"Campbell, Ramsey - The Parasite 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Campbell Ramsey)

Perhaps she'd had too much to drink. That might explain the irritable heaviness which filled her skull and which made her want to brush the oppression from the back of her head. Perhaps she had suffered momentary dizziness as she'd entered the shop; but that could not be the whole truth. She had had a glimpse of malevolence which nobody else could perceive. Even when they reached the hill and climbed leisurely towards home, arm in arm, she felt vulnerable. If the glimpse had been real - and if it hadn't, what did that tell her of herself? -then such things could happen to her anywhere, at any time.

Nine

They were pedaling easily downhill. A breeze streamed past Bill's shoulders and over her face. He was holding the handlebars casually, proud to have found his balance so quickly. As her legs moved in unison with his, she enjoyed the hint of a double entendre. Their ride transformed the houses into a fleet of ships, sailing leisurely by. She had forgotten how intensely she enjoyed cycling.

They had almost reached the side turning, just before the hill plunged towards the Wigan Road. Her parents had gone inside the house, having admired Bill's performance. Now there were no spectators, only the long fertile gardens and the trees which swarmed greenly in the sunlight.

`Let's go a bit further this time,' Bill said. He adjusted his glasses as though they were goggles, and cycled past the turning.

She felt the hill grow abruptly steeper. It forced her to pedal more quickly, so as not to lose the rhythm. The main road sounded full of lorries, an elephantine race of them, frustrated by single file; she imagined the cottages shaking. All at once she knew - `No, Bill, turn,' she said urgently. `The brakes won't work.'

`Of course they will.' He sounded almost patronizing, now that he was in the driver's seat. `They've been working perfectly.'

She knew that as well as he did; her father had overhauled the tandem conscientiously; but that wasn't the point - she knew the brakes would fail. The cycle was hurtling downhill. Already it was too fast. She heard the lorries thundering closer, unrestrained. `Just try the brakes,' she pleaded. `For my peace of mind, will you try them!'

He reached impatiently for the levers on the handlebars. His fists closed around them, closed tight - and the tandem gathered speed. She could see the lorries now, wreathed in their fumes, great stained blocks of metal pounding by, like the hammers of a machine for crushing. Bill was tugging at the levers. `But good God,' he cried, `how do I stop it, how do we stop?'

'Turn it, turn it across the road, we'll fall off, doesn't matter, drag your feet on the road - '

Her heels were screeching over the roadway, but seemed to have no braking power at all. Ahead on the main road, only yards away, she heard the gasp and wheeze of air brakes. Nobody had seen their plight; it had only been a driver slowing so as not to collide with the lorry in front, before accelerating onward.

Bill was wrenching the handlebars round, too fast; he was losing control. As his feet reached wildly for the road, the whirling pedals cracked against his ankles. `Oh, Christ,' he snarled in pain. The bicycle was falling, but how close to the main road would they fall? The front wheel rammed the kerb; the seat punched Rose in the groin; the machine mounted the pavement and careered into a driveway, thumping Bill against a gatepost. There it halted, pedals subsiding.

She stood clutching the frame. Her bruises began throbbing. For a while she was frozen by shock and relief, and the threat of further pain. Bill leaned panting on the gatepost and gazed into space. At last he said `If you knew the damn brakes were faulty, why the hell didn't you say so before?'

It didn't matter. He wasn't injured, only shaken; that was the important thing. Her father was distressed, and spent hours apologizing; Bill swore he would never risk cycling again. None of that mattered. She and Bill were safe now, two weeks later, lying in bed at home.

She turned her head on the pillow, which was cool against her cheek. Between the digits of the clock, a colon pulsed away the seconds. Beyond the window, birds gossiped shrilly. She lay trying to grasp her sense that something was about to happen.

Nothing further had happened in Ormskirk. She'd avoided the shop in the Wigan Road, and had suffered no more premonitions. Perhaps her life was calming down. But today she had been wakened by a twinge of anticipation, so muffled that she couldn't tell whether it was promising or threatening.

-She felt restless. She slid out from beside Bill, who was still asleep, and gazed from the window. The Mersey broke the sunlight into smithereens which never quite recombined; above the water, seagulls gleamed like fragments of shell. This was the river the Fulwood Park merchants had watched from their villas in the 1830s, awaiting the sight of their ships returning from the Orient. The Fulwood had been a sailing ship. The stroboscopic glittering of water drew her away from her sense of the house.

The snap of the letter-box recalled her. On the mat the envelope displayed the red and blue stripes of an air letter, which seemed encouraging. New York, 81st Street. It was from Diana. For a moment her expectancy was urgent, piercing, then it blurred again. When she'd hurried into the kitchen and switched on the percolator, she ripped open the envelope.


Dear Rose,

It was so good to hear from you. I so enjoyed meeting you, and kept hoping you might write. It looks as though we may meet again quite soon, but I shall speak of that further on.

But first I should answer your question on behalf of your friend as to whether being in close proximity to a seance could increase a person's psychic powers. I doubt whether I can add much to what I said in person to you. But I have read of someone's having attended a seance and discovered that he was a medium. The big problem must be to adjust to the new perceptions. If your friend is having this experience, maybe she ought to consult a professional occultist for advice.

I wonder if you are growing interested in the occult yourself? Did you ever read about out-ofthe-body experiences after your experience in my apartment? Some of the books which I think have been published in England are one called Techniques of Astral Projection by Crookall, another called The Projection of the Astral Body by Muldoon, and that weird but fascinating one called Astral Rape - which, now I remember one particular chapter, you maybe ought to read before we hit Munich.

That is my main piece of news, which perhaps you have guessed. I shall be coming to Munich with Jack. We are good friends now and understand each other much better.

As for me, I have grown interested in the Christos experiments, a kind of astral projection where you can go into the past, supposedly. It needs a group of people to handle it. I have been discussing it with my occultist, who lives near where I work in the Village. You could meet him next time you visited New York if you wanted to.

I look forward to seeing you in Munich! Love to Bill also,