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

Diana


It sounded oddly unlike Diana; both the language and the handwriting were stiff as a school essay. Perhaps that was how Diana felt one should address a writer. As the percolator boiled, Rose slipped the envelope into the pocket of her dressing-gown.

She could hear Bill sneezing himself awake, as usual. No need for him to read the letter. Whether it helped her she wasn't yet sure. Diana did seem knowledgeable and gifted, but how reliably so? Enough so to have come to Rose's aid in the empty flat.

Expectancy paced Rose all day. It sat invisibly behind her on the bus, and seemed to hold the back of her skull gently but oppressively. Its meaning remained muffled, and was intensely frustrating. Her surroundings glittered with threats of migraine.

At least the day's lectures went well. The students were eager to argue, prepared to follow through their arguments. Afterwards dark crawling blotches followed her home across the grey sky, lying like mud in the river. The villas were soaked in dimness. They looked as blurred as her expectancy felt.

Bill had cooked moussaka. Smells of mince and cheese drifted through the house. `There's a letter from Jack,' he called. `He and Diana seem to be getting on well together.'

Feeling rather guilty, she read the letter. A paperback reprint; an offer from Film Comment for magazine rights to their interviews; see you both in Munich. She wished she felt more elated, less oppressed.

`My student Hilary left Desmond the Red,' Bill called. `He'd started knocking her about.'

`Best thing she could have done.'

`Yes, she's far too intelligent for him. Her trouble is, she's too sympathetic to people.'

Rose poured Beaujolais while he served dinner. `I'm glad for Jack,' she said.

`Yes, he deserved someone. Actually, I'm glad for Diana too. Maybe he can cure her of some of her weirder tendencies.'

`Possibly,' she said, not looking at him.

After dinner he played a new recording of Mahler's Eighth. Outside a wind was rising. It rushed across the field and soared over the house, tugging at trees until leaves ripped loose and it seemed that branches would take flight, as the choirs sang `Come, Creator Spirit, fill our souls . . .' She loved the symphony for its romanticism, yet tonight it seemed bombastic, a convert's missionary rant. Several shots of bourbon allowed her at least to enjoy the melodies.

She needed the bourbon to dull her expectancy, to help her sleep. In its vagueness her anticipation seemed false, merely irritating, a self-indulgence. By the time she squirmed into bed it was blurred enough to ignore.

She lay on her side, one arm draped around Bill's waist, and listened to the rustle of the trees. As she began to drift, she thought that it was the lapping of the river, creeping closer to the house, close enough to be heard. Between her thoughts was darkness; each time she drifted deeper. The wind was soft now, or was it Bill's breathing? The low rhythmic sounds lulled her, and ushered her into a house.

She began to struggle. Though she could see only the dark doorway, she would rather die than go through. She could hear whispering. They couldn't make her go in, whoever they were. But her captor was the dark, it was enormous and impalpable; her struggles were pointless, ineffectual. The house closed about her like a mouth.

And perhaps it was a mouth - for it was certainly alive. The walls were not of brick but of teeming corrupt flesh. It had come alive just as soon as she had entered. She had awakened what lay dormant there, the presence which had seeped into the fabric of the house. Underfoot the floor felt soft, mouldering. As if the foundations were gelatin, the house was sinking into darkness as though it were a marsh.

There was a worse fear. Might her growing panic loose her from her body? It didn't matter that she was dreaming; indeed, that might make her more vulnerable. She dug her nails into her palms until she felt the skin parting. She woke, and was lying beside Bill, surrounded by whispers.

Perhaps the whispers were more distant, less encircling. Were they in the room, behind the curtains, or just outside the window? She was fully awake now. They were the rustling of foliage, that was all. She mustn't panic, not while her sense of her body was so tenuous.

She lay and tried to hear the sounds clearly. They ought to guide her back to reality. Were they leaves, or the lapping of water? Perhaps both, for they sounded distant, yet somehow close. Their rhythm was jagged, insidiously fascinating. They sounded unpleasantly like a chorus of low voices, whose words she was in danger of hearing. Her heart seemed to shake her entire body.

They were voices. They were searching for her in the night. Sibilants hissed clear of the vague murmur, as though reptiles were hunting. She was sure that they were saying, `Rose. Rose.'

Perhaps the voices were in her head, fox their rhythm had insinuated itself into her body. Her limbs were shaking in time with the rhythm. She couldn't feel her pulse, only her entire body at the mercy of the vibration. She had no control over her body, no hold on it. Surely her shivering must awaken Bill - oh, please let him wake before she was shaken loose!

She must wake him. She struggled to reach out, to grab him, but her body refused to move. The whispers deafened her mind; her jerky trembling shattered her attempts at thoughts. Only instinct remained to her. She made one violent effort, like a silent scream for help, and managed to reach out for his hand.