced the voice before it required him to answer. Hadn’t his father considered him worth speaking to? If he was angry with Dudley for letting him down, he couldn’t appreciate how crucial Dudley’s weekend was. Dudley was grateful to his mother for saving him from having to explain this, but a good deal less so to the package in the bathroom for distracting him until he’d grown confused. He wasn’t now. He pocketed the mobile and carved a lump of cheddar off the yellowish block. Dropping it and the bread on a plate, he carried them upstairs.

  He set the plate beside his computer and switched on. At least Kathy’s interference had shown him he needed a password. He typed “package” and waited for the stories to emerge from hiding. He didn’t mind feeling a little indebted to his trophy in the bath, even though he’d done all the work. He’d had so many ideas in the last nearly sleepless twenty-four hours that he’d only been able to sketch some of them. In one the girl was blind, in another a deaf mute, in a third confined to a wheelchair and almost unable to move any of her limbs . . . He displayed the last story and read it again. That was the one he relished most, but couldn’t it go further? “It was the only choice she could make, and he helped her stick to it by planting a foot on her throat”—the ending came too soon and fell short of satisfying him. Couldn’t he act out at least a few of the events of the story? Surely the only requirement was that nobody except him and his helper should ever know. He was going to have to dispose of the package in any case, and it made sense to use it as fully as possible beforehand. He reread the tale while he gobbled the contents of the plate, and was so anxious to put his inspiration into practice that he almost failed to realise he could take his script with him. It would prove that he was more than capable of writing the film. He printed the story
and shuffled the pages together as he made for the bathroom.

  Was the package asleep? The faceless head with its nose protruding through the narrow gap in the tape like a toe out of a hole in a sock didn’t rise to greet him. He was hoping it would jerk up nervously and twist back and forth in search of its fate. With its hands out of sight and its legs compressed into a single mass, the package seemed as limbless as a worm and even more lacking in personality. For as long as he took to pace to the bath he was amused by the lack of awareness of him, and then it started to frustrate him. He fell stealthily to his knees on the mattress and leaned over the edge of the bath until his mouth was inches from the blurred brown lump of an ear. “Were you missing me? I was here all the time.”

  To his annoyance, the package didn’t flinch away. It merely stiffened its sitting position against the end of the bath. He hoped he had at least undermined one more of its senses—the sense of time. It couldn’t know how recently it had kicked up a rumpus in an attempt to be heard through the mobile. “Do you want to know who was on the phone?” he said.

  He was meant to think the package didn’t care, but he saw the head lift a fraction as though scenting his aftershave. “Kathy. That’s my mother, if you remember,” he said. “And you know what she was saying about you? Nothing. Not a word.”

  Though the head tried not to sink it didn’t quite succeed, but the spectacle wasn’t enough to compensate for the bother it had done its best to cause him when Kathy rang. “Want to know who else doesn’t care what’s happening to you?” he said and leaned closer. “Your mother, and it’ll be your dad as well. I texted on your phone to say you’ve gone to London for a job.”

  The package did its best to look as hard as rock, but he imagined how soft it must have grown inside, like a snail in its shell. The notion disgusted him. “We don’t want you making a row if my phone goes again, do we?” he said and saw his spit glisten on the tape over the ear. “Maybe we’d better make sure you can’t hear it, parcel you up a bit more.”

  The bulb above the wrapped throat ducked away from him as if it fancied that it could somehow escape. He couldn’t carry out his threat just now; he wanted to be heard. He settled into a crouch and found his opening line. “So you can hear me after all. Can you talk? Can you tell me how you feel?”

  He wasn’t expecting the response. The head tipped back, rubbing its tuft of unimprisoned hair against the tiled wall, and emitted a snort through its nose. Though it put him in mind of a horse, he saw that it intended to express something far too close to mirth, however bitter, for his taste. “Don’t bother if that’s the best you can do,” he said. “You don’t even sound like a person.”

  She didn’t look much like one either—only just enough to hold his interest. Should he add that to his dialogue? He didn’t enjoy feeling that he’d overlooked a possibility or that he ought to change something he’d written; he never had. It was too reminiscent of the way the other girl’s family had spoiled the launch of his career by interfering with his story. “Are you singing?” he said.

  The faceless bulb stayed tilted against the wall. He wasn’t sure if it had lost its motivation or was pointing its exposed nostrils at him as the best it could do for defiance. “You must be happy working with me,” he said louder, but that brought no reaction either. She had to make some noise or the dialogue would be senseless. Suppose he inserted some object in her nostrils—a lighted match or the points of a pair of scissors? For the scene to work in the film he had to establish how it played, not how it read on the page. He was gripping one knee to thrust himself to his feet when the package emitted a sound that might have been a mirthless giggle or a high-pitched sob. “Now you sound like a whining bitch,” he was able to respond. “No use to me.”

  Was she determined not to be? The head was leaning against the tiles as if it had lost even the energy for sounds. “Do you want me to unwrap my present?” he suggested.

