Ritual

by Graham Masterton

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe I could get myself a job in the movies, if I could fence.’

  ‘The movies? I’m not sitting next to the reincarnation of Errol Flynn, am I?’

  Martin said, quite seriously, ‘I thought about being a stuntman, something like that.’

  ‘That’s kind of a wacky career,’ Charlie ventured.

  ‘Well, I’m not going to be a restaurant inspector,’ said Martin. There was no scorn in his voice, and somehow that made his remark all the more painful. It was a plain and simple fact.

  Charlie steered out of the parking lot and turned right on the road for Allen’s Corners. For two or three minutes they drove in silence. On either side of them the woods rose up like heaps of ashes at a mass cremation, smoking with mist.

  As offhandedly as he could, Charlie asked, ‘Who were you talking to just now?’

  Martin looked baffled. ‘What do you mean? I wasn’t talking to anybody.’

  ‘In the parking lot, I saw you. You were waving your hands around as if you were talking to somebody. Come on, Martin, I know when somebody’s talking to somebody.’

  Martin turned away from him, and stared out of the window at the woods.

  Charlie said, ‘I’m not checking up on you or anything. I’m just trying to take care of you. I’ve also got to admit that I’m curious to know who you can find to talk to, in this Godforsaken locality.’

  ‘I was singing,’ said Martin. ‘You know, like pretending to play the guitar.’ He demonstrated by strumming an invisible Fender.

  Charlie glanced up at his own eyes reflected in the rearview mirror. He wanted to tell Martin that the guitar-playing gestures he was making now were nothing at all like the gestures he had been making in the parking lot. Those gestures had been flat-handed, chopping, declamatory, as if he had been explaining something, or making some kind of appeal. They certainly hadn’t been imaginary chord changes.

  Martin reached forward and switched on the tape player, instantly drowning out the car with jarring rock music. He began to sing along with it, making a juvv-juvving noise with his mouth that reminded Charlie of the sound he used to make when he was a small boy, to simulate a Mack truck laboriously climbing up the lid of his toybox. It hadn’t occurred to Charlie when he had offered to take Martin around with him that Martin would constantly require in-car entertainment. Charlie always drove in silence. He liked to hear the sound of America passing beneath his car, mile by mile. That, too, was part of the penance.

  ‘Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers,’ said Martin, crashing out more imaginary chords.

  ‘Am I supposed to have heard of them?’ asked Charlie, and then thought, What a hideous middle-aged thing to say. No wonder Martin thinks you’re so damned old.

  Martin didn’t answer. Charlie carried on driving through the golden mist. He began to feel as if he were living in another time altogether; as if somehow they had driven through to the Ninth Dimension, like travellers used to do on The Twilight Zone.

  He glanced at Martin surreptitiously. No teenage boy could have looked more normal. He might be aggressive and sarcastic, but what teenage boy wasn’t? At least he didn’t wear studs through his ears and make-up. He was nothing more than your average, skinny, short-haired pale-faced boy, with preshrunk 501s and a big plaid jacket and sneakers that looked as if they had been borrowed from one of the Harlem Globetrotters.

  Maybe Charlie’s anxiety at forming a new relationship with his son had made him too suspicious. Maybe Martin was telling the truth, and all that he had seen out in the garden had been a bush. Yet why he had said, ‘You won’t let him in Dad, will you?’ Nobody says that about a bush. And he had been talking to somebody out in the parking lot, Charlie was sure of it, even though the parking lot had appeared to be empty.

  Maybe he had been talking to himself. Or maybe he had been talking to somebody too small to be visible behind the car

  2

  They drove into Allen’s Corners just as the bell from the Georgian-style Congregational Church was beating out three o’clock. Charlie parked the car right outside the entrance to the First Litchfield Savings Bank, and climbed out into the sunshine. The air was tangy with woodsmoke and recent rain.

  Allen’s Corners lay seven miles from Washington and five miles from Bethlehem, in a wooded hollow where the Quassapaug tributary ran. The heart of the town was a plain, sloping green, faced on three sides by white-painted colonial buildings, and dappled by crimson maples. There was a colonial cannon standing at the lower end of the green, and in the striped shadow of its wheel spokes two elderly men were sitting on a bench, their trousers protected from the wet wooden slats by carefully folded up newspapers.

