Think Yourself Lucky

by Ramsey Campbell

  She reminded him of his parents. Perhaps that was one reason he'd been drawn to her, and he had no idea how useful it would be. "Then you have to read that blog," he said.

  He'd feared he might be robbed of the ability to say even that, but it was out now, past denying—at least, by him. Stephanie looked confused and not far from saddened. "The one you said was using your title, you mean? Why should I want to do that?"

  "I can't tell you. You need to see."

  "Put the glass down for heaven's sake. You'll crack the stem if you hold it like that." As David managed to relax his grip and plant the wineglass on the table Stephanie said "Let's have dinner first, shall we?"

  "Can't you turn it down?" He could tell she hoped to coax him away from his obsession. "I thought you wanted an explanation," he said. "In that case you'll have to look at the blog."

  "Can you honestly not tell me otherwise?" When David shook his head, which felt like an attempt to shake more words out, Stephanie sighed. "All right, if it bothers you so much I'll look."

  She seemed distracted, perhaps uneasy. Once she'd transferred the casserole to the oven she turned the heat low before she fetched her laptop. As she opened it on the table and inserted the jack of the lead.

  David was reminded of Frank Cubbins. Was it too late to tell her he'd changed his mind? He mustn't do that to protect himself, and he had to believe she wasn't at risk. "What was it called again?" she said, not very much as if she wanted to know.

  "Better Out Than In."

  "But you don't think it is." When David had no answer she typed the words, and he watched her across the table as she was confronted by the site. "What do you want me to see?" she said.

  His mouth was almost dry enough to destroy his voice, and he took another gulp of wine. "Can you see the link about not needing a menu? Read what that entry says."

  He watched her face grow puzzled as she read, and then it filled with disbelief and tried to stay incredulous until it covered its expression with a blankness he'd never previously seen Stephanie adopt. He saw her come to the end of the entry, but he'd taken several breaths before she looked at him, "Are you trying to tell me you wrote this, David?"

  "I'm not, no. I didn't see it till the first time I read it,"

  "Then what are you—"

  "Just look at some more. Read as much as you can."

  He swallowed as she found another link, and then he reached for his glass. He had no idea which entry she was reading now, and her face gave no indication how it made her feel. She'd clicked on a third link before she said "How many of these am I expected to recognise?"

  "You ought to be able to figure out a few. I know every single one." With a sense of relinquishing his last chance to keep her affection David said "Look at the latest."

  He could see when she read past the encounter in the bookshop. From attempting to tolerate or at least understand the barrage of uninvited language, though the task was a visible strain, she began to look as if she would very much prefer not to comprehend what was in front of her, on the screen and perhaps across the table as well. For some moments after her eyes stopped moving she didn't speak. "Was that meant to be Emily?" she said as though she hardly wanted to be heard.

  "I'm afraid it was. The others from work, they're on there too, and some of our customers are." Now that he was able to talk David found it hard to finish, though perhaps he was simply trying to fend off Stephanie's disquiet. "The couple he calls Daft and Pathetic," he said, "their names were Pat and Daff. They came in to book a holiday but the husband kept pretending he didn't remember places they'd been. I don't know if you saw, but he had a heart attack at the airport when he couldn't find their passports. Guess who stole them or hid them or just made it so the fellow couldn't see them. I'd forgotten about him and his wife, or I thought I had. They didn't even end up booking their holiday through us."

  Perhaps he'd babbled at such length because he was afraid to learn what Stephanie was waiting to say. "Tell me none of this was anything to do with you, David."

  "I can't." This sounded too close to wanting to be silenced, and he said even more fiercely "It has."

  "What are you trying to say?" When he didn't respond at once she said "Or are you trying not to?"

  "I told you I didn't write any of it. You must know I couldn't have." He was dismayed to wonder if he'd convinced her of the opposite. "All that about the motorway," he insisted, "it was posted last night when I was here with you. Go on and check."

