The Printer's Devil (11 page)

Alan stared at the face. It looked an ordinary sort of face by any standards, and there was nothing to make it come to life as a portrait might have done. Only the impressions of features lay there. Then, struck by a thought, Alan took the cloth into Kim’s office, where there was a lightbox for viewing transparencies.

The neon flickered into its daylight glow, and the face stared eyelessly at Alan. He put his own face close to it, almost touching the fragile cloth, but was visited by no revelation. It then occurred to him to wonder the purpose of the crystal egg, so he padded back to the living-room to fetch it, and placed it on top of the backlit linen.

Later he would wonder how long he stared at the smoky glass before he became aware of images, very far-off and remote, moving in its depths. Something about them made him very uneasy, though he could not say why. A sense of wrongness, of the world tilting, invaded his mind; but it was at too great a distance from him.

In a kind of trance, he bent his face to the glass, and saw disconnected figures appear, drifting as if underwater or on slow-motion film. He flinched as a clawed hand reached towards him, a cloven foot swelled into being. Faces swam at him, horrible faces, some crowned with horns like obscene growths, some with mouths which were muzzles, fanged and snarling at him. He saw, and heard the rustle of, bat-like wings, and for an instant smelt an odour so foetid that he gagged on it.

Behind Alan’s shoulder, someone laughed.

It was not a pleasant sound. Alan jerked round, breaking his eye-contact with a snap as sharp as breaking glass. The room was so charged, so vibrant with the ghastly presence that he half-expected to see blue sparks; but the room was empty. Yet he was still convinced that there was someone, or some
thing,
close to him - even if he could not see his visitor.

His mouth was dry and he found he was panting. He could hear his heart thumping. Sweat ran down his chest inside his clothes, like rain down a window.

‘Who’s there?’ he whispered.

Instantly the room went cold as ice, and the rank and bitter stink wrinkled his nostrils again. Alan’s muscles spasmed, although a faraway corner of his mind was screaming at him to run. Again he heard the echo of mocking laughter. Then, abruptly, the chill smell and sense of alien presence all disappeared as if switched off like a television - but leaving behind the sense that nothing so simple as that would banish it.

Something was loose in the world which had not been present before, and Alan was miserably certain that it was his fault.

He sank into a chair, shaking, his legs too weak to support him. The room, apart from the cold neon glow from the lightbox, was in darkness. Alan looked at his watch and found to his astonishment that midnight had passed. Getting up, he turned the main light on and the lightbox off; then, without knowing why, gathered up both cloth and glass ovoid, and left them on the bedside table when he got into bed.

If Alan dreamed that night, nothing remained when he woke in a panic of anxiety and found that he could no longer see. Frightened, he rubbed at his eyes, and found a cloth over his face: he had been sleeping with the gravecloth draped over his head.

Puzzled, he bunched the fabric loosely in his hand.
I suppose I must have done that in my sleep,
he thought.
Perhaps my subconscious figured it’d protect me from the things in the scrying-glass.
He frowned. Where had that word come from? How did he suddenly know it was a scrying-glass, when yesterday he’d been content to call it a crystal ball?

Suddenly aware that he felt very peculiar, he got out of bed and went into the bathroom for a glass of water. Leaning over the washbasin, sweat cold on his face as if from a hangover, where he stared at the tap for a long time before turning it on, as if it were an unfamiliar artefact. He drank the water, and splashed some more on his face, but still the strangeness persisted.

It was Sunday. Alan and Kim were not habitual morning-service ringers, but today Alan felt a strong inclination to go to Westerbridge and ring. He walked back into the bedroom and eyed the cloth and scrying-glass suspiciously. His finds had lost their glamour in the morning light; he felt annoyed at lost effort and vaguely embarrassed.

So he dressed and drove the six miles to Westerbridge, where five ringers welcomed him with some enthusiasm.

Several times he found himself looking at Debbie Griffiths. Again he noticed how she seemed suddenly to have grown up. Her image in his brain now triggered the impression
‘woman’
rather than
‘child’:
she had developed breasts, and her nipples made points in her T-shirt.

‘Alan,
make the bob!’
shouted Debbie’s mother, and he hauled on his rope, realising how far away he’d been. The bells crunched discordantly above him.

