The Nameless

by Ramsey Campbell

  hand out of her mother's grasp. In a voice half-choked by self-disgust she said, "I like remembering them."

  That was her last word. Her gaze had sunken inward, she was hugging herself as though to keep everything out. "She's never said anything like that before," Maisie said, plainly blaming Barbara.

  "You can't believe some of the things she says," George reassured her. "That's what they did to her. Don't you remember, she wrote to us that she was leaving the country. They must have made her say that so we wouldn't look for her." As he hurried Barbara and Gerry down the stairs he said, "Now you see why I didn't want you bothering her. You'd better hope you get your daughter back before she's the same."

  He sounded bitter, yet in one way he was reassuring: if it had really been Angela who had made the two phone calls, she was certainly far more stable than Iris. But was Iris an example of the company she was keeping? When Barbara emerged the sunlight pierced her eyes, as if the jagged clutter of her thoughts were not painful enough.

  Gerry saw how she felt. As soon as they reached the car she said, "I don't know if your daughter's alive, but I'll do what I can. I think I can track these people down."

  It was too sudden. Barbara could only stare at her as the car sped downhill. "I've got another lead," Gerry said, "but I wasn't sure what to do about it until just now. Exposing Rhodesian loans isn't going to help anyone, but these people need stopping. And you're sure you can sell the reports when I write them."

  The canal flashed by, the two-way rotary carried the car along between trucks and sent it speeding onward. "I'm going to try and infiltrate the group. You may not hear from me for a few weeks, but I'll let you know if I find Angela, when I can." ------------------------------------143

  Barbara tried to sound casual. "Where are you going to look for them?"

  "I'd rather keep that to myself for now, Barbara, if you don't mind. If you search for them as well you may drive them into hiding before I can join them. Try not to worry if you don't hear from me for a while." The car shot onto the highway; in the distance the traffic and the landscape were melting and changing. "You know," the journalist said, "I have the feeling that this may be a turning point in my life." ------------------------------------144 ------------------------------------145

  145

  Seventeen

  As Barbara drove past Regent's Park the evening sky was the color of steam. Beyond the railings the darkened leaves looked moist and tropical. A jungle smell drifted through the open window of the car, harsh odors of animals, an overpowering scent of blossoms. Monkeys screamed beyond the trees, a lion roared. Barbara's hands were glued to the wheel by the heat, her clothes felt steeped in humidity. She was uncomfortable enough without having to dine with Paul Gregory and his wife.

  In Camden Town all the pub doors were propped open; couples stood on the pavements, drinking beer. Opposite the dusty marquee of the station, people queued for a Max Ophuls film. As Barbara steered into the side road where the Gregorys lived, in a flat overlooking a bank, a man hurried out of an Indian restaurant, fanning his mouth.

  She parked the car in front of the house and rang the ------------------------------------146

  bell. The pillared porch was a trap for breezes, cooler than the car. A dozen racing cyclists sped by, multicolored as a musical routine. Perhaps the evening wouldn't be too difficult, especially if Paul gave her as much alcohol as he drank himself. At least she wasn't at home or at work, waiting nervously for the phone to ring.

  A tall woman in a long black dress opened the door. Presumably the dress was meant to be ankle-length, but it showed that her ankles were as bony as her arms and her pointed face. "Barbara Waugh," she said, and shook Barbara's hand once. "Sybil Gregory."

  On the first floor someone was practicing scales on a flute, on the second floor a police car was howling. The Gregorys lived on the top floor, under the sloping roof. In the main room, where the ceiling stooped to the wall, the first thing Barbara saw was a telephone. She couldn't help worrying, though Gerry Martin had had only a couple of days to find the cult. It was unlikely that she would be calling Barbara so soon.

  "Paul, your agent's here," Sybil said briskly. "When you've given her a drink, will you put Bevis to bed? Katrina, you should be dressed by now. Come and talk to me in the kitchen, Barbara, when you've got a drink."

