Read Online Secret Story by Ramsey Campbell - Free Book Online

while their backs were skeletal metal guitars. Photographs of the Beatles in a selection of coiffures, images that Tom had already declared he could top, adorned the walls of the wine bar. Plastic notes lay cradled on foursomes of strings under the black ceiling of the long low room. None of this could distract her from realising that the photographer was only voicing the dissatisfaction she’d been levelling at herself ever since her pathetically feeble interview. She took a sip of Starr’s Sauvignon, though she hadexpected it to be white rather than a cabernet, on the way to saying “Don’t be shy if Walt’s agreeable.”
    “I’ll leave you your job.” As if the thought had arrested his pint on its way to his mouth Tom said “Have you followed up those names he dropped yet?”
    Walt touched his smooth forehead with a dewy bottle of Lennon’s Lager, depositing a bead under his elevated hairline before lowering the glass stem past his long well-nigh rectangular suntanned face. “Which were those?”
    “He didn’t seem to want to talk about one of them if you remember, Tom.”
    “All the more reason to check up on it. If he really didn’t want you knowing he wouldn’t have mentioned it.”
    Vincent deposited his tankard of Best’s Best on a stained Sergeant Pepper beer-mat and wrinkled his small nose to hitch his large spectacles higher on his round widemouthed face. “You’ve got me interested,” he said.
    “There was a teacher who tried to stop him writing what he writes,” Patricia had to say. “All right, maybe I should have probed more. I’ve still got time.”
    “It starts now,” said Tom. “Here’s your murder man.”
    She stood up to welcome him. He was approaching at a pace that looked positively uncomfortable. He wore a grey suit and white shirt and discreetly silver tie, and her instincts told her that Kathy had chosen the outfit. “Walt, Vincent,” she said, “this is Dudley Smith.”
    “And you’ll remember me,” said Tom.
    “Name your poison,” Walt said, having grasped Dudley’s hand. “Let me ask you, have you poisoned anybody yet?”
    Dudley muttered something like a no as he ducked to the drinks list as if the weight of his broad face was too much for his chin. “If you want an adventure nobody’s had yet,” Vincent said, “there’s Harrison’s Hock.”
    “I’d better, then.”
    “What’s everyone having to eat?” Walt said.
    A mop-haired waitress in a Beatles uniform came to take their order. Tom plumped for George’s Grill, and Vincent for Pete’s Pizza. Patricia decided on John’s Jambalaya and Walt, having waited in vain for Dudley to make up his mind, opted for Paul’s Prawns. “Looks like you’re for Ringo’s Ratatouille,” Vincent said.
    “I’ll have that,” Dudley told the waitress.
    “You know it’s vegetarian,” Patricia felt impelled to murmur, only to be met by an unfriendly glance that inhibited her from pointing out how many other items named after members of bands the menu offered. She suspected that he was unused to this kind of social gathering, especially when he didn’t wait for the Beatles to leave before he remarked to Vincent “So you want to film my story.”
    “I’ll record this if you two don’t mind,” Patricia said.
    “You want to film my story.”
    Vincent seemed no more certain than Patricia whether Dudley was repeating himself for the benefit of the tape. “I think it could be a good starting point.”
    “It’ll be the opening, you mean.”
    “Or maybe just the back story. We’d have to make it more real if I was going to stage it.”
    Dudley shifted on his chair. “What’s not real about it?”
    “How did he get away with not being caught? There are security cameras on all the underground stations.”
    The way Dudley’s face stiffened and grew blank showed how close he was to his fiction, Patricia thought, and so did his grin of relief. “They couldn’t have been working.”
    “Pretty lucky for