The Ghost(英文版)-第26章

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and　continued　writing　all　afternoon。　But　for　just　about　the　first　time　in　my　career　as　a　ghost；　I　was　blocked。　I’d　wasted　half　the　morning　composing　a　charmingly　intimate　reminiscence　of　an　event　that　hadn’t　happened—couldn’thave　happened；　because　Ruth　Lang　hadn’t　arrived　to　start　her　career　in　London　until　1976；　by　which　time　her　future　husband　had　already　been　a　party　member　for　a　year。

　　Even　the　thought　of　tackling　the　Cambridge　section；　which　once　I’d　regarded　as　words　in　the　bank；　now　led　me　to　confront　a　blank　wall。　Who　was　he；　this　happy…go…lucky；　girl…chasing；　politically　allergic；　would…be　actor？　What　suddenly　turned　him　into　a　party　activist；　trailing　around　council　estates；　if　it　wasn’t　meeting　Ruth？　It　made　no　sense　to　me。　That　was　when　I　realized　I　had　a　fundamental　problem　with　our　former　prime　minister。　He　was　not　a　psychologically　credible　character。　In　the　flesh；　or　on　the　screen；　playing　the　part　of　a　statesman；　he　seemed　to　have　a　strong　personality。　But　somehow；　when　one　sat　down　to　think　about　him；　he　vanished。　This　made　it　almost　impossible　for　me　to　do　my　job。　Unlike　any　number　of　show　business　and　sporting　weirdos　I　had　worked　with　in　the　past；　when　it　came　to　Lang；　I　simply　couldn’t　make　him　up。

　　I　took　out　my　cell　phone　and　considered　calling　Rycart。　But　the　more　I　reflected　on　how　the　conversation　might　go；　the　more　reluctant　I　became　to　initiate　it。　What　exactly　was　I　supposed　to　say？　“Oh；　hello；　you　don’t　know　me；　but　I’ve　replaced　Mike　McAra　as　Adam　Lang’s　ghost。　I　believe　he　may　have　spoken　to　you　a　day　or　two　before　he　was　washed　up　dead　on　a　beach。”　I　put　the　phone　back　in　my　pocket；　and　suddenly　I　couldn’t　rid　my　mind　of　the　image　of　McAra’s　heavy　body　rolling　back　and　forth　in　the　surf。　Did　he　hit　rocks；　or　was　he　run　straight　up　onto　soft　sand？　What　was　the　name　of　the

　　place　where　he’d　been　found？　Rick　had　mentioned　it　when　we　had　lunch　at　his　club　in　London。　Lambert　something…or…other。

　　“Excuse　me；　Dep；”　I　said　to　the　housekeeper。

　　She　straightened　from　the　fridge。　She　had　such　a　sweetly　sympathetic　face。　“Sir？”

　　“Do　you　happen　to　know　if　there’s　a　map　of　the　island　I　could　borrow？”

　　TEN

　　It　is　perfectly　possible　to　write　a　book　for　someone；　having　done　nothing　but　listen　to　their　words；　but　extra　research　often　helps　to　provide　more　material　and　descriptive　ideas。

　　Ghostwritin　g

　　IT　LOOKED　TO　BEabout　ten　miles　away；　on　the　northwestern　shore　of　the　Vineyard。　Lambert’s　Cove：　that　was　it。

　　There　was　something　beguiling　about　the　names　of　the　locations　all　around　it：　Blackwater　Brook；　Uncle　Seth’s　Pond；　Indian　Hill；　Old　Herring　Creek　Road。　It　was　like　a　map　from　a　children’s　adventure　story；　and　in　a　strange　way　that　was　how　I　conceived　of　my　plan；　as　a　kind　of　amusing　excursion。　Dep　suggested　I　borrow　a　bicycle—oh　yes；　Mr。　Rhinehart；　he　keep　many；　many　bicycles；　for　use　of　guests—and　something　about　the　idea　of　that　appealed　to　me　as　well；　even　though　I　hadn’t　ridden　a　bike　for　years；　and　even　though　I　knew；　at　some　deeper　level；　no　good　would　come　of　it。　More　than　three　weeks　had　passed　since　the　corpse　had　been　recovered。　What　would　there　be　to　see？　But　curiosity　is　a　powerful　human　impulse—some　distance　below　sex　and　greed；　I　grant　you；　but　far　ahead　of　altruism—and　I　was　simply　curious。

