Secret Story
Authors: Ramsey Campbell
SECRET STORY
by Ramsey Campbell
from Tom Doherty Associates
Alone with the Horrors
Ancient Images
Cold Print
The Count of Eleven
Dark Companions
The Darkest Part of the Woods
The Doll Who Ate His Mother
The Face That Must Die
Fine Frights
(editor)
Gathering the Bones
The Hungry Moon
Incarnate
The Influence
The Last Voice They Hear
The Long Lost
Midnight Sun
The Nameless
Nazareth Hill
Obsession
The Overnight
The One Safe Place
Pact of the Fathers
The Parasite
Scared Stiff
Secret Story
Silent Children
Waking Nightmares
Ramsey Campbell
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
SECRET STORY
Copyright © 2006 by Ramsey Campbell
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
Tor
®
is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Campbell, Ramsey, 1946–
Secret story / Ramsey Campbell.—1st ed.
p. cm.
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
ISBN-13: 978-0-765-31616-5
ISBN-10: 0-765-31616-1
1. Novelists—Fiction. 2. Serial murderers—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6053.A4855S43 2006
823'.914—dc22
2005033821
First Edition: June 2006
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
for Mat and Sharika
with love and spices
As always, Jenny was my first reader and editor.
Since I’ve had some fun with Liverpool restaurants in the course of this novel, I think that in fairness I should recommend some of our favourites. These include the Sultan’s Palace (Indian), the Maharaja (South Indian), the Jumbo City (Chinese), La Tasca and Don Pepe’s (Spanish), the Alma de Cuba (South American), the Olive Press (Mediterranean), the Istanbul (Turkish) and Zorba’s (you guess). On our side of the river we’re fond of—among others—the Mezze (Turkish), the Magic Spices (Indian), the Ming Vase (Malaysian and Cantonese) and the Thai Rooms (Thai and Chinese).
I’ve a special, if somewhat bemused, thank you to my friend Margaret Murphy, the crime writer. At the launch of a booklet of Liverpool short stories in the summer of 2004, she read her contribution while I did my best to amuse the audience with the Gollum chapter of this novel. Imagine my surprise when her tale proved to have virtually the same narrative as chapter two of
Secret Story
! I emailed that to her the next day, and we marvelled at the coincidence.
SECRET STORY
“Dudley, there’s something I haven’t been telling you,” she said, and at once he was terrified that she knew.
Her first mistake was thinking he was mad.
As the train left the station he started to talk in a low passionate voice. They were alone in the carriage farthest from the driver, except for two beer bottles rolling about in their own stains and bumping together as if they were trying to mate on the unswept floor. Greta pretended she was moving away from them and not from the young man crouched low on his seat. She sat close to the doors into the next carriage and was taking the latest prize-winning bestseller by Dudley Smith out of her handbag when she saw he was talking to a mobile phone. “I don’t know what you want,” she could just hear. “I thought you said I gave you what you asked for. If that’s not love I don’t know what is.”
She moved to sit with her back to him in case she embarrassed him. When the train pulled into Birkenhead Park she glanced
over her shoulder—she could have been looking for someone on the platform. He’d slipped the phone into his discreetly elegant suit jacket and was staring straight ahead. Even at that distance she saw the unused intelligence in eyes blue as a summer sky; he looked mature beyond his years. His hair was neatly cropped, his nose straight, lips firm, chin square. She turned away before he caught her watching. Then four men in track suits stampeded over the pedestrian bridge.
They made for the front carriage. She let out a breath of relief and wished she’d taken the opportunity to make some remark to the young man. As the train gathered speed she opened her book. She was anxious to find out what happened next, but she hadn’t finished a paragraph when she heard a door slam. The men were coming up the train.
She felt trapped by the overgrown embankments that were tarred with dark. Then an underground tunnel chased those away and closed with a roar around the train. The first man flung the door between the carriages wide, and the four of them strutted down the aisle. There was room for one of them next to her, and three on the facing seat. Before she could move closer to the young man with the phone, they boxed her in.
The man beside her put his feet up, blocking her escape. He smelled of sweat and tobacco smoke and too much aftershave—perhaps he’d slapped it on his bald grey scalp. The man opposite her gave her a loose wet grin with yellow teeth and a bloody gap in them under his broken nose. “On your own, love?”
“Must be,” said the man in the middle and spat across the aisle. “She’s got to read a book.”
The man he’d spat past rolled up his purple sleeve and scratched a hairy tattoo of a skull inside a heart. “What’s it about?”
Greta never liked to be rude. “Someone everybody thinks is ordinary,” she said, “but really he’s a master criminal.”
“Sounds great,” bloody-mouth seemed to think. “Give us a read of it.”
He opened the paperback so wide she winced, and stuck his finger in. She would have asked him to be gentle, but the tattooed man took out a packet of cigarettes. “You can’t smoke on the train,” she said.
“We can do what we like, love,” said the man with his legs up. “Plenty’s said we can’t and learned different.”