‘Lead after Ted,’ Alec advised him, and Alan, red with embarrassment, got himself back where he ought to have been and began counting his places furiously: he’d never been a good enough ringer to do it on autopilot.

‘Four behind next,’ he told himself fiercely, and presently the touch came round.

‘Sorry about that,’ Alan said, tying his rope. ‘I was miles away.’

‘We noticed,’ said Josie Griffiths dryly. ‘How about some Grandsire?’

‘I’ll bang the drum,’ Alan volunteered hastily.

‘No, you’ll have to ring inside - I’ll make you half-hunt if you like.’

It was the best offer he was going to get, and simplified his role somewhat. ‘Okay,’ he sighed, grimacing; and, by dint of grim concentration, managed to keep right through the service touch. After this Alec Griffiths invited the other ringers back for coffee, a common ritual on a Sunday morning. Alan accepted, but Ted and Zoe had other engagements.

The Griffiths’ home was only five minutes from the church, but Alan gave them a lift anyway. Drinking coffee - mercifully good coffee, as Alan knew from previous visits - he watched Debbie covertly, noting things he’d never seen before. How expressive her face was, very unlike the sullen youngsters he saw on the streets. Debbie was lively and animated, as though she liked her life. She was a lucky adolescent in more obvious ways too. No spots. No puppy-fat. Her face was - elfin, Alan thought, and brought himself up abruptly.

Steady on,
he upbraided himself silently,
that’s a bit over the top.
Elfin, indeed! He drained his coffee mug, and accepted a refill, wondering precisely why he was suddenly so interested in the girl.
She has forspoken me,
he thought, the words popping into his mind like a quotation - but from where? And what did it mean?

‘When does school start again?’ he asked aloud, to cover his confusion, bending to scratch the family dog behind the ears. The dog, a large beige-coloured mongrel incongruously named Blondie, leaned into his legs ecstatically.

Alan’s query was rewarded with a disgusted face from Debbie.

‘Oh, don’t!’ she groaned. ‘The holidays are short enough, as it is.’

‘Short!’ exclaimed her father. ‘Wait till you start working for a living.’

Debbie leaned her head forward so her hair obscured her face, then parted this curtain with her fingers and grinned. ‘I’m not going to
work,
I’m going to be a singer.’

‘What sort of singer?’ asked Alan.

‘A soprano, of course,’ replied Debbie, which seemed an unusual reply for a fourteen-year-old - although thinking back, Alan recalled that the sounds he had heard leaking from the earphones of her Walkman were not mindless chitterings of pop music. ‘I want to sing Cio-Cio-San.’

‘Don’t we know it!’ said Josie, mock-seriously. ‘Every time she has a bath we get
Un bel di
at full blast. I think it’s the only bit she knows.’    
₅₄

‘I know it all,’ said Debbie, ‘just not all the words. I wish we could do Italian at school instead of boring old Frog.’

‘If you know French it’d help you learn Italian,’ said Alan. ‘They’re related languages, you know.’ He was suddenly horrified at how pompous he sounded, and shut up abruptly.

‘You’re an opera buff, aren’t you?’ Josie asked.

‘Kim more than me, really. I’m just as fond of orchestral stuff.’

‘What’s your
favourite
opera?” Debbie enquired, leaning her chin lightly on the fingers of one hand, which put dimples in her face.

‘I like lots of them,’ Alan answered, unable to be precise. ‘I suppose
Rigoletto
or
Trovatore.
Sometimes I get hankerings for Puccini.’

‘What’s your favourite
Puccini
opera, then?’

‘Sometimes
Butterfly
- sometimes
Tosca.’

‘Oh, Tosca. She’s too
old,’
said Debbie.

‘Too old?’ repeated Alan, momentarily startled.

‘’Course. Well, think about it, she’s already a diva, isn’t she? And Cavaradossi is a famous painter, or they wouldn’t let him paint in the church, and the Sacristan wouldn’t bring him sandwiches. So they must both be at least thirty.’

Alan winced - he was thirty-five - and said, ‘Is that why you like Butterfly, because she’s just fifteen?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Debbie. ‘Though Pinkerton’s such a rat, and she must be a real wimp to pine over him. It’s just that I love the music.’

