Lady of the Shades Read Online Free PDF Page B

they’ve never heard of me. Finally I concede that yes, I’m stinking rich, and yes, I wrote
The Exorcist
. With that settled, they roll away to tell
their friends about me, with the unexpected result that hours later, long after I’ve forgotten about them, an irate gentleman jabs an angry finger into my chest and grunts, ‘You
didn’t write
The Exorcist
. That bloke Blatty did. You’re a fraud.’
    Dinner’s a simple affair — mashed potatoes and sausages, some unsavoury-looking carrots, cheap wine. The other guests go at it with conviction. Maybe I’m fussy because
I’m getting on in years. The birthday girl is celebrating her twenty-first, and most of her friends fall into the same age bracket. It’s been a long time since I saw twenty-one.
    As the paper plates are collected and disposed of, the tables are removed and the dance floor opens up. The DJ hasn’t taken up his post yet, but someone sticks on a track and the more avid
revellers writhe to the beat. I stand watching the dancers before it strikes me that this is a sign of seedy middle age – enviously ogling scantily clad girls while they strut their funky
stuff – and I scuttle away in search of a refill.
    I prop up the bar for a couple of hours, eavesdropping on the conversation of strangers. Most people ignore me, but at one point a girl with a blond bob shows interest. She can’t be more
than twenty, way too young for a man with a receding hairline, but the beers have stripped me of a decade and I’m thinking about what it would be like to take her back to the Royal Munster
for a night of merry debauchery.
    That’s when I’m accused of fraud by the testy William Peter Blatty fan. In the ensuing embarrassing silence, my pretty admirer coughs, says she ought to be mingling more, wishes me
well and hastily takes her leave.
    Ordering another beer, I decide I’ve had enough of the bar and head for the deck. The fresh air revives me. I stand alone at the stern and study the trail of churning water we leave in our
wake. Leaning across, I peer towards the bow, which is packed.
    A couple emerge up the stairs and glare at me. I think they want the stern to themselves. Too bad. I’m not moving. Grumbling softly, they stand with their backs to me, making out. A few
more stagger up over the next half-hour, but the area remains relatively clear, emptying when the DJ plays a popular number, slowly half-filling as tired legs force temporary retreats from the
action.
    I’m not a dancer. I keep a vigil on the riverbanks instead, casting a curious eye over a variety of buildings, old and new, decrepit and abandoned, or simply closed for the night, trying
to find ways to incorporate them into the slowly forming plot of the novel. There are plenty of recognizable landmarks nestled in among the mix, the Tower of London, the Globe, Tate Modern, the Oxo
tower, but I don’t want to use any of those — too well known.
    My ghosts share the deck with me, glittering lightly against the backdrop of the night sky. Two of them are floating over the Thames, treading air as if it was the most natural thing in the
world. They ignore the sights, their eyes, as ever, trained on me. The thin bald man with a sharp beard drifts through me, resulting in a momentary chill. I could recall his name if I wanted
– I’ll never forget their names – but I don’t. I try not to dwell on their identities. It reminds me of my past and why they haunt me.
    As we pass the London Eye and the historic Houses of Parliament, I glance at the buildings across the way and notice a hospital. I ask a young man for its name. ‘St Thomas’s,’
he says, staring at me as if I’m mad for asking.
    The hospital interests me. I could use it in my book. Perhaps my central character rematerializes there. It’s a logical spot for a ghost to turn up. I picture the scene as his eyes emerge
from an ethereal fog, opening for the first time since his death. He gazes around, wondering where