Read Online The Man in the Net by Patrick Quentin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Patrick Quentin
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treachery performed, he just lay on the grass, whimpering and kicking his toes against the ground.
John went back to the others. They were all awkward and shame-faced. The spell was broken. The shadow of Linda had stepped among them.
He left soon and walked back to the house.
And there was Linda, as brisk and bright as ever. She had his lunch ready and sat with him while he ate, not eating herself, smoking cigarette after cigarette, watching him from behind the sunglasses, and talking with a rather hectic casualness about trivialities.
She came up with him while he changed and packed an overnight bag.
“You don’t mind driving yourself to the station, do you? I won’t be needing the car while you’re away anyway. And …” She raised her hand to the glasses. “I don’t want to go through the village like this. I don’t want them to talk.”
That was the nearest she got to any reference to what had happened until she was standing by the car, waiting for him to drive off.
Then, suddenly, she said, “John, promise me one thing, please. It’s all right with Bill. I swear I’ll be all right. I’ll do everything if it’s Bill. But don’t go to anyone else. I mean, if he isn’t there or anything … please.”
“Okay,” he said.
“And, John …”
“Yes.”
“About Steve. You were right. What I said last night— it was a lie. I don’t know what got into me.”
“It’s all right, Linda. Well, see you tomorrow evening.”
“Yes, tomorrow. Goodbye, John.”
“Goodbye.”
And she’d stood outside the kitchen door, smiling and waving as he swung the car down the drive …
The conductor had already called the station and Brad had pulled their suitcases down from the rack. When the train stopped and they climbed out, John saw the old black sedan still parked where he had left it. Vickie was there too with the Careys’ Buick. They joined her and she kissed them both.
“Well, John, is the great deed done?”
“It’s done.”
She squeezed his hand. “Linda will understand, I’m sure. If you feel like it, come over, both of you, later. Father’s been off in Springfield and Mother stayed with me last night, two lorn females together. But he’s just got back and he’s whisked her off again. So do come.”
John drove home, trying not to think about Linda any more. What was the point of tormenting himself with speculations? He would know soon enough. In the village, he stopped off at the post office. He was expecting the monthly Art Review which should have a criticism of his show and he knew that Linda, without the car, probably wouldn’t have picked up the mail. Several of the villagers were lounging around inside. As he went up to his box, he nodded and said, “Good evening.” No one answered. His box was right by the window where Mrs. Jones was arranging a stamp book. He smiled at her as he took out his letters. For a moment she glanced right through him and then turned back to the stamps, and gradually he began to realize that the atmosphere was not just neutral, it was antagonistic. So news of the episode at the Careys’, distorted into God knows what, had spread through the village already. To Stoneville, he wasn’t just the slightly comic outsider any more. He was—what? The wife-beater? The degenerate city interloper?
As he walked out again to his car, the silence seemed to follow him like a threat. It didn’t matter, he told himself. He’d made no effort of friendship toward the village, any more than he had toward the Carey set. All he’d ever asked was to be left alone. But, as he climbed into the car and started off again, the memory of the rejection clung on, cold and faintly sinister. It was as if an invisible Linda had slipped into the car with him. Because this was all Linda, of course. The man they’d rejected hadn’t been he himself—the real John Hamilton. They didn’t even know him. It had been the image of John
John went back to the others. They were all awkward and shame-faced. The spell was broken. The shadow of Linda had stepped among them.
He left soon and walked back to the house.
And there was Linda, as brisk and bright as ever. She had his lunch ready and sat with him while he ate, not eating herself, smoking cigarette after cigarette, watching him from behind the sunglasses, and talking with a rather hectic casualness about trivialities.
She came up with him while he changed and packed an overnight bag.
“You don’t mind driving yourself to the station, do you? I won’t be needing the car while you’re away anyway. And …” She raised her hand to the glasses. “I don’t want to go through the village like this. I don’t want them to talk.”
That was the nearest she got to any reference to what had happened until she was standing by the car, waiting for him to drive off.
Then, suddenly, she said, “John, promise me one thing, please. It’s all right with Bill. I swear I’ll be all right. I’ll do everything if it’s Bill. But don’t go to anyone else. I mean, if he isn’t there or anything … please.”
“Okay,” he said.
“And, John …”
“Yes.”
“About Steve. You were right. What I said last night— it was a lie. I don’t know what got into me.”
“It’s all right, Linda. Well, see you tomorrow evening.”
“Yes, tomorrow. Goodbye, John.”
“Goodbye.”
And she’d stood outside the kitchen door, smiling and waving as he swung the car down the drive …
The conductor had already called the station and Brad had pulled their suitcases down from the rack. When the train stopped and they climbed out, John saw the old black sedan still parked where he had left it. Vickie was there too with the Careys’ Buick. They joined her and she kissed them both.
“Well, John, is the great deed done?”
“It’s done.”
She squeezed his hand. “Linda will understand, I’m sure. If you feel like it, come over, both of you, later. Father’s been off in Springfield and Mother stayed with me last night, two lorn females together. But he’s just got back and he’s whisked her off again. So do come.”
John drove home, trying not to think about Linda any more. What was the point of tormenting himself with speculations? He would know soon enough. In the village, he stopped off at the post office. He was expecting the monthly Art Review which should have a criticism of his show and he knew that Linda, without the car, probably wouldn’t have picked up the mail. Several of the villagers were lounging around inside. As he went up to his box, he nodded and said, “Good evening.” No one answered. His box was right by the window where Mrs. Jones was arranging a stamp book. He smiled at her as he took out his letters. For a moment she glanced right through him and then turned back to the stamps, and gradually he began to realize that the atmosphere was not just neutral, it was antagonistic. So news of the episode at the Careys’, distorted into God knows what, had spread through the village already. To Stoneville, he wasn’t just the slightly comic outsider any more. He was—what? The wife-beater? The degenerate city interloper?
As he walked out again to his car, the silence seemed to follow him like a threat. It didn’t matter, he told himself. He’d made no effort of friendship toward the village, any more than he had toward the Carey set. All he’d ever asked was to be left alone. But, as he climbed into the car and started off again, the memory of the rejection clung on, cold and faintly sinister. It was as if an invisible Linda had slipped into the car with him. Because this was all Linda, of course. The man they’d rejected hadn’t been he himself—the real John Hamilton. They didn’t even know him. It had been the image of John
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