  ‘Best thing we can do is get some directions from those two,’ said Charlie.

  Martin looked around, his hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans. ‘You’re sure this place has a bowling alley?’

  ‘Down on the south side of town, next to the supermarket and the railroad depot. What the folks from the historical district call the commercial district.’

  Charlie tugged his well-thumbed copy of MARIA out of his sagging coat pocket, licked his finger, and leafed through it until he found Allen’s Corners, population 671, one gas station (daytimes only); two restaurants, Billy’s Beer & Bite and The English Muffin; one boarding house, 313 Naugatuck, six guests only, no dogs.

  MARIA was the popular acronym for the guide called Motor-Courts, Apartments, Restaurants and Inns of America. For Charlie, it was appropriate that it should have been a woman’s name, because MARIA had been the mistress that had broken up his marriage. MARIA was the siren who had lured him away from home, and sent him driving around America in search of an illusory fulfilment that he had realized years ago would never be his. He wasn’t bitter about it. He knew that he would never be able to settle down, so the best thing he could do was to go on driving around until some early-morning maid in some small mid-West hotel tried to wake him up one day and found that she couldn’t.

  Founded in 1927 by a flannelette salesman called Wilbur Burke who had been stranded in rural communities just once too often ‘sans beefsteak, sans bed’, MARIA had been the travelling man’s Bible for twenty years. In his preface to the first edition, Burke had written, ‘This guide is dedicated to every man whose Model A has let him down somewhere in the vastness of the American continent, on endless plain or wind-swept mountain, and who has been obliged through lack of local knowledge to dine on Air Pie; and to seek his rest on the cushions of his back seat.’

  Lately, however, MARIA had been overtaken in stylishness and circulation by Michelin and Dining Out in America. Salesmen flew to their destinations these days, eating and sleeping high above the prairies which they once used to cross in overloaded station wagons. But MARIA still sold 30,000 copies every year, and that was enough to justify the perpetual travels of Charlie and his five colleagues, constantly updating and correcting like the clerks in George Orwell’s Ministry of Truth.

  MARIA’s restaurant inspectors managed on average to survive their jobs for three years. At the end of three years, they were usually suffering from emotional exhaustion, alcoholism, and stomach disorders. Very few inspectors were married, but almost all of those who were went through separation or divorce. Charlie had lost Marjorie; but he had outlasted the next-longest serving inspector five times over.

  Mrs Verity Burke Trafford, who owned MARIA, said without kindness that Charlie must have been born a glutton; not only for food but for punishment. Charlie, in reply, said nothing.

  Charlie walked across the dappled shadows of the green towards the two elderly men, and Martin followed him. Their feet made parallel tracks in the silvery moisture on the grass. The old men watched them approach with their hands shading their eyes. One of them was ruddy-faced, and blue-eyed, with the deceptively healthy looks of high blood pressure. The other was sallow and bent, with tufts of white hair that reminded Charlie of an old photograph he had once seen of an Indian scout who had been sc
alped by Apaches.

  ‘Fine afternoon,’ said Charlie, by way of greeting.

  ‘It’ll rain again before nightfall,’ replied the ruddy-faced man. ‘You can make a bet on that.’

  ‘Wonder if you could help me,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m looking for a restaurant hereabouts.’

  ‘There’s Billy’s down by the depot,’ said the ruddy-faced man. Although the church clock was clearly visible through the maples, he took out a pocket watch and examined it for a while as if he wasn’t sure that it was working. ‘Be closed by now, though. Five after three.’

  ‘It’s a particular restaurant I’m interested in, Le Reposoir.’

  The ruddy-faced man thought about that, and then shook his head. ‘Never heard of any place called anything like that. Sure it’s Allen’s Corners you want? Not Bethlehem?’

  ‘I had lunch at the Iron Kettle,’ said Charlie. ‘Mrs Foss told me about it.’

  ‘What did he say?’ the white-haired man cried out, leaning forward and cupping his hand to his whiskery ear.

  ‘He said he had lunch at the Iron Kettle,’ the ruddy-faced man shouted at him.