  That seemed to enliven the package. The head swung blindly towards him and performed a single vigorous nod. Its curtness was altogether too peremptory, and gave him more reason to say “I wouldn’t like it then, would I? It’d start making a fuss and getting me a bad name with the neighbours.”

  The head jerked from side to side twice. He thought it might be entering into the spirit of the script to placate him until he said “Why else do you want unwrapping? It wouldn’t be to help me, would it?” It obviously wasn’t, because the head kept its blankness still, confronting him with it. He hoped she could sense his grin at her insolence, but she would soon experience something worse. He was aware of the pinkish interior of the nostrils, which put him in mind of skinned wincing flesh. Which item should he apply first? There was no reason not to test both. He stood up, leaving the script on the mattress, and was making for the bathroom cabinet when his mobile rang.

  He watched the package do its utmost to persuade him by not moving that it couldn’t hear and wasn’t poised to create the only thing it was capable of creating—a row—and then he shut the door. As an extra precaution he closed his bedroom door behind him. He was glad the package couldn’t see him, because there was no excuse for the way the call had taken him aback; it hadn’t caught him. He didn’t bother trying to keep the resentment out of his voice. “Dudley Smith.”

  “Sounds like you’re getting ready to hurt someone, Dud. Are you talking to me now, then?”

  Monty’s voice felt like a threat of interference. “I always did when you let me,” Dudley said.

  “Don’t go twisting me pouches, son. I’ve had enough of that from your mam. You weren’t so keen to speak to me before.”

  “She had your phone.”

  “Too shy to tell her to give me it, were you?”

  “I’m not shy. I’m not scared of anyone, especially not women.” Dudley almost wished his father could see the package trying to pretend it wasn’t scared of him. “Why didn’t you?” he countered. “It’s your phone.”

  “That’s right, it’s the one you rang and didn’t say boo to. I’d call that being scared, son.”

  Dudley would have sprawled on the bed to demonstrate his carelessness except for the absence of the mattress. As he lounged in the seat by his desk he grinned at saying “I rang it back because I thought it was my mother’s. When it wasn’t I rang off.”

  “You’d rather talk to her than your dad, would you?”

  “She’s the one who started my career.”

  “And I’m the one that got you the gig you never bothered showing up at.”

  While Dudley was having fun with his dialogue, there was more to be had in the bathroom, where a dogged dull thumping had begun. “How did it go?” he assumed he was expected to ask.

  “How do you reckon? You made me look like the family couldn’t be trusted. I had to tell them you couldn’t be arsed to spare them any of your precious time because you were too busy scribbling.”

  “Kathy said they’d understand.”

  “What the shite does she know about it? She’s not a writer. Tell you one thing you’d better learn and quick if you want to carry on in this game, son—your writing’s never more important than your audience.”

  “Perhaps we’ll have to disagree about that.”

  “And maybe not. I know more about it than you do. I’ve been at it longer, and I’m your dad if you forgot as well. Maybe I ought to drive over there right now and talk to you like a dad’s supposed to. I reckon I’d be failing in my duty if I didn’t.”

  The thumping beyond the wall seemed to lodge in Dudley’s head. “You don’t know where I am,” he blurted. “Kathy won’t tell you.”

  “She’s not here. I can get your address out of the directory quick as the shits.”

  Dudley couldn’t judge if the thumping grew louder or the resonance in his aching skull did. “You can’t come here,” he said through his teeth. “I’ve got to be left alone.”

  “Except for your mam, eh? You don’t mind having her around. She thinks you’re so perfect there�
��s nothing for you to learn from your dad.”

  “I made her leave too. She’s moved out till I’ve finished what I’m doing.”

  “You’ve got too big a notion of yourself and no mistake. Me and Kath may have had our differences, but I don’t like you chucking her out of her house while you ponce about being an artist. Right, I’m coming there. I want to do this face to face.”

  The violent thumping was indistinguishable from Dudley’s pulse now. He couldn’t tell whether the raw red was in the sky or his eyes or both. “It’s the only way I can write,” he loathed himself for having to plead. “You’re stopping me.”

  “Try writing a few of the places I’ve written and putting up with some of the stuff I had to while I did and then maybe you’ll have an excuse to whinge. Christ, son, you’re making me ashamed of you. I wouldn’t mind if you’d got your mam out of the way so you could have a judy in.”

  Dudley’s lips worked, and he felt as if the thumping had forced out his response before he was sure of it. “I have.”

  His father was silent for so many thumps that Dudley had started to regret the admission by the time Monty spoke. “You sly twat. You’ve got Kath thinking she’s got to stay clear of you writing and you’re really just like the rest of us.”

  “That’s me. I’m your son.”

  “Well, good on you, Dud. I was starting to think you didn’t like girls and it was my fault for leaving you all to your mam.” Monty laughed before adding “You still let me and dozens of old buggers down.”