  When he'd poured Barbara a Stolichnaya vodka, Paul hurried apologetically into the bathroom, his small son under his arm. She made for the kitchen, past a tiny room with a double-decker bunk, where a little girl was buttoning her Brownie uniform.

  Sybil was grilling steaks. A lion roared in the park, as if it smelled the meat. "There's Imogen and her father now," she said to the little girl when the doorbell rang. "You go and make me proud of you. She's nearly a Guide," she told Barbara. "Were you ever in the Guides?"

  Barbara had almost thought of something, but it was retreating beyond her grasp. "No, I never was," she said. ------------------------------------147

  "I was, for years. I made Katrina join the Brownies, and Bevis will be a Cub as soon as he's old enough. There's nothing like it for licking them into shape." Perhaps she was just what Paul needed, a grown-up Girl Guide who could run the household and make do with whatever they had--but Barbara was still trying to grasp the thought she'd almost had. Somehow she felt that if she managed to define it she would wish she hadn't done so.

  "Watching them grow up helped me through our bad time," Sybil was saying. "Nothing can replace the family, whatever some people would like us to believe." Barbara nodded vaguely, for she had just realized where Paul must have written A Torrent of Lives, at a desk in the corner furthest from the stove: bad time indeed. "Oh, I beg your pardon," Sybil said, "that was tactless of me. Paul told me how you lost your husband and then your little girl."

  She made it sound like negligence, but how could she know she was right? Barbara couldn't tell if she was being paranoid, she could only drain her glass. "You've finished your drink," Sybil said in surprise or reproof. "Do pour yourself another if Paul is still busy."

  Barbara sat on a double bed disguised as a couch and lingered over pouring the vodka while she tried to sort out her feelings. Jackets of Paul's early novels curled on the walls, suitcases like Chinese boxes gathered dust on top of a wardrobe. She had to be content that Gerry was searching. There was nothing she could do now except get on with her job.

  Back in the kitchen Sybil said, "What do you think of Paul as a writer?"

  "I think that he has the potential to write something even better than he has."

  "I think he's the finest writer I've ever read." She wasn't the first writer's spouse that Barbara had heard say ------------------------------------148

  something of the kind. "Name a better living writer," Sybil said.

  "He's extremely good." Barbara ignored the challenge, whatever it was meant to achieve. "He was telling me the plot of his next novel. Has he started work on it?"

  "Not until we move." She'd turned wary. "We're thinking of moving to Ireland once we see some money from the sale you made. They know how to treat artists over there."

  "Yes, several of my clients would agree with you." Writers paid no tax in Ireland. Barbara managed to direct the conversation to the ways in which different societies treated writers, a subject on which Sybil's traps were easier to avoid. Nevertheless, halfway through dinner Sybil said, "I gather you objected when Paul met another agent."

  "Paul is free to change his agent whenever he chooses." Paul was blushing like a small boy who had to keep quiet while adults discussed him. "But I believe it would do him no good."

  "Well, of course you do. I hope you'll forgive my bluntness, but I want to be sure that his books earn every penny they can. I want to make absolutely certain that our children never go through another bad time. Of course I'm sure they won't, Paul, but still," she said to Barbara, "how can you do as well for him in America as an American agent would?"

  "Because I can be there in les
s than a day whenever I need to go. I shall be in New York next month to conduct the auction. Since I'm handling all the English language rights I can negotiate a better deal overall than if I had to wrangle with another agent over who gets which territories. I'll negotiate terms Howard Eastwood wouldn't dare consider."

  "Forgive me," Sybil said, "but we can't really prove or disprove what you're saying." ------------------------------------149

  "Eastwood is a fucking awful agent." Barbara realized she'd had a good deal to drink, but it seemed not to matter. "He advertises in half a dozen magazines. No good agent needs to advertise." Why attack Eastwood when she could be promoting herself? "It goes without saying that we'll make better money in the States than here," she said, "but I can promise you it will be even better than you hope."

