The Influence

by Ramsey Campbell

  She sat on the bed and laid Rowan’s note on her lap, and found that she was afraid to open the diary. Her throat felt parched by a smell of stale paper, her hands were cramped with dread. She made herself a vow: the diary would show her the truth, and she would act on whatever she found; if it proved her wrong she would seek treatment while her parents were here. She turned the diary over and let the blank pages scrape past her thumb until writing appeared. She forced herself not to close her eyes, to see what was there, the truth.

  It was the entry for Christmas Day. Today I got three books by Dickens and a new dress. Then we had Christmas lunch and pulled crackers. Later on we played a bored game and I won, and then it was time for me to go to bed.

  Alison blinked rapidly, and hardly knew what she was feeling. The tone of the diary was so cold that it didn’t even mention who had bought the presents, and yet there before her eyes was all the evidence she could ask for. The paragraph in the diary and Rowan’s note were in exactly the same handwriting.

  So that was that: the truth. The child who’d written the last entry was the only Rowan now, and that was what Alison hadn’t been able to cope with, perhaps because she blamed herself for losing the child she had brought up and loved. Rowan was growing up, away from her, and Alison could hardly blame her. As for herself, perhaps the treatment wouldn’t be too drastic, since she was facing the truth. She closed the window, shivering at a breeze that felt as if it had frozen hope. Thank heaven she had noted where the diary came from—the child must already feel spied on. Alison gave the diary and the note beside it a last look, as if that might help her relinquish the past and accept Rowan as she was now.

  Then she jerked as if someone unseen had caught hold of her. The sensation vanished before she could be sure she had felt it, faded like a snowflake, except that its touch had been warm. It might have been the shock of realisation she experienced as she stared at the pages on the bed. She let out a moan of hope or despair. It wasn’t over. She had almost missed seeing what the pages showed.

  She sat down so heavily that the bed creaked, and leafed through the diary, her fingers shaking. She found the last entry Rowan had written in Wales, about a photograph of Vicky that Hermione had shown her. Most of the subsequent dates had entries: how she was glad to be home, how most of the books in the school library weren’t worth her attention, how Miss Frith pretended to know more than she really did… The only emotion they expressed was impatience, and impatience had betrayed the writer. In the earliest entries the spelling was as erratic as always, but by yesterday Rowan was able to spell Christmas and crackers and sometimes. It wasn’t possible. Rowan might enjoy reading Dickens, but Alison should have realised that she couldn’t spell his name.

  Alison clenched her fists to make her fingers work, and leafed through the diary again. The spelling improved as the entries came up to date. The progress might have been convincing if it hadn’t been so rapid, but now even the token misspelling of board game looked insultingly obvious, if indeed it was a misspelling at all. The writer had grown tired of the pretence, or perhaps she couldn’t bear to seem to spell as inaccurately as Rowan had.

  Alison folded the note and closed it inside the diary. She put the diary in her handbag, which she hung over her arm. For the moment she felt nothing but a mounting sureness that made Rowan seem closer, the Rowan whom she’d borne and loved, however imperfectly, and whom she wanted to come back to her. She’d vowed to see the truth and act on it, and deep in her heart she knew there was only one explanation for the changes in the diary and in Rowan. But if she believed that, she had reason to be as nervous as she was growing. She was wondering why, when the child out there had seemed to know what Alison was planning, she hadn’t tried harder to prevent her from coming back to the house.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Derek thought Alison was about to speak when Edith came into the living-room and said “Rowan wants you, Derek.”

  Alison bent her head to Edith’s magazine and retreated into silence. “What were you going to say, Ali?” he said.

  “It’ll wait. You go up and find out what she wants.”

  She sounded too bright, like a radio with the treble turned right up, and he didn’t like it at all. First he should see about Rowan. She was lying in bed, hands folded on the blankets, head raised slightly by the pillow. As he stepped into the bedroom her eyes turned to him, and he had a disconcerting notion that he should have knocked before entering. “What’s up, babe?” he said.

