Ramsey Campbell - 1976 - The Doll Who Ate His Mother (25 page)

 
          
He
chewed. His salads weren’t as good as Diane’s. He’d lived with her for a year
or so; she had made most of his clothes. Her thighs had gripped him softly, her
cunt gulped him; he’d thought he might have that with Clare. When his
restlessness had grown imperative he’d left Diane. “Tell me why. Just tell me
why,” she’d pleaded, but she was just a voice; since the day his grandmother
had screamed him out of the house when he’d offered to help her get used to her
blindness, pleas and sympathy were things he didn’t bother with. From Diane’s
he had moved here. He found he could hardly remember anything about her now.

 
          
After
he’d moved here everything was good, until he’d met Clare.

 
          
He
shoved his plate away and spat a mouthful of salad toward it. The plucking
nagged at him. He felt enclosed; he would feel enclosed even if he went out. He
wrenched up the window over the fire escape and gazed down into the backyard,
the blearing twilight.

 
          
His
cat was the nearest he’d come to regret. Killing Mrs. Pugh’s fat dog had been
like
a revenge
; he had enjoyed it all the more. His
cat had been a stray he’d brought home from the Arts Centre, under his jacket.
After the car crash he’d realized the police might question everyone in the
area. He’d lain in bed pondering how to deal with them. Suddenly he’d seen that
he could head them off: he could make himself a victim. He’d leapt out of bed
to grab the cat and hurl her down at the yard wall. She’d made no sound except
a thump and a soft crack. Five minutes later he had gone down into the silence
to make sure. The cobblestones of the alley were black glistening boils; black
plastic sacks of rubbish squirmed feebly in a breeze, rustling. He had lifted
the broken cat toward his face.

 
          
He
gazed down into the yard. He was sure of one thing: Clare would have told
nobody what she’d realized. He
bared
his teeth at the
alley below. He was beginning to hope she would find the house and take him
there.

 
          
Edmund
leaned back, patting his stomach. That had been a bloody good meal. It had been
worth lingering over; the hotel restaurant was almost empty. The Scandinavian
blonde he’d begun to chat up in the lift passed his table, and he smiled and
half rose before he noticed the man with her. Never mind, at least he’d had a
good dinner. It proved they took trouble once you showed them you knew about
food.

 
          
But
as the forelegs of his chair touched the floor his contentment faded. Now he’d
eaten, what was he going to do?

 
          
His
fingertips stood and galloped on the tablecloth.
Bloody
waiters.
He’d been kept waiting minutes. He
signalled
the head waiter, who ordered at once, “Bring Mr. Hall’s check.”

 
          
“You’re
doing a good job there. Have one on me later,” Edmund said, stuffing a pound
note into the head waiter’s hand. He was all right, the head waiter. Edmund
wouldn’t have minded a drink and a chat with him, except that the hotel
management might disapprove.

 
          
Hold
on. The man was only a waiter, after all. Edmund wasn’t so hard up for company.
He could ring George Pugh. George was all nerves with that cinema of his; he
needed taking out for a break. Edmund signed the check and was halfway to the
telephones when he halted, frowning. No doubt that wife of George’s would
object; she didn’t like Edmund. And George was the type who would give in to
her. Edmund headed for the residents’ bar, thwarted. He hated interfering
women.

 
          
The
bar was as full of polite hushed conversations as a hospital ward at visiting
time. A thin blanket of piped music shifted behind the conversations,
occasionally trailing through them, elusive as mist. Edmund drained his bourbon
and held out the glass for a refill. He would have gone to a nightclub, but a
dozen of Liverpool’s weren’t worth one of London’s.

 
          
He
felt frustrated, helpless. He hadn’t felt so much on edge since his first year
in London, when he’d written most of Secrets of the Psychopaths in Frank
Baxter’s two-roomed flat, using a board laid over the sink as a table. Frank
had been a friend of his at school. He had never asked Edmund to contribute
more to the rent than he’d offered; he’d never remarked how Edmund’s bank
balance was growing. Still, even Frank had sometimes distracted him from his
writing. But he was all right, Frank: Edmund always sent him his books, and he
always wrote back that he’d enjoyed them. Edmund hoped he’d enjoy Satan’s
Cannibal, formerly The Flesh Eater, when it was finished.

 
          
If it was finished.
He should have known not to base his
hopes on anything in Liverpool. He’d known what he was doing when he had got
out; he shouldn’t have let anything entice him back.

 
          
Working
at the newspaper in Liverpool had been the worst time of his life. He’d gone
there to learn how to write; it had nearly turned him off writing for good.
After they’d encouraged his writing throughout his childhood, his parents—who
had both had small pieces published, who had even called him Edmund because it
sounded literary—had pleaded with him not to embark on full-time writing: it
was too insecure. Journalism, that was secure. His teachers, the youth
employment officer, had backed them up. He’d given in.

 
          
At
least he’d learned from the experience—learned never to let himself be used
again: not by a boss, not by the fatuous people he had had to interview at any
hour that suited them. He’d learned contempt—for his colleagues, their
pettiness and spite and pathetic eagerness to compromise. He’d learned
efficiency of writing; he could thank his parents for that, at least. But if he
hadn’t been researching and writing Secrets of the Psychopaths in his spare
time he could never have stood the newspaper. When he’d seen the advertisement
in a trade paper, he had written to the new publisher at once; then he’d begun
to pack his luggage, already sure Secrets of the Psychopaths was what the
publisher needed.

