Read Online Piranha to Scurfy by Ruth Rendell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ruth Rendell
Tags: Fiction
Ads: Link
were, of course, where they had always been. Or where they had been before the large round bush stepped back into its original position?
“Pull yourself together,” Ribbon said aloud.
Housework day. He started, as he always did, in Mummy’s room, dusting the picture rail and the central lamp with a bunch of pink and blue feathers attached to a rod, and the ornaments with a clean fluffy yellow duster. The numerous books he took out and dusted on alternate weeks, but this was not one of those. He vacuumed the carpet, opened the window wide, and replaced the pink silk nightdress with a pale blue one. He always washed Mummy’s nightdresses by hand once a fortnight. Next his own room and the study, then downstairs to the dining and front rooms. Marle’s publisher would have received his letter by the first post this morning and the department that looked after this kind of thing would, even at this moment probably, be readdressing the envelope and sending it on. Ribbon had no idea where the man lived. London? Devonshire? Most of those people seemed to live in the Cotswolds; its green hills and lush valleys must be chock-full of them. But perhaps Shropshire was more likely. He had written about Montpellier Hall as if he really knew such a house.
Ribbon dusted the mahogany cabinet and passed on to Mummy’s little sewing table, but he couldn’t quite leave things there, and he returned to the cabinet, to stand, duster in hand, staring at that drawer. It was not transparent on this sunny morning and nothing could be seen glowing in its depths. He pulled it open suddenly and snatched up The Book. He looked at its double redness and at the pentagram. After his experiences of the past days he wouldn’t have been surprised if the bandaged face inside had changed its position, closed its mouth or moved its eyes. Well, he would have been surprised—he’d have been horrified, aghast. But the demon was the same as ever; The Book was just the same, an ordinary, rather tastelessly jacketed cheap thriller.
“What on earth is the matter with me?” Ribbon said to The Book.
He went out shopping for food. Sandra On-the-other-side appeared behind him in the queue at the checkout. “You’ve really upset Glenys,” she said. “You know me, I believe in plain speaking, and in all honesty I think you ought to apologize.”
“When I want your opinion I’ll ask for it, Mrs. Wilson,” said Ribbon.
Marle’s brother got on the bus and sat behind him. It wasn’t actually Marle’s brother; he only thought it was, just for a single frightening moment. It was amazing really what a lot of people there were about who looked like Kingston Marle, men and women too. He had never noticed it before, had never had an inkling of it until he came face to face with Marle in that bookshop. If only it were possible to go back. For the moving finger, having writ, not to move on but to retreat, retrace its strokes, white them out with correction fluid and begin writing again. He would have guessed why that silly woman, his cousin’s wife, was so anxious to get to Blackwell’s; her fondness for Marle’s works—distributed so tastelessly all over his bedroom—would have told him, and he would have cried off the Oxford trip, first warning her on no account to let Marle know her surname. Yet—and this was undeniable—Marle had Ribbon’s home address, since the address was on the letter. The moving finger would have to go back a week and erase “21 Grove Green Avenue, London E11 4ZH” from the top right-hand corner of his letter.Then, and only then, would he have been safe ...
Sometimes a second post arrived on a weekday, but none came that day. Ribbon took his shopping bags into the kitchen, unpacked them, went into the front room to open the window—and saw
Demogorgon
lying on the coffee table. A violent trembling convulsed him. He sat down, closed his eyes. He
knew
he hadn’t taken it out of the drawer. Why on earth would he? He hated it.
“Pull yourself together,” Ribbon said aloud.
Housework day. He started, as he always did, in Mummy’s room, dusting the picture rail and the central lamp with a bunch of pink and blue feathers attached to a rod, and the ornaments with a clean fluffy yellow duster. The numerous books he took out and dusted on alternate weeks, but this was not one of those. He vacuumed the carpet, opened the window wide, and replaced the pink silk nightdress with a pale blue one. He always washed Mummy’s nightdresses by hand once a fortnight. Next his own room and the study, then downstairs to the dining and front rooms. Marle’s publisher would have received his letter by the first post this morning and the department that looked after this kind of thing would, even at this moment probably, be readdressing the envelope and sending it on. Ribbon had no idea where the man lived. London? Devonshire? Most of those people seemed to live in the Cotswolds; its green hills and lush valleys must be chock-full of them. But perhaps Shropshire was more likely. He had written about Montpellier Hall as if he really knew such a house.
Ribbon dusted the mahogany cabinet and passed on to Mummy’s little sewing table, but he couldn’t quite leave things there, and he returned to the cabinet, to stand, duster in hand, staring at that drawer. It was not transparent on this sunny morning and nothing could be seen glowing in its depths. He pulled it open suddenly and snatched up The Book. He looked at its double redness and at the pentagram. After his experiences of the past days he wouldn’t have been surprised if the bandaged face inside had changed its position, closed its mouth or moved its eyes. Well, he would have been surprised—he’d have been horrified, aghast. But the demon was the same as ever; The Book was just the same, an ordinary, rather tastelessly jacketed cheap thriller.
“What on earth is the matter with me?” Ribbon said to The Book.
He went out shopping for food. Sandra On-the-other-side appeared behind him in the queue at the checkout. “You’ve really upset Glenys,” she said. “You know me, I believe in plain speaking, and in all honesty I think you ought to apologize.”
“When I want your opinion I’ll ask for it, Mrs. Wilson,” said Ribbon.
Marle’s brother got on the bus and sat behind him. It wasn’t actually Marle’s brother; he only thought it was, just for a single frightening moment. It was amazing really what a lot of people there were about who looked like Kingston Marle, men and women too. He had never noticed it before, had never had an inkling of it until he came face to face with Marle in that bookshop. If only it were possible to go back. For the moving finger, having writ, not to move on but to retreat, retrace its strokes, white them out with correction fluid and begin writing again. He would have guessed why that silly woman, his cousin’s wife, was so anxious to get to Blackwell’s; her fondness for Marle’s works—distributed so tastelessly all over his bedroom—would have told him, and he would have cried off the Oxford trip, first warning her on no account to let Marle know her surname. Yet—and this was undeniable—Marle had Ribbon’s home address, since the address was on the letter. The moving finger would have to go back a week and erase “21 Grove Green Avenue, London E11 4ZH” from the top right-hand corner of his letter.Then, and only then, would he have been safe ...
Sometimes a second post arrived on a weekday, but none came that day. Ribbon took his shopping bags into the kitchen, unpacked them, went into the front room to open the window—and saw
Demogorgon
lying on the coffee table. A violent trembling convulsed him. He sat down, closed his eyes. He
knew
he hadn’t taken it out of the drawer. Why on earth would he? He hated it.
Similar Books