  She seemed to find that overly familiar. Even when he’d found her in the graveyard she had been aloof, reluctant to let him hug her, and since then he hadn’t often tried. She raised her clasped hands as if she were praying and leaned toward him with an intimacy he no longer expected. “Will grandmama be staying in?”

  “She will, and your mother. You know we’d never leave you alone in the house.”

  “I know mother will be. But grandmama will too.”

  “That’s what I said. Why are you asking?”

  She gazed at him as if he ought to know. Worse, he thought he did. “You go to sleep now, all right? Everyone loves you,” he said awkwardly, and stooped to kiss her forehead. It was cold, and wrinkled as his lips touched it. When he looked back from the doorway, her eyes were closed. He hurried downstairs, full of a protective rage and praying that he needn’t feel that way.

  “What did she want?” Alison said, too casually.

  “Just making sure we weren’t all going out, as if we would. What did you want before?”

  “Only to remind you not to get my father too drunk. Remember they have to drive home the day after tomorrow.”

  Derek sensed that she was concealing at least as much as he was. It seemed a denial of everything they’d shared and built together since before they were married. He could feel his dismay swelling into words, forcing his lips open, and then Keith said “Come on, let the poor man show me his local. I haven’t had a proper talk with him all Christmas.”

  She wanted Derek to be closer to her family, after all. He wanted it himself, though not under these circumstances. He followed Keith into the night, where a wind swooped down like a sluicing of ice from the roofs. Pinched edges of foam rose jerkily on the dark bay, ships flared like heaps of coal as they pitched through the waves. In the pub Keith’s glasses clouded over. Derek bought the beer while Keith wiped the lenses and muttered “I hope you aren’t going to be difficult, you two” and a tape sang “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” through speakers draped with streamers in all the alcoves of the bar. Keith sat behind the fruit machine and clinked tankards with Derek. “Well, that’s another year nearly over and the world’s still in one piece.”

  “And most of us still are,” Derek responded, and was wondering how to sidle towards the subject they had to discuss when someone gripped his shoulder. “Stag night, is it?” Eddie said.

  He put down his tankard and roved not quite steadily around the neighboring tables in search of a chair. “To tell you the truth, Eddie,” Derek called “this is sort of a family conference.”

  “Where’s the rest of them, already under the table? I thought you never talked about them, too perfect or something. Don’t worry, I’m going, I won’t show you up in front of your arty gardener, though you were glad enough to know me when your mansion needed decorating.” He picked up his tankard and raised it toward them with exaggerated dignity. “Don’t mind us,” he said to Keith as if each word were a toffee he had to unstick from his teeth. “We’re always going on like this.”

  When he’d swayed away Keith said “Are you?”

  “It’s news to me.”

  “He could join us by all means. Unless you really want a private word, in which case I’ll stop droning.” He frowned encouragingly at Derek and supped a mouthful of beer. “If Edith and I can help in any way, you’ve only to ask.”

  “That’s kind of you, Keith. You’re a good friend.” He was also Alison’s father, and how might he react to what Derek had to
say? “It’s how we’ve been since things went wrong, how that left us.” He took a gulp of beer to wash away the taste of inadequacy. “Maybe you’ve noticed.”

  “There’s always the future, old chap. I think you have the kind of marriage that rebuilds itself, even if your troubles make you think you can’t stand each other sometimes. Is that what you mean? Just last night Edith and I were saying how well we thought you were coping.”

  “Yesterday I’d have agreed with you.”

  “I see it’s hard for you to talk, old son, but I can’t help unless you tell me.”

  Derek almost drained his tankard. He let the blurry warmth of alcohol sail into his brain, then waved Keith down as he made to buy another round. “Wait and I’ll tell you. It’s Alison. I think what happened upset her more than she’s letting on.”

  “It might have, don’t you think? After all, she lost her sister and may have thought she’d lost her only child.” His eyes clouded until he blinked away the memory of his bereavement. “But it can’t be good for her not to share her feelings with you. If Edith and I hadn’t helped each other over losing our Hermione I don’t know where we’d be. I’ll have a quiet word with Alison if you think that would serve.”