 
          
He
would never have come back to Liverpool, except that his parents refused to
move. He had room for them in his house in Surrey, but they’d too many friends
here, they said. Even when he had them to stay they wouldn’t be persuaded. He
couldn’t imagine how they stood Liverpool after Surrey.

 
          
If
he hadn’t come back to visit them he might never have heard of Kelly’s
reappearance. But on one of his visits a young writer had invited him to a
party, where he’d met Desmond Harris, a newspaper reporter. Desmond had eagerly
offered to keep him supplied with reports of any crimes he might be able to
use. At the time, the man’s eagerness had seemed as pathetic as the rest of the
party, the provincialism, the second-hand trendiness, the ludicrous civic pride
they expected him to share. But months later, when Edmund had forgotten his
name, Desmond rang him to describe the car crash and its aftermath. The third
incident near
Mulgrave
Street convinced Edmund that
they were worth a book; the second had already made him expectant, for he’d
always been sure he must hear more of Kelly.

 
          
He
had been sure since the incident with Cyril. It had linked him with Kelly, for
he’d wished Kelly on Cyril, as revenge for his broken nose. Though he’d beaten
Cyril, that broken nose had hurt; he had felt Cyril should suffer more. But he
didn’t intend himself to be harmed further; he wouldn’t take that risk
again—his nose had been agonizing.

 
          
When
Cyril had begun baiting Kelly he’d watched and hoped. He was sure that if Kelly
lost control Cyril would be sorry. But when it was over he’d felt there should
have been more; he had waited to hear of a sequel. Maybe that had made him
overestimate it when it came. And maybe he’d felt Liverpool owed him a
bestseller.

 
          
The
bar was crowded now; the murmur was louder, more annoying. He downed his
bourbon and went to his room. For a moment, gazing at the neat deserted room,
he wished he’d stayed with his parents. But he needed to be central and
available; they didn’t even have a phone.

 
          
Enough of this.
No use getting depressed. He still had a
salable book, even if events had hindered the one he’d planned. He had made
sure Desmond Harris would ring him as soon as he heard they’d caught Kelly. But
it wouldn’t be the same as being there at the arrest; it wouldn’t be the same
as confronting Kelly. Perhaps the police would let him interview Kelly. Books
had been written that way, after all.

 
          
When
he’d poured
a bourbon
he switched on the radio for pop
and uncovered his typewriter. At least he could write up the people he’d met so
far. He was sure that was one reason why his books sold—that he understood
people.

 
          
If
you tell George Pugh the family is out of date you’d better stand well back.
He’s a big man, and he knows what he thinks.

 
          
If
it were out of date George wouldn’t care, because he’s an independent man. The
cinema he owns and runs is independent too. In these days of big faceless
organizations it’s good to meet a man like George.

 
          
He
enjoys his job, maybe too much so to relax. But then his job is people as well
as entertainment. That’s why he wouldn’t join a cinema chain, because where he
is he knows his clientele. His Saturday-morning shows are the biggest and
happiest family you’ll see for miles.

 
          
That’s
George all right, Edmund thought, paragraphing.

 
          
But
George’s family is smaller now, and you can see that hurts. It’s been smaller
since the night he said goodbye to his mother and rode.

 
          
George’s mother.
George hadn’t written her up yet. You
couldn’t put a deadline on something like that, but nevertheless it would hold
up the chapter. Maybe after all he should talk to George about her,
then
write her up himself.

 
          
His
fingers typed invisible curses on the table. Everything in this book was
balked. Most of all he was frustrated by his ignorance of the black magician’s
name. If he knew that, he was sure he could research an extra chapter or two;
black magic sold books. Only Mrs. Kelly’s stubbornness was thwarting him. Again
he thought of giving her address to the police. If he could be sure they’d
agree to
letting
him watch the arrest, or at least let
him interview Kelly—

 
          
He
ripped the page out of the typewriter and shoved it in his folder. Come on.
Write something. The publishers would soon be getting uneasy about the advance
they’d paid him. “Clare
Frayn
,” he typed.

 
          
And halted.
He wasn’t sure about her anymore. He’d thought
she was open and straightforward, the kind of girl he liked—not too aggressive,
not trying to compete with him, not too proud to show she needed men: feminine,
in fact. But he’d come to suspect her of using him deceitfully, of pretending
she only wanted to help him when really she was furthering her relationship
with Chris Barrow. How she could care for someone like him, Edmund didn’t know.
One thing was sure: he wouldn’t appear in Edmund’s book. He wasn’t worth the
paper.

 
          
He
hurled the crumpled page at the waste bin. No good. He couldn’t concentrate:
too much bourbon. He’d get to bed soon, and in the morning write up Mrs. Kelly.
Who else? Dr. Miller—no, he’d been helpful; he’d earned anonymity. But what
he’d told George deserved a chapter. A thought was struggling at the back of
Edmund’s mind. He turned down the three-chord pounding of the radio.

 
          
The
bourbon washed back down the bottle; the bottle’s mouth hung dripping over the
glass. Dr. Miller. Mrs. Kelly. Dr. Miller—

 
          
Edmund
barely caught the bottle from smashing the glass. My God, he thought, my God!
He’d almost missed seeing it. He snatched up the telephone receiver. Hold on,
it’s only an idea, let’s be sure before writing any
cheques
.
But he was sure already. “Get me the
Newsham
Cinema,”
he told the girl. He was back in business. George would get him what he needed.
He would have his black magic, after all.

 
          
Tuesday, September 23