Read Online Piranha to Scurfy by Ruth Rendell - Free Book Online
Authors: Ruth Rendell
Tags: Fiction
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Ambrose’s mother made no appearance; there was nothing about a burial in the grounds of Montpellier Hall or a cypress tree walking. The end was quite different. Charles Ambrose, married to Kayra in a ceremony conducted in a balloon above the Himalayas, awakens on his wedding night and sees in the corner of the honeymoon bedroom the demon curled up, hunched and small, staring at him with gloating eyes. It had followed him from Egypt to Shropshire, from London to Russia, from Russia to New Orleans, and from New Orleans to Nepal. It would never leave him; it was his for life and perhaps beyond.
Ribbon replaced the book, took up another copy. The same thing: no murder, no burial, no tree walking, only the horror of the demon in the bedroom. So he had been right. Marle had infused this alternative ending into
his
copy alone. It was part of the torment, part of the revenge for the insults Ribbon had heaped on him. On the way back to Liverpool Street Station a shout and a thump made him look over his shoulder—a taxi had clipped the rear wheel of a motorbike—and he saw, a long way behind, Kingston Marle following him.
Ribbon thought he would faint. A great flood of heat washed over him, to be succeeded by shivering. Panic held him still for a moment. Then he dived into a shop, a sweetshop it was, and it was like entering a giant chocolate box. The scent of chocolate swamped him. Trembling, he stared at the street through a window draped with pink frills. Ages passed before Kingston Marle went by. He paused, turned his head to look at the chocolates, and Ribbon, again almost fainting, saw an unknown man, lantern-jawed but not monstrously so, long-haired but the hair sparse and brown, the blue eyes mild and wistful. Ribbon’s heartbeat slowed; the blood withdrew from the surface of his skin. He muttered, “No, no thank you,” to the woman behind the counter and went back into the street. What a wretched state his nerves were in! He’d be encountering a scaly paw in the wardrobe next. Clasping his bag of books, he got thoughtfully into the train.
What he really should have done was add a P.S. to the effect that he would appreciate a prompt acknowledgment of his letter. Just a line saying something like “Please be kind enough to acknowledge receipt.” However, it was too late now. Kingston Marle’s publisher would get his letter tomorrow and send it straight on. Ribbon knew publishers did not always do this, but surely in the case of so eminent an author and one of the most profitable on their list...
Sending the letter should have allayed his fears, but they seemed to crowd in upon him more urgently, jostling each other for preeminence in his mind.The man who had followed him along Bishopsgate, for instance. Of course he knew it had not been Kingston Marle, yet the similarity of build, of feature, of height between the two men was too great for coincidence. The most likely explanation was that his stalker was Marle’s younger brother, and now, as he reached this reasonable conclusion, Ribbon no longer saw the man’s eyes as mild but as sly and crafty. When his letter came Marle would call his brother off but, in the nature of things, the letter could not arrive at Marle’s home before Wednesday at the earliest. Then there was the matter of The Book itself. The drawer in which it lay failed to hide it adequately. It was part of a mahogany cabinet (one of Mummy’s wedding presents, Ribbon believed), well polished but of course opaque.Yet sometimes the wood seemed to become transparent and the harsh reds and glaring silver of
Demogorgon
shine through it as he understood a block of radium would appear as a glowing cuboid behind a wall of solid matter. Approaching closely, creeping up on it, he would see the bright colors fade and the woodwork reappear, smooth, shiny, and
ordinary
once more.
In the study upstairs on Monday evening he tried to do some work, but his eye was constantly drawn to the window and what lay
Ribbon replaced the book, took up another copy. The same thing: no murder, no burial, no tree walking, only the horror of the demon in the bedroom. So he had been right. Marle had infused this alternative ending into
his
copy alone. It was part of the torment, part of the revenge for the insults Ribbon had heaped on him. On the way back to Liverpool Street Station a shout and a thump made him look over his shoulder—a taxi had clipped the rear wheel of a motorbike—and he saw, a long way behind, Kingston Marle following him.
Ribbon thought he would faint. A great flood of heat washed over him, to be succeeded by shivering. Panic held him still for a moment. Then he dived into a shop, a sweetshop it was, and it was like entering a giant chocolate box. The scent of chocolate swamped him. Trembling, he stared at the street through a window draped with pink frills. Ages passed before Kingston Marle went by. He paused, turned his head to look at the chocolates, and Ribbon, again almost fainting, saw an unknown man, lantern-jawed but not monstrously so, long-haired but the hair sparse and brown, the blue eyes mild and wistful. Ribbon’s heartbeat slowed; the blood withdrew from the surface of his skin. He muttered, “No, no thank you,” to the woman behind the counter and went back into the street. What a wretched state his nerves were in! He’d be encountering a scaly paw in the wardrobe next. Clasping his bag of books, he got thoughtfully into the train.
What he really should have done was add a P.S. to the effect that he would appreciate a prompt acknowledgment of his letter. Just a line saying something like “Please be kind enough to acknowledge receipt.” However, it was too late now. Kingston Marle’s publisher would get his letter tomorrow and send it straight on. Ribbon knew publishers did not always do this, but surely in the case of so eminent an author and one of the most profitable on their list...
Sending the letter should have allayed his fears, but they seemed to crowd in upon him more urgently, jostling each other for preeminence in his mind.The man who had followed him along Bishopsgate, for instance. Of course he knew it had not been Kingston Marle, yet the similarity of build, of feature, of height between the two men was too great for coincidence. The most likely explanation was that his stalker was Marle’s younger brother, and now, as he reached this reasonable conclusion, Ribbon no longer saw the man’s eyes as mild but as sly and crafty. When his letter came Marle would call his brother off but, in the nature of things, the letter could not arrive at Marle’s home before Wednesday at the earliest. Then there was the matter of The Book itself. The drawer in which it lay failed to hide it adequately. It was part of a mahogany cabinet (one of Mummy’s wedding presents, Ribbon believed), well polished but of course opaque.Yet sometimes the wood seemed to become transparent and the harsh reds and glaring silver of
Demogorgon
shine through it as he understood a block of radium would appear as a glowing cuboid behind a wall of solid matter. Approaching closely, creeping up on it, he would see the bright colors fade and the woodwork reappear, smooth, shiny, and
ordinary
once more.
In the study upstairs on Monday evening he tried to do some work, but his eye was constantly drawn to the window and what lay
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