  “We mightn’t want her to know we’ve been talking. She’s got sort of mistrustful. I don’t think she believes Rowan has really come back.”

  Disconcertingly, Keith looked relieved. “What makes you say so?”

  “Didn’t you see how she was watching her today?”

  “I may have now you mention it. Let me replenish your mug. I should tell you now it wouldn’t be the first time with Alison, so cheer up.”

  Derek stared after him while he waited at the bar to be served. A large bald man tore mouthfuls out of a turkey sandwich and fed the fruit machine, which chirped like a ravenous bird. Keith returned at last, balancing tankards. “Not the first time,” Derek prompted urgently.

  “No. No, I don’t think it is.” Keith set his tankard and then himself down gently. “When Alison was three Hermione had to spend some time in hospital, and her mother stayed with her, of course. You had to make a fuss to do that in those days, and the hospital wouldn’t let Alison go visiting, out of spite, we thought. Anyway, when they came home Alison was very wary of Hermione and not a great deal better with their mother. We found out she thought that when you’d been anaesthetised you could be someone else when you came round. Hermione had to remind her of things the two of them had done together. I’d say it was being separated from her mother and Hermione that made Alison feel that way, and I’m sure the same applies now and she’ll get over it, don’t you think?”

  “But she isn’t a child any more.”

  “No more than the rest of us, at any rate. Still, can’t you see why she might feel uneasy with Rowan? Rowan’s not the child she was, and I think we can understand why. Perhaps you should let Alison know you sometimes feel the way she does.”

  Derek felt as if he had to tear down a wall between himself and Keith without knowing what the wall might be supporting. “But I don’t,” he cried. “She doesn’t just think Rowan’s not herself, she thinks Rowan’s somewhere else. She talks to her when she’s not there, for God’s sake.”

  “Yes, but that needn’t mean—”

  “I haven’t told you what happened last night. I woke up and she was sitting up in bed, and then she started talking. She said ‘Rowan, it’s you’ to the empty room, do you understand? Then she got up and I sneaked a look at her, and believe me, she was wide awake. She went along to Rowan’s room and I heard her stop outside, and I’m telling you, Keith, if she’d gone in I’d have been there like a shot, the way she looked. Maybe you think I’m exaggerating.” He faltered, feeling cruel to the old man. “Except do you know why Rowan called me upstairs before? She wanted to be sure her grandmother was staying in. She’s afraid to be left alone with her mother.”

  He still hadn’t told Keith the worst—that he’d heard Alison say she thought she was going mad. Keith raised his eyebrows and blinked at his knuckles, and then he said “Would you like us to stay longer?”

  “I don’t think Rowan’s actually in danger. I can’t believe that.”

  “Alison might know we’ve been discussing her if we change our plans, you mean.”

  So this was how it felt to be one of the family, sharing thoughts and each other’s distress. He’d gained a relative, but what might he be losing? “Or if Rowan went home with you while I try and sort things out,” he said.

  “We’ll have her any time you like, you know that. I only wonder what you have in mind for Alison.”

  That was exactly what Derek dreaded putting into words. “Maybe she’d talk to the doctor. I would as well if it helps. He might give her stuff to take, do you reckon?”

  “That sounds about right to me, old son,” Keith said, but his obvious relief made him less reassuring. “This must have been building up since that business with poor Hermione. I expect Christmas brought it to a head because Alison will be missing her.”

  “You don’t think she’s blaming Rowan for what happened to Hermione?”

  “God knows how her mind may be working with all this death and stress. I do wonder if we shouldn’t have Edith talk to her.”

  “It ought to be me. I only wanted to check with you.”

  “I’m glad you did. I feel I know you better and like what I know. I won’t tell Edith until we’re home or you might never see the last of us. Maybe things will improve once we’re out of the way and Alison can devote more time to Rowan. But any time of day or night you need to get in touch, one of us is bound to be awake.”

