The Ghost(英文版)- 第28部分

　　“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。”

　　“Dinner’s　in　an　hour。　Is　that　okay？”

　　“That’s　fine；”　I　said；　surrendering。　“Thank　you。”

　　I　listened　for　the　click　of　the　door　as　she　left。　Immediately　I　rose　from　the　bath　and　grabbed　a　towel。　On　the　bed；　she　had　laid　out　a　freshly　laundered　shirt　belonging　to　her　husband　（it　was　handmade；　with　his　monogram；　APBL；　on　the　pocket）；　a　sweater；　and　a　pair　of　jeans。　Where　my　own　discarded　clothes　had　been　there　was　only　a　wet　mark　on　the　floor。　I　lifted　the　mattress—the　package　was　still　there—then　let　it　fall。

　　There　was　something　disconcerting　about　Ruth　Lang。　You　never　knew　where　you　were　with　her。　Sometimes　she　could　be　aggressive　for　no　reason—I　hadn’t　forgotten　her　behavior　during　our　first　conversation；　when　she　virtually　accused　me　of　planning　to　write　a　kiss…and…tell　memoir　about　her　and　Lang—and　then　at　others　she　was　bizarrely　overfamiliar；　holding　hands　or　dictating　what　you　should　wear。　It　was　as　if　some　tiny　mechanism　was　missing　from　her　brain；　the　bit　that