  He was silent while she did, but it left her looking uneasier still. "I wouldn't want to know you if you'd written it, but then who—"

  "Suppose I didn't need to write it? What if I only had to think?" As Stephanie parted her lips and then pinched them inwards with her teeth he said "Or suppose it was more like the other way round?"

  "You've lost me, David, and you're making me feel as if that's what you want."

  "That's the last thing I do. It's hard for me to say all this, you know." With what he hoped was inspiration David said "He gave it away at the bookshop, if he was ever really there. Didn't you see what he told us?"

  "I can't say I wasted much time on it."

  "Not the stuff about titles, but maybe that's where all that was leading. I didn't realise what he'd said at first myself. He says if you suppress your thoughts that just lets them get out of control, and that's what has been happening with mine."

  He hoped Stephanie was grimacing only at the blog. "Are you saying you could ever have thought any of that about Emily?"

  "That's exactly what I wasn't saying. I wished she wouldn't come to any kind of harm, and look what happened to her."

  "Then you can't think there's any connection, and as for the rest of it—

  "It wasn't just Emily I wanted nothing bad to happen to. Remember Luther Payne? He was the case that was ruining my mother's sleep."

  "I do remember." As if she'd seen how to bring David back to reality Stephanie said "And I remember how you wished he'd have an accident or something worse, so that doesn't prove your point at all."

  "But it does, Steph." However unwelcome his triumph felt, David had to say "I kept wanting him to be dealt with and nothing happened. He wasn't killed till I wished he'd be left alone because my mother would have felt responsible if he'd been harmed. It isn't what I wish that makes these things happen, it's what I can't admit I wish. Most of the time I can't even admit how I feel about these people."

  "Think what you just said. You aren't the only one to feel responsible."

  "Yes, but my mother wasn't. Only I am."

  Perhaps Stephanie's observation had been a last attempt to put off saying "Do you think you need to see someone?"

  "Maybe you're right and I need to see Mr Newless."

  "I hope you're just playing with words now." With a decisive movement that looked like a bid to take control, Stephanie shut down her computer. "I mean someone you can talk to about this," she said.

  "I just did, and you don't know how hard it was. I don't think I could do it again."

  Stephanie unplugged the laptop and folded it up. Perhaps this gave her time to think, or only to prepare to say "You want to know how all this looks to me."

  "That's why I've told you everything. We've seen what happens when I keep things to myself."

  "I've known something was wrong for a while. I'm glad you've told me at last," She rested her hands on the lid of the laptop as if to reassure herself the contents were safely shut away. "If you really think all this can't just be a series of coincidences..."

  "You must have seen there's too much to be."

  "All right, I did." She reached across the laptop to take both of David's hands in hers and gripped them hard. "Then even if you aren't aware of it," she said, "you have to be writing this. Maybe that's why you've been insisting you aren't a writer, because you don't want to believe it. But however nasty all this is, you didn't do these things, you only wrote about them. It must have something to do with that drug you took."
/>   "If that's what makes sense to you."

  "Doesn't it to you?" Her grasp felt like a plea rendered physical. "If you want to consult someone," she said, "I could come with you if you like. If you find it hard to talk about I could maybe help. I could say what you've said to me."

  He saw how she was endeavouring not to let her distress prevent her from helping. He couldn't just reject her aid, however little it could achieve. "Let's see how it works out," he said and felt more alone than ever.

  Stephanie hesitated before releasing his left hand so that she could top up the glasses. She did her best to sound amused, but it came out wryer. "This was meant to be a celebration."

  "Can't it still be?"

  "I've got a job."

  Perhaps this wasn't quite an answer, but it had to be enough of one. "Well done, Steph," he cried and held up his glass until she met it with hers. "Tell me more."

  "It's a new place. Mediterranean fine dining. Mick's wife recommended me. I'll be the sous-chef, but they're paying more than he did."