  It was only later, as she drove cautiously home along the Euston Road, that she wondered if she had fallen into the biggest trap of the evening. She'd assumed tonight's dinner to have been a peace offering, but had it been meant to take her off guard? In one way that was unimportant--she was sure she would do as well in New York as she had promised--but it meant that she was committed to going there next month, whatever else was happening. She had to believe that she'd done all she could, that it was up to Gerry Martin now.

  She was glad to leave the parking lot under the Barbican. More of the fluorescent tubes were failing; above the dim humps of cars the light made the low roof wobble. A shadow caused her to glance toward the corner where she'd seen the mass of cobwebs. Someone must have cleaned up in here, for the corner was bare. She wished he would do something about the lights, about the dark jerky movements behind the cars.

  A small inverted head peered through curtains deep in the lake. The Church of St. Giles looked stilted by the reflections of its lamps. When she was ready for bed Barbara had to turn off all her lights, which she hadn't been conscious of switching on. Eventually she fell asleep, still trying to recall the thought she had had before dinner. She was sure it related to Angela.

  She seemed hardly to have slept when her morning call woke her, but sunlight was thinning the curtains. She ------------------------------------150

  groped for the phone, feeling resentful because she was only half-awake. Nothing could wake her in the mornings but speaking to someone. She fumbled the receiver onto the pillow. "Hello," she croaked.

  Was this the worst line she'd ever had? She couldn't make out the voice at all. "Hello," she said more distinctly, and after a pause the voice rose slightly. "It's me, Mummy," it said.

  Barbara clutched at the receiver, only to send it crashing to the floor. It must sound as if she had thrown it away. This time she was sure the voice was Angela's, not a hoax at all, and all at once she realized how eager she had been to explain the calls away, to believe that Angela was safely dead and buried. She scrambled desperately onto the carpet, pain bursting in her head, and grabbed the receiver. "Where are you?" she cried.

  The murmur of response was less clear than the meandering of static. "I can't hear you," Barbara said, close to breaking down. "Speak louder."

  "I can't speak much louder. I'm calling you now while everyone's asleep." But not everyone was, for just then Barbara heard a man's voice over the phone. Though she couldn't make out the words there was no mistaking the tone, which was cruel and mocking. At once the line went dead.

  Barbara managed to dial the operator, though her fingers felt crippled. When at last the operator responded she told Barbara haughtily that it was too late to trace the call. Barbara hung onto the receiver for ten minutes while the phone rang at the Other News, and grew appalled with herself, with her failure to respond. At last a woman's voice snarled sleepily at her and gave her Gerry Martin's address and phone number to make her go away.

  There was no reply at Gerry's number. Barbara rushed to Gerry's flat, in a Brixton house which looked sooty and ------------------------------------151

  crumbling. She didn't know what she wanted: she was afraid the cult would now be on the lookout for a spy; she was more afraid to delay Gerry, in case they knew that Angela had betrayed them to her mother. But the girls who lived across the landing said that Gerry had paid her rent two months in advance and left no forwarding address. Wherever she was, she was beyond recalling. ------------------------------------152 ------------------------------------153

  153

  Eighteen

  Halfway across Regent's Park the sky grew puffy and black. Gerry was too far from the zoo to shelter there. She dodged beneath an oak, her torn canvas bag bouncing on her hipbone, as the first large drops began to fall. When she leaned against the tree trunk her eyes closed at once; a cloud of sleep gathered around her, muffling the roughness of bark and the ache of her feet, absorbing sounds. She dozed and waited for the shower to pass.

  But it was a downpour. When she woke for the second or third time, she thought she was standing on an island in the middle of a stormy lake, for it sounded that way. The air was a mass of taut gray fibers that drenched her whichever side of the oak she stood on. Rain cascaded down the layers of foliage above her, finding every gap. All around her, grass was struggling as it drowned.

  It could be worse, she thought wryly: she could still be ------------------------------------154

  working for a local newspaper, still be trying to scale the molehills of news--weddings, traffic offenses, lectures in the church hall--on the way to genuine journalism. Or she could be writing for the Other News, which had been another dead end: however strong "The God Trap" had been, the issue hadn't sold many copies. The smaller the paper, the less chance you had to make a name for yourself. Well, here she was, a freelance investigative journalist at last, and it felt like the wettest and grubbiest job this side of North Sea Oil. She was living the role for which she needed to be mistaken, and she could only hope that made her more convincing.

