Ritual by Graham Masterton Page B

that’s what he did when I tried to talk to him about Le Reposoir . “Don’t you worry, Mrs Kemp,
those people are here to bring more trade into Alien’s Corners.” But did they
bring in more trade? They certainly didn’t. I can tell you – lots of people
come and go, up on Quassapaug Road – lots of wealthy people, too, in limousines
– but none of them stop at Alien’s Corners, and even if they did, you can’t
imagine that they’d be the kind of people to buy cream or corn-dollies or
home-cured bacon. Let me tell you, Mr McLean –’
    ‘Charlie,
please.’
    ‘- well, let me
tell you, Charlie, that place is a curse on Alien’s Corners. It takes
everything and gives nothing. There’s people around here who won’t go near it
for money in the bank. And don’t ask me why, because I don’t know. But it has
the feeling about it. Alien’s Corners has never been the same since that place
opened, and until it closes down it never will. This used to be a happy town,
but you look at it now. Sad and lost and anxious, that’s what it is. Maybe Le Reposoir isn’t to blame. Who can say?
It could be the way that life is going everywhere, the recession and all. But I
believe that place is a curse on Alien’s Corners, and that the sun won’t shine
here until it’s gone.’
    Martin said,
‘It’s only a restaurant.’
    Charlie turned
around in his chair and looked at him. Martin repeated, ‘It’s only a
restaurant, that’s all.’
    ‘Oh, yes,’ said
Charlie. ‘And since when have you been the expert?’
    Martin pouted,
but didn’t answer. Mrs Kemp glanced from Charlie to Martin and smiled, as if
she were trying to make peace between them.
    Charlie said,
with a frankness that was unprecedented for him, ‘Martin and I haven’t seen too
much of each other -well, not for years. His mother and I were divorced. You
have to make allowances on both sides I guess.’
    Martin looked at
his father with an expression that was a mixture of embarrassment and respect.
    / wish you
hadn’t said that. Dad, and anyway, who was it who never came home? But he held
his tongue. There are some feelings which are mutually understood between
father and son, but which are better left unspoken.
    ‘You must know
Mr Musette,’ Charlie said to Mrs Kemp.
    ‘I’ve seen him,
yes, but no more than twice.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘He’s charming. Very foreign, of course. He likes to be called
Monsieur Musette. A lot of the ladies around here think he’s tray charmong. Only from a distance, of course. He keeps himself to
himself. And then of course there’s Mrs Musette – Madame Musette – although
I’ve never seen her.’
    Charlie waved
away the offer of another Jubilee. ‘Tell me something,’ he asked Mrs Kemp.
‘What is it about Le Reposoir that
can affect a whole community?’
    Mrs Kemp said,
‘What can I tell you? Maybe it’s nothing at all. Your son’s quite right. It’s
only a restaurant. Why should anybody be frightened of a restaurant?’
    The atmosphere
in the parlour was very strange. Charlie felt as if he had been asked to
complete a sentence to which there was no logical
conclusion – such as, ‘I like the shifting of the tides because...” He couldn’t
rid himself of the suspicion that Martin had been talking to somebody back in
the parking lot of the Iron Kettle, no matter how much Martin denied it, and he
also felt that his conversation with this unknown somebody had been connected
with Le Reposoir . After all, where
had Martin found that visiting card from Le
Reposoir ? And why had he denied seeing that pale-faced child in the garden?
    Mrs Kemp showed
them up to their room. It was stuffy, high-ceilinged, with maps of damp
disfiguring the plaster above their heads. The walls had been papered with huge
green flowers that were supposed to be roses but looked more like efflorescing
mould. In one corner loomed a gigantic wardrobe, with blistered veneer and
mottled mirrors. The bed was enormous, an aircraft carrier of a