  "I can see how happy you are. Just stay like that and we'll forget everything else for now. Let's have your celebratory dinner," David said and almost managed to believe in his own enthusiasm. He watched her bear away the laptop as though all that it brought to his mind could be kept at a distance, and vowed he would forget while they were celebrating her luck. She wouldn't like to know what he couldn't help making until he suppressed it. If she weren't so determined to dismiss Lucky Newless, perhaps she would be grateful that he'd made it possible for her to find a better job.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Once he was certain that Stephanie had gone to sleep David felt safe to lie awake without being afraid to disturb her, but then he had to think. What had he achieved by showing her the blog? She didn't believe how it worked, and he hadn't even established that nobody could see it unless he drew their attention to it in some way. All he'd done was distress Stephanie on his behalf, however much she'd striven to make tonight into an unspoiled celebration. He had to realise she would no longer feel at ease with him unless he sought some form of treatment, but how could that help him in the circumstances? At least he'd proved he could talk about the blog and what it seemed to represent, all of which felt like breaking through a mental barrier. Perhaps talking was the start of a solution, even if his listener didn't accept what he said. Or could Stephanie be right after all? Was it possible that some effect of the drug had lain dormant in his mind all these years, only to be triggered when he was forced to reach deep into his brain at All Write? Might he indeed be producing the rants on the blog and forgetting every time he had? In that case, wouldn't therapy help after all?

  He didn't quite believe it. The explanation was too facile and left too much unsolved—how he would have had the opportunity to write all the entries, for instance. The one about Emily had been posted before he'd even heard of her death, and that was true of too many of them to be dismissed as coincidental. When Stephanie grew restless next to him beneath the quilt he felt as if his doubts were troubling her, and he made his hand relax on her midriff; he hadn't been aware that his arm had grown so tense. As her sleepy fingers slipped between his he tried to match the rhythm of his breaths to hers, keeping them shallow so as not to risk wakening her, though she must be used to his breaths on her neck in the night. Perhaps she found them comfortingly familiar. He was attempting to share the peace she'd achieved, however temporary it might be for both of them, when he felt a chill breath on the nape of his own neck.

  He had to stiffen his whole body to restrain a shiver, though he'd realised what the icy intrusion must be—a draught through the window. He heard the wind rouse the trees in the park as he blinked at the dim bedroom. Beyond Stephanie's silhouette a sliver of light through the curtains petered out on the quilt, well short of her dressing-table and its mirror, which framed a feeble image of the window. As far as David could make out from the reflection, the curtained window was shut tight, and if he went to check he might well disturb Stephanie. He was reaching to draw the quilt over his neck when he glimpsed movement in the room.

  Had the curtains stirred? He thought he'd seen the scrawny strip of light across the bed grow restless. No, its edges hadn't shifted; that wasn’t what he remembered seeing. It had darkened for an instant, but not because of any restlessness of the curtains. A shape had crossed it— a shadow that his memory suggested had been as thin as an insect. However fanciful he wanted to believe that impression was, he couldn't avoid recognising that the intruder was behind him.

  The realisation seemed to let it take shape in the mirror, though not much. He was able to distinguish the hint of a looming figure crouched beside the bed, unless it was on all fours. Its head was lowered towards his. Although it had no face that David could see, he sensed that it was watching Stephanie as well as him. He felt its dead breath on his neck again before he heard a whisper that might have been the night wind finding words. "So here we all are. Aren't we sweet," it said.

  The voice was so close that David could have fancied he was hearing it just inside his head. He was struggling not to shrink away from the unnatural presence at his back in case that roused Stephanie, which was one reason not to speak, but he had to answer. "What do you want?" he mouthed.

  "What you think."

  "You mean what I don't." David felt as though speaking was the only way to fend off dread, together with a kind of nightmarish mirth at the grotesqueness of the situation. "We can talk, then," he said barely loud enough to feel his lips move.

