The Ghost(英文版)-第50章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！



　　“And？”

　　“It’s　good。　No；　actually；　it’s　better　than　good。　It’s　like　having　him　back。　There’s　only　one　element　missing；　I　think。”

　　“And　what’s　that？”

　　“Oh；　it　doesn’t　matter。　I’ll　tell　you　if　I　see　you。　Perhaps　we’ll　get　the　opportunity　to　talk　at　the

　　reception　tonight。”

　　“What　reception？”

　　She　laughed。　“Yourreception；　you　idiot。　The　launch　of　your　book。　Don’t　tell　me　you　haven’t　been

　　invited。”

　　I　hadn’t　spoken　to　anyone　in　a　long　while。　It　took　me　a　second　or　two　to　reply。

　　“I　don’t　know　whether　I　have　or　not。　To　be　honest；　I　haven’t　checked　my　post　in　a　while。”

　　“You　must　have　been　invited。”

　　“Don’t　you　believe　it。　Authors　tend　to　be　funny　about　having　their　ghosts　staring　at　them　over　the

　　canapés。”

　　“Well；　the　author　isn’t　going　to　be　there；　is　he？”　she　said。　She　wanted　to　sound　brisk；　but　she　came　across　as　desperately　hollow　and　strained。　“You　should　go；　whether　you’ve　been　invited　or　not。　In　fact；　if　you　really　haven’t　been　invited；　you　can　come　as　my　guest。　My　invitation　has　‘Amelia　Bly　plus

　　one’　written　on　it。”

　　The　prospect　of　returning　to　society　made　my　heartbeat　start　to　race　again。

　　“But　don’t　you　want　to　take　someone　else？　What　about　your　husband？”

　　“Oh；　him。　That　didn’t　work　out；　I’m　afraid。　I　hadn’t　realized　quite　how　bored　he　was　with　being

　　my　‘plus　one。’”

　　“I’m　sorry　to　hear　that。”

　　“Liar；”　she　said。　“I’ll　meet　you　at　the　end　of　Downing　Street　at　seven　o’clock。　The　party’s　just

　　across　Whitehall。　I’ll　only　wait　five　minutes；　so　if　you　decide　you　do　want　to　come；　don’t　be　late。”

　　AFTER　I　FINISHED　SPEAKINGto　Amelia；　I　went　through　my　weeks　of　accumulated　mail　carefully。　There　was　no　invitation　to　the　party。　Bearing　in　mind　the　circumstances　of　my　last　encounter　with　Ruth；　I　wasn’t　too　surprised。　There　was；　however；　a　copy　of　the　finished　book。　It　was　nicely　produced。　The　cover；　with　an　eye　to　the　American　market；　was　a　photograph　of　Lang；　looking　debonair；　addressing　a　joint　session　of　the　U。S。　Congress。　The　photographs　inside　did　not　include　any　of　the　ones　from　Cambridge　that　McAra　had　discovered；　I　hadn’t　passed　them　on　to　the　picture　researcher。　I　flicked　through　to　the　acknowledgments；　which　I　had　written　in　Lang’s　voice：

　　This　book　would　not　exist　without　the　dedication；　support；　wisdom；　and　friendship　of　the　late　Michael　McAra；　who　collaborated　with　me　on　its　composition　from　the　first　page　to　the　last。　Thank　you；　Mike—for　everything。

　　My　name　wasn’t　mentioned。　Much　to　Rick’s　annoyance；　I’d　forgone　my　collaborator　credit。　I　didn’t　tell　him　why；　which　was　that　I　thought　it　was　safer　that　way。　The　expurgated　contents　and　my　anonymity　would；　I　hoped；　serve　as　a　message　to　whoever　out　there　might　be　paying　attention　that　there　would　be　no　further　trouble　from　me。

