Ritual by Graham Masterton Read Free Book Online

a father to you,’ he told Martin. ‘But I never
told your mother one single lie. I was never unfaithful, and I always sent
money. Always.’
    ‘Well, Saint
Charlie McLean,’ said Martin.
    Charlie swerved
the car off the side of the road and jammed his foot down on the parking brake.
He tried clumsily to smack Martin’s head, but Martin ducked and wrestled away,
and the two of them found themselves panting and glaring at each other, hands
clasped tightly, a fit fifteen-year-old fighting a tired forty-one-year-old.
    ‘Listen,’ said
Charlie. ‘Either we try to get along together like father and son, or else
that’s the finish. And I mean the finish. You’re old enough to survive without me, if that’s the way you want it. I don’t mind.’
    Martin released
his father’s wrists and turned his face away. Charlie knew that he was crying.
    Someone else
had once cried like this, in the passenger seat of his car, a very long time
ago, in Milwaukee. Charlie felt as if the world was an ambush of endlessly
repeated agonies, and here it was again. The argument, the
tears, the temporary reconciliation that both of them knew woune. He
squeezed Martin’s shoulder but there was no love between them. He might just as
well have been squeezing an avocado to make sure that it was ripe.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he
said, although he wasn’t.
    He continued
driving around the roller-coaster curves of Quassapaug Road. A wild turkey
scrambled across the blacktop in front of them, and Charlie swerved towards it
in a feigned attempt to run it down. ‘You ever eaten wild turkey, barbecued
with new season’s squash?’
    Martin said,
‘We never have turkey, even at Thanksgiving. Marjorie doesn’t like it.’
    ‘Marjorie,
Marjorie! Why the hell can’t you call me Charlie?’
    ‘Because you’re
Dad, that’s why.’
    They passed the
entrance to Le Reposoir so
unexpectedly that they overshot it by a hundred feet. Charlie caught a flash of
wrought-iron gates, painted black, and a discreet black signboard.
    The
Oldsmobile’s tyres slithered on the tarmac. Then Charlie twisted around in his
seat and backed up all the way to the gates, with the car’s transmission
whinnying.
    ‘That’s it, Le Reposoir . Societe de la Cuisine Excep-tionelle.’
    Martin stared
at the sign unenthusiastically. ‘Yes, and look what else it says. No visitors
except by prior arrangement. These grounds are patrolled by guard dogs.’
    ‘We can talk to
them, at least,’ said Charlie. He parked the car right off the road, in the entrance-way
in front of the gates, and then climbed out. There was an intercom set into the
bricks of the left-hand gatepost. He pushed the button, and then turned to
Martin, who was still sitting in the car, and smiled in what was the nearest he
could manage to encouragement. Martin pretended that he hadn’t noticed, and in
the end Charlie turned away. God, he thought, they’re like prima-donnas, these
teenage boys. You only have to raise your voice to them, and they start sulking
and pouting and bursting into tears.
    He pushed the
intercom button again. This time, there was a sharp crackle of interference,
and then a voice demanded, ‘Qui? Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?’
    Charlie cleared
his throat. ‘Is that Mr Musette?’
    ‘Who is it who
is wanting him?’ the voice asked, in English this time, but with a strong French accent.
    ‘My name’s
McLean. I was wondering if you had a table for two for dinner tonight? ’
    ‘You must have
made a mistake, monsieur . This is a
private restaurant. Reservations can only be made by advance booking.’
    ‘Well, this is advance booking, isn’t it?’
    ‘ jfe regrette, monsieur ,
booking is always effected in writing, and bookings are accepted only at the
discretion of the management.’
    ‘What kind of a
restaurant operates like that?’ Charlie wanted to know.
    ‘This restaurant, monsieur . Although I must correct you. It is a dining society,
rather than a restaurant.’
    ‘So I’ve