Demon's Door by Graham Masterton Read Free Book Online Page B

but lowered her eyes, and looked away. Kim said, ‘Maria and me, we discuss future life. Like in “Tomorrow Will Bring Roses” poem.’
    â€˜Oh, yes? You’ll have to tell me about it.’
    â€˜We will, Mr Rook. But not yet. Nobody can speak about future life until they have seen future life. Not for certain.’
    Jim looked at Kim narrowly, trying to work out what he was driving at. Kim seemed to have a philosophical agenda of some kind, like a Scientologist or a Zen Buddhist or a Zoroastrian, but Jim couldn’t really work out what it was. Doors opening, doors closing – what the hell was all that about? In Zen Buddhism, the world was going to end after the Three Great Calamities – Fire, Water and Wind. In Zoroastrianism, the whole world was going to be flooded in molten metal, to purify it, and that was going to be the end of that. The Big Sizzle. But doors closing for ever? Or maybe not closing for ever?
    As he walked up the steps into the main entrance, Jim turned around just one more time. Maria had raised one hand to cover her face, as if she were trying to conceal the fact that she was crying. He stopped for a moment, but then he decided that it would be better not to interfere, at least not yet. Kids. They drive you doolally.
    On his way back along the wax-polished corridor, he heard a woman’s footsteps click-clacking up behind him. When he turned around he saw that Sheila Colefax was trying to catch up with him.
    â€˜Oh – Jim! Jim! Could I have a word?’
    â€˜Hey, I’m sorry, Sheila, I swear to God, I’m doing my best to keep the pandemonium down to a minimum, but they don’t call it a remedial class for nothing. Those kids still need a whole lot of remediating.’
    â€˜No, no. The noise level is quite acceptable, thank you. I’ll be sure to tell you if it disturbs us.’ Sheila Colefax took off her black-framed eyeglasses and gave her head a little shake, which loosened her hair. Jim was tempted to say, ‘Why, Ms Colefax . . . without your glasses . . . you’re beautiful!’ but he managed to resist it. Maybe she really was wearing black stockings and a garter belt.
    â€˜There’s a poetry recital Friday evening at the Brentwood Theater. The Santa Barbara School. I’ve been given tickets and I was wondering if you’d like to come.’
    â€˜The Santa Barbara School?’ said Jim, suspiciously. ‘They’re, like, feminists , aren’t they?’
    â€˜Insofar as they have always believed that women have as much literary fire in their bellies as men. But they’re not militants , if that’s what you mean.’
    Jim looked down at Sheila Colefax and realized for the first time that her eyes had very unusual violet-colored irises, and that she had the slightest of overbites, her top teeth cushioned on her lower lip, which for some unknown reason he had always found absurdly attractive. Actually, he did know what the reason was: it made a woman look hesitant and defenseless, as if she would be putty in his hands. He had experienced quite enough relationships with women who were domineering and opinionated and wanted to sit on top of him every time, as if they were lurching down the Grand Canyon on a rented mule.
    â€˜Actually, Sheila, I’m not too sure,’ he told her. ‘I think I might already have plans.’ Then he thought: Excuse me, Jim . What plans, exactly ? Sitting on that springless maroon couch with a bottle of Fat Tire beer, watching yet another repeat of The Mentalist, with Tibbles rattling on your lap?
    â€˜It was just an idea,’ said Sheila, replacing her eyeglasses. She looked a little hurt, but also as if she was used to being hurt. ‘Why don’t you get back to me? I think it could be fun.’
    â€˜Fun’ wasn’t exactly the word that Jim would have chosen for an evening of warm chardonnay and crop-haired women reading out