Josie stood up. ‘Well, I’d better go and make cooking noises. Alan, would you like to stay for lunch?’ ‘Oh, no, it’s all right, thanks,’ said Alan, in a sort of panic. ‘I’d only be in the way.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Debbie argued. ‘Mum wouldn’t ask you if we didn’t have loads of food, and I bet you haven’t got any at home while Kim’s away.’

‘Debbie!’ said her mother.

‘She’s right,’ Alan said hastily. ‘If you really have got enough, I’d love to stay. I’m at a bit of a loose end today.’

‘Can I put some music on, then?’

‘Yes, but let’s have a rest from
Butterfly.
You’ll wear the record out.’

‘Oh, Dad. What, then? Alan, you choose.’

Alan looked at the shelves of boxed LPs and selected
Un ballo in maschera.
‘You’d better do the honours, I don’t want to scratch it,’ he said to Debbie, who was sitting on the floor by the stereo.

‘I like Oscar in this,’ she said.

‘That’d suit you,’Alan smiled, then was astonished to hear himself add, ‘I’ll teach you Italian, if you like.’ Debbie looked up.
‘Really?’

‘Provided it’s okay with your parents.’

‘Only if you’re sure it won’t be too much trouble for you, Alan,’ replied Alec. ‘And Debs, don’t you forget you’ve got extra singing lessons.’

‘No, no,’ said Alan. ‘We wouldn't make it any more than, say, once or twice a week?’

‘Brilliant!’ exclaimed Debbie, and scrambled to her feet to go and inform her mother.

Horrified, Alan heard Carlo Bergonzi on the record:
‘La rivedra nell’estasi raggiante dipallore...’ ‘What ecstasy to see her again, in her glowing pallor...'

I can’t possibly fancy that child,
he thought in a panic,
she’s fourteen years old, for God’s sake - what am I thinking of?

The four of them spent the afternoon playing Trivial Pursuit, a game which Alan usually won. But today his thoughts were in chaos, and there was no clear winner by the time Debbie and her mother had to leave to ring a quarter.

Alan stood up too and said, ‘I’d better go too. Thanks for the lunch, Josie.’

Outside, he found his hands were inclined to shake, and it took him three tries before he got the key in the ignition. He looked at his hands on the steering-wheel, and tensed them so the tendons stood out.

Then he jabbed at the tape-player and turned up the volume.

‘Amiche, son venuta al richiamo d’amor...’
sang Cio-Cio-San.
‘My friends, I’ve come at the call of love...’

‘Damn,’ said Alan.

Back home, he found himself unable to relax. He wandered round the house; went into the garden and pulled out a few weeds; then ambled indoors again.

This won’t do,
he thought, sitting at his desk. Here his eyes were drawn to the scrying-glass and cloth, both of which he could have sworn he had left in the bedroom: he looked at the glass with distaste, remembering that stench and the overwhelming presence.

Casting around almost desperately for something mundane to anchor his brain, Alan picked up his diary. A client meeting in the morning. Good. Something thunderingly banal like a Grand Prize Draw ought to cure his agitation. He opened the filing drawer in his desk and drew out the client’s brown folder. Although he knew the account backwards, he forced himself now to look through all the old mailing packs he had done for them—even to read some of the copy. This was a thing he usually resisted strongly; while he enjoyed re-reading features and articles which had given him pleasure to write, copywriting came from another part of his brain entirely and was no pleasure at all.

Presently he reached up and switched on the lamp, which pooled light over what he was reading while shadows gathered around him, and the furniture began to lose its definition. Mesmerised by the print, Alan drifted into a near-trance - no longer reading, yet somehow transfixed by the shapes the words made on the page.

Gradually his vision cleared. He found himself staring at the paper in front of him with curious incomprehension. It was no longer an invitation to send in the form and win a Caribbean cruise or any of fifty other superb prizes, but a yellow, parchmenty page covered with blurred print and notations in a precise, minute, old-fashioned handwriting.

Still in a dream, Alan looked up, past the lamp which now seemed to flicker like a candle, and surveyed the room. It was as if, like a palimpsest, what
had once been
had laid itself over what was
now.
There was a man standing by the window, at a table on which Alan could dimly make out the outlines of curiously shaped glassware. One piece he recognised as an alembic. Now the man at the table was mixing things in a stone mortar, crushing and blending them with a wooden-handled pestle. Then he put down his tools and approached Alan’s desk.