Think Yourself Lucky Read Online Free
Author: Ramsey Campbell
gibe about literacy? The manager hunched one shoulder and then the other as he lurched into the office, to reappear with Liverpool's daily newspaper. "Here's our news," he said, thrusting the jumble of pages at David. "If it's not beneath you lot from across the river."
David might have pointed out that the paper reported stories from his side of the Mersey as well. It was turned inside out with the football pages uppermost instead of at the rear, and the rest of it wasn't even in order. David set about putting it right, glancing at stories as he did. Football, football, monstrous interest rates on loans, police raids on cannabis farms, care homes shutting down for lack of funds... All at once a story caught his eye, or rather the photograph that illustrated it did.
MAN DIES IN LIFT. While his face was no larger than a picture in a passport, his obesity was plain. His name was wholly unfamiliar, but something didn't seem to be. It must be the struggle to place him that was turning David dizzy; he felt as if the contents of his skull were drifting loose. He raised his head to gaze at the empty restaurant, which hemmed him in with squares and rectangles checked blue and white. Just now it looked like a parody of domestic life or else of travelling abroad. His head wavered drunkenly, and then he shoved back his chair and dashed for the Gents, where the black tiles on every side gave him the impression that his vision was deserting him. He stumbled into the nearest cubicle, where he just had time to flush the toilet before falling to his knees and heaving up his dinner. He had to flush again to cover up his sounds. Stephanie mustn't think it was the fault of her cooking, even if he had no idea what was wrong with him.
FIVE
'What's stopping us now?"
"You just did."
I may as well not have answered him. He's simply complaining, not inviting anybody else to speak. The train had almost shut its doors when he waddled along the platform and gave the nearest one a flabby thump. If I were the driver I'd have put on all the speed I could and never mind how close the late commuter might be—the later the better. When the doors flinched away from the puffy puffing character, who is bagged in a track suit that I'm sure has never ventured anywhere near a track or any other exercise, he dumped himself on the seat across the aisle from me. The seat opposite him is occupied as well, not just by his feet in fat trainers that must have started out white but by a plastic bag that smells of its hot contents. "Are we off yet?" he asks nobody except himself. "Always being held up. Third time this week, which."
He doesn't even make the sentence sound as if it isn't finished. He's using the last word like an overgrown full stop, leaving it to lie there like a block of verbal lead. He finds the floor with his feet while he rummages in the bag for a hamburger. The polystyrene bivalve squeals as he opens it, releasing more of the greasy stench. Chomping on the burger shuts him up, but only until he clears his mouth enough to mumble. "Too hot in here. What are they playing at? Can't hardly breathe. No air down here as it is, which."
The train has gone underground with a roar the tunnel traps around the carriage. Windows someone opened to tone down the fierce heat let in more of the noise. "Too loud and all," the muncher moans through another mouthful. "God, what a racket. Won't let you think, which."
"Do you go in for much of that? I was assuming you just talk."
I don’t imagine he hears me. I suspect he mostly hears himself, and he's his own best audience as well, though maybe he was hoping somebody would take the hint and shut the windows to save him from standing up. He plainly has no plans along those lines, since his feet are back on the upholstery. His eyes are as dull as the dough of a bun, and the rest of his face is more evidence of what he eats—it has the texture of an uncooked burger and isn't much less round. I don't know if I'm
David might have pointed out that the paper reported stories from his side of the Mersey as well. It was turned inside out with the football pages uppermost instead of at the rear, and the rest of it wasn't even in order. David set about putting it right, glancing at stories as he did. Football, football, monstrous interest rates on loans, police raids on cannabis farms, care homes shutting down for lack of funds... All at once a story caught his eye, or rather the photograph that illustrated it did.
MAN DIES IN LIFT. While his face was no larger than a picture in a passport, his obesity was plain. His name was wholly unfamiliar, but something didn't seem to be. It must be the struggle to place him that was turning David dizzy; he felt as if the contents of his skull were drifting loose. He raised his head to gaze at the empty restaurant, which hemmed him in with squares and rectangles checked blue and white. Just now it looked like a parody of domestic life or else of travelling abroad. His head wavered drunkenly, and then he shoved back his chair and dashed for the Gents, where the black tiles on every side gave him the impression that his vision was deserting him. He stumbled into the nearest cubicle, where he just had time to flush the toilet before falling to his knees and heaving up his dinner. He had to flush again to cover up his sounds. Stephanie mustn't think it was the fault of her cooking, even if he had no idea what was wrong with him.
FIVE
'What's stopping us now?"
"You just did."
I may as well not have answered him. He's simply complaining, not inviting anybody else to speak. The train had almost shut its doors when he waddled along the platform and gave the nearest one a flabby thump. If I were the driver I'd have put on all the speed I could and never mind how close the late commuter might be—the later the better. When the doors flinched away from the puffy puffing character, who is bagged in a track suit that I'm sure has never ventured anywhere near a track or any other exercise, he dumped himself on the seat across the aisle from me. The seat opposite him is occupied as well, not just by his feet in fat trainers that must have started out white but by a plastic bag that smells of its hot contents. "Are we off yet?" he asks nobody except himself. "Always being held up. Third time this week, which."
He doesn't even make the sentence sound as if it isn't finished. He's using the last word like an overgrown full stop, leaving it to lie there like a block of verbal lead. He finds the floor with his feet while he rummages in the bag for a hamburger. The polystyrene bivalve squeals as he opens it, releasing more of the greasy stench. Chomping on the burger shuts him up, but only until he clears his mouth enough to mumble. "Too hot in here. What are they playing at? Can't hardly breathe. No air down here as it is, which."
The train has gone underground with a roar the tunnel traps around the carriage. Windows someone opened to tone down the fierce heat let in more of the noise. "Too loud and all," the muncher moans through another mouthful. "God, what a racket. Won't let you think, which."
"Do you go in for much of that? I was assuming you just talk."
I don’t imagine he hears me. I suspect he mostly hears himself, and he's his own best audience as well, though maybe he was hoping somebody would take the hint and shut the windows to save him from standing up. He plainly has no plans along those lines, since his feet are back on the upholstery. His eyes are as dull as the dough of a bun, and the rest of his face is more evidence of what he eats—it has the texture of an uncooked burger and isn't much less round. I don't know if I'm
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