　　I　soaked　in　the　bath　for　an　hour　that　afternoon　and　contemplated　whether　or　not　to　go　to　the　reception。　As　usual；　I　was　able　to　spin　out　my　procrastination　for　hours。　I　told　myself　I　still　hadn’t　necessarily　made　up　my　mind　as　I　shaved　off　my　beard；　and　as　I　dressed　in　a　decent　dark　suit　and　white　shirt；　and　as　I　went　out　into　the　street　and　hailed　a　taxi；　and　even　as　I　stood　on　the　corner　of　Downing　Street　at　five　minutes　to　seven；　it　still　wasn’t　too　late　to　turn　back。　Across　the　broad；　ceremonial　boulevard　of　Whitehall；　I　could　see　the　cars　and　taxis　pulling　up　outside　the　Banqueting　House；　where　I　guessed　the　party　must　be　taking　place。　Photographers’　flashbulbs　winked　in　the　evening　sunshine；　a　pale　reminder　of　Lang’s　old　glory　days。

　　I　kept　looking　for　Amelia；　up　the　street　toward　the　mounted　sentry　outside　Horse　Guards；　and　down　it　again；　past　the　Foreign　Office；　to　the　Victorian　Gothic　madhouse　of　the　Palace　of　Westminster。　A　sign　on　the　opposite　side　of　the　entrance　to　Downing　Street　pointed　to　the　Cabinet　War　Rooms；　with　a　drawing　of　Churchill；　complete　with　V　sign　and　cigar。　Whitehall　always　reminds　me　of　the　Blitz。　I　can　picture　it　from　the　images　I　was　brought　up　on　as　a　child：　the　sandbags；　the　white　tape　across　the　windows；　the　searchlights　blindly　fingering　the　darkness；　the　drone　of　the　bombers；　the　crump　of　high　explosive；　the　red　glow　from　the　fires　in　the　East　End。　Thirty　thousand　dead　in　London　alone。　Nowthat　；　as　my　father　would　have　said；　is　what　you　call　awar　—not　this　drip；　drip；　drip　of　inconvenience　and　anxiety　and　folly。　Yet　Churchill　used　to　stroll　to　parliament　through　St。　James’s　Park；　raising　his　hat　to　passersby；　with　just　a　solitary　detective　walking　ten　feet　behind　him。

　　I　was　still　thinking　about　it　when　Big　Ben　finished　chiming　the　hour。　I　peered　left　and　right　again；　but　there　was　still　no　sign　of　Amelia；　which　surprised　me；　as　I　had　her　down　as　the　punctual　type。　But　then　I　felt　a　touch　on　my　sleeve　and　turned　to　find　her　standing　behind　me。　She　had　emerged　from　the　sunless　canyon　of　Downing　Street　in　her　dark　blue　suit；　carrying　a　briefcase。　She　looked　older；　faded；　and　just　for　an　instant　I　glimpsed　her　future：　a　tiny　flat；　a　smart　address；　a　cat。　We　exchanged　polite　hellos。

　　“Well；”　she　said；　“here　we　are。”

　　“Here　we　are。”　We　stood　awkwardly；　a　few　feet　apart。　“I　didn’t　realize　you　were　back　working　in　Number　Ten；”　I　said。

　　“I　was　only　on　attachment　to　Adam。　The　king　is　dead；”　she　said；　and　suddenly　her　voice　cracked。　I　put　my　arms　around　her　and　patted　her　back；　as　if　she　were　a　child　who　had　fallen　over。　I　felt　the　wetness　of　her　cheek　against　mine。　When　she　pulled　back；　she　opened　her　briefcase　and　took　out　a　handkerchief。　“Sorry；”　she　said。　She　blew　her　nose　and　stamped　her　high…heeled　foot　in　self…reproach。　“I　keep　thinking　I’m　over　it；　and　then　I　realize　I’m　not。　You　look　terrible；”　she　added。　“In　fact；　you　look—”

　　“Like　a　ghost？”　I　said。　“Thanks。　I’ve　heard　it　before。”

