Secret Story by Ramsey Campbell Read Free Book Online Page B

Publisher and the Author after deduction of any Agent’s fees
. He jabbed at the clause with the knife, almost pinning the page to the table. “You made me sign it. You didn’t even give me time to see what it said.”
    “You could have taken the time, Dudley. You’re a grown man, after all.” She ventured to stand next to him and used a fingertip to slant the contract towards her. “I suppose you can’t expect too much when you’re just starting out,” she said. “Once you’re established they’ll have to give you the terms you deserve.”
    The division of his income hadn’t been the issue, but now it aggravated his trapped rage. “Do put the knife down,” his mother said. “You’re making me nervous.”
    Was she leaving her hand beside it to coax him? Stabbing her might be a substitute for teaching his own hand not to obey anyone except him. He imagined driving the point between the tendons and twisting the blade, but there would be no pain for him to feel. He dropped the knife, which spun like a compass blade and ended up indicating him as he gathered the contract and typescripts. He was in the hall when Kathy said “You aren’t worrying what the film will be like, are you? I’m sure they won’t spoil your story if they’re asking you to be involved.”
    He told himself that she wasn’t deliberately taunting him, and retreated to his bedroom, where he stared hot-eyed out of the window. He had to be even more careful now that so much was out of his hands—and then a smile crept over his face. Kathy had meant to reassure him, and perhaps she had inadvertently succeeded. Hardly any films stayed true to the stories they were based on, but that was no reason to assume this one would stray closer to reality. Indeed, he would be able to ensure that it went nowhere near.

SEVEN
    As Dudley’s client—a fat pallid twenty-year-old in baggy purple shorts and sandals with a shirt tied around his waist—set forth from the counter to take up stacking shelves in Frugo, a woman seated on the front row of bucket chairs stood up. She was dressed in a white sleeveless blouse with pearl or at any rate pearly buttons and a loose yellow ankle-length skirt of little shape. Though she wasn’t holding the next ticket, she hurried to Dudley’s booth, fanning herself with a wide-brimmed straw hat. “You’re the one, aren’t you?” she said. “You’re the man I’m looking for.”
    She was well past forty, and he’d been hoping someone else would have to tell her how few jobs she was eligible for, but now he saw that she wasn’t a client. “If it’s to do with my story I am,” he said.
    “Your story.”
    “The one that’s going to be published. Or the story of my life if that’s what you want.”
    “My daughter and I know quite enough about you, thank you.”
    “Are you the editor? She can ask me more things if she wants, or you can.”
    “What are you—” The woman sat forward so sharply that the hat in her lap creaked like an overloaded basket. “Yes, I’ll ask you something,” she said, raising her voice. “Why did you call her a prostitute when she came looking for work?”
    His expectations gave way, dumping him back into the banality of the office and worse. He was barely interested in protesting “I didn’t.”
    “She says you did. Just you tell me why she’d lie, which she never does. You’d better take more care what you say if you want to keep your job.”
    “Maybe I don’t. Maybe I won’t need it.” As he tried to keep his lips still while he muttered this, the stagnant heat grew perfumed. “Trouble, Dudley?” Mrs Wimbourne said as if echoing herself.
    “My daughter came looking for work I won’t pretend I approve of. But it isn’t up to anyone behind your counter to approve or disapprove of it, and your junior called her a prostitute.”
    “I’m nobody’s junior.”
    “All right, Dudley, I’m dealing with this.” To the woman Mrs Wimbourne said “I remember the