“And plenty can’t say much any more,” the tattooed man said.
Gap-teeth crumpled a page out of his way. “This twat in your book’s useless. Hasn’t got a car and doesn’t even nick one.”
The train had stopped at Conway Park, where the lines were open to the sky. Greta always imagined the station was raising its roof to her. “May I have it back now, please?” she said.
“I’ve not had a read yet,” said the man who’d spat.
“Me neither,” said the tattooed man.
She didn’t want to leave it with them—but as the train moved off, the reader threw the book to the man with his feet up, who bent it in half and ripped the spine apart. “Here, you have that bit and I’ll have this.”
Greta felt as if they’d torn her open. She could buy another copy—they were everywhere—but it was like having some precious part of herself damaged beyond repair. She restrained her tears and faced the tattooed man, who’d stuck a cigarette between his sneering lips. “The sign says no smoking,” she said loud enough to be heard down the carriage. “It’s dangerous.”
“So are we,” said spitter. “Who’re you shouting for? Your friend’s hiding. He’d better stay hid.”
Greta twisted her head around to look. The young man must be crouching out of sight for fear of the gang, unless he’d left the train. The clunk of a lighter reclaimed her attention. The tattooed man lit his cigarette with a page of her book, then sailed it
at her legs. “Don’t do that,” she said, trying to steady her voice as she brushed the paper to the floor and stamped on it. “That’s just stupid.”
“We say what’s stupid,” gap-teeth said, wiping a red trickle from the corner of his mouth. “You are for saying that.”
“Shouldn’t have,” the tattooed man told her, setting fire to another page and poking it at her face.
“You can scream if you want,” said the man with his legs up.
“We like it when they scream,” spitter said.
Greta’s eyes and nose stung with smoke. She knocked the burning page aside, showering the man next to her with sparks. “Watch what you’re doing, love,” he sniggered at saying.
The train was slowing. Had the driver seen her plight? Perhaps he was only getting ready for the station—Hamilton Square. “Excuse me, please,” Greta said loudly. “This is my stop.”
“Show us your ticket,” the tattooed man said.
“It’s not our stop, so it can’t be yours,” said the man with ash on his legs.
Greta was about to stand up when gap-teeth shoved a knee between hers and pulled out a knife. He flicked the blade free and rested it against the inside of her thigh. “Don’t shout or you’ll be no good to your boyfriend.”
She had none just now. She could have sat with the young man behind her, too far away. As the train reached the platform, cold sharp metal inched up her thigh. The doors of the carriage opened as if they were gaping on her behalf. There was nobody to board the train, but she heard a shout. “Anybody here?”
“It’s your friend,” said the man with the knife. “He wants reinforcements.”
Greta’s heart leapt and sank. Nobody was coming to help. Why didn’t the young man call the driver or go to him? Her forehead grew clammy with wondering as the doors shut tight. The train jerked forward and the knife nicked her thigh, and she thought
she would do anything to make the man put it away. Then a voice behind her said, “Do you all know one another?”
“We don’t know you,” the man with his feet up said.
“Don’t want to neither,” said the tattooed man around his cigarette.
The young man sat across the aisle, planting his feet on either side of the sputum on the floor. “How about her?”
“She’s with us,” said the man with the knife.
Greta couldn’t speak. She felt the blade advance another inch, and backed against the seat, but there was nowhere she could go. She almost didn’t hear the young man say, “I’m surprised.”
“Think we aren’t good enough for her?”
“The other way round. I’d say you’re lowering yourselves.”
“She’ll do for now,” said the man with the knife, stroking her thigh with it under her skirt.
“I wouldn’t want to be seen with her.”
Greta thought his contempt was the worst of all. “Why not?” said the tattooed man, clanking and unclanking his lighter.
“I expect she’s a virgin for a start.”
“We’d like that.”
“Or maybe she isn’t. Did you see that look?” The young man peered at her. “Well, are you?”
“That’s my business and nobody else’s.”
“Sounds like she isn’t or she’d be boasting. Sounds as if she hasn’t got a boyfriend either. You can see why, can’t you?”
The four men were growing visibly uncomfortable. “We don’t want to be her boyfriends,” said the man next to her, closing a hand over her breast.
“On your way to meet some friends, are you?” the young man asked her. “I bet you work with them.”
How could he know about her? Hearing him tell the gang felt like being raped. “If you had more friends,” he said, “you wouldn’t be reading a book.”
“Can’t you see what they did? They tore it up and he’s been burning it.”
“About all books are good for, do we think, gents? So can I join in the fun?”
“He’s something, this character,” the tattooed man said with an incredulous admiring laugh.
“Here’s James Street,” the man with the knife announced. “Time you fucked off, pal.”
“How are you going to get me to do that?”
“With this,” Greta’s captor said, snatching out the knife.
She thought he’d cut her on the way to slashing the hem of her skirt, but the cold that ran down her thigh was only metal. The blade gleamed in the light from the station. “Off or I’ll do her with it,” he said. “And don’t call anyone or she gets it.”