　　The　biggest　deterrent　was　the　weather。　The　receptionist　at　the　hotel　in　Edgartown　had　warned　me　that　the　forecast　was　for　a　storm；　and　although　it　hadn’t　broken　yet；　the　sky　was　beginning　to　sag　with　the　weight　of　it；　like　a　soft　gray　sack　waiting　to　split　apart。　But　the　appeal　of　getting　out　of　the　house　for　a　while　was　overpowering　and　I　couldn’t　face　going　back　to　McAra’s　old　room　and　sitting　in　front　of　my　computer。　I　took　Lang’s　windproof　jacket　from　its　peg　in　the　cloakroom　and　followed　Duc　the　gardener　along　the　front　of　the　house　to　the　weathered　wooden　cubes　that　served　as　staff　accommodation　and　outbuildings。

　　“You　must　have　to　work　hard　here；”　I　said；　“to　keep　it　looking　so　good。”

　　Duc　kept　his　eyes　on　the　ground。　“Soil　bad。　Wind　bad。　Rain　bad。　Salt　bad。　Shit。”

　　After　that；　there　didn’t　seem　much　else　to　say　on　the　horticultural　front；　so　I　kept　quiet。　We　passed　the　first　two　cubes。　He　stopped　in　front　of　the　third　and　unlocked　the　big　double　doors。　He　dragged　back　one　of　them　and　we　went　inside。　There　must　have　been　a　dozen　bicycles　parked　in　two　racks；　but　my　gaze　went　straight　to　the　tan…colored　Ford　Escape　SUV；　which　took　up　the　other　half　of　the　garage。　I　had　heard　so　much　about　it；　and　had　imagined　it　so　often　when　I　was　coming　over　on　the　ferry；　that　it　was　quite　a　shock　to　encounter　it　unexpectedly。

　　Duc　saw　me　looking　at　it。　“You　want　to　borrow？”　he　asked。

　　“No；　no；”　I　said　quickly。　First　the　dead　man’s　job；　then　his　bed；　then　a　ride　in　his　car—who　could　tell　where　it　might　end？　“A　bike　will　be　fine。　It　will　do　me　good。”

　　The　gardener　wore　an　expression　of　deep　skepticism　as　he　watched　me　go；　wobbling　off　uncertainly　on　one　of　Rhinehart’s　expensive　mountain　bikes。　He　obviously　thought　I　was　mad；　and　perhaps　Iwas　mad—island　madness；　don’t　they　call　it？　I　raised　my　hand　to　the　Special　Branch　man　in　his　little　wooden　sentry’s　hut；　half　hidden　in　the　trees；　and　that　was　very　nearly　a　painful　mistake；　as　it　made　me　swerve　toward　the　undergrowth。　But　then　I　somehow　steered　the　machine　back　into　the　center　of　the　track；　and　once　I　got　the　hang　of　the　gears　（the　last　bike　I’d　owned　had　only　three；　and　two　of　those　didn’t　work）　I　found　I　was　moving　fairly　rapidly　over　the　hard；　compacted　sand。

　　It　was　eerily　quiet　in　that　forest；　as　if　some　great　volcanic　catastrophe　had　bleached　the　vegetation　white　and　brittle　and　poisoned　the　wild　animals。　Occasionally；　in　the　distance；　a　wood　pigeon　emitted　one　of　its　hollow；　klaxon　cries；　but　that　served　more　to　emphasize　the　silence　than　to　break　it。　I　pedaled　on　up　the　slight　gradient　until　I　reached　the　T…junction　where　the　track　joined　the　highway。

　　The　anti…Lang　demonstration　had　dwindled　to　just　one　man　on　the　opposite　side　of　the　road。　He　had　obviously　been　busy　over　the　past　few　hours；　erecting　some　kind　of　installation—low　wooden　boards　on　which　had　been　mounted　hundreds　of　terrible　images；　torn　from　magazines　and　newspapers；　of　burned　children；　tortured　corpses；　beheaded　hostages；　and　bomb…flattened　neighborhoods。　Interspersed　among　this　collage　of　death　were　long　lists　of　names；　some　handwritten　poems；　and　letters。　It　was　all　protected　against　the　elements　by　sheets　of　plastic。　A　banner　ran　across　the　top；　as　over　a　stall　at　a　church　jumble　sale：FOR　AS　IN　ADAM　ALL　DIE；　EVEN　SO　IN　CHRIST　SHALL　ALL　BE　MADE　ALIVE　。　Beneath　it　was　a　flimsy　shelter　made　of　wooden　struts　and　more　plastic；　containing　what　looked　like　a　card　table　and　a　folding　chair。　Sitting　patiently　at　the　table　was　the　man　whom　I’d　briefly　glimpsed　that　morning　and　couldn’t　remember。　But　I　recognized　him　now；　all　right。　He　was　the　military　type　from　the　hotel　bar　who’d　called　me　a　cunt。

