Think Yourself Lucky by Ramsey Campbell Read Free Book Online

before he wafts them so fast that drips spatter the tiled wall. None of his overtures persuade the dryer to stop imitating a lump of marble, but as he takes his hands away it teases him with a metallic sigh. He spends some time trying to identify exactly where his hands were when they triggered it, and when the effect proves to be unrepeatable he lets them drop, which earns him a hot breath from the dryer—just enough to tempt his hands back in time to miss it. He jerks them up below it and snatches them away, which isn't the trick, however fast or slowly he performs it As the dryer celebrates his failure with another terse exhalation he waves his hands so wildly that he looks as if he's trying to rid himself of them. I'd be amused to do him the favour, but he stalks into the corridor.
    He's driven Bladderblob into a cubicle, but from the sound of it or rather from the absence of any he's too shy to use the toilet while anyone's within earshot. Maybe that's why he had to visit it so often. "Hello in there," I call. "What did you think of the film?"
    The silence means I've bothered him, but that's nowhere near enough. "You in the cubicle, I'm talking to you. Don't be bashful. Don't be a bashful Bladderblob. Let's hear your thoughts if there's nothing else to hear."
    That brings a grunt and an even more thwarted version, more like a squeak. "That's a start," I encourage him. "Carry on, make yourself heard. You still haven't said if you enjoyed the film."
    "Which film?" he growls, and I hear that he's facing away from the door. "What's it got to do with you?"
    "Don't you even know which film you saw? The one with all the brains in. Did you like the bits of it you stayed for?"
    "Why's that any of your business?" he snarls, and through the gap beneath the door I see his feet shuffling in worse than frustration. "Leave me alone, will you. I didn't come in here to talk."
    "It sounds as if that's all you can do, Mr Bladderblob. Just tell me what you thought was in the bits you didn't see."
    "What are you calling me?" he whinnies and lifts one foot after the other in something like a rain dance. "What are you up to, you—"
    Whatever he might have said is cut short by a high-pitched grunt that falls short of producing a result. He won't be seeing any while I've more to say to him. "How about the bits you didn't care if anybody else saw?"
    "Will you shut up," he squeals and stamps a foot as if this may jerk his bladder into action. "You think you're hiding out there but I bet I know who you are."
    "You will. What do you think you know?"
    "Aren't you the idiot that kept asking everyone about the film?"
    "I'm no idiot of any kind. I'm the watcher you couldn't be bothered to notice. Lucky, that's me. Mr Lucky on another mission," I say and fling open the cubicle door. "Let me put you out of your misery, Mr Bladderblob."
    I could think I already have. He lurches forward, and his forehead meets a tile with such a spectacular crack that you might think at least one of them has splintered. As he staggers backwards I hardly need to trip him. He falls face down in the toilet with his neck on the porcelain edge, and the impact drops the seat together with its lid on the back of his head. He has just begun struggling to raise himself when I sit on the seat, pinning his shoulders with my legs and digging my heels into the small of his back. "Sorry, what was that again?" I enquire. "You need to speak up."
    He doesn't seem to have much time for words any more. I can't hear any among the hollow muffled noises he's managing to make. He's putting most of his energy into his hands, which claw at the air and punch as well as slap the metal walls on either side and grope extravagantly in my direction without finding me. It looks as if he's reaching for the flush, and I guide his right hand to the handle and help him yank it down. His choked sounds turn into gurgles, and his vague enthusiastic gestures grow even more vigorous, but I have to capture his