The Ghost(英文版)-第31部分
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“Why？”
I shrugged。 “Curiosity。”
“But you didn’t even know him。”
“I’m starting to feel as if I did。”
“Where’s your bike？”
“Just behind the dunes。”
“We came to fetch you back before the storm started。” She beckoned to the policeman。 He was standing about five yards away； watching us—soaked； bored； disgruntled。 “Barry；” she shouted to him； “bring the car round； will you； and meet us on the road？ We’ll wheel the bike up and find you。” She spoke to him as if he were a servant。
“Can’t do that； Mrs。 Lang； I’m afraid；” he yelled back。 “Regulations say I have to stay with you at all times。”
“Oh； for God’s sake！” she said scornfully。 “Do you seriously think there’s a terrorist cell at Uncle Seth’s Pond？ Go and get the car before you catch pneumonia。”
I watched in his square； unhappy face； as his sense of duty warred with his desire for dryness。 “All right；” he said eventually。 “I’ll meet you in ten minutes。 But please don’t leave the path or speak to anyone。”
“We won’t； officer；” she said with mock humility。 “I promise。”
He hesitated； then began jogging back the way he’d come。
“They treat us like children；” complained Ruth； as we climbed up the beach。 “I sometimes think their orders aren’t to protect us so much as to spy on us。”
We reached the top of the dune and automatically we both turned round to stare at the sea。 After a second or two； I risked a quick glance at her。 Her pale skin was shiny with rain； her short dark hair flattened and glistening like a swimmer’s cap。 Her flesh looked hard； like alabaster in the cold。 People used to say they couldn’t understand what her husband saw in her； but at that moment I could。 There was a tautness about her； a quick； nervous energy： she was a force。
“To be honest； I’ve come back here a couple of times myself；” she said。 “Usually I bring a few flowers and wedge them under a stone。 Poor Mike。 He hated to be away from the city。 He hated country walks。 He couldn’t even swim。”
She quickly brushed her cheeks with her hand。 Her face was too wet for me to tell whether she was crying or not。
“It’s a hell of a place to end up；” I said。
“Oh； no。 No it’s not。 When it’s sunny； it’s rather wonderful。 It reminds me of Cornwall。”
She scrambled down the little footpath to the bike； and I followed her。 To my surprise； she suddenly mounted it and pedaled away； coming to a stop about a hundred yards up the track； at the edge of the wood。 When I reached her； she gazed intently at me； her dark brown eyes almost black in the fading afternoon light。 “Do you think his death was suspicious？”
The directness of the question took me unawares。 “I’m not sure；” I said。 It was all I could do to stop myself telling her right then what I’d heard from the old man。 But I sensed this was neither the time nor the place。 I wasn’t sufficiently sure of my facts； and it seemed crass； somehow； to pass unverified gossip on to a grieving friend。 Besides； I was a little scared of her： I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of one of her scathing cross…examinations。 So all I said was； “I don’t know enough about it； to be honest。 Presumably the police have investigated the whole thing pretty thoroughly。”
“Yes。 Of course。”
She got off the bike and handed it to me and we started ascending through the scrub oak toward the road。 It was much calmer away from the sea。 The downpour had almost stopped and the rain had released rich； cold smells of earth and wood and herbs。 I could hear the ticking of the rear wheel as we walked。
“The police were very active at first；” she said； “but it’s all gone quiet lately。 I think the inquest was adjourned。 Anyway； they can’t be that concerned—they released Mike’s body last week and the embassy have flown it back to the UK。”
“Oh？” I tried not to sound too surprised。 “That seems very quick。”
“Not really。 It’s been three weeks。 They did an autopsy。 He was drunk and he drowned。 End of story。”
“But what was he doing on the ferry in the first place？”
She gave me a sharp look。 “That I don’t know。 He was a grown man。 He didn’t have to account for his every move。”
We walked on in silence and the thought occurred to me that McAra could easily have left the island for the weekend to visit Richard Rycart in New York。 That would explain why he’d written down Rycart’s number and also why he hadn’t told the Langs where he was going。 How could he？“So long； guys。 I’m just off to the United Nations to see your bitterest political enemy…”
