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

'The table-turning, or whatever they meant it to be.'

She forced herself to take the cue. `That was partly what I wanted to talk to you about.'

`I promise that the next time we invite you there'll be nothing of the kind.'

`No, I didn't mean that.' His smile waited for her to go on. `It's very difficult for me to talk about,' she said at last.

`Would you like to try?' To her surprise, he came and sat beside her on the couch. `I'll sit over there if you prefer,' he said.

`No, I'd rather you sat here. I don't want to feel like a patient.' Did that sound as though she expected him to treat her without payment? Surely she didn't need treatment, only advice. `I can't sleep. I keep having nightmares. Only,' she managed to say, `they're more vivid than that - more like hallucinations.'

He ought to be able to read her real fear in her eyes - but would he be able to reassure her? `The idea of hallucinations particularly bothers you?' he suggested.

`Yes. It terrifies me.'

'Why?'

She could tell that he knew. `Because it might mean that I'm losing my mind.'

`Which frightens you. Yes, I can see that it does, understandably enough. Well, let me try to set your mind at rest a little. In my experience, a fear of insanity is a pretty reliable indication that you aren't going mad. It's neurotic, which is quite a different thing. Nobody thinks himself saner than a madman. As for hallucinations, all sorts of things can cause them, by no means usually madness. Would you like some tea?'

His voice was so soothing that the appearance of a question startled her. `Well, yes,' she stammered.

He glanced into the kitchen. 'Gladys, we'd appreciate some tea if you would be so kind. Rose is here.'

`Oh, I thought it was one of -'

`Rose is just asking my advice.' Rejoining Rose on the couch, he said `Now, try to tell me in as much detail as you can what's troubling you. Take your time.'

`I think it began in New York.' She told him about the attack in Diana's building, about her subsequent dream and its aftermath at Diana's. `It could have been just an after-effect of the mugging,' she said, and went on to relate her panic on the night of the seance. She dreaded having to talk about her sense of an awakened presence, and her glimpse in Ormskirk.

She was describing her sense of the power of the seance when Gladys bumped open the door and shuffled in, laden with a trayful of chattering china. `Let me relieve you of that,' Colin said, taking the tray. Gladys insisted on pouring the tea, only to grow flustered once she realized that Rose had fallen silent. `Sorry. I won't be a moment,' she wailed, as the stream wavered dangerously towards the edge of a cup. `I'll just do this. Do you mind if I just pour myself one? Sorry.'

`She does tend to allow things to overwhelm her,' Colin confided to Rose when they were alone. `But she's been a help to me. When I'm tempted to despair, she gives me back my sense of purpose. You might be surprised how firm she can be about some things. I appreciate your thoughtfulness with her.' He patted her hand, as though to wake them both from musing. `However, we were talking about you, weren't we? What you say about the stance is quite fascinating, I think.'

She preferred not to dwell on that subject, she wasn't sure why. Even to describe her last experience seemed a relief. She told him as much as she could, including the dark room and the voice that said `No', but she left out the masked figures: that seemed too paranoid and disturbing an image to admit.

`That's all?' He looked engrossed, almost boyishly eager for more. `There was nothing earlier, I suppose?'

'There may have been.' She described her adolescent fever, the premonition of pursuit, her vision of disembodied flight.

`Yes. Interesting.' His fingertips met, and caged his mouth; his first fingers tapped gently at the corners of his lips, as though to unlock them. His fingers sprang away. `I wonder,' he mused, `if there may not have been something even earlier? These things often seem to start in childhood.'

Rose cried out. A hot stain was spreading over her breasts. Pain made her think it was blood until she realized that her hand had twitched the teacup. Whatever thought had jerked into her mind had vanished, driven out by pain.

'Gladys, have you a towel?' In a moment Colin brought Rose one with which to dab herself. `I'm sorry,' he said. `I timed my question badly.'

Did he think that had dismayed her? Perhaps he was right; her skin was prickling wildly; there seemed to be a darkness in her mind, and she was too close to the edge. `What things start in childhood?' she said, and told him the answer she wanted to hear: `Bad dreams?'