The Collected Short Fiction of Ramsey Campbell Part 95

"Just tell me. Tell us, Trudy's your friend too. What's disturbing you?"

He could think of nothing his grandmother mightn't be blamed for. It was Trudy who said "Shouldn't you explain..."

"You're right, I've missed a step. Jonathan, your headmaster rang me. He says you keep talking to yourself in cla.s.s."

Barely in time he saw how to tell something like the truth. "I was just trying to get things right."

"So that's why you were reading out your essay the other night. You'll have to stop doing it at school, though, or you'll have people thinking you're-You'll put them off their own work."

He thought he'd convinced her all was well. He was on his way to bed when he overheard her saying "It's my mother again. Living with her, that's what's made him so nervy, and no wonder."

He dashed into his room and huddled in the bed to pray. He had to stop when he heard Trudy and his mother on the stairs: if his mother overheard him she would think he was mad - she'd almost said so - while explaining his behaviour seemed capable of making the situation even worse. At last his prayers under the bedclothes gave way to sleep and then to muddy daylight that smelled of hot food.

His mother and Trudy insisted on kissing him before he could escape from the car. He hastened through the gates to find his tormentors awaiting him. "How many mothers have you got?" enquired the boy with the grubby upper lip.

His singularly hairy crony imitated his disgusted grin. "Do they both live at your house?"

"Why shouldn't they?" Jonathan was confused enough to ask.

"Bet your grandma wouldn't like it."

"Bet they're glad she's dead."

"Bet they wouldn't want to smell her now, though."

All Jonathan's dismay and bewilderment surged like bile into his mouth. "Maybe you will."

The boys looked as if he'd shocked them by going further than they dared. "What do you reckon you'll do?" the boy with the sole hair spluttered.

"Nothing. You've done it," Jonathan told them and hid in the crowd.

He wasn't going to pray to protect them. He didn't mutter once in cla.s.s. He mustn't ask his mother about Trudy in case his grandmother might indeed have disapproved of her - in case that made his mother say things he would have to rectify. Instead he could tell her about his day} except that when she and Trudy came home, holding hands just long enough for him to see, she surprised him by asking "Would you like Lawrence to pick you up from school tomorrow?"

"Don't you mind?"

"Why would anyone mind? That way you can spend a long weekend with him to make up for the last one and Trudy and I will sort out the house."

Would that include his grandmother's room? Tonight he had no sense of her presence. If the room was cleared out, mightn't that mean she would stay with Jesus, since she would have nowhere to return to? He thought it best to continue praying once he was in bed. "Please G.o.d don't let her hear us saying anything bad about her," he repeated on the way to sleep.

He felt as if he'd hidden the implications of his words from himself until he was back at school. He couldn't see his tormentors when he braved the yard. He left his suitcase full of clothes and other weekend items in the secretary's office and hurried out to search, only to be found by Mr Foster, who was on yard duty. "There's a pensive young face."

"Sorry, sir."

"No need to apologise for thinking." As Jonathan wondered if that was necessarily true, the teacher said "Feeling more at home now?"

"I think so, sir."

"You can expect a respite from the comedy, at any rate."

Jonathan had noticed none. "Which is that, sir?"

"The comedians. The young teasers you encountered earlier in the week. The school will have to do without their routines for a while."

That almost robbed Jonathan of the breath it took to demand "Why?"

"They appear to have taken up slapstick." Mr Foster frowned at himself or at Jonathan's terseness. "They climbed up on a roof they should have known wouldn't support them, not that they ought to have been anywhere near it."

What might they have been fleeing? Jonathan's grandmother would have said they'd brought it on themselves. Having thanked Mr Foster, who seemed to wonder why, he found a gap between two school buildings to hide in. "Please G.o.d look after my grandma now. Don't let her hear anything else bad," he added, and "I expect those boys have learned their lesson."

He wouldn't have minded if they had returned to school in time to see his father collect him in the Land Rover. His father had finished work early, having designed enough houses for one week. He'd once said Jonathan's grandmother's house was too big for today and itself, which she'd taken as an insult. "We'll have a lively weekend, shall we?" he said, shaking Jonathan's hand.

