Читать книгу Doom Lake Holiday - Tom Henighan - Страница 7

“That’s good news,” his father said when Chip reported on his sighting of the valley, the road, and the steeple. “Now maybe we can find that cottage!”

“But the horse! That sounds really magical,” Mrs. Mallory said. “I wonder who it belongs to?”

“Someone interesting, I hope,” Lee suggested. “A Queen’s boy who looks like Brad Pitt and is going to offer me sunset rides along the lake.”

The others laughed, but there were groans all round when Bascombe came into view.

A cluster of shabby houses, several large sheds, a stable, and a boarded-up church beside a blistered road that ran haphazardly between scruffy fields overgrown with goldenrod and loosestrife. That seemed to be all there was to Bascombe. Coming closer, they saw ancient railway tracks leading through a stunted orchard, and a few beat-up cars that might have been parked forever in front of a gloomy general store.

“Let’s try this store,” their father said. “Maybe we can get directions.”

“They won’t have any phone cards,” Chip assured them.

“Or computer supplies,” Lee added.

“Or the Globe and Mail,” said their mother.

“Or a map of Zanzibar,” their father assured them. “But so what? They’ll have some bottled water or soft drinks. I’m incredibly thirsty.”

“Just so they know where the lake is,” Mrs. Mallory said.

“They’re bound to,” her husband assured her.

Bascombe’s general store occupied a square, ugly, cinder-block building, without side windows or the hint of an awning out front. Three oversized concrete steps led up to the dingy glass doors. A large sign hung over one frost-painted window. “CONFECTIONERY,” it said, but with the “F” missing. Some leftover red and green Christmas lights winked faintly through the smeared pane. A small, handwritten sign advertised “WORMS”; another promised “ICE.” There was a bright-red Coca-Cola dispenser that drizzled rust. It seemed to have half-fallen through a section of rotting porch.

“Not exactly downtown-cool,” Mr. Mallory said.

“It’s right out of Deliverance,” Chip suggested. He was the family’s big movie fan.

Mr. Mallory shoved at the door, which creaked on its hinges. A little bell tinkled, but no one appeared.

The whole family went inside. Chip could feel a kind of hush come into his throat in the place. The dust-settled silence made you want to either whisper or shout.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom he was able to see more of the store, which consisted of a single very large room crowded with shelves, barrels, counters, and tool-boxes, and was lit only by a few greasy, yellow light bulbs. The shelves were weighed down with canned goods and bottles, and stocked with almost everything imaginable: buckets, cutlery, garden tools, fishing gear, shoelaces, pens and pencils, old-fashioned lamps, toilet paper, engine oil, rodent traps, coils of rope, and bottles of glue.

A long, wooden counter ran down one side of the room. It was covered with a faded oilcloth, and on top of this sat at least seven or eight oversized bottles packed full of mostly old-fashioned treats: licorice, single sticks of bubble gum, jujubes, chocolate coins and kisses, and various lollipops and suckers.

All of a sudden, Chip heard something flutter and gurgle close by him. He jumped back, startled, as a scratchy voice croaked a short sentence:

“HERE COMES THE BOSS!”

Lee pushed past her brother. “Holy Moley! Look here, Mum and Dad! It’s a parrot!” She leaned across the counter, peering at a big brass cage in which a brightly coloured tropical bird sat glaring at them.

“WHERE’S THE GIRL?” the bird shrieked. “WHERE’S THE GIRL?”

At that moment a man stepped through a bead curtain at the rear.

“Afternoon,” he mumbled in a deep, soft voice. He smiled faintly at the unexpected customers.

He was a man of uncertain age, but not young; he had a slightly hooked nose, dark skin, and a fringe of untidy silver hair. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of comical-looking plastic sunglasses and he wore black rubber gloves. His white shirt was as frayed as his old blue overalls, and he smelled, Chip thought, very much like an old shoe.

Lee, obviously a little put off by the fellow, circled him warily, trying to get a better view of the parrot.

“What’s the bird’s name?” Chip asked.

