in the jungle, staring out at me in accusation. Sonia, Gina, Karen and many more... Dozens of them, a legion.
“What can I do?” I said. “You can’t imagine how lonely I’ve been. Haunted by these... these apparitions, unable to even touch another human being.”
She was smiling at me. “Touch me,” she whispered.
“No!” I cried.
I swallowed. My heart pounded. I wanted to get up and run away, but I could not move. I sat and stared at her, as if paralysed.
“Touch me!” she shouted.
Against my will, as if my hand were not my own, I reached out and stroked the flesh of her arm. She gasped, but in pleasure, and the feel of her flesh was like electricity.
It was as if my body was controlled by another. I stood and lifted her from the wheelchair. I felt her elemental savagery, and was at once fearful and consumed.
“No...” I wept.
I looked beyond her, to the far side of the river. The legion of my accusers was no more.
I wept as I kissed her. “Li,” I begged. “Please let me go.”
She smiled and whispered, “We belong together. The gods have told me.”
Against my will, fearful of what might happen, I carried her into the house, to the bedroom. As we lay side by side and held each other in the heat of the night, I heard the sound of tinkling wind chimes, and the sad notes of a caged bird, singing.
Ghostwriting
Rhodes spent most of the afternoon setting up his PC’s voice recognition program – not helped by the fact that his right hand was in plaster. A colleague had suggested he try dictating his novel after he’d broken his wrist. “Chesterton dictated, you know? And look at the quality of his prose.”
Rhodes had been reluctant at first. Speaking one’s prose into a Dictaphone – or even one of these state-of-the-art computer programs – smacked to him of something a hack without literary integrity might do. But the fact was that he couldn’t type fast enough with his left hand and the deadline for his novel, with two chapters still to write, was next month.
By three o’clock he had the program recognising his voice and reproducing on screen a fair copy of his words, though it still had the annoying habit of translating all his ‘erms’ and ‘ahems’. Still, no matter; he could edit them out on the second draft, once he was out of the damned cast.
He made himself a coffee and was settling down to dictate the opening paragraph of the penultimate chapter when he heard the phone ringing downstairs. He cursed, and decided to leave it, before remembering that Anne said she’d ring if she got back early and needed a lift from the station.
He left the program running and hurried downstairs. He’d tell Anne to get the bus to the village, explain that he was deep into the novel.
“Anne?”
“Steven. Sorry – could you collect me?”
“I’m rather—”
“I have tons of bags. I could get the bus, but...”
He smiled. “Hey-ho, I’m on my way.”
He grabbed his coat and made his way out to the car. It was a sunny day, and the countryside was riotous with summer. He’d suggest to Anne that they stop for a coffee on the way back.
So much for that pressing penultimate chapter.
He smiled to himself. It was known in the trade as a displacement activity.
~
He drove extra-carefully from the village. The cast restricted his grip on the wheel, but he found he could grip it adequately with his thumb and forefinger. The fact that his car was an automatic made driving that much easier.
It was only three miles to the Station by the main road, but Rhodes always took the back lanes, adding another mile and a half to the journey. It was a conscious decision: ever since Jane’s death, knocked from her bike on the main road by a hit-and-run motorist, he’d been unable to face driving past the place where the accident had happened.
A year ago, now. They were right about time healing all wounds, he thought; or partially right. The wound, or the pain, was still there, but scabbed
“What can I do?” I said. “You can’t imagine how lonely I’ve been. Haunted by these... these apparitions, unable to even touch another human being.”
She was smiling at me. “Touch me,” she whispered.
“No!” I cried.
I swallowed. My heart pounded. I wanted to get up and run away, but I could not move. I sat and stared at her, as if paralysed.
“Touch me!” she shouted.
Against my will, as if my hand were not my own, I reached out and stroked the flesh of her arm. She gasped, but in pleasure, and the feel of her flesh was like electricity.
It was as if my body was controlled by another. I stood and lifted her from the wheelchair. I felt her elemental savagery, and was at once fearful and consumed.
“No...” I wept.
I looked beyond her, to the far side of the river. The legion of my accusers was no more.
I wept as I kissed her. “Li,” I begged. “Please let me go.”
She smiled and whispered, “We belong together. The gods have told me.”
Against my will, fearful of what might happen, I carried her into the house, to the bedroom. As we lay side by side and held each other in the heat of the night, I heard the sound of tinkling wind chimes, and the sad notes of a caged bird, singing.
Ghostwriting
Rhodes spent most of the afternoon setting up his PC’s voice recognition program – not helped by the fact that his right hand was in plaster. A colleague had suggested he try dictating his novel after he’d broken his wrist. “Chesterton dictated, you know? And look at the quality of his prose.”
Rhodes had been reluctant at first. Speaking one’s prose into a Dictaphone – or even one of these state-of-the-art computer programs – smacked to him of something a hack without literary integrity might do. But the fact was that he couldn’t type fast enough with his left hand and the deadline for his novel, with two chapters still to write, was next month.
By three o’clock he had the program recognising his voice and reproducing on screen a fair copy of his words, though it still had the annoying habit of translating all his ‘erms’ and ‘ahems’. Still, no matter; he could edit them out on the second draft, once he was out of the damned cast.
He made himself a coffee and was settling down to dictate the opening paragraph of the penultimate chapter when he heard the phone ringing downstairs. He cursed, and decided to leave it, before remembering that Anne said she’d ring if she got back early and needed a lift from the station.
He left the program running and hurried downstairs. He’d tell Anne to get the bus to the village, explain that he was deep into the novel.
“Anne?”
“Steven. Sorry – could you collect me?”
“I’m rather—”
“I have tons of bags. I could get the bus, but...”
He smiled. “Hey-ho, I’m on my way.”
He grabbed his coat and made his way out to the car. It was a sunny day, and the countryside was riotous with summer. He’d suggest to Anne that they stop for a coffee on the way back.
So much for that pressing penultimate chapter.
He smiled to himself. It was known in the trade as a displacement activity.
~
He drove extra-carefully from the village. The cast restricted his grip on the wheel, but he found he could grip it adequately with his thumb and forefinger. The fact that his car was an automatic made driving that much easier.
It was only three miles to the Station by the main road, but Rhodes always took the back lanes, adding another mile and a half to the journey. It was a conscious decision: ever since Jane’s death, knocked from her bike on the main road by a hit-and-run motorist, he’d been unable to face driving past the place where the accident had happened.
A year ago, now. They were right about time healing all wounds, he thought; or partially right. The wound, or the pain, was still there, but scabbed
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