Read Online The Last Revelation Of Gla'aki by Ramsey Campbell - Free Book Online
Authors: Ramsey Campbell
Tags: Fiction
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time he came in sight. "Will you be having our dinner?" she said.
"Would you excuse me if I just nip out for something quick so I can get back to work?"
"The work you're doing here, you mean."
"Examining what I've acquired." In case this was unclear Fairman added "Yes."
"Then we've nothing to excuse." As she took hold of the bludgeon attached to his room key her fingernails glistened, and he thought the skin around them did; she must have been painting them again. "There won't be much difference," she said. "It's all our own produce."
The glare of the streetlamps blanched the promenade and blackened the cars parked outside the hotels but left the buildings as grey as the fog that had crept back across the sea. For the moment the seafront was deserted, though Fairman heard a metallic rattle that might have belonged to a restless car on the roller coaster or a shutter at a shop window, if it wasn't the sound of the bars of a cage. He made his way past Fishing For You to another such establishment among the noisily wakeful arcades. "Trying us tonight?" said the blubbery man at the counter of Fish It Up, dabbing the infirm pallid ridges of his brow with a paper napkin. "It's the only thing to have while you're here."
"Seaside food, you mean? I expect you're right. Fish and chips for me."
He was relieved not to see the man touch the food, instead using a spade like a child's seaside toy to scoop chips out of the fryer and employing tongs to crown them with a fish. At first he'd thought the man was wearing plastic gloves, since his rudimentary nails were virtually indistinguishable from the stubby fingers. He was careful not to touch the man's hand when he paid—he still remembered vividly how the coin with which he'd tipped the porter had seemed to sink into the moist palm—and took the package from the sweating metal counter.
When he crossed the promenade to a bench he was surprised to see how many people were still on the beach, but he supposed he wasn't behaving entirely unlike them. Most were seated, which made them look as if they were protruding from the pebbly sand, and a few were lying down. He saw none of them move even slightly while he ate his dinner; in the pasty light he could have taken them for dummies that had strayed out of a waxworks. The meal was very much like last night's, with the same odd texture to the fish, but he felt as if he wasn't quite able to grasp the familiar taste. Perhaps he was too anxious to be back at the books, though he was also distracted by the sight of a supine figure on the beach lurching upright at the waist as though roused from a dream. The man's face was covered by a floppy hat, which had slipped so far down the head that Fairman could easily have imagined it had taken the face with it; there certainly appeared to be an unreasonable amount of greyish brow beneath the glistening hairless cranium. He finished his dinner as quickly as digestion would allow, while the figure stayed half upright with the hat dangling from the unseen face, and then he made some haste to the hotel.
As he reached it a chorus bade him good evening from the shelter opposite. The voices were feeble enough to add up to a single one, and they belonged to several old folk— surely not the same ones he'd seen earlier—who sat facing the Wyleave. For an absurd moment he wondered if they were about to address him by name. "Good night," he called and felt as if the chilly fog had lurched across the seafront after him.
The thump of the metal club on the counter reminded him of a gavel. "Here for good now?" Mrs Berry said.
"In for the night, if that's what you mean."
"That's good." As Fairman took the key she said "You know who to ring if you need anything at all."
Perhaps he was making too much of this, but he blurted "Isn't Mr Berry with you?"
"We don't leave Gulshaw, Mr Fairman. I think you saw him at the zoo."
Fairman was so embarrassed by his own question that he could only protest "I didn't see
"Would you excuse me if I just nip out for something quick so I can get back to work?"
"The work you're doing here, you mean."
"Examining what I've acquired." In case this was unclear Fairman added "Yes."
"Then we've nothing to excuse." As she took hold of the bludgeon attached to his room key her fingernails glistened, and he thought the skin around them did; she must have been painting them again. "There won't be much difference," she said. "It's all our own produce."
The glare of the streetlamps blanched the promenade and blackened the cars parked outside the hotels but left the buildings as grey as the fog that had crept back across the sea. For the moment the seafront was deserted, though Fairman heard a metallic rattle that might have belonged to a restless car on the roller coaster or a shutter at a shop window, if it wasn't the sound of the bars of a cage. He made his way past Fishing For You to another such establishment among the noisily wakeful arcades. "Trying us tonight?" said the blubbery man at the counter of Fish It Up, dabbing the infirm pallid ridges of his brow with a paper napkin. "It's the only thing to have while you're here."
"Seaside food, you mean? I expect you're right. Fish and chips for me."
He was relieved not to see the man touch the food, instead using a spade like a child's seaside toy to scoop chips out of the fryer and employing tongs to crown them with a fish. At first he'd thought the man was wearing plastic gloves, since his rudimentary nails were virtually indistinguishable from the stubby fingers. He was careful not to touch the man's hand when he paid—he still remembered vividly how the coin with which he'd tipped the porter had seemed to sink into the moist palm—and took the package from the sweating metal counter.
When he crossed the promenade to a bench he was surprised to see how many people were still on the beach, but he supposed he wasn't behaving entirely unlike them. Most were seated, which made them look as if they were protruding from the pebbly sand, and a few were lying down. He saw none of them move even slightly while he ate his dinner; in the pasty light he could have taken them for dummies that had strayed out of a waxworks. The meal was very much like last night's, with the same odd texture to the fish, but he felt as if he wasn't quite able to grasp the familiar taste. Perhaps he was too anxious to be back at the books, though he was also distracted by the sight of a supine figure on the beach lurching upright at the waist as though roused from a dream. The man's face was covered by a floppy hat, which had slipped so far down the head that Fairman could easily have imagined it had taken the face with it; there certainly appeared to be an unreasonable amount of greyish brow beneath the glistening hairless cranium. He finished his dinner as quickly as digestion would allow, while the figure stayed half upright with the hat dangling from the unseen face, and then he made some haste to the hotel.
As he reached it a chorus bade him good evening from the shelter opposite. The voices were feeble enough to add up to a single one, and they belonged to several old folk— surely not the same ones he'd seen earlier—who sat facing the Wyleave. For an absurd moment he wondered if they were about to address him by name. "Good night," he called and felt as if the chilly fog had lurched across the seafront after him.
The thump of the metal club on the counter reminded him of a gavel. "Here for good now?" Mrs Berry said.
"In for the night, if that's what you mean."
"That's good." As Fairman took the key she said "You know who to ring if you need anything at all."
Perhaps he was making too much of this, but he blurted "Isn't Mr Berry with you?"
"We don't leave Gulshaw, Mr Fairman. I think you saw him at the zoo."
Fairman was so embarrassed by his own question that he could only protest "I didn't see
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