“Captain Howdy,” the man informed him, and he smiled, revealing slightly yellow teeth. “Can I get you folks something?”

“You have bottled water?” Mr. Mallory asked.

“Out of it just now,” the man explained. “Lots of other drinks, though. Coke or Pepsi, maybe?”

“Hello, Captain Howdy,” Lee ventured.

“THAT’S ME! THAT’S ME!” the bird said.

“A Coke’s fine,” Mr. Mallory said. “Anyone else want one?”

The others opted for lemonade, cradling the cold bottles in their hands as they continued to look around the dingy store.

“We’re on our way to Blackwood Lake,” Mr. Mallory explained. “We’re renting from a Margaret Jackson over there. Do you know her?”

The man’s face showed a flicker of uncertainty. “Yes, I believe so. Mrs. Jackson of Blackwood Lake. But I don’t think you can be renting from her. There must be a mistake.”

“Oh no, there’s no mistake,” Mr. Mallory said.

“Well, everyone to their own taste, I guess.” The man adjusted his sunglasses, without allowing Mr. Mallory a look at his eyes. He slipped around behind the counter and rang up their purchases on his ancient machine. “I’m surprised, though. Wouldn’t think you’d want to rent the Jackson place. Not you folks.”

“Why? Is there something wrong with the Jackson cottage?” Mrs. Mallory asked.

“Maybe not,” the man said. “But Mrs. Jackson’s been dead near two years now.”

At his words, the Mallorys all stood quite still. The room seemed to fill up with silence. Then, a little uncertainly, Mr. Mallory laughed. “Well, that’s interesting. But of course, there’s some mistake. I just spoke to Mrs. Jackson on the phone the other day. She sounded very much alive. So perhaps you can give us directions to her cottage.”

“Well, I suppose I can do that,” the man said. He shrugged his shoulders and began to explain the way to Black-wood Lake. Soon, however, it all grew quite complicated and Mr. Mallory had to borrow a pencil to write things down.

“I guess we can find it all right,” his father said at last, with a sigh.

“Wouldn’t be anything else you folks need, would there? Bug spray, or cleaning stuff, or worms for the fishing, or something like that. Quite a drive back here to get things, you know. Must be a lot of dirt and bugs in that cabin — hasn’t been used in a long time, you know.”

“I don’t understand this at all,” Mr. Mallory said. “I thought Mrs. Jackson told me she’d had other renters in July.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” the proprietor said.

“WHAT’S THE POINT?” the parrot croaked. “WHAT’S THE POINT?”

“I’m beginning to wonder myself,” Mrs. Mallory said.

“I was going to ask you…,” Chip began, then hesitated. “By the way, what’s your name, sir?”

“Bascombe,” the man told them. “Peter Bascombe.”

“That figures,” Lee said.

“PETER BASCOMBE,” the parrot said. “OLD DADDY PETE.”

“I was going to ask you who might own the white horse I saw on the way here. It was a great-looking animal, just galloping free through a field beside the hills over near the big swamp,” Chip explained.

Peter Bascombe gave him an odd look, and for the first time pulled down his sunglasses to reveal his eyes. Chip took a step backward. They were dark eyes — youthful, penetrating, and shrewd — and they completely belied the man’s age, and his quaint and bumbling manner.

“You saw the white horse?” the man asked. His low, soft voice conveyed both disbelief and something like awe. “Hmmm… Sorry, no, young fella. I can’t help you with that one. Have no idea what you’re talking about. Now if you’ll excuse me, folks, I think I hear the telephone sounding off in the back of the store.”

Mr. Bascombe retreated quickly, slipping along behind the counter, and fetching Captain Howdy’s cage quite neatly as he swept past. Before any of them could say a word, he had disappeared with the parrot behind the bead curtain at the rear of his store.

Mr. Mallory looked at his wife and children and slowly shook his head. It was obvious to all of them that there was no telephone in the back of the store.

“This is crazy,” he said. “I think we’d better head over to the cottage.”

“I just hope we can find it,” Chip said.

“Maybe it would be better if we didn’t,” said Mrs. Mallory.