Jonathan tried as hard as he could tell his father's lady did. She was called but not spelled Zoh, and kept attempting to make her face even smaller and prettier while she acted girlish with his father or motherly with Jonathan. She and his father took him to restaurants and films and a museum and a game where they had to dodge through a maze and shoot one another with lasers, Zoh emitting a coy reproachful squeal whenever she was. .h.i.t. Between some of these events he spent time in their apartment, where the rooms were uncluttered and elegantly plain and un.o.btrusively warm. He was sure they were just the right size, not least his bedroom, but he felt as if the place wasn't quite reaching him. Perhaps it was the other way round, since he couldn't stop wondering what was happening at his grandmother's house.

Wondering overwhelmed his English homework. The harder he struggled to resolve his uncertainty or to write, the more the page and his brain competed at blankness. He had to welcome the sight of half a car on Sunday, though it was only Trudy who had come for him. He even wished he hadn't greeted her with "Where's mum?"

"Making a welcome-home dinner."

Given the looks Trudy was exchanging with Zoh and his father, Jonathan felt all the more anxious to return to his grandmother's. "See you next weekend," he said, dealing his father's hand a shake and disappointing Zoh with one before scrambling into the car.

The fairground neon of the city centre had faded beyond the old and in some cases unbroken lamps standing guard throughout the suburb when Trudy said "Had a good break?"

"What from? I don't need a break from my mum."

"Nor from me either, I hope."

He felt bound to be polite while he tried to think. "No," he mumbled.

"That's good. Esther and I have had a chance to get a few things clearer."

All at once he was certain he knew why they'd wanted him out of the way - knew what he'd failed to realise. "You've been talking about my grandma."

"Among other issues."

"What did you say about her?"

"Me, nothing to speak of."

"What did mum?"

"Quite a flood. Everything she had to. It wasn't all bad."

"How much was?"

"Best if you discuss it together. I expect she'd like to share your memories now."

She mustn't until he'd remembered enough to counteract hers. Why hadn't he written about his grandmother while he'd had the chance? As the car turned along her street he felt like a small animal trapped inside his own head, darting about in search of a way of escape. He would have to flee upstairs and pray his hardest without being heard by his mother, but how long would she leave before coming to find him?

His suitcase dragged his arm down as he followed Trudy to the house. The shadow of a branch clutched at her wrist when she inserted his grandmother's key in the lock. He wished he were seeing his grandmother catch hold of her as the door swung inwards, revealing the dark.

Why was the house unlit if his mother was home? It didn't feel deserted, and her car was in the drive. He hung back until Trudy switched on the chandelier, illuminating a note in his mother's handwriting on the third stair. Just run down the road for ingredients, it said.

So it wasn't his mother he sensed waiting in the house. At once he was sure what to do. His grandmother's condition was Trudy's fault - she'd encouraged his mother to say all she could. Had his mother even finished? Perhaps she might have more and worse to say if Trudy stayed. He used his luggage to push the front door shut and dumped his suitcase in the hall. "Come and see something," he said.

"Is it a surprise?" Trudy said, widening her eyes and raising half her mouth.

"You'll have to say," he told her and turned hastily to the stairs.

The house felt as breathless with antic.i.p.ation as he was. The creak of stairs counted the seconds and confirmed Trudy was following. The chandelier seemed to lower itself like a huge murkily luminous spider while the door of his grandmother's room held itself still as a trap. On the landing he halted, uncertain whether he'd heard the faintest sound beyond her door - a shuffling that grew thinner, increasingly less suggestive of feet, as it approached. "What is it, Jonathan?" Trudy said.

"Your surprise. Come and look."

On the whole she seemed pleased he'd grabbed her hand. She accompanied him willingly enough, even when he seized the icy k.n.o.b and flung open his grandmother's door. "You put the light on," he said.

"Of course, if you want me to." Making it clear that she was puzzled but determined, she stepped through the doorway and pressed down the switch with a fingertip. "What am I meant to be seeing, Jonathan? It's just a room."

