Sleep and His Brother by Peter Dickinson Read Free Book Online Page A

chosen them beyond extravagance. Even the one touch of art—a bronze and bulbous paperweight, vaguely post-Brancusi—had the look of one of a large issue of multiples. Pibble found himself sweating with absurd nerves as the doctor leaned forward and made passes at him with the microphone. His voice emerged strained and textureless, as though he were lying, but Silver seemed not to mind; he twitched the microphone back to his own chin to ask the exact question needed to unravel a wooliness in Pibble’s tale. He insisted on recording every drab and tiny detail, often repetitiously, but steadily clarifying the absurd incident until, by the time he clicked the recorder off, it contained a total account of two minutes in the life of James Willoughby Pibble, unique, unconfusable with anything else that had happened, or might have happened, to him, or anyone else, anywhere. He’d have made a good if tiresome lawyer, Pibble thought. But then he’d have made a good priest, a good mayor, a good surgeon. He possessed a kind of moral omnicompetence which persisted through his rapidly changing roles—and perhaps that was the reason for this neutral room: more character-defining furniture would have been grit in the smooth gear changes. Now it was the executive of a world-tentacled combine who spoke into a flashy intercom gadget on the desk.
    â€œDoll,” he snapped.
    â€œYes, Doctor Silver.”
    â€œI’ve got a tape here for you. I want it on paper, fast.”
    â€œI’ll come in.”
    As the door opened, Pibble stood up. This was a happy surprise.
    â€œYou won’t remember me, I expect,” he said.
    Her yellow-brown eyes looked at him, puzzled.
    â€œYou know our honourable Doll?” said Dr. Silver. He sounded as though he disapproved of the acquaintanceship.
    â€œWe met in the Black Boot about a month ago,” said Pibble.
    â€œOf course!” said the girl. “You’re Rue’s policeman friend.”
    â€œEx-,” said Pibble.
    A curious silence engulfed the room, as though each were waiting for one of the others to make a betraying move. Wild Rue Kelly was the only subject they had in common, and Pibble was unsure of the girl’s relationship with him. He could hear the rasp of those olive fingers raking at the stubble.
    â€œWell,” said the girl at last, “I’d better—”
    The telephone rang, and she picked it up.
    â€œDoctor Silver’s secretary.”
    She listened, then put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Mister Thanatos wants to talk to you. I didn’t know he was back.”
    â€œNor did I,” said Dr. Silver.
    â€œThere’s a piece about him in the Guardian this morning,” said Pibble. “He’s come to give evidence about this South Bank hotel site.”
    So that’s who Mr. T. was. No wonder.
    â€œFine, fine,” said Dr. Silver. “I’ve got a lot of news for him. Forget the tape, Doll. Just take Mr. Pibble and show him round.”
    His hand was twitching for the telephone. Pibble followed the girl out, enjoying once again the strangely seductive way in which she held herself; her figure looked as if, from hemline to neckline of her plain orange dress, it was swathed in a single ultra-fine bandage, which held her taut, contained her, prevented her from flopping with luscious abandon into the nearest arms. Her manner and walk were prim and neat, but somehow implied the opposite.
    â€œI thought you worked for Reuben,” said Pibble as he walked back toward the hall with her.
    â€œI worked with him, for nothing, but he traded me to Ram, the bastard.”
    â€œIn exchange for what?”
    â€œI don’t know, but I get a salary now.”
    â€œAre you taking me to see him?”
    â€œAny excuse is better than none.”
    Her wide mouth smiled with the shared secret. One day she would have jowls, but now her soft, flattish face seemed simple and scrumptious, like