In the Middle of the Wood by Iain Crichton Smith Read Free Book Online

back?”
    â€œYou can go back if you like.”
    In the old days Linda might have run crying out of the room, but now she sat there white and glacial.
    â€œIt hasn’t worked out,” said Ralph.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œIt wasn’t my fault. You shouldn’t have torn the telephone book.”
    â€œFor the last time I didn’t touch it. Do you really think I would have torn your telephone book? What an extraordinary thing to do.”
    â€œWell, who else tore it? I didn’t, that’s for sure. And who mixed up the pages of my novel?”
    â€œI don’t know,” said Linda.
    He pecked at his food uninterestedly and so did Linda. They weren’t really hungry though they had ordered dinner. He put his hand in his pocket and popped a pill in his mouth.
    â€œAre you sure you should be taking these pills like sweets?” she said.
    â€œI need them,” he answered shortly.
    The waiter was standing at the far end of the room staring at them. Maybe he was thinking of interfering, protecting Linda from him. He thought he had seen him before somewhere but that surely was not possible.
    He passed his hand across his eyes. The people at the next table were laughing and shouting as before: it occurred to him that they too were in the plot, that they had been placed there in order to watch him.
    And then quite suddenly they were gone as if they had never been. And he and Linda were alone again.
    â€œWhat happened there?” he asked Linda.
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œThese people. They were there a minute ago and now they’re gone.”
    â€œMaybe they didn’t want to wait. Or perhaps they didn’t like the menu.”
    â€œHm.”
    Such strange things were happening around him. It was as if they had come to observe him and had left when they had done so.
    â€œIt’s all very odd,” he muttered.
    â€œAre you sure you’re all right?” said Linda looking at him keenly.
    â€œOf course I’m all right. Why shouldn’t I be all right?”
    â€œIt’s just that …”
    He felt so tired as if his mind couldn’t absorb anything else.
    â€œWe’ll have a bottle of wine,” he said decisively.
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œOf course I’m sure.”
    He signalled the waiter over and ordered a bottle of Burgundy.
    â€œNot Yugoslav wine?” she said.
    â€œNo,” he said, knowing what she meant. He leaned towards her and caressed her cheek.
    â€œWhat was that for?”
    â€œThe Last Supper,” he said. “The betrayal. I know that you’re carrying a bug and that everything I’m saying is being recorded.”
    â€œYour health,” he said, ironically raising his glass to his lips.
    â€œCheers,” she said.
    The last time they had been at a party together she had had a long argument with a scholar and with her quick-wittedness had made him appear clumsy and ponderous. And then quite suddenly she had danced with the life that was in her, far more life than he had. Of course he was a Capricorn, remote, ambitious, cold. She on the contrary loved hospitality, wine and food.
    But tonight she had left most of her prawn cocktail, and he was sure that she would leave most of her fish when it came, which it was doing now. The waiter bent towards them, servile, white-coated. This place was a trap, a draughty cave, empty and huge. Perhaps it was not a hotel at all, perhaps it was some other kind of building which had been selected for him. In the middle of the night she might take her red case and leave him there. He would have to be vigilant, stay awake, though he didn’t feel like doing so.
    He drank another glass of the wine defiantly. It looked like blood. Never before had he seen it so clearly and blatantly as blood. He was like a vampire sucking his own blood. He put the glass of wine down on the table quickly spilling some of it, his hands shaking. The waiter looked at him briefly as he