"Have a better look," he said, though he was tempted to believe her: the room was emptier than last time he'd seen it -the bed had been stripped to its stale piebald mattress. His grandmother wouldn't want to lie on that; perhaps she was hiding in one of the ma.s.sive wardrobes, though she'd disliked games she considered to be childish. He urged himself into the room and swung around to catch Trudy's hand again. "Let's look in-"

His voice froze in his throat as he saw what was crouched behind her in the dimmest corner of the room. It could almost have been a swollen bunch of sticks, except that it was patched with rags of clothes or skin. Lolling on top of it was an object that looked pinched with chill and peeling with damp and distorted by worse than either. It hadn't much he would have liked to call a mouth or a nose, and was crowned with lumps of dust or hair. He might not have recognised it if his grandmother's eyes hadn't been glaring out of a section like an irregular piece of old toadstool. He hung onto Trudy and nodded at the corner. "There," he whispered.

She kept her gaze on him. "What now, Jonathan?"

"What you wanted. It's behind you, look."

"You mustn't do things like that. Even if you're still upset it isn't very pleasant, is it? You can tell me what's wrong. I'd like you to, it'd make me feel more like family. Just talk."

He saw his grandmother's eyes bulge in the remnant of a face while the rest of her crouched smaller and lower as if she was about to spring. He tried to drag Trudy to confront this - he was growing desperate enough to reach up for her head to twist it round. "I will if you look."

He felt her grow tense and make herself relax. She was beginning to turn her head when the shape in the corner unfolded itself and tottered to its full height. It jerked out a hand with little in the way of fingers, and he thought it was going to fasten on Trudy's shoulder. The next moment the light was gone, and Trudy clutched at him. "Did you-"

He wriggled free and dodged out of the room, s.n.a.t.c.hing the door shut. If Trudy switched the light on she would come face to face with the thing she'd made of his grandmother, and otherwise she would be alone with it in the dark. It was suddenly apparent to him that his grandmother didn't want anyone to see her as she was now, and he wondered what she might do to gain control of the light-switch. He was hanging onto the doork.n.o.b with both hands when the front door slammed. "I'm back again," his mother called. "Where's everyone?"

"Could you come up?" Trudy responded rather less than steadily. "I'm shut in and I can't seem to find..."

"Where are you? Hold on." Jonathan's mother ran upstairs and halted at the top. "Where's Trudy?" she asked him. "What are you-"

"I'm in here, Esther."

"What on earth do you think you're doing, Jonathan? Let go at once."

He was afraid that if she opened the door she would see his grandmother. She had to prise his fingers off the k.n.o.b in order to let Trudy out. As Trudy fled onto the landing, he saw that the room was still unlit. "Trudy, I'm sorry," his mother cried. "Tell me what happened."

"Just an attempt to scare me off," Trudy said more or less evenly. "I'm afraid someone doesn't want me here."

"My grandma doesn't. She doesn't like you making mum say bad things about her."

"I think you'd better get ready for bed and stay in it," his mother told him.

The women followed him into the hall and watched him trudge, weighed down by injustice and luggage, to his room. Was Trudy staying? His grandmother wouldn't have to go far to find her, then. The thought failed to lessen his dismay at his grandmother's state. He raced through preparing for bed and took as much refuge in it as he could. Trudy and his mother were murmuring downstairs, largely incomprehensibly. "He'll have to get used to it," he heard his mother say.

Did she mean Trudy or her own criticisms of his grandmother? How much would he have to pray to compensate for whatever she'd said over the weekend? He set about chanting his plea, only to wonder if it was too late. He couldn't bring any other prayers to mind. Before long his mind gave up being awake.

He dreamed Trudy was inciting his mother to say worse and worse - at least, he hoped it was a dream. "That's right, keep pulling me to bits," he seemed to hear his grandmother complain. "Pull some more off me." She'd go to Trudy in the night, he thought, hoping she would. The idea transfixed him with panic. At first he couldn't understand why, even when he floundered awake - and then he realised how much of the fault was his. He'd willed his grandmother to look her worst for Trudy and his tormentors in the schoolyard.

He couldn't deny he was glad that Trudy had crept into his room and was stooping to rouse him. When he blinked his eyes wide, however, it wasn't Trudy's face he saw looming closer in the dimness. What the boys had said about his grandmother had overtaken her. Even if she couldn't see him, she could grope in search of him. He cowered under the bedclothes and tried to pray but could think of no words. Surely the noise he was making would bring his mother, or Trudy would do. Perhaps they were punis.h.i.+ng him, because all it attracted was the sensation of less than hands plucking at the bedclothes. The time until dawn felt like for ever, and dawn might only show him what was waiting to be seen.