  At last the rain pattered away. The circular blade of the sun tore a gap in the clouds. Gerry dug her second pair of shoes out of her bag, then she squelched through mud and drooling grass toward the Euston Road. All the buildings looked washed and put out to dry; the roofs of cars steamed like blocks of ice. She hurried to the station, which was beginning to feel like home.

  The high spacious anonymous hall of Euston was crowded with queues that trailed out from the ticket gates. Here were a dozen teenagers loaded with rucksacks, here were Scotsmen whose knees looked boiled, here was a blind man following his dog through the maze of suitcases and handcarts. Escalating commuters sailed up from the underground, past a series of posters dominated by a credit card, like frames in a trick film.

  Gerry locked herself in a cubicle in the ladies' room, then she stripped naked and rubbed herself dry with the towel from her bag. She'd brought a change of underwear, but there had been no room for other clothes. While her T-shirt and jeans dripped on the back of the door she sat on the toilet lid, nodding off in search of a week's lost sleep. She had been a vagrant for a week now, and nothing had come of it. Could she be on the wrong trail? ------------------------------------155

  All her inferences had seemed to fit together perfectly. There was a rumor of nameless people in London, which confirmed what she'd deduced: if Angela was dominated by the cult she wouldn't dare to venture far from them to meet her mother--since she'd promised to meet her by the Portobello Road that meant they were in town somewhere. The young woman Iris had said that she'd had to wake a man on New Street, which could only mean the station in Birmingham, the group's home immediately before Sheffield. The Salvation Army in Manchester had heard that vagrants were approached by people who refused to name their organization or themselves. That must be how they recruited members, and so Gerry had become a vagrant in the hope they would recruit her.

  She swayed against the water pipe and recoiled, shivering. It was one thing to congratulate herself on piecing together the hints, quite another to live out the consequences. The last week had seemed endless--pretending to sleep at Euston and sometimes not pretendin
g, napping on park benches in the daytime--but why should she have expected to make contact so soon? She had no idea how large the group was, how infrequently it sought recruits. If she had only been able to question Iris she might have been more prepared now.

  She mustn't weaken. She must prevent the little girl in Barbara's photograph from growing like Iris, if she could. Despite what she had said so as not to raise Barbara's hopes, she thought it very likely that Angela was alive. Besides, this investigation was going to make Gerry's name. Suddenly apprehensive, she grabbed her notebook out of her bag, but the plastic carrier within the bag had prevented the rain from reaching the book; she was learning the tricks of poverty. Her notes looked sparse for a week's work, but they should jog her memory when she came to write the articles. ------------------------------------156

  When she lolled against the pipe again she made herself get dressed. Her clothes were still damp, the knees of her jeans were soaked, but a walk in the sun should dry them. She stumbled into the Euston hall, past a pale young man who looked like a starved monk whose tonsure was longer on one side, and for a moment it was too much for her: the crowd was too rapid and chaotic, the noise was huge, incomprehensible, terrifying. If only she could sneak home for a day or so and catch up on her sleep! But that might be the very day the group was looking for recruits. She had to stay available.

  However irrational it was, she was beginning to feel as homeless and friendless as she looked. She was tempted to call Barbara Waugh, but she had nothing to tell her. No, there was something better she could do to make herself feel less vulnerable.

  Outside the station, she fed her Barclaybank card into the slot in the wall and typed her code. When she'd stuffed twenty pounds into her pocket she felt a good deal more secure, until she realized that if a member of the group had seen her she had ruined her disguise. She glanced about, but the people who were staring at her clearly wondered if she had stolen the card. That was encouraging.

  In five minutes she was in the Tottenham Court Road, and sneezing at the sunlight. Mexican food ought to help fight her cold, if she had one coming. But they wouldn't let her into Viva Tacos. "Tables all reserved," the waiter said expressionlessly. She was living her disguise.