thought this fat volume might yield a rich harvest, if
Carol Conway
were anything to go by. But instead of opening
Destiny’s
Suzerain,
he found that the book in his hands was
Demogorgon,
open one page past where he had stopped a few days before.
In a kind of horrified wonder, he began to read. It was curious how he was compelled to go on reading, considering how every line was like a faint pinprick in his equilibrium, a tiny physical tremor through his body, reminding him of those things he had written to Kingston Marle and the look Marle had given him in Oxford on Saturday. Later he was to ask himself why he had read any more of it at all, why he hadn’t just stopped, why indeed he hadn’t put the book in the rubbish for the refuse collectors to take away in the morning.
The dark shape in the corner of Charles Ambrose’s tent was appearing for the first time: in his tent, then his hotel bedroom, his mansion in Shropshire, his flat in Mayfair. A small, curled-up shape like a tiny huddled person or small monkey. It sat or simply
was,
amorphous but for faintly visible hands or paws, and uniformly dark but for pinpoint malevolent eyes that stared and glinted. Ribbon looked up from the page for a moment. The lights were very bright. Out in the street a couple went by, hand in hand, talking and laughing. Usually the noise they made would have angered him, but tonight he felt curiously comforted. They made him feel he wasn’t alone. They drew him, briefly, into reality. He would post the letter in the morning, and once it had gone all would be well.
He read two more pages.The unraveling of the mystery began on page 423. The Demogorgon was Charles Ambrose’s own mother, who had been murdered and whom he had buried in the grounds of his Shropshire house. Finally, she came back to tell him the truth, came in the guise of a cypress tree that walked out of the pinetum. Ribbon gasped out loud. It was his own story. How had Marle known? What was Marle—some kind of god or magus that he knew such things? The dreadful notion came to him that
Demogorgon
had not always been like this, that the ending had originally been different, but that Marle, seeing him in Oxford and immediately identifying him with the writer of that defamatory letter,
had by some remote control or sorcery altered the end of the copy that was in his,
Ribbon’s, possession.
He went upstairs and rewrote his letter, adding to the existing text: “Please forgive me. I meant you no harm. Don’t torment me like this. I can’t stand any more.” It was a long time before he went to bed. Why go to bed when you know you won’t sleep? With the light on—and all the lights in the house were on now—he couldn’t see the garden, the shrubs on the lawn, the flower bed, but he drew the curtains just the same. At last he fell uneasily asleep in his chair, waking four or five hours later to the horrid thought that his original letter to Marle was the first really vituperative criticism he had sent to anyone since Mummy’s death. Was there some significance in this? Did it mean he couldn’t get along without Mummy? Or, worse, that he had killed all the power and confidence in himself he had once felt?
He got up, had a rejuvenating shower, but was unable to face breakfast. The three letters he had written the night before were in the postbox by nine, and Ribbon on the way to the tube station. Waterstones in Leadenhall Market was his destination. He bought Clara Jenkins’s
Tales
My Lover Told Me
in hardcover, as well as Raymond Kobbo’s
The Nomad’s
Smile
and Natalya Dreadnought’s
Tick
in paperback. Copies of
Demogorgon
were everywhere, stacked in piles or displayed in fanciful arrangements. Ribbon forced himself to touch one of them, to pick it up. He looked over his shoulder to see if any of the assistants were watching him and, having established that they were not, opened it at page 423. It was as he had thought, as he had hardly dared put into words. Charles
Carol Conway
were anything to go by. But instead of opening
Destiny’s
Suzerain,
he found that the book in his hands was
Demogorgon,
open one page past where he had stopped a few days before.
In a kind of horrified wonder, he began to read. It was curious how he was compelled to go on reading, considering how every line was like a faint pinprick in his equilibrium, a tiny physical tremor through his body, reminding him of those things he had written to Kingston Marle and the look Marle had given him in Oxford on Saturday. Later he was to ask himself why he had read any more of it at all, why he hadn’t just stopped, why indeed he hadn’t put the book in the rubbish for the refuse collectors to take away in the morning.
The dark shape in the corner of Charles Ambrose’s tent was appearing for the first time: in his tent, then his hotel bedroom, his mansion in Shropshire, his flat in Mayfair. A small, curled-up shape like a tiny huddled person or small monkey. It sat or simply
was,
amorphous but for faintly visible hands or paws, and uniformly dark but for pinpoint malevolent eyes that stared and glinted. Ribbon looked up from the page for a moment. The lights were very bright. Out in the street a couple went by, hand in hand, talking and laughing. Usually the noise they made would have angered him, but tonight he felt curiously comforted. They made him feel he wasn’t alone. They drew him, briefly, into reality. He would post the letter in the morning, and once it had gone all would be well.
He read two more pages.The unraveling of the mystery began on page 423. The Demogorgon was Charles Ambrose’s own mother, who had been murdered and whom he had buried in the grounds of his Shropshire house. Finally, she came back to tell him the truth, came in the guise of a cypress tree that walked out of the pinetum. Ribbon gasped out loud. It was his own story. How had Marle known? What was Marle—some kind of god or magus that he knew such things? The dreadful notion came to him that
Demogorgon
had not always been like this, that the ending had originally been different, but that Marle, seeing him in Oxford and immediately identifying him with the writer of that defamatory letter,
had by some remote control or sorcery altered the end of the copy that was in his,
Ribbon’s, possession.
He went upstairs and rewrote his letter, adding to the existing text: “Please forgive me. I meant you no harm. Don’t torment me like this. I can’t stand any more.” It was a long time before he went to bed. Why go to bed when you know you won’t sleep? With the light on—and all the lights in the house were on now—he couldn’t see the garden, the shrubs on the lawn, the flower bed, but he drew the curtains just the same. At last he fell uneasily asleep in his chair, waking four or five hours later to the horrid thought that his original letter to Marle was the first really vituperative criticism he had sent to anyone since Mummy’s death. Was there some significance in this? Did it mean he couldn’t get along without Mummy? Or, worse, that he had killed all the power and confidence in himself he had once felt?
He got up, had a rejuvenating shower, but was unable to face breakfast. The three letters he had written the night before were in the postbox by nine, and Ribbon on the way to the tube station. Waterstones in Leadenhall Market was his destination. He bought Clara Jenkins’s
Tales
My Lover Told Me
in hardcover, as well as Raymond Kobbo’s
The Nomad’s
Smile
and Natalya Dreadnought’s
Tick
in paperback. Copies of
Demogorgon
were everywhere, stacked in piles or displayed in fanciful arrangements. Ribbon forced himself to touch one of them, to pick it up. He looked over his shoulder to see if any of the assistants were watching him and, having established that they were not, opened it at page 423. It was as he had thought, as he had hardly dared put into words. Charles
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