　　I　came　to　an　uncertain　halt　and　checked　left　and　right　for　traffic；　conscious　all　the　while　of　him　staring　at　me　from　only　twenty　feet　away。　And　he　must　have　recognized　me；　because　I　saw　to　my　horror　that　he　had　got　to　his　feet。　“Just　one　moment！”　he　shouted；　in　that　peculiar　clipped　voice；　but　I　was　so　anxious　not　to　become　embroiled　in　his　madness　that；　even　though　there　was　a　car　coming；　I　teetered　out　into　the　road　and　began　pedaling　away　from　him；　standing　up　to　try　to　get　up　some　speed。　The　car　hit　its　horn。　There　was　a　blur　of　light　and　noise；　and　I　felt　the　wind　of　it　as　it　passed；　but　when　I　looked　back　the　protester　had　given　up　his　pursuit　and　was　standing　in　the　center　of　the　road；　staring　after　me；　arms　akimbo。

　　After　that；　I　cycled　hard；　conscious　I　would　soon　start　to　lose　the　light。　The　air　in　my　face　was　cold　and　damp；　but　the　pumping　of　my　legs　kept　me　warm　enough。　I　passed　the　entrance　to　the　airport　and　followed　the　perimeter　of　the　state　forest；　its　fire　lanes　stretching　wide　and　high　through　the　trees　like　the　shadowy　aisles　of　cathedrals。　I　couldn’t　imagine　McAra　doing　this—he　didn’t　look　the　cycling　type—and　I　wondered　again　what　I　thought　I　would　achieve；　apart　from　getting　drenched。　I　toiled　on　past　the　white　clapboard　houses　and　the　neat　New　England　fields；　and　it　didn’t　take　much　effort　to　visualize　it　still　peopled　by　women　in　stern　black　bonnets　and　by　men　who　regarded　Sunday　as　the　day　to　put　on　a　suit　rather　than　take　one　off。

　　Just　out　of　West　Tisbury　I　stopped　by　Scotchman’s　Lane　to　check　directions。　The　sky　was　really　threatening　now；　and　a　wind　was　getting　up。　I　almost　lost　the　map。　In　fact；　I　almost　turned　back。　But　I’d　come　so　far；　it　seemed　stupid　to　give　up　now；　so　I　eased　myself　back　onto　the　thin；　hard　saddle　and　set　off　again。　About　two　miles　later　the　road　forked　and　I　parted　from　the　main　highway；　turning　left　toward　the　sea。　The　track　down　to　the　cove　was　similar　to　the　approach　to　the　Rhinehart　place—scrub　oak；　ponds；　dunes—the　only　difference　being　that　there　were　more　houses　here。　Mostly；　they　were　vacation　homes；　shuttered　up　for　the　winter；　but　a　couple　of　chimneys　fluttered　thin　streamers　of　brown　smoke；　and　from　one　house　I　heard　a　radio　playing　classical　music。　A　cello　concerto。　That　was　when　it　started　to　rain　at　last—hard；　cold　pellets　of　moisture；　almost　hail；　that　exploded　on　my　hands　and　face　and　carried　the　smell　of　the　sea　in　them。　One　moment　they　were　plopping　sporadically　in　the　pond　and　rattling　in　the　trees　around　me；　and　the　next　it　was　as　if　some　great　aerial　dam　had　broken　and　the　rain　started　to　sweep　down　in　torrents。　Now　I　remembered　why　I　disliked　cycling：　bicycles　don’t　have　roofs；　they　don’t　have　windshields；　and　they　don’t　have　heaters。

　　The　spindly；　leafless　scrub　oaks　offered　no　hope　of　shelter；　but　it　was　impossible　to　carry　on　cycling—I　couldn’t　see　where　I　was　going—so　I　dismounted　and　pushed　my　bike　until　I　came　to　a　low　picket　fence。　I　tried　to　prop　the　bike　against　it；　but　the　machine　fell　over　with　a　clatter；　its　back　wheel　spinning。　I　didn’t　bother　to　pick　it　up　but　ran　up　the　cinder　path；　past　a　flagpole；　to　t