  Derek drained his tankard and stood up to buy another round. Having someone to confide in seemed to have helped more than he’d dared to hope. “Just look after them both, as if I needed to tell you,” Keith said as if there could be no question of protecting one at the expense of the other. The crowd at the bar pressed around Derek, their smoky breaths massed overhead and dimmed the lights, and he prayed he wouldn’t have to make that choice.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Left alone, the women talked about the family. Edith wished Richard had joined them for Christmas—nobody should be alone at this time of year—but when Alison had called him he’d declined with a calm she’d taken to be sorrow that he wanted to preserve undisturbed. He hadn’t been at Hermione’s funeral. Hermione’s cottage was for sale, the proceeds to be divided equally between her sister and her parents according to her will, and Edith thought they should all spend some of the bequest on a Spanish holiday. “Then at least some good will come of all this grief.” Alison murmured as agreeably as she could without committing herself so far into the future when she didn’t know where the present would lead. She poured large drinks despite her mother’s token protests, and was glad when her mother turned to reminiscing about Alison’s childhood: at least the past was over, no longer threatening. It was a while before she wondered if her mother was avoiding the subject of Rowan.

  Was she nursing the doubts she’d had on Christmas Day? She had been afraid for Rowan, though only that the child might harm herself. She’d thought they should take Rowan to the doctor because of the way she had changed, because she seemed too old for her years, too much like Queenie. Alison had done her best to dissuade her mother, but now she hoped she’d failed. She was sure that the longing for reassurance she felt wasn’t hers alone. She was thinking of a way to resurrect the subject when Edith did; at least, she cocked her head towards the door. “Has Rowan come downstairs?”

  For a moment Alison thought that the intruder had come to prevent her from speaking to Edith, and then she realised that she didn’t feel at all nervous. “Did you hear something?” she said.

  “Not exactly. You can just feel when someone’s there, can’t you?”

  “Of course you can,” Alison said, willing her to be receptive. “I expect you were right. Go and see.”

  She held her breath as her mother went to the door. Edith tou
ched the handle and bent her head toward the upper panels, then she snatched the door open. Alison glimpsed movement beyond it, and her heart seemed to twist like a knife—but it was the reflection of the door on the silvery wallpaper. Edith glanced both ways along the hall and looked dissatisfied. “I was sure she was here. Let me see if she’s nipped back upstairs.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  Edith glanced sharply at her and made for the stairs. Couldn’t she sense the yearning that seemed to fill the whitewashed stairway, the yearning to be noticed? She hesitated in sight of the next floor, then shook her head as if to convince herself the corridor was empty. She tiptoed to Rowan’s room and peered in, and stiffened.

  Alison went quickly to her side and saw what she was seeing: Rowan’s body lying face up in the bed, hands folded on its chest, the way it always slept now. “My dear lord,” Edith whispered “she looks just like—”

  She was ready for the truth. It was time to show her the diary. Alison steered her away from the door, pretending that the occupant of the bed was unaware of them. She put her finger to her lips and ushered Edith to the stairs, bracing herself to speak once they were in the living-room. But she hadn’t reached the downstairs hall when she realised that she couldn’t tell her mother.

  Lance had known something, and he was dead. Hermione had known a great deal, and so was she. How could Alison put anyone, let alone her mother, in such danger? Just now she didn’t want to think what risks she might be taking herself. In the living-room she smiled carefully at Edith as they reached for their drinks, but Edith demanded “Did you see her? Did you see how she was sleeping?”

  “She always has, mummy.” Alison felt disloyal, both to Rowan and her mother. “At least, ever since she was a toddler.”

  “Well, I’ve never seen it before.” Her mother pursed her lips and put down her glass. “What aren’t you telling me? We’ve never been able to pretend with each other.”

  “I’m just trying to stop you worrying when you needn’t, mummy, that’s all. What does it matter how she sleeps so long as she’s able to? She’s back with us, isn’t she? What else could we possibly want?”