  ‘Well, rather him than me,’ his companion replied. ‘Never could tolerate that Wickes family.’

  ‘The Fosses own it now,’ the ruddy-faced man told him.

  ‘Oh, the Fosses,’ said his white-haired friend. ‘I remember. That woman with the fancy eyeglasses and the stupid sons. And that daughter that went missing – what was her name?’

  ‘Ivy,’ the ruddy-faced man reminded him. ‘And she wasn’t a daughter, she was a niece.’

  ‘You’re a hair-splitter, Christopher Prescott,’ the white-haired man snapped.

  ‘And you, Oliver T. Burack, are a xenophobe.’

  Charlie interrupted them. ‘You don’t know where this restaurant could be, then?’

  The ruddy-faced Christopher Prescott said, ‘You’ve been misguided, my friend, if you want my opinion. Somebody’s led you astray.’

  ‘Harriet the waitress told me about it. She even spelled it out.’

  ‘Harriet? Harriet Greene?’

  ‘I guess that’s her name, yes.’

  Christopher Prescott reached out and gently took hold of the sleeve of Charlie’s coat. ‘My dear man, Harriet Greene is well known in this locality for having an unusually low proportion of active brain cells. In other words, she’s what you might call doolally.’

  ‘Mrs Foss mentioned the place, too,’ said Charlie. Beside him, Martin was growing restless, and scuffing his feet.

  ‘What did he say?’ Oliver T. Burack wanted to know.

  ‘He was talking about the Fosses,’ Christopher Prescott shouted.

  ‘The Fosses of Evil,’ cackled Oliver T. Burack. ‘That’s what I call them. The Fosses of Evil.’

  ‘Be quiet, Oliver,’ Christopher Prescott admonished him.

  It was then that a young sheriff’s deputy came walking across the grass towards them. He was thin and big-nosed and he had grown a drooping blond moustache in an obvious effort to make himself look more mature. His eyes were concealed behind impenetrable dark sunglasses. He came up to Charlie and Martin and stood with his hands on his narrow hips, inspecting them.

  ‘That your car, sir? That Olds with the Michigan plates?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Charlie. ‘Anything wrong?’

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d move it, that’s all,’ the deputy told him.

  ‘It’s not illegally parked,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Did you hear anybody say that it was?’ the deputy inquired. Charlie – who had argued with traffic cops and deputies on almost every highway from Walla Walla, Washington, to Wind River, Wyoming – took a deep and patient breath.

  ‘If it’s not illegally parked, deputy, then I’d honestly prefer it to remain where it is.’

  The deputy looked past Charlie and Martin to the two old men on the bench. ‘How’re you doing Mr Prescott, sir? Mr Burack?’

  ‘We’re doing fine, thank you, Clive,’ Christopher Prescott replied.

  ‘These two people bothering you any?’

  ‘No, sir, not at all. Asking for directions, that was all.’

  ‘Lost your way?’ the deputy said, turning back to Charlie.

  ‘Not really. I’m trying to find a restaurant, that’s all. Le Reposoir.’

  The deputy thoughtfully stroked at his blond moustache. He had a ferocious red spot right on the end of his nose. ‘You know something, sir? There are laws and there are customs.’

  ‘Are you trying to make some kind of a point?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘What I’m trying to say, sir, without giving unnecessary offence, is that your vehicle is parked in the place where the president of the savings bank parks. He’s still out at lunch right now, but he’ll be back before too long, and you can understand what his feelings are going to be if he discovers an out-of-state vehicle occupying his customary place.’

  Charlie stared at the deputy in disbelief. The wind whispered through the maples, and over by the commercial district a dog was barking. At last, Charlie said, with uncompromising coldness, ‘Take off those sunglasses.’

  The deputy hesitated at first, but then slowly removed them. His eyes were green and one of them was slightly bloodshot.

  Charlie said, ‘Do you happen to know where I can find a French-style restaurant called Le Reposoir?’

  The deputy glanced at the two old men. ‘Is that what you asked these gentlemen?’

  ‘Yes it is. But now I’m asking you.’

  ‘Well, sir, Le Reposoir isn’t open to the public. It’s more of a dining club than a restaurant. The way I understand it, you have to make a special appointment before they’ll let you in there.’

