Read Online The Count of Eleven by Ramsey Campbell - Free Book Online
Authors: Ramsey Campbell
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girl of about Laura’s age wheeled a pram, the contents of which Jack couldn’t distinguish, across his path as he steered the van into the entrance to a court of warehouses. Buildings like secrecy embodied in forty-foot walls of red brick surrounded him at once, cutting off the mumble of the city and grudgingly returning him an echo of the slam of his door as he stepped down.
Apart from the van, the only vehicle parked in the court was an uncabbed lorry trailer at least as capacious as the Orchards’ house. Most of the stout doors in the hefty walls were unidentified by signs, but a slightly askew bright-red plaque was screwed above the wicket in the’ door nearest the van. V1CS VIDS, the plaque announced in white letters, most of which belonged to the same font. Above the plaque a camera which had recently been assailed with litter swivelled rustily to watch Jack, and in front of the wicket a dog began to growl.
If it hadn’t, he might almost have taken it for a carpet which someone had dumped. As he pressed the bell push next to the door, the animal pricked up one threadbare ear and the chewed remains of the other, and bared teeth so eroded that the sight made Jack’s teeth ache. It looked as though an Alsatian and several other breeds, all of them ready to fight, had been involved in its birth. The dog was continuing to growl, keeping it low in order to prolong the threat without drawing breath, when the grille above the bell push cleared itself of a gob of static and said “Give it a kick.”
Jack leaned one hand on the door frame and pirouetting gingerly, delivered a kick to the wicket above the old rope of the dog’s tail. The door didn’t budge, but the dog raised its head from between its paws and began to foam at the mouth while its growl doubled in vehemence. “Not the door, you fool,” the grille protested, ‘the dog.”
“Kick your own dog,” Jack said, almost falling on top of the animal in his haste to back out of reach.
The grille expelled a burst of static like a hiss of reproof, and Jack was awaiting a more positive response when the wicket crashed open and the dog leapt up, straight at him. He froze, telling himself not to show fear, and at the last moment the dog swerved and fled into the road, causing a Jaguar driven by a huge Jamaican to screech and veer. “I wouldn’t have stood in his way, la,” the pony-tailed youth who had opened the door advised Jack. “He’s not our dog.”
“I felt lucky,” Jack said like the kind of film he thought the youth might watch.
The youth, who wore an earring and a T-shirt printed with a hero as muscular as he himself was scrawny, seemed unimpressed. “Whir you from?”
“Over the water,” Jack said, wondering why this provoked a stare which bordered on the hostile. “My business, you mean? Fine Films.”
“Never heard of them.”
“That’s some admission,” Jack said, and when the stare didn’t waver: “You sent me a catalogue.”
“We sent lots this month,” the youth said accusingly. He craned back through the wicket and shouted “Says he’s Fine Films.”
“Let him in,” a woman responded.
The youth shrugged and ducked through the wicket. “Gorra be curful,” he muttered, which apparently implied a request, because Jack had scarcely crossed the threshold when the youth said as if he was repeating it “Shut the door.”
Jack did so, and looked around. Beneath the brick ceiling, metal shelves standing a foot taller than he were attached to the bare brick walls; others stood back to back on the brick floor, leaving just enough space for two people to pass in the aisles. Unsurprisingly, the enormous room smelled of brick. One entire wall was of Horror, while the opposite wall displayed second-hand cassettes, growing cheaper and dustier as they progressed towards the dimmest corner of the room. Jack collected a supermarket trolley from beside the cash-desk, behind which a perspiring pudgy woman who looked as if she
Apart from the van, the only vehicle parked in the court was an uncabbed lorry trailer at least as capacious as the Orchards’ house. Most of the stout doors in the hefty walls were unidentified by signs, but a slightly askew bright-red plaque was screwed above the wicket in the’ door nearest the van. V1CS VIDS, the plaque announced in white letters, most of which belonged to the same font. Above the plaque a camera which had recently been assailed with litter swivelled rustily to watch Jack, and in front of the wicket a dog began to growl.
If it hadn’t, he might almost have taken it for a carpet which someone had dumped. As he pressed the bell push next to the door, the animal pricked up one threadbare ear and the chewed remains of the other, and bared teeth so eroded that the sight made Jack’s teeth ache. It looked as though an Alsatian and several other breeds, all of them ready to fight, had been involved in its birth. The dog was continuing to growl, keeping it low in order to prolong the threat without drawing breath, when the grille above the bell push cleared itself of a gob of static and said “Give it a kick.”
Jack leaned one hand on the door frame and pirouetting gingerly, delivered a kick to the wicket above the old rope of the dog’s tail. The door didn’t budge, but the dog raised its head from between its paws and began to foam at the mouth while its growl doubled in vehemence. “Not the door, you fool,” the grille protested, ‘the dog.”
“Kick your own dog,” Jack said, almost falling on top of the animal in his haste to back out of reach.
The grille expelled a burst of static like a hiss of reproof, and Jack was awaiting a more positive response when the wicket crashed open and the dog leapt up, straight at him. He froze, telling himself not to show fear, and at the last moment the dog swerved and fled into the road, causing a Jaguar driven by a huge Jamaican to screech and veer. “I wouldn’t have stood in his way, la,” the pony-tailed youth who had opened the door advised Jack. “He’s not our dog.”
“I felt lucky,” Jack said like the kind of film he thought the youth might watch.
The youth, who wore an earring and a T-shirt printed with a hero as muscular as he himself was scrawny, seemed unimpressed. “Whir you from?”
“Over the water,” Jack said, wondering why this provoked a stare which bordered on the hostile. “My business, you mean? Fine Films.”
“Never heard of them.”
“That’s some admission,” Jack said, and when the stare didn’t waver: “You sent me a catalogue.”
“We sent lots this month,” the youth said accusingly. He craned back through the wicket and shouted “Says he’s Fine Films.”
“Let him in,” a woman responded.
The youth shrugged and ducked through the wicket. “Gorra be curful,” he muttered, which apparently implied a request, because Jack had scarcely crossed the threshold when the youth said as if he was repeating it “Shut the door.”
Jack did so, and looked around. Beneath the brick ceiling, metal shelves standing a foot taller than he were attached to the bare brick walls; others stood back to back on the brick floor, leaving just enough space for two people to pass in the aisles. Unsurprisingly, the enormous room smelled of brick. One entire wall was of Horror, while the opposite wall displayed second-hand cassettes, growing cheaper and dustier as they progressed towards the dimmest corner of the room. Jack collected a supermarket trolley from beside the cash-desk, behind which a perspiring pudgy woman who looked as if she
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