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

and tie; the tie
was fastened with a tiny platinum dagger, and the shirt bore a motif of minute
pistols. He was about thirty. He didn’t look like a writer to her, but what did
writers look like? “Here’s my card,” he said.
                 Against
the glossy white, the black embossed letters said EDMUND HALL: RESEARCHER AND
WRITER, and an address outside London, in Surrey. “Why should I be able to help
you?” she said.
                 He
glanced toward an open ground-floor window beside the porch. “Would you mind if
we talked inside?” he said.
                 It
was her landlord’s window. She had her flat cheap, as a favour to her father. If the landlord heard her helping a writer he might think she
could afford to pay more. “All right,” she said. “If it
doesn’t take too long. I have a lot of work to do.”
                 “I’ll
keep it brief,” he said. His large voice boomed dully in the hall, among the
filigreed mirrors, the vases of flowers. “Are you working tomorrow?”
                 “Not
until next week. I’m a teacher.”
                 “Yes,
of course,” he said gratefully, as if she’d helped him.
                 She
was acutely conscious of him behind her on the stairs. No doubt as a writer he
was noting everything about her. Well, she could walk gracefully if she tried.
She climbed the stairs lightly; she strode across the landing straight-backed,
with poise. “Do you teach your kids ballet?” Edmund Hall asked.
                 “No.
Movement and drama, we do.”
                 “Did
you go to ballet lessons when you were a kid?”
                 “Yes,
a few.” As a teenager she’d used to pirouette when she was happy, until she’d
heard herself called Stumpy-legs. “Why do you ask?” she said.
                 “It
shows in the way you walk.”
                 She
turned from unlocking her flat to smile at him. “There, that’s better,” he
said. “What was wrong with you before?”
                 “Nothing. You made me jump, that’s all.”
                 “I
thought that was it. I am sorry,” and he looked so: even his faint, lingering
amusement seemed dampened.
                 “No,
I shouldn’t blame you. I just thought you were a policeman.”
                 The
flat was a mess. George the guitar and his music were sitting on one chair; the
other chair was crowded with carrier bags full of spray cans and
bottles—shampoo, lotion, disinfectant—which she’d cleared out of the bathroom
that morning. The couch was a jumble of books and newspapers and letters, her
sewing machine sat on the dining table, clothes lolled patiently on the dining
chairs. He must be noting all this. Well, she couldn’t help it. Let him take
her as he found her. “Sit anywhere,” she said. “Just put that stuff on the
floor.”
                 George
thumped the carpet, his strings emitting a muffled protest within the canvas
bag. Yes, Edmund Hall would love some instant coffee, if she had to go into the
kitchen anyway. Was she sure he couldn’t buy her dinner? Well, in that case
he’d be out of her way before she ate.
                 She
stirred sugar into his coffee and carried in the mugs. He laid aside a
Merseyside tabloid as she entered. “Used to work for that lot,” he said, slapping
the newspaper. “Tell me. If I had been a policeman, why on earth should that have bothered you?”
                 “My
brother was killed in a car crash while I was driving.”
                 “Yes,
I know. To be honest, that’s why I’m here. But that’s not a police matter,
surely.”
                 “It
is if they decide to prosecute. They could get me for dangerous driving, or
driving without due care and attention, at least.”
                 “Haven’t
they let