We passed the house where I’d sought shelter from the downpour。 I kept an eye out for the old man； but the white clapboard property appeared as deserted as when I’d first seen it—so freezing； locked； and abandoned； in fact； that I half wondered if I might not have imagined the whole encounter。
Ruth said； “The funeral’s in London on Monday。 He’s being buried in Streatham。 His mother’s too ill to attend。 I’ve been thinking that perhaps I ought to go。 One of us should put in an appearance； and it doesn’t seem likely to be my husband。”
“I thought you said you didn’t want to leave him。”
“It rather looks as though he’s left me； wouldn’t you say？”
She didn’t talk anymore after that but started fumbling around for her hood again； even though she didn’t really need it。 I found it for her with my free hand and she pulled it up roughly； without thanking me； and walked on； slightly ahead； staring at the ground。
Barry was waiting for us at the end of the track in the minivan； reading a Harry Potter novel。 The engine was running and the headlights were on。 Occasionally； the big windscreen wiper scraped noisily across the glass。 He put aside his book with obvious reluctance； got out； opened up the rear door； and pushed the seats forward。 Between us we maneuvered the bike into the back of the van； then he returned to his place behind the wheel and I climbed in beside Ruth。
We took a different route from the one I’d cycled； the road twisting up a hill away from the sea。 The dusk was damp and gloomy； as if one of the massive storm clouds had failed to rupture but had gradually subsided to earth like a deflated airship and settled over the island。 I could understand why Ruth said the landscape reminded her of Cornwall。 The minivan’s headlights fell on wild； almost moorland country and in the side mirror I could just make out the luminous white horses flecking the waters of Vineyard Sound。 The heater was turned up full and I had to keep rubbing a porthole in the condensation to see where we were going。 I could feel my clothes drying； sticking to my skin； releasing the same faintly unpleasant odor of sweat and dry cleaning fluid I had smelled in McAra’s room。
Ruth didn’t speak for the whole of the journey。 She kept her back turned slightly toward me and stared out of the window。 But just as we passed the lights of the airport； her cold； hard hand moved across the seat and grasped mine。 I didn’t know what she was thinking； but I could guess； and I returned her pressure： even a ghost can show a little human sympathy from time to time。 In the rearview mirror； Barry’s eyes stared into mine。 As he indicated to turn right into the wood； the images of death and torture； and the words “for as in Adam all die” flickered briefly in the darkness； but as far as I could see the little hut was empty。 We rocked down the track toward the house。
ELEVEN
There may be occasions on which the subject will tell the ghost something that contradicts something else they have said； or something that the ghost already knows about them。 If that happens； it is important to mention it immediately。
Ghostwritin g
THE FIRST THING Idid when we got back was run a hot bath； tipping in half a bottle of organic bath oil （pine； cardamom； and ginger） I found in the bathroom cabinet。 While that was filling； I drew the curtains in the bedroom and peeled off my damp clothes。 Naturally； a house as modern as Rhinehart’s didn’t have anything so crudely useful as a radiator； so I left them where they fell； went into the bathroom； and stepped into the large tub。
Just as it’s worth getting really hungry occasionally； simply to savor the taste of food； so the pleasure of a hot bath can truly be appreciated only if you’ve been chilled by the rain for hours。 I groaned with relief； let myself slide right down until only my nostrils were above the aromatic surface； and lay there like some basking alligator in its steamy lagoon for several minutes。 I suppose that’s why I didn’t hear anyone knock on my bedroom door and became aware that someone was next door only when I broke the surface and heard a person moving around。
“Hello？” I called。
“Sorry；” Ruth called back。 “I did knock。 It’s me。 I was just bringing you some dry clothes。”
“That’s all right；” I said。 “I can manage。”
“You need something that’s been properly aired； or you’ll catch your death。 I’ll get Dep to clean the others。”
“Really； there’s no need
