Read Online The Kind Folk by Ramsey Campbell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ramsey Campbell
Ads: Link
should he have blamed himself all these years later?"
Suppose Terence was afraid that Luke might revert to the condition, perhaps from going on the Brittan show? As Luke tells himself there was no need for the fear Sophie says "Do you want to talk about it? You never have."
"We can bin that paper. Wait, there's no room." Luke unlocks and unbolts the back door to evict the smelly contents of the kitchen bin. As he dumps the bottle and the scragged bag in the dustbin against the weedy brick wall underneath the arch, a train rumbles overhead and the yard door jitters as though an intruder is fumbling with the latch. He secures the back door while Sophie finishes lining the kitchen bin. "Sorry for the wait," he says. "Hardly worth it. I kept waking Freda up, that was the problem."
Sophie folds the newspaper as small and thin as a book and lets the lid clap shut on it. "Do you remember what you were dreaming?"
"What, when I was six?" He's surprised to be able to say "It was the same thing for however long it lasted. Somebody was watching me and I don't think I wanted to see them."
"Did you, though?"
"They used to be at the window." He's disconcerted by how vivid the memory is growing. "Sometimes they were looking in upside down, more than one of them. And sometimes I thought their necks must be as long as a giraffe's if they were the right way up, or they could stretch that far."
"I'm not surprised you made a noise."
"That wasn't all," Luke says, though he's beginning to wish it had been. "If I didn't they would come in even though the window wasn't open and stand at the foot of the bed."
"They weren't as stretched as you thought, then."
"They could take all sorts of shapes," Luke says, and another memory lights up like a tableau in a ghost train: how the figures silhouetted in the moonlit dimness would lay their hands on the bedrail. They would grasp it as though they were establishing some form of ownership, and then all their hands would adopt another shape. It seems to him now that it resembled a symbol more than any hand ought to be able to do. "I've forgotten how they looked," he says, "before you ask."
"Did you tell anyone at the time?"
"I had to. Freda, Maurice, the doctor, the psychiatrist. Just that I kept dreaming somebody was at the window or in the room."
Sophie lowers herself onto one of the quartet of rickety chairs that loiter around the stained table. "What did they say?"
"Not a word I can remember. Sometimes I thought they hadn't got around to having mouths," Luke says and laughs, though not much. "You're asking me about the people I told, aren't you? The psychiatrist said it was nothing to worry about, so we didn't."
"There must have been more to it, Luke."
"She was the kind even the Arnolds liked. I'd say she thought psychiatry was her last resource after she'd tried everything else, certainly for somebody my age. She said I was highly imaginative and oughtn't to spend so much time on my own, and not to feed me close to bedtime, and keep an eye on what I read and watched. They'd have recommended her to their friends if they hadn't been so embarrassed about taking me to see her. But they did everything she said, and made sure I brought friends home from school, and I stopped waking Freda up."
"So the psychiatrist was all you needed."
"I'm not sure she cured me."
Sophie clasps her hands on her midriff as though she's protecting their child. "Why not, Luke?"
"I think I cured myself." He waits until she parts her hands. "I told you the Arnolds were embarrassed," he says. "I really think that made me feel worse than the dreams or disturbing Freda. I thought I wasn't the kind of son they'd hoped for, and so I did my best to be."
Sophie turns her hands up towards him, and he's put in mind of an opening flower. "What did you do?"
"Whenever the figures showed up I kept my eyes shut, even if they came into the room, and pretty soon they went away for good."
"You managed that when you were six years
Suppose Terence was afraid that Luke might revert to the condition, perhaps from going on the Brittan show? As Luke tells himself there was no need for the fear Sophie says "Do you want to talk about it? You never have."
"We can bin that paper. Wait, there's no room." Luke unlocks and unbolts the back door to evict the smelly contents of the kitchen bin. As he dumps the bottle and the scragged bag in the dustbin against the weedy brick wall underneath the arch, a train rumbles overhead and the yard door jitters as though an intruder is fumbling with the latch. He secures the back door while Sophie finishes lining the kitchen bin. "Sorry for the wait," he says. "Hardly worth it. I kept waking Freda up, that was the problem."
Sophie folds the newspaper as small and thin as a book and lets the lid clap shut on it. "Do you remember what you were dreaming?"
"What, when I was six?" He's surprised to be able to say "It was the same thing for however long it lasted. Somebody was watching me and I don't think I wanted to see them."
"Did you, though?"
"They used to be at the window." He's disconcerted by how vivid the memory is growing. "Sometimes they were looking in upside down, more than one of them. And sometimes I thought their necks must be as long as a giraffe's if they were the right way up, or they could stretch that far."
"I'm not surprised you made a noise."
"That wasn't all," Luke says, though he's beginning to wish it had been. "If I didn't they would come in even though the window wasn't open and stand at the foot of the bed."
"They weren't as stretched as you thought, then."
"They could take all sorts of shapes," Luke says, and another memory lights up like a tableau in a ghost train: how the figures silhouetted in the moonlit dimness would lay their hands on the bedrail. They would grasp it as though they were establishing some form of ownership, and then all their hands would adopt another shape. It seems to him now that it resembled a symbol more than any hand ought to be able to do. "I've forgotten how they looked," he says, "before you ask."
"Did you tell anyone at the time?"
"I had to. Freda, Maurice, the doctor, the psychiatrist. Just that I kept dreaming somebody was at the window or in the room."
Sophie lowers herself onto one of the quartet of rickety chairs that loiter around the stained table. "What did they say?"
"Not a word I can remember. Sometimes I thought they hadn't got around to having mouths," Luke says and laughs, though not much. "You're asking me about the people I told, aren't you? The psychiatrist said it was nothing to worry about, so we didn't."
"There must have been more to it, Luke."
"She was the kind even the Arnolds liked. I'd say she thought psychiatry was her last resource after she'd tried everything else, certainly for somebody my age. She said I was highly imaginative and oughtn't to spend so much time on my own, and not to feed me close to bedtime, and keep an eye on what I read and watched. They'd have recommended her to their friends if they hadn't been so embarrassed about taking me to see her. But they did everything she said, and made sure I brought friends home from school, and I stopped waking Freda up."
"So the psychiatrist was all you needed."
"I'm not sure she cured me."
Sophie clasps her hands on her midriff as though she's protecting their child. "Why not, Luke?"
"I think I cured myself." He waits until she parts her hands. "I told you the Arnolds were embarrassed," he says. "I really think that made me feel worse than the dreams or disturbing Freda. I thought I wasn't the kind of son they'd hoped for, and so I did my best to be."
Sophie turns her hands up towards him, and he's put in mind of an opening flower. "What did you do?"
"Whenever the figures showed up I kept my eyes shut, even if they came into the room, and pretty soon they went away for good."
"You managed that when you were six years
Similar Books
