Читать книгу Mark of the Beast - Brian Ball - Страница 7

CHAPTER FOUR

JANICE Charnock felt drowsy. She was annoyed with her husband, but not as much as he thought. The evening had excited her, though she would not admit as much to Alan. It didn’t do to let men know what you thought. They knew too much already.

She cast her mind back to the events of the séance.

Linda Pierce had promised a strange kind of communication—it seemed somehow thrilling and stimulating to hold a conversation with a person who had died. Charlie Pierce. He had been in his grave for years; and yet Linda believed that she could talk to him as if he was a customer in the shop. Alan was not impressed, of course.

His scorn at the questions of that old fool who had wanted to have his dog bark back at him was only too apparent. If she hadn’t felt so excited—so odd—Janice could have laughed. Alan wouldn’t have liked that. But there had been the other feeling.

Janice clenched her hands secretly into her thighs. She was sure that the skin on her palms was broken. It was a frightening experience, that sudden jolt of burning and yet soothing force that had flowed through and through her. She didn’t want to feel it again. Once was enough.

She cleared her throat. Alan was annoyed with her. He had finished one brandy—a double—and if she didn’t conciliate him a little he would drink more. She said:

“Alan, what on earth’s bothering you? You’re morbid tonight. Let’s go. I’m tired.” To reinforce her point, she added: “I’ve got a headache.”

“You can have an aspirin when we get back.”

Alan Charnock’s confusion of mind had resolved itself to some extent. He knew he would be sick in the morning. It didn’t seem to matter. A duodenal ulcer, the doctor had said. Don’t drink, don’t smoke, bed early, avoid excitement, take exercise in moderation and drink plenty of milk. All this Alan had done for a year, and yet the ulcer rode in his guts. It was time to counter-attack.

Tonight, he would get drunk.

He smiled at the landlord, a large and uncouth man who did not notice his attempt at friendliness. An old drunk with a broad red face stared at the rows of bottles. Alan asked for brandy.

“And a sherry?” asked the landlord.

“No. She’s had enough.”

The landlord nodded uninterestedly. The drunk fumbled with his whisky glass. Alan raised his own glass as the man gulped down the whisky. He felt almost light-headed. Memories tumbled through his brain, unpleasant memories, leftovers from the strange hallucinatory experience in the dingy hall. He blotted them out. The pub was warm and comfortable.

Alan watched as the man pursued an erratic course amongst the tables. He would pass near Janice. And Alan knew the man would stumble even as he did so. Janice was sipping her sherry as he pitched against her. It was a complete accident—he tried to grasp a chair-back, missed, and knocked Janice’s glass out of her hand. Janice did not say a thing.

Janice’s hand was still outstretched, so that they formed a tableau, she with golden wine soaking into the flowers of the dress; the drunk mumbling stupidly as he got to his feet.

“I’m sorry—” the drunk began to apologize. He stared at her hand.

He would have said more, but Janice’s cold smile stopped him. He looked into her face and shuddered. Then he turned away. She watched him as he stumbled out of the Lounge Bar.

It was the second time that Alan had experienced fear that evening.

Once during that odd dream or hallucination or whatever it was—and this was the second time. It was Janice’s look of icy, implacable hostility that frightened him now. The landlord followed him to the table.

“Sorry about that, sir,” said the landlord. “Can we get you a cloth or something, Missus?” he asked Janice

“It’s quite all right.”

“Get the lady another drink, shall I?”

“No,” said Janice. “I’ve had enough.”

“He was drunk,” said Alan. “It was just bad luck. I’m sorry I brought you.” He reached for her hand and saw the red mark on the palm. “Have you hurt yourself, Jan?”

She took her hand away, but not before he had seen the bright red mark. “It’s nothing. A rash. I must be allergic to something.”

Ideas tumbled through Alan’s mind. The right hand, the hand that had held his left: it was marked, clearly marked, with an imprint that was as red as the berries of belladonna.

“You have hurt it, Jan. Let me see.”

Janice stood up. “No, Alan. I want to go home. It’s nothing. A rash. Something I’ve eaten. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does!”

Janice’s whole attitude changed. The challenge and the harshness went out of her face as if someone had erased it—wiped it clean and left it open and smiling.

“See, love, it’s only a bit of a rash. I think it might be eating strawberries. We had some in the shop today.”

The bad moment passed.

When they were getting into the Rover, Alan sensed the presence of a figure in a shop doorway. He looked round and saw the heavy, stooped figure of the drunk. Alan couldn’t see his face in the gloom, but he could make out the way the shoulders hunched forward and the head pointed towards he car. Fortunately Janice didn’t see him. It had been an odd kind of evening. Alan was glad it was over.