Read Online Think Yourself Lucky by Ramsey Campbell - Free Book Online
Authors: Ramsey Campbell
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keeping as an investment, but otherwise the place didn't seem to have acquired much character in a lifetime hardly more than twice as long as his. The dark green fittings of the bathroom belonged to the previous owner, but the plastic switches and sockets on the walls looked like the opposite of history, while the plain pine banisters of the narrow staircase and the carpets with their blurred perfunctory pattern could be as old as the house. In the kitchen some of the dull metal surfaces marked by anonymous scouring came vaguely alive with his reflection and Stephanie's as she followed him. "Is there, then?" she said.
"I told you what happened at the writers' group," David said and turned away from her to load the percolator. "I shouldn't have let myself go at all. I felt as if they wanted to turn me into someone else."
"Nobody but you is all I want. Are you saying they made you write about your character?"
"I never have and I wouldn't want to. They got a title out of me, that's all. The first thing that came into my head."
"That doesn't seem very much to bother you in your sleep."
"It was like being at an alcoholics' meeting and having to stand up and speak." With an effort David said "Only that wasn't the end of it. Someone's used my title for a blog or some kind of fiction site."
"It must have been a better title than you thought, then. And if you were wrong about that—"
"I'm not saying anybody stole it. It's just a phrase people use. No, the thing is, what's odd..." He almost wished he were a writer after all if that would help him speak. "Whoever it is," he said and felt his breath falter, "he's calling himself Lucky."
"That's a coincidence, isn't it? I don't suppose it's very much of one, though, if you say the title's such a common phrase." Stephanie gazed into his eyes as if she was seeing someone far away and said "Why does it bother you, David?"
"I suppose I don't like the idea that anyone could have things like that inside them. He seems to want to kill half the people he meets."
"Don't we all have days like that sometimes?"
"I don't believe I ever have." He hoped she didn't take that as criticism. "It's how he writes about them as well," he said, "as if he's eager to find the next victim. And he has too much fun imagining what he'd do to them."
"So who does he want to get rid of?"
"There was a shop assistant who carried on talking instead of serving a queue, and somebody whose car alarm disturbed him every night even though it was miles away, and a man who kept walking in front of him in a cinema while a film was on. That's all I looked at."
"They all sound like people we might like to strangle."
"Yes, but we wouldn't write about it, would we?" Talking about the material he'd seen had left David more uneasy than he understood. "We wouldn't write about doing worse to them," he said. "We wouldn't put ideas like that in people's heads."
A hiss at his back gave him an excuse to turn away. "Here's the coffee," he quite unnecessarily said, "and now I'll forget about all that if you don't mind."
They took their mugs upstairs and shared the bathroom before making a token breakfast of cereal. As they left the house Mrs Robbins emerged from its twin across the road with a bag of garbage in her hand. "Off to work, Mr Botham?" she called. "And the lady, of course."
"Not just yet. Going out for a drive."
"Well, you take care." Having shut her bin with a decisive slam, Mrs Robbins said "And the lady as well."
She retreated into her house as David unlocked the car. "I don't think I've ever felt less like a lady," Stephanie said with a rueful laugh.
"You're enough of one for me," David said and managed not to wince as he glanced at the scrape on the side of the car. Weeks ago he'd ground it against the gatepost, having instinctively waved back to a passing neighbour. "Thanks for the souvenir, Mr Dent," he muttered, but he oughtn't to blame Dent for his own carelessness. Still, he was glad not to see Dent
"I told you what happened at the writers' group," David said and turned away from her to load the percolator. "I shouldn't have let myself go at all. I felt as if they wanted to turn me into someone else."
"Nobody but you is all I want. Are you saying they made you write about your character?"
"I never have and I wouldn't want to. They got a title out of me, that's all. The first thing that came into my head."
"That doesn't seem very much to bother you in your sleep."
"It was like being at an alcoholics' meeting and having to stand up and speak." With an effort David said "Only that wasn't the end of it. Someone's used my title for a blog or some kind of fiction site."
"It must have been a better title than you thought, then. And if you were wrong about that—"
"I'm not saying anybody stole it. It's just a phrase people use. No, the thing is, what's odd..." He almost wished he were a writer after all if that would help him speak. "Whoever it is," he said and felt his breath falter, "he's calling himself Lucky."
"That's a coincidence, isn't it? I don't suppose it's very much of one, though, if you say the title's such a common phrase." Stephanie gazed into his eyes as if she was seeing someone far away and said "Why does it bother you, David?"
"I suppose I don't like the idea that anyone could have things like that inside them. He seems to want to kill half the people he meets."
"Don't we all have days like that sometimes?"
"I don't believe I ever have." He hoped she didn't take that as criticism. "It's how he writes about them as well," he said, "as if he's eager to find the next victim. And he has too much fun imagining what he'd do to them."
"So who does he want to get rid of?"
"There was a shop assistant who carried on talking instead of serving a queue, and somebody whose car alarm disturbed him every night even though it was miles away, and a man who kept walking in front of him in a cinema while a film was on. That's all I looked at."
"They all sound like people we might like to strangle."
"Yes, but we wouldn't write about it, would we?" Talking about the material he'd seen had left David more uneasy than he understood. "We wouldn't write about doing worse to them," he said. "We wouldn't put ideas like that in people's heads."
A hiss at his back gave him an excuse to turn away. "Here's the coffee," he quite unnecessarily said, "and now I'll forget about all that if you don't mind."
They took their mugs upstairs and shared the bathroom before making a token breakfast of cereal. As they left the house Mrs Robbins emerged from its twin across the road with a bag of garbage in her hand. "Off to work, Mr Botham?" she called. "And the lady, of course."
"Not just yet. Going out for a drive."
"Well, you take care." Having shut her bin with a decisive slam, Mrs Robbins said "And the lady as well."
She retreated into her house as David unlocked the car. "I don't think I've ever felt less like a lady," Stephanie said with a rueful laugh.
"You're enough of one for me," David said and managed not to wince as he glanced at the scrape on the side of the car. Weeks ago he'd ground it against the gatepost, having instinctively waved back to a passing neighbour. "Thanks for the souvenir, Mr Dent," he muttered, but he oughtn't to blame Dent for his own carelessness. Still, he was glad not to see Dent
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