Read Online Piranha to Scurfy by Ruth Rendell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ruth Rendell
Tags: Fiction
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beyond. He became convinced that the bushes on the lawn had moved.That small thin one had surely stood next to the pair of tall fat ones, not several yards away. Since the night before it had shifted its position, taking a step nearer to the house. Drawing the curtains helped, but after a while he got up and pulled them apart a little to check on the big round bush, to see if it had taken a step farther or had returned to its previous position. It was where it had been ten minutes before. All should have been well, but it was not. The room itself had become uncomfortable, and he resolved not to go back there, to move the computer downstairs, until he had heard from Kingston Marle.
The doorbell ringing made him jump so violently he felt pain travel through his body and reverberate. Immediately he thought of Marle’s brother. Suppose Marle’s brother, a strong young man, was outside the door and when it was opened would force his way in? Or, worse, was merely checking that Ribbon was at home and, when footsteps sounded inside, intended to disappear? Ribbon went down. He took a deep breath and threw the door open. His caller was Glenys Next-door.
Marching in without being invited, she said, “Hiya, Amby” and explained that Tinks Next-door was missing. The cat had not been home since the morning, when he was last seen by Sandra On-the-other-side sitting in Ribbon’s front garden eating a bird.
“I’m out of my mind with worry, as you can imagine, Amby.”
As a matter of fact, he couldn’t. Ribbon cared very little for songbirds, but he cared for feline predators even less. “I’ll let you know if I come across him. However”—he laughed lightly—“he knows he’s not popular with me, so he makes himself scarce.”
This was the wrong thing to say. In the works of his less literate authors Ribbon sometimes came upon the expression
to bridle:
“she bridled” or even “the young woman bridled.” At last he understood what it meant. Glenys Next-door tossed her head, raised her eyebrows, and looked down her nose at him.
“I’m sorry for you, Amby, I really am.You must find that attitude problem of yours a real hang-up. I mean socially. I’ve tried to ignore it all these years, but there comes a time when one has to speak one’s mind. No, don’t bother, please, I can see myself out.”
This was not going to be a
good
night. He knew that before he switched the bedside light off. For one thing, he always read in bed before going to sleep. Always had and always would. But for some reason he had forgotten to take
Destiny’s Suzerain
upstairs with him, and though his bedroom was full of reading matter, shelves and shelves of it, he had read all the books before. Of course he could have gone downstairs and fetched himself a book, or even just gone into the study, which was lined with books. Booked, not papered, indeed. He
could
have done so, in theory he could have, but on coming into his bedroom he had locked the door. Why? He was unable to answer that question, though he put it to himself several times. It was a small house, potentially brightly lit, in a street of a hundred and fifty such houses, all populated. A dreadful feeling descended upon him as he lay in bed that if he unlocked that door, if he turned the key and opened it, something would come in. Was it the small thin bush that would come in? These thoughts, ridiculous, unworthy of him, puerile, frightened him so much that he put the bedside lamp on and left it on till morning.
Tuesday’s post brought two letters. Eric Owlberg called Ribbon “a little harsh” and informed him that printers do not always do as they are told. Jeanne Pettle’s letter was from a secretary who wrote that Ms. Pettle was away on an extended publicity tour but would certainly attend to his “interesting communication” when she returned. There was nothing from Dillon’s. It was a bright sunny day. Ribbon went into the study and contemplated the garden. The shrubs
The doorbell ringing made him jump so violently he felt pain travel through his body and reverberate. Immediately he thought of Marle’s brother. Suppose Marle’s brother, a strong young man, was outside the door and when it was opened would force his way in? Or, worse, was merely checking that Ribbon was at home and, when footsteps sounded inside, intended to disappear? Ribbon went down. He took a deep breath and threw the door open. His caller was Glenys Next-door.
Marching in without being invited, she said, “Hiya, Amby” and explained that Tinks Next-door was missing. The cat had not been home since the morning, when he was last seen by Sandra On-the-other-side sitting in Ribbon’s front garden eating a bird.
“I’m out of my mind with worry, as you can imagine, Amby.”
As a matter of fact, he couldn’t. Ribbon cared very little for songbirds, but he cared for feline predators even less. “I’ll let you know if I come across him. However”—he laughed lightly—“he knows he’s not popular with me, so he makes himself scarce.”
This was the wrong thing to say. In the works of his less literate authors Ribbon sometimes came upon the expression
to bridle:
“she bridled” or even “the young woman bridled.” At last he understood what it meant. Glenys Next-door tossed her head, raised her eyebrows, and looked down her nose at him.
“I’m sorry for you, Amby, I really am.You must find that attitude problem of yours a real hang-up. I mean socially. I’ve tried to ignore it all these years, but there comes a time when one has to speak one’s mind. No, don’t bother, please, I can see myself out.”
This was not going to be a
good
night. He knew that before he switched the bedside light off. For one thing, he always read in bed before going to sleep. Always had and always would. But for some reason he had forgotten to take
Destiny’s Suzerain
upstairs with him, and though his bedroom was full of reading matter, shelves and shelves of it, he had read all the books before. Of course he could have gone downstairs and fetched himself a book, or even just gone into the study, which was lined with books. Booked, not papered, indeed. He
could
have done so, in theory he could have, but on coming into his bedroom he had locked the door. Why? He was unable to answer that question, though he put it to himself several times. It was a small house, potentially brightly lit, in a street of a hundred and fifty such houses, all populated. A dreadful feeling descended upon him as he lay in bed that if he unlocked that door, if he turned the key and opened it, something would come in. Was it the small thin bush that would come in? These thoughts, ridiculous, unworthy of him, puerile, frightened him so much that he put the bedside lamp on and left it on till morning.
Tuesday’s post brought two letters. Eric Owlberg called Ribbon “a little harsh” and informed him that printers do not always do as they are told. Jeanne Pettle’s letter was from a secretary who wrote that Ms. Pettle was away on an extended publicity tour but would certainly attend to his “interesting communication” when she returned. There was nothing from Dillon’s. It was a bright sunny day. Ribbon went into the study and contemplated the garden. The shrubs