  "So long as you keep me interested. That'll be an experience."

  "We can't talk here."

  "Why, I thought you wanted her to know all about us. Don't you even know what you want yourself? Maybe that's always been your problem."

  If the breath on David's neck had grown colder still, he was afraid that meant the intruder was gaining more substance. Perhaps the deranged conversation was lending it to him. Were there the beginnings of a face within the silhouette in the mirror—the glint of eyes and teeth? All this brought David closer to panic. "I can't talk properly like this," he mouthed. "If you want to hear what I have to say you'll have to come with me."

  The only response was a silent breath on his neck. He flexed his fingers cautiously and set about easing them from between Stephanie's. He was nowhere near freeing them when she clasped them more firmly. "Don't," she said.

  He could have imagined she was warning him not to accompany the intruder. Her voice was disconcertingly clear, on the edge of wakefulness. "Go back to sleep," he murmured. "I shouldn't be gone long."

  He squeezed her hand and let it go, and was inching to sit up when she turned on her back. "Where are you going?"

  "Just for a walk. I can't sleep."

  Her hand groped out from beneath the quilt and fumbled at the air. She was searching for the cord to switch on the light above the bed, and David was terrified that it would show her they weren't alone. If she saw Newless, what would have to happen? David reached for the cord, only to miss it in the dark. His mouth was parched with alarm by the time he captured the cord and swung it out of Stephanie's reach. "Leave the light off," he whispered. "You don't want to wake yourself up."

  "I'm awake now, David. I'll come with you."

  "Please don't." He was almost too panicked to come up with a reason. "I want to be alone," he said, "so I can think."

  "I'll only lie here worrying about you if you go out."

  "There's no need to worry. I'll only be in the park. Just close your eyes and maybe you'll sleep," David urged and risked glancing past her at the mirror. He appeared to block her view of anyone behind him, but how long would the figure remain in its crouch? In desperation he said "I'll take my phone and you can call me if you need to."

  "I may do that if you're out long." While this might have been meant as an admonition, it sounded more like a plea. "Just remember," she said, "you don't have to be alone with your thoughts."

  "I'll remember," David promised and
swung his legs off the bed so hastily that he lurched towards the intruder. The idea of touching Newless made his innards clench with dread. His face almost collided with the insufficiently detailed head that had risen level with his, and then the figure dodged aside. "Don't keep me waiting," it breathed, "or I'll have to make my own amusement,"

  As the last word reached David the intruder was no longer in the room. Was Newless demonstrating how swiftly he could be somewhere else? David dressed as fast as the dark would let him and tiptoed across the room. He was inching the door shut when Stephanie said "I'm still awake."

  "Try not to be," David murmured and turned away from closing the bedroom door to feel a cold breath on his face in the darkness of the hall.

  He had to welcome it, however violently he shivered, because it meant he was keeping Newless away from Stephanie, "Let me move," he muttered into the face he sensed only inches from his. "You heard where we're going."

  He was reaching for the light-switch when he faltered. Suppose Stephanie hadn't stayed in bed? Surely his voice was too low to be heard through the door, but then he mightn't be able to hear if she moved. He made himself advance along the hall, where every pace felt like venturing into peril, not just because of the darkness that refused to give way to his eyes; he was aware of a figure in front of him, matching his progress at less than an arm's length. When he both heard and felt its whisper he was even more unnerved to realise that it was still facing him. "Keep talking, then," it said. "That's why I'm here."

  "You want to talk as well, do you?" The prospect of establishing contact had begun to feel like risking his own mind, but David had no idea what else to do. "What about?" he demanded, not far from some kind of hysteria.

  "I ought to thank you for the entertainment in there. It's what you do best, you should know."

  David managed to find anger in the midst of his dread. "What is?"

  "Not being honest. Can't you even be honest about that?"

  David stumbled to a halt, having sensed that more than the intruder was standing still in front of him. "Are you going to open the door?"