Read Online (1989) Dreamer by Peter James - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Peter James
Tags: supernatural
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hang of it, it changed. She pulled out a stunning Cornelia James shawl and draped it around her shoulders.
Better. Great. Terrific.
She took a handkerchief out of a drawer, a small white handkerchief with French lace edging and her initials, S.C. embroidered in blue in one corner, and put it in her handbag. She tugged a comb through her hair, studied herself in the mirror then smiled, pleased with the effect. ‘Zap!’ she said. ‘Kapow!’ She clapped her hands together and walked out of the bedroom, wondering why those words had suddenly come into her head.
‘No, you’ll never get away with it,’ said a voice with a deep American accent.
She heard Nicky giggle. There were several explosions.
‘Not this time, Batman.’
KAPOW! SOCK! BIFF! BAM! ZAP!
‘We’ll see about that!’
Nicky and Helen were sitting at the table, watching the television. Nicky was holding his spoon in the air and milk was trickling down into his shirt cuff. Helen, spellbound, hadn’t noticed, and Sam felt a flash of irritation. She grabbed the spoon and staunched the flow of milk with a kitchen towel.
Helen stood up. ‘Sorry, Mrs Curtis – I—’
‘OK,’ Sam said, slightly coolly, giving Nicky back his spoon. Then she turned off the television.
‘Aww!’ said Nicky.
Helen sat down again, blushing.
‘Nicky’s watching too much television, Helen. He shouldn’t be watching it while he’s eating.’ She smiled at Helen, realising she had sounded fierce, trying to reassure her.
‘Sorry,’ Helen said again.
Sam sat down at the table and poured out some orange juice. Nicky eyed her sulkily.
‘What’s happening at school today, Tiger?’
The Esso ads had worked on Nicky. When he was four he was a tiger. Ran around on all fours. Pounced. Hid in cupboards with a freebie tiger’s tail sticking out. ‘Tiger in here! Tiger in here!’
He stretched out his arm, seized the Sugar Puffs pack and poured a second helping sloppily into his bowl, spilling them all around. Without bothering to pour any milk, he shovelled cereal into his mouth.
‘Grumpy, this morning?’ Sam asked.
‘I didn’t sleep very well.’
‘Mummy’s tired today too.’
Mummy feels like shit.
‘You were making noises,’ he said.
‘Did we keep you awake? I’m sorry.’
He shoved in more cereal, chewing with his mouth open.
‘Thought you were a Tiger, not a camel.’
He closed his mouth and continued chewing, then stretched out and took a mouthful of juice. ‘Batman,’ he said. ‘I want Batman.’
‘Too much television is not good for you.’
‘You make television.’
‘Just the ads.’
‘Ads are yucky. You made the ads for that new cereal. It’s yuck. It tastes like dog’s do.’
‘And how do you know what dog’s do tastes like?’
‘It tastes of yuck.’
She caught Helen’s eye. Helen looked at her with the uncertainty of a child looking at her teacher. Sam finished her juice and glanced at her watch. Eight-fifteen.
‘Mummy’s late. She’s got to go.’
She went through into the living area to switch on the answering machine, and stared around the huge room with a faint feeling of dismay. The refectory dining table was still covered in coffee cups, half-empty glasses, overflowing ashtrays, butter dishes, and napkins strewn around like confetti. Two half-full bottles of Perrier water were missing their caps; she walked over and rummaged around for them. She found the stopper of the port decanter and put that on. A sliver of glass sparkled at her from an open salt cellar. She looked up warily at the iron chandelier. The one jagged shard of glass was still in the socket. The rest of the bulbs were fine, except that they were still on. She walked over to the wall and switched them off.
The room was filled with a grey light that hung heavily, thick with the smell of stale smoke andevaporating alcohol, a greyness that seeped into her skin like damp, that would make her clothes and her hair smell of cigar smoke if she
Better. Great. Terrific.
She took a handkerchief out of a drawer, a small white handkerchief with French lace edging and her initials, S.C. embroidered in blue in one corner, and put it in her handbag. She tugged a comb through her hair, studied herself in the mirror then smiled, pleased with the effect. ‘Zap!’ she said. ‘Kapow!’ She clapped her hands together and walked out of the bedroom, wondering why those words had suddenly come into her head.
‘No, you’ll never get away with it,’ said a voice with a deep American accent.
She heard Nicky giggle. There were several explosions.
‘Not this time, Batman.’
KAPOW! SOCK! BIFF! BAM! ZAP!
‘We’ll see about that!’
Nicky and Helen were sitting at the table, watching the television. Nicky was holding his spoon in the air and milk was trickling down into his shirt cuff. Helen, spellbound, hadn’t noticed, and Sam felt a flash of irritation. She grabbed the spoon and staunched the flow of milk with a kitchen towel.
Helen stood up. ‘Sorry, Mrs Curtis – I—’
‘OK,’ Sam said, slightly coolly, giving Nicky back his spoon. Then she turned off the television.
‘Aww!’ said Nicky.
Helen sat down again, blushing.
‘Nicky’s watching too much television, Helen. He shouldn’t be watching it while he’s eating.’ She smiled at Helen, realising she had sounded fierce, trying to reassure her.
‘Sorry,’ Helen said again.
Sam sat down at the table and poured out some orange juice. Nicky eyed her sulkily.
‘What’s happening at school today, Tiger?’
The Esso ads had worked on Nicky. When he was four he was a tiger. Ran around on all fours. Pounced. Hid in cupboards with a freebie tiger’s tail sticking out. ‘Tiger in here! Tiger in here!’
He stretched out his arm, seized the Sugar Puffs pack and poured a second helping sloppily into his bowl, spilling them all around. Without bothering to pour any milk, he shovelled cereal into his mouth.
‘Grumpy, this morning?’ Sam asked.
‘I didn’t sleep very well.’
‘Mummy’s tired today too.’
Mummy feels like shit.
‘You were making noises,’ he said.
‘Did we keep you awake? I’m sorry.’
He shoved in more cereal, chewing with his mouth open.
‘Thought you were a Tiger, not a camel.’
He closed his mouth and continued chewing, then stretched out and took a mouthful of juice. ‘Batman,’ he said. ‘I want Batman.’
‘Too much television is not good for you.’
‘You make television.’
‘Just the ads.’
‘Ads are yucky. You made the ads for that new cereal. It’s yuck. It tastes like dog’s do.’
‘And how do you know what dog’s do tastes like?’
‘It tastes of yuck.’
She caught Helen’s eye. Helen looked at her with the uncertainty of a child looking at her teacher. Sam finished her juice and glanced at her watch. Eight-fifteen.
‘Mummy’s late. She’s got to go.’
She went through into the living area to switch on the answering machine, and stared around the huge room with a faint feeling of dismay. The refectory dining table was still covered in coffee cups, half-empty glasses, overflowing ashtrays, butter dishes, and napkins strewn around like confetti. Two half-full bottles of Perrier water were missing their caps; she walked over and rummaged around for them. She found the stopper of the port decanter and put that on. A sliver of glass sparkled at her from an open salt cellar. She looked up warily at the iron chandelier. The one jagged shard of glass was still in the socket. The rest of the bulbs were fine, except that they were still on. She walked over to the wall and switched them off.
The room was filled with a grey light that hung heavily, thick with the smell of stale smoke andevaporating alcohol, a greyness that seeped into her skin like damp, that would make her clothes and her hair smell of cigar smoke if she
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