Ramsey Campbell - 1976 - The Doll Who Ate His Mother Read Online Free PDF

the accident at all; she’d kept
gazing at Clare with a large, warm, forgiving expression, sympathetic,
encouraging, until Clare could have screamed. All of them made her feel more guilty . They refused to blame her only because they
didn’t know what had happened. She was so guilty she had lied to the police.
                 She’d
said the brakes had been working before the crash. She’d blamed Rob, for
grabbing the wheel. At the inquest, when she stepped down from the witness box
once she’d sworn that the statement they’d read out was hers, her face had been
burning. The kindly, quiet-voiced coroner had told the jury that she wasn’t
allowed to answer any other questions, lest she incriminate herself. She was
sure then that everyone knew she was guilty. None of the policemen in the court
would look at her. She knew they were biding their time to prosecute.
                 But
she hadn’t heard from them yet. Either they were waiting for her to assume
they’d forgotten, or they hoped her guilt would build up until she was eager to
betray herself; then they’d pounce. They knew that she started guiltily when
the doorbell rang, that she peered fearfully downstairs whenever the new
postman fumbled at the letter slot. She only wished they would get it over
with. She couldn’t bear much longer the sense of having wronged Rob.
                 She
coasted into Blackburne Place, past the Byzantine
church of St. Philip Neri , humpy with tiny domes.
Behind her in Catharine Street the orange lamps were dormant. She steered the
car into Blackburne Terrace. Shade gathered softly
beneath the house-high trees; the dimming trunks sailed slowly past her. Beyond the tree nearest her front door stood a man.
                 He
had halted near the stone pillars, staring back toward her car. He was staring
at the car itself. He was walking toward it. He reached it as, struggling in
vague panic, she managed to open her door.
                 “Miss
Clare Frayn ?” he said. “I wonder if I can have a word
with you? ”
                 He
must have been six feet tall. He was broad as well, big-boned. He towered above
the car; the pale blue of his suit seemed to fill the whole of her window. His
hand closed on the door handle. Red hair sprang up as his wrist emerged from
his sleeve; red hair sprouted from his fingers. She could imagine him winning a
wrestling match with the power of that arm alone. For a moment she thought he
was going to trap her in the car. Then he was opening the door for her.
                 “I’m
sorry. Did I startle you?” he said. “I didn’t mean to.”
                 Perhaps
he wasn’t a policeman, after all. She snatched the key from the ignition and
hurried toward her front door, fumbling with the key ring. She heard him slam
the car door tight. The key. Not that one, fool.
                 With
two strides he was beside her on the stone steps of the shadowy porch. “You are
Miss Frayn , aren’t you?”
                 The key. Got it. She was angry with
herself for having left Ringo at his mercy. “What if I am?”
                 “I’d
like to talk to you.”
                 “That
depends very much on the subject, I’m afraid.”
                 “Well,
of course it does. But look, are you all right? You seem worried.”
                 “I’m
perfectly all right, thank you. What exactly do you want?”
                 “I
was wondering if you would help me. I’m a writer.”
                 She
turned to examine him. His face was large, well-fed, blue-eyed, wide-mouthed, bespectacled . He looked earnest and hopeful, though behind
that she thought he was faintly amused. The bridge of his disproportionately
small nose was dented, as if someone had once broken through his guard. Beneath
the neat, discreetly fashionable suit he wore a mauve shirt