smile.
Destiny.
And now The Vision was bi-monthly and designed on a computer, and each issue carried several stories investigated and written by Meryl Taylor-Whitney and Alice D. Thornborough. Underhill was volatile and frantic, and there were times when Marcus suspected she was no more balanced than the crazed biddies who wrote to him about their haunted coalsheds and their stigmata.
Yet the journal’s circulation had already increased by forty per cent and, even after the expense of the computer and sundry publishing software, there was a small but appreciable profit.
But was the magazine’s destiny compatible with Underhill’s? Was The Vision, any more than its editor, ever meant to be commercially successful?
The phone rang. Marcus fumbled it wearily to his ear.
‘Bacton.’
‘Marcus, it’s me.’
He stiffened. ‘Where are you? Have you seen her?’ His head burned, his eyes and nose filling up.
‘I’d have called earlier,’ Underhill said, ‘only the car broke down.’
‘Piece of bloody tin.’ Mopping his eyes with a handful of tissue. ‘Are you telling me you haven’t even got there?’
‘Oh, I got here all right.’ She sounded unhappy. ‘Looks like I’ll be spending the night here.’
‘With Persephone?’
‘Yeah. I feel so privileged I could weep.’
‘How—?’
‘She’s OK. Kind of. I don’t know too much yet, and I don’t think I want to. You wanna speak to her?’
‘What?’
‘You want me to bring her to the phone when she—?’
‘I … is she there now? Is she with you?’
‘She went to the john, so I took the opportunity to call you. She’ll be back in a couple minutes, if you—’
‘No,’ Marcus said, panicked. ‘I don’t want to speak to her like this. Tell her you couldn’t get through. Tell her the line cut out. Tell her—’
‘Marcus, you’re really in some kind of awe of this woman, aren’t you?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘Listen, I can see the dangers. I’m trying to resist is all. I’ll call you tomorrow when I leave. Uh, tape Cindy for me, would you?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake—’
‘You don’t have to watch it, just press the damn button. Eight p.m.’
Marcus snorted and got off the phone, fearful of Persephone returning.
What was the matter with him? Why was he glad that it was Underhill, rather than himself, who was spending the night under the same roof as Persephone? Was it just the flu or was he losing his bottle?
Marcus sat down behind the blank computer. He didn’t even know how to turn the thing on.
Malcolm, the bull terrier, waddled over and stood looking up at him, a possible glimmer of pity in his psychotic eyes. How long before it was just the two of them again? Underhill was thirty-one years old and not unattractive. And an American. Had she got a proper work permit or whatever was needed? How long could she be expected to stay in a remote elbow of the Welsh border, where the idea of an eligible batchelor was a man with two tractors?
And when she left – within the year, if he was any judge – how could Marcus possibly fake the racy prose of Alice and bloody Meryl? How could the magazine ever again revert to Question of Telepathy between Budgerigars Posed in Lanarkshire?
* * *
‘IT’S THE NATIONAL LOTTERY … LIVE !’
Marcus winced, reached for the remote control.
‘ AND COULD THOSE BIG-MONEY BALLS BE IN SAFER HANDS … THAN THE BEJEWELLED FINGERS OF THE GLAMOROUS, THE SENSATIONAL …’
Marcus stabbed in panic at the sound button, which failed to respond.
‘… CINDY … MARS …’
Why was it now impossible to buy a bloody television set with a row of bloody knobs on the front?
‘… LEWIS?’
Marcus recoiled. The entity wore a tight black, angle-length dress glittering with a thousand sequins. Earrings dripping almost to its shoulders. Bangles the size of manacles hanging five to each skeletal wrist.
The studio audience – tickets presumably handed out free to
Destiny.
And now The Vision was bi-monthly and designed on a computer, and each issue carried several stories investigated and written by Meryl Taylor-Whitney and Alice D. Thornborough. Underhill was volatile and frantic, and there were times when Marcus suspected she was no more balanced than the crazed biddies who wrote to him about their haunted coalsheds and their stigmata.
Yet the journal’s circulation had already increased by forty per cent and, even after the expense of the computer and sundry publishing software, there was a small but appreciable profit.
But was the magazine’s destiny compatible with Underhill’s? Was The Vision, any more than its editor, ever meant to be commercially successful?
The phone rang. Marcus fumbled it wearily to his ear.
‘Bacton.’
‘Marcus, it’s me.’
He stiffened. ‘Where are you? Have you seen her?’ His head burned, his eyes and nose filling up.
‘I’d have called earlier,’ Underhill said, ‘only the car broke down.’
‘Piece of bloody tin.’ Mopping his eyes with a handful of tissue. ‘Are you telling me you haven’t even got there?’
‘Oh, I got here all right.’ She sounded unhappy. ‘Looks like I’ll be spending the night here.’
‘With Persephone?’
‘Yeah. I feel so privileged I could weep.’
‘How—?’
‘She’s OK. Kind of. I don’t know too much yet, and I don’t think I want to. You wanna speak to her?’
‘What?’
‘You want me to bring her to the phone when she—?’
‘I … is she there now? Is she with you?’
‘She went to the john, so I took the opportunity to call you. She’ll be back in a couple minutes, if you—’
‘No,’ Marcus said, panicked. ‘I don’t want to speak to her like this. Tell her you couldn’t get through. Tell her the line cut out. Tell her—’
‘Marcus, you’re really in some kind of awe of this woman, aren’t you?’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘Listen, I can see the dangers. I’m trying to resist is all. I’ll call you tomorrow when I leave. Uh, tape Cindy for me, would you?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake—’
‘You don’t have to watch it, just press the damn button. Eight p.m.’
Marcus snorted and got off the phone, fearful of Persephone returning.
What was the matter with him? Why was he glad that it was Underhill, rather than himself, who was spending the night under the same roof as Persephone? Was it just the flu or was he losing his bottle?
Marcus sat down behind the blank computer. He didn’t even know how to turn the thing on.
Malcolm, the bull terrier, waddled over and stood looking up at him, a possible glimmer of pity in his psychotic eyes. How long before it was just the two of them again? Underhill was thirty-one years old and not unattractive. And an American. Had she got a proper work permit or whatever was needed? How long could she be expected to stay in a remote elbow of the Welsh border, where the idea of an eligible batchelor was a man with two tractors?
And when she left – within the year, if he was any judge – how could Marcus possibly fake the racy prose of Alice and bloody Meryl? How could the magazine ever again revert to Question of Telepathy between Budgerigars Posed in Lanarkshire?
* * *
‘IT’S THE NATIONAL LOTTERY … LIVE !’
Marcus winced, reached for the remote control.
‘ AND COULD THOSE BIG-MONEY BALLS BE IN SAFER HANDS … THAN THE BEJEWELLED FINGERS OF THE GLAMOROUS, THE SENSATIONAL …’
Marcus stabbed in panic at the sound button, which failed to respond.
‘… CINDY … MARS …’
Why was it now impossible to buy a bloody television set with a row of bloody knobs on the front?
‘… LEWIS?’
Marcus recoiled. The entity wore a tight black, angle-length dress glittering with a thousand sequins. Earrings dripping almost to its shoulders. Bangles the size of manacles hanging five to each skeletal wrist.
The studio audience – tickets presumably handed out free to
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