The Place Of Revelation (2003)

At dinner Colin's parents do most of the talking. His mother starts by saying "Sit down," and as soon as he does his father says "Sit up." Auntie Dot lets Colin glimpse a sympathetic grin while Uncle Lucian gives him a secret one, neither of which helps him feel less nervous. They're eating off plates as expensive as the one he broke last time they visited, when his parents acted as if he'd meant to drop it even though the relatives insisted it didn't matter and at least his uncle thought so. "Delicious as always," his mother says when Auntie Dot asks yet again if Colin's food is all right, and his father offers "I expect he's just tired, Dorothy." At least that's an excuse, which Colin might welcome except it prompts his aunt to say "If you've had enough I should scamper off to bye-byes, Colin. For a treat you can leave us the was.h.i.+ng up."

Everyone is waiting for him to go to his room. Even though his parents keep saying how well he does in English and how the art mistress said he should take up painting at secondary school, he's expected only to mumble agreement whenever he's told to speak up for himself. For the first time he tries arguing. "I'll do it. I don't mind."

"You've heard what's wanted," his father says in a voice that seems to weigh his mouth down.

"You catch up on your sleep," his mother says more gently, "then you'll be able to enjoy yourself tomorrow."

Beyond her Uncle Lucian is nodding eagerly, but n.o.body else sees. Everyone watches Colin trudge into the high wide hall. It offers him a light, and there's another above the stairs that smell of their new fat brown carpet, and one more in the upstairs corridor. They only put off the dark. Colin is taking time on each stair until his father lets him hear "Is he getting ready for bed yet?" For fear of having to explain his apprehensiveness he flees to the bathroom.

With its tiles white as a blizzard it's brighter than the hall, but its floral scent makes Colin feel it's only pretending to be a room. As he brushes his teeth the mirror shows him foaming at the mouth as though his nerves have given him a fit. When he heads for his room, the doorway opposite presents him with a view across his parents' bed of the hospital he can't help thinking is a front for the graveyard down the hill. It's lit up as pale as a tombstone, whereas his window that's edged with tendrils of frost is full of nothing but darkness, which he imagines rising ma.s.sively from the fields to greet the black sky. Even if the curtains shut tight they wouldn't keep out his sense of it, nor does the flimsy furniture that's yellow as the wine they're drinking downstairs. He huddles under the plump quilt and leaves the light on while he listens to the kitchen clatter. All too soon it comes to an end, and he hears someone padding upstairs so softly they might almost not be there at all.

As the door inches open with a faint creak that puts him in mind of the lifting of a lid, he grabs the edge of the quilt and hauls it over his face. "You aren't asleep yet, then," his mother says. "I thought you might have drifted off."

Colin uncovers his face and b.u.mps his shoulders against the bars behind the pillow. "I can't get to sleep, so can I come down?"

"No need for that, Colin. I expect you're trying too hard. Just think of nice times you've had and then you'll go off. You know there's nothing really to stop you."

She's making him feel so alone that he no longer cares if he gives away his secrets. "There is."

"Colin, you're not a baby any more. You didn't act like this when you were. Try not to upset people. Will you do that for us?"

"If you want."

She frowns at his reluctance. "I'm sure it's what you want as well. Just be as thoughtful as I know you are."

Everything she says reminds him how little she knows. She leans down to kiss each of his eyes shut, and as she straightens up, the cord above the bed turns the kisses into darkness with a click. Can he hold onto the feeling long enough to fall asleep? Once he hears the door close he burrows under the quilt and strives to be aware of nothing beyond the bed. He concentrates on the faint scent of the quilt that nestles on his face, he listens to the silence that the pillow and the quilt press against his ears. The weight of the quilt is beginning to feel vague and soft as sleep when the darkness whispers his name. "I'm asleep," he tries complaining, however babyish and stupid it sounds.

"Not yet, Colin," Uncle Lucian says. "Story first. You can't have forgotten."

He hasn't, of course. He remembers every bedtime story since the first, when he didn't know it would lead to the next day's walk. "I thought we'd have finished," he protests.

"Quietly, son. We don't want anyone disturbed, do we? One last story."