Read Online The Pariah by Graham Masterton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Graham Masterton
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and smiled, and shook his head, and said, ‘Nobody comes back, Mr Trenton. That’s the really hard lesson you have to learn when you lose someone you love. They just don’t come back.’
‘Sure,’ I said, nodding. ‘Thanks for listening, anyway. It always helps to have people to talk to.’
‘You’re tired, that’s all,’ said Charlie. ‘You’re imagining things. Why don’t I sell you some Nytol, just to get you off to sleep?’
‘I still have the Nembutal tablets that Dr Rosen gave me.’
‘Well , take them, and make sure you eat good. Any more of these TV dinners and your skin is going to start breaking out in separate compartments.’
‘Come on, Charlie, you’re not his mother,’ said Lenny Danarts, from the Granitehead gift store, impatient to be served.
I picked up the new TV Guide from the rack, waved Charlie goodnight, and pushed my way out of the store with my arms full of shopping. It was still windy outside, but the rain seemed to have eased off, and there was a fresh smell of ocean and wet stony soil. The walk back to Quaker Lane and up the hill between the elm trees suddenly seemed like a very long way, but I hefted my packages and started off across the parking-lot.
I was only halfway across, however, when a cream-coloured Buick drew up alongside of me and the driver tooted the horn. I bent down and saw that it was old Mrs Edgar Simons, a frail and rather dotty old widow who lived just beyond Quaker Lane in a large Samuel McIntire house that I had always envied. She put down the passenger window and called, ‘May I offer you a ride, Mr Trenton? It’s an awfully stormy night to be walking home with your arms full of groceries.’
‘I appreciate it,’ I said, and I did. She opened up the trunk for me, and I stored my packages away next to the spare wheel, and then joined her inside the car. It smelled of leather and lavender, an old woman’s perfume, but not unpleasant.
‘Walking to the store is the only exercise I get,’ I told her. ‘I always seem to be too busy for squash these days. In fact, I always seem to be too busy for anything but work and sleep.’
‘Maybe that’s a good thing, keeping busy,’ said Mrs Edgar Simons, peering out over the long rain-beaded hood of her car. ‘Now, is it clear your way? Can I pull out? Edgar used to give me such a hard time for pulling out without looking. I went straight into a horse once. A horse!’ I looked northwards, up the highway. ‘You’re okay,’ I told her, and she pulled away from the parking-lot with a screech of wet tires. It was always an interesting and slightly peppery experience, accepting a ride from Mrs Edgar Simons. You never quite knew if you were going to arrive at the place you wanted to go, on time, or at all.
‘You’re going to think me a frightful old busybody,’ she said, as she drove. ‘But I couldn’t help overhearing what you were saying to Charlie in the store. I don’t have many people to talk to these days, and I do tend to eavesdrop more than I ought to. You don’t mind, do you? Say if you do.’
‘Why should I mind? We weren’t discussing any State secrets.’
‘You asked Charlie about his son coming back,’ said Mrs Edgar Simons. ‘And the funny thing is, I knew exactly what you meant by coming back. When dear Edgar died - that was six years ago next July 10 - I had the same kind of experience. I used to hear him walking around in the attic, for nights on end. Can you believe that? And sometimes I would hear him coughing. You never met dear Edgar of course, but he had a distinctive little cough, clearing his throat, ahem.’
‘Do you still hear him?’ I asked her.
‘I do from time to time. Once or twice a month maybe, sometimes more frequently. And I still have the feeling when I walk into certain rooms in the house that Edgar has only just been there, that only a moment ago he walked out of another door. Once, you know, I even thought that I saw him, not in the house but in
‘Sure,’ I said, nodding. ‘Thanks for listening, anyway. It always helps to have people to talk to.’
‘You’re tired, that’s all,’ said Charlie. ‘You’re imagining things. Why don’t I sell you some Nytol, just to get you off to sleep?’
‘I still have the Nembutal tablets that Dr Rosen gave me.’
‘Well , take them, and make sure you eat good. Any more of these TV dinners and your skin is going to start breaking out in separate compartments.’
‘Come on, Charlie, you’re not his mother,’ said Lenny Danarts, from the Granitehead gift store, impatient to be served.
I picked up the new TV Guide from the rack, waved Charlie goodnight, and pushed my way out of the store with my arms full of shopping. It was still windy outside, but the rain seemed to have eased off, and there was a fresh smell of ocean and wet stony soil. The walk back to Quaker Lane and up the hill between the elm trees suddenly seemed like a very long way, but I hefted my packages and started off across the parking-lot.
I was only halfway across, however, when a cream-coloured Buick drew up alongside of me and the driver tooted the horn. I bent down and saw that it was old Mrs Edgar Simons, a frail and rather dotty old widow who lived just beyond Quaker Lane in a large Samuel McIntire house that I had always envied. She put down the passenger window and called, ‘May I offer you a ride, Mr Trenton? It’s an awfully stormy night to be walking home with your arms full of groceries.’
‘I appreciate it,’ I said, and I did. She opened up the trunk for me, and I stored my packages away next to the spare wheel, and then joined her inside the car. It smelled of leather and lavender, an old woman’s perfume, but not unpleasant.
‘Walking to the store is the only exercise I get,’ I told her. ‘I always seem to be too busy for squash these days. In fact, I always seem to be too busy for anything but work and sleep.’
‘Maybe that’s a good thing, keeping busy,’ said Mrs Edgar Simons, peering out over the long rain-beaded hood of her car. ‘Now, is it clear your way? Can I pull out? Edgar used to give me such a hard time for pulling out without looking. I went straight into a horse once. A horse!’ I looked northwards, up the highway. ‘You’re okay,’ I told her, and she pulled away from the parking-lot with a screech of wet tires. It was always an interesting and slightly peppery experience, accepting a ride from Mrs Edgar Simons. You never quite knew if you were going to arrive at the place you wanted to go, on time, or at all.
‘You’re going to think me a frightful old busybody,’ she said, as she drove. ‘But I couldn’t help overhearing what you were saying to Charlie in the store. I don’t have many people to talk to these days, and I do tend to eavesdrop more than I ought to. You don’t mind, do you? Say if you do.’
‘Why should I mind? We weren’t discussing any State secrets.’
‘You asked Charlie about his son coming back,’ said Mrs Edgar Simons. ‘And the funny thing is, I knew exactly what you meant by coming back. When dear Edgar died - that was six years ago next July 10 - I had the same kind of experience. I used to hear him walking around in the attic, for nights on end. Can you believe that? And sometimes I would hear him coughing. You never met dear Edgar of course, but he had a distinctive little cough, clearing his throat, ahem.’
‘Do you still hear him?’ I asked her.
‘I do from time to time. Once or twice a month maybe, sometimes more frequently. And I still have the feeling when I walk into certain rooms in the house that Edgar has only just been there, that only a moment ago he walked out of another door. Once, you know, I even thought that I saw him, not in the house but in
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