  ‘I see. But can you tell me where it is?’

  The deputy looked uncomfortable. ‘The people who run Le Reposoir are not too keen on unexpected visitors, sir. A couple of times they’ve called us out to take away trespassers.’

  ‘I’ll deal with that when I get there, deputy. All I want to know from you is where it is.’

  ‘Sir – believe me – it doesn’t have too good a reputation. I don’t know how you got to hear about it, but the people round here don’t speak too well about it. If I were you, I’d take a raincheck. Billy’s is probably the best place to eat in Allen’s Corners, if it’s good country food you’re looking for. My cousin works in the kitchen, and that kitchen’s so clean, you wouldn’t mind them taking out your appendix.’

  Charlie said, ‘You still haven’t given me any idea where to find Le Reposoir.’

  The deputy pushed his sunglasses back on to his nose. ‘I’m sorry sir, I’m not sure that I should. We do our best to divert people away from Le Reposoir, tell you the truth.’

  ‘I’ll make a deal with you,’ Charlie suggested. ‘You tell me where Le Reposoir is, and I’ll move my car.’

  The deputy didn’t look at all happy about that. ‘Let me tell you something, sir, Mr Musette isn’t going to like it any.’

  ‘Mr Musette? Who’s he?’

  ‘He kind of runs Le Reposoir, him and Mrs Musette. Well – I believe they run it, anyway. I never saw anybody else up there, excepting some tall fellow who was working in the garden.’

  A Jeep sped noisly around the green, and the deputy glanced around with undisguised anxiety in case it was the president of the savings bank, returning from lunch to find that his sacred parking space had been usurped by a stranger.

  ‘Come on,’ said Charlie. ‘A deal’s a deal. And what do we have at stake here? The sheriff’s five per cent mortgage?’

  The deputy said, ‘All I can tell you is the name Musette. You can look it up in the telephone book.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Charlie. ‘You can tell me approximately where it is, can’t you?’

  The deputy looked over at Christopher Prescott, as if he were seeking approval. Charlie was sure that he saw Prescott almost imperceptibly shake his head, but he couldn’t be certain about it.

  ‘You’d be
tter call Mr Musette first,’ the deputy repeated. ‘If you try to go up there uninvited, well – the next thing I know he’s going to be yelling down the horn at me, telling me to come up and get you because you’ve been trespassing. Mr Musette has a real obsession with trespassers.’

  Martin said, ‘Come on, Dad, we won’t have any time left for bowling.’

  ‘Bowling?’ asked the deputy. ‘You won’t be able to do any bowling around here. Nearest lanes are in Hartford. There used to be a bowl, sure, down by the railroad depot, but they closed it nine months back. Too many old folks in Allen’s Corners to make a bowl pay. No youngsters any more.’

  ‘I was here last year,’ said Charlie, in surprise. ‘I can remember that bowl being pecked out with kids.’

  ‘Times change,’ Christopher Prescott intervened. His voice was as dry as the wind in the leaves. ‘Lot of young couples decided that Allen’s Corners wasn’t the place they wanted their kids to grow up in. Too quiet, you see, and nothing in the way of opportunity, excepting if a kid wanted to be a horse doctor or a country lawyer. Then, of course, there were the disappearances, all those kids going missing.’

  ‘Including the Foss girl?’ asked Charlie.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Christopher Prescott. ‘First young David Unsworth disappeared; then Ivy Foss; then Geraldine Immanelli. Then six or seven more. Some of the parents began to get scared. Those who lived in town moved out of town. Some of them even went back to the city. Those who lived outside of town didn’t allow their children into the Corners any more. So the bowling alley died from what you might diagnose as a loss of young blood.’

  ‘Did they ever find what happened to all those kids?’

  Christopher Prescott shrugged. ‘They dragged the Quassapaug. They searched the hills for fifteen miles in all directions. But I reckon those kids went to New York City; or maybe to Boston, Massachusetts. They never found one of them, not even a trace.’

  A silver-coloured Cadillac appeared at the far corner of the green. Abruptly, the deputy snatched at Charlie’s arm. ‘You listen here now, move that vehicle of yours. That’s the bank president, coming back from lunch.’