The Impostor by Damon Galgut Read Free Book Online Page B

breathing from the room next door. One night he went to bed early, but struggled to sleep. When he did eventually fall into a hot, shallow doze, somebody sat down on the bottom of the bed. He was between waking and sleeping, just under the skin of time, and even after he’d jolted into full consciousness again he wasn’t sure whether it had happened or not. He lay there rigidly in the dark, hearing his heart. Then he lunged sideways, fumbling for the lamp. He knew, before the light came on, that nobody would be there. But it felt as if someone was watching.
    So he was alone, but he didn’t feel alone. He remembered what Charmaine had said about the house; about presences. It wasn’t quite like that for him. It was more the accumulation of tiny signs into a single presence: the presence of the house itself, made of time and neglect and leftover intentions.
    It wasn’t real, of course. It was only a shadow with no particular shape of its own. He thought of it as part of himself, a stray section of his mind that had ranged itself against him. It moved around the house as he did, behind him or off to one side, watching him. Listening. He could sense its attention, like a small, cold vacuum drawing substance towards itself, possibly out of him.
    He began speaking to it. Not in a serious way–he didn’t seriously believe in it. He just chatted, his manner off-hand, to amuse himself. There was nobody else to talk to, after all. ‘Hey, are you there?’ he might say. ‘Hello, hello? Calling outer space–can you hear me?’
    Then he imagined how it might answer. Yes, I’m here. Always here. Reading you loud and clear .
    He thought of its voice as soft and dry, almost inaudible. A burr of static, made of all the lost sounds drifting around out there.
    ‘Don’t you get bored, watching me the whole time?’
    No, no. On the contrary. I was bored before you came. You’ve given me fresh life .
    ‘Come on. I’m not that interesting.’
    Oh, don’t be so sure of that .
    And he laughed–at himself, because it was himself he was listening to. There was no spirit, no presence, no thing there in the house. Of course he knew that.
    ‘I’m the only one here,’ he announced. Very loudly, so that the words rang back at him. He listened after the echo. Nobody answered.
    Except me .

    Occasionally it occurred to him to doubt his mind. He had allowed a slow slippage in, a change to the way he thought about things. Perhaps he ought to be worried about himself. In the end, he did ring Gavin, looking for reassurance, though he assumed a nonchalant tone. ‘Just thought I’d call and say hello. There’s nothing much to report.’
    His brother was in a cheerful, bullying mood. ‘Finally we hear from you. I was starting to think I had to drive up to check on you. How’s it been going? Writing lots of poems?’
    ‘Uh, not really, not yet. But I will. I’m just getting ready.’
    ‘Getting ready? How long does that take you?’
    ‘A while.’ He shouldn’t have called; it was a mistake. ‘You can’t just switch it on and off like an engine.’
    ‘It’s been five weeks, Ad.’
    ‘Has it?’
    ‘Of course. What do you mean, you don’t know what day it is?’
    ‘Uh, I’ve kind of lost track a bit.’
    ‘Should I be concerned about you? I mean, what are you actually doing there? How are you spending the days?’
    ‘Thinking, mostly.’
    ‘Thinking? You shouldn’t think too much, Ad. It isn’t good for you. You need to stay active. Have you done any work on the garden yet?’
    ‘Not much.’
    ‘How much?’
    ‘I haven’t done anything, to be honest.’
    Gavin sighed. ‘Get out into the yard, Ad. Go and dig up the weeds. You’ll feel a lot better afterwards.’
    The conversation left him irritated. But when he’d put the phone down he went to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. Unshaven, a bit dirty, a feverish glint in the eye. Maybe his brother had a point. He was spending too much time idle and alone.