Read Online A Fragment of Fear by John Bingham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John Bingham
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say that.”
“We all say that,” he agreed cheerfully. “My friends and I, we all say that. Cool, clear brains, we say. So let’s pretend.”
I had had enough. I wanted to be clear of him. There was nothing to be got out of this nonsense. He was a voice, only a voice, and would remain a voice.
“I’m going to report it to the police,” I said.
“Report what to the police?” he asked sadly.
“That message, typed on my typewriter, and my paper. And this ’phone call.”
“Oh, that. Yes, of course you will. Who wouldn’t? So let’s pretend.”
When I switched the telephone receiver from one hand to another I saw that it was glistening, and yet I didn’t replace the receiver on its cradle. I guessed that if I did the telephone bell would ring again soon, and if it didn’t ring, I would wish that it had done. One part of my mind tried to tell me he was unbalanced. But I knew he wasn’t, at heart I knew he wasn’t.
“Pretend what?”
“Pretend that you agree to drop the Lucy Dawson story.”
“I have no intention of dropping it.”
“I said, let’s pretend. So you drop the idea—as from now. So what happens? You’re in the clear. You’re happy and free to go ahead with your wedding and live happily ever after. Comparatively prosperous, and comparatively respected by all who know you. Right?”
“Not right,” I muttered. “Not respected by all who know me.”
“Who wouldn’t respect you?”
“I wouldn’t respect me.”
“Final?”
“Final,” I said, “unless you explain things more.”
There was another click, and this time I knew it meant the end of the conversation. I replaced the receiver and sat staring at the window. I keep a small bowl of water there for pigeons. I like all birds, even pigeons, which are supposed to be so destructive. A pigeon landed, bedraggled and dirty white, and strutted towards the bowl, flicking its head from side to side, looking for danger, knowing danger was around, but not knowing where.
I didn’t like the silence in the flat. I wished the telephone conversation was still going on. While I could hear the voice, even with its sneers, I knew I could cope, because I was in touch with whatever was afoot; intangibly, even negatively, but at least in touch.
Now there was only the interior quietness of the flat.
Somebody knew my movements, almost from hour to hour. He knew the train I would catch from Burlington, and had seen the light go on in my kitchen, when I got up to make tea.
We are seven, he had said, or seventeen, or seventy, or seven hundred, and you are one. I walked over to the window, and the white bedraggled pigeon flew off and settled on a roof guttering on the opposite side of the street.
I looked down into the street. Nobody was noticeably hanging around in doorways, but then they wouldn’t be. Not noticeably. Across the street it was different. Across the street there were a couple of dozen windows with curtains of different kinds, varying from heavy velvet curtains to light net curtains. All equally effective, from the point of view of concealed eyes.
It is a strange feeling standing by the window, openly, knowing that somebody is certainly watching you, not with personal interest, as a neighbour might, but with meticulous, business-like attention. Heartlessly, as the pigeon was doing.
I looked at the pigeon, and the pigeon looked at me. It was waiting for me to move away from the window before landing on the sill for a drink.
I turned and went to the bathroom and shaved and had a long bath. After I had dressed I looked at myself in the mirror as I tied my tie, and I did not much care for what I saw.
I was strongly built, admittedly, but on the short side, about five feet eight inches. Round, bullet head, due to a mixture of English, Irish and Boer blood. Crew-cut brown hair, and brown eyes. Complexion still suntanned from Italy but turning fawn. Face round, rather heavy, obstinate jaw and lower lip. Poor old Juliet, I
“We all say that,” he agreed cheerfully. “My friends and I, we all say that. Cool, clear brains, we say. So let’s pretend.”
I had had enough. I wanted to be clear of him. There was nothing to be got out of this nonsense. He was a voice, only a voice, and would remain a voice.
“I’m going to report it to the police,” I said.
“Report what to the police?” he asked sadly.
“That message, typed on my typewriter, and my paper. And this ’phone call.”
“Oh, that. Yes, of course you will. Who wouldn’t? So let’s pretend.”
When I switched the telephone receiver from one hand to another I saw that it was glistening, and yet I didn’t replace the receiver on its cradle. I guessed that if I did the telephone bell would ring again soon, and if it didn’t ring, I would wish that it had done. One part of my mind tried to tell me he was unbalanced. But I knew he wasn’t, at heart I knew he wasn’t.
“Pretend what?”
“Pretend that you agree to drop the Lucy Dawson story.”
“I have no intention of dropping it.”
“I said, let’s pretend. So you drop the idea—as from now. So what happens? You’re in the clear. You’re happy and free to go ahead with your wedding and live happily ever after. Comparatively prosperous, and comparatively respected by all who know you. Right?”
“Not right,” I muttered. “Not respected by all who know me.”
“Who wouldn’t respect you?”
“I wouldn’t respect me.”
“Final?”
“Final,” I said, “unless you explain things more.”
There was another click, and this time I knew it meant the end of the conversation. I replaced the receiver and sat staring at the window. I keep a small bowl of water there for pigeons. I like all birds, even pigeons, which are supposed to be so destructive. A pigeon landed, bedraggled and dirty white, and strutted towards the bowl, flicking its head from side to side, looking for danger, knowing danger was around, but not knowing where.
I didn’t like the silence in the flat. I wished the telephone conversation was still going on. While I could hear the voice, even with its sneers, I knew I could cope, because I was in touch with whatever was afoot; intangibly, even negatively, but at least in touch.
Now there was only the interior quietness of the flat.
Somebody knew my movements, almost from hour to hour. He knew the train I would catch from Burlington, and had seen the light go on in my kitchen, when I got up to make tea.
We are seven, he had said, or seventeen, or seventy, or seven hundred, and you are one. I walked over to the window, and the white bedraggled pigeon flew off and settled on a roof guttering on the opposite side of the street.
I looked down into the street. Nobody was noticeably hanging around in doorways, but then they wouldn’t be. Not noticeably. Across the street it was different. Across the street there were a couple of dozen windows with curtains of different kinds, varying from heavy velvet curtains to light net curtains. All equally effective, from the point of view of concealed eyes.
It is a strange feeling standing by the window, openly, knowing that somebody is certainly watching you, not with personal interest, as a neighbour might, but with meticulous, business-like attention. Heartlessly, as the pigeon was doing.
I looked at the pigeon, and the pigeon looked at me. It was waiting for me to move away from the window before landing on the sill for a drink.
I turned and went to the bathroom and shaved and had a long bath. After I had dressed I looked at myself in the mirror as I tied my tie, and I did not much care for what I saw.
I was strongly built, admittedly, but on the short side, about five feet eight inches. Round, bullet head, due to a mixture of English, Irish and Boer blood. Crew-cut brown hair, and brown eyes. Complexion still suntanned from Italy but turning fawn. Face round, rather heavy, obstinate jaw and lower lip. Poor old Juliet, I
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