　　She　checked　herself　in　the　mirror　of　her　powder　compact　and　carried　out　some　swift　repairs。　She　was　apprehensive；　I　realized。　She　needed　someone　to　accompany　her；　even　I　would　do。

　　“Right；”　she　said；　shutting　it　with　a　click。　“Let’s　go。”

　　We　walked　up　Whitehall；　through　the　crowds　of　spring　tourists。

　　“So；　were　you　invited　in　the　end？”　she　asked。

　　“No；　I　wasn’t。　Actually；　I’m　rather　surprised　that　you　were。”

　　“Oh；　that’s　not　so　odd；”　she　said；　with　an　attempt　at　carelessness。　“She’s　won；　hasn’t　she？　She’s　the　national　icon。　The　grieving　widow。　Our　very　own　Jackie　Kennedy。　She　won’t　mind　having　me　around。　I’m　hardly　a　threat；　just　a　trophy　in　the　victory　parade。”　We　crossed　the　road。　“Charles　the　First　stepped　out　of　that　window　to　be　executed；”　she　said；　pointing。　“You’d　have　thought　someone　would　have　realized　the　association；　wouldn’t　you？”

　　“Poor　staff　work；”　I　said。　“It　wouldn’t　have　happened　when　you　were　in　charge。”

　　I　knew　it　was　a　mistake　to　have　come　the　moment　we　stepped　inside。　Amelia　had　to　open　her　briefcase　for　the　security　men。　My　keys　set　off　the　metal　detector　and　I　had　to　be　searched。　It’s　come　to　something；　I　thought；　standing　with　my　hands　up；　having　my　groin　felt；　when　you　can’t　even　go　to　a　drinks　party　without　being　frisked。　In　the　great　open　space　of　the　Banqueting　House；　we　were　confronted　by　a　roar　of　conversation　and　a　wall　of　turned　backs。　I’d　made　it　a　rule　never　to　attend　the　launch　parties　of　my　own　books；　and　now　I　remembered　why。　A　ghostwriter　is　about　as　welcome　as　the　groom’s

　　unacknowledged　love　child　at　a　society　wedding。　I　didn’t　know　a　soul。　Deftly；　I　seized　a　couple　of　flutes　of　champagne　from　a　passing　waiter　and　presented　one　to

　　Amelia。

　　“I　can’t　see　Ruth；”　I　said。

　　“She’ll　be　in　the　thick　of　it；　I　expect。　Your　health；”　she　said。

　　We　clicked　glasses。　Champagne：　even　more　pointless　than　white　wine；　in　my　opinion。　But　there

　　didn’t　seem　to　be　anything　else。

　　“It’s　Ruth；　actually；　who　is　the　one　element　missing　from　your　book；　if　I　had　to　make　a　criticism。”

　　“I　know；”　I　said。　“I　wanted　to　put　in　more　about　her；　but　she　wouldn’t　have　it。”

　　“Well；　it’s　a　pity。”　Drink　seemed　to　embolden　the　normally　cautious　Mrs。　Bly。　Or　perhaps　it　was　just　that　we　had　a　bond　now。　After　all；　we　were　survivors—survivors　of　the　Langs。　At　any　rate；　she　leaned　in　close　to　me；　giving　me　a　familiar　lungful　of　her　scent。　“I　adored　Adam；　and　I　think　he　had　similar　feelings　for　me。　But　I　wasn’t　under　any　illusions：　he’d　never　have　left　her。　He　told　me　that　during　that　last　drive　to　the　airport。　They　were　a　complete　team。　He　knew　perfectly　well　he’d　have　been　nothing　without　her。　He　made　that　absolutely　clear　to　me。　He　owed　her。　She　was　the　one　who　really　understood　power。　She　was　the　one　who　originally　had　the　contacts　in　the　party。　In　fact；she　was　the　one　who　was　supposed　to　go　into　parliament；　did　you　know　that？　Not　him　at　all。　That　isn’t　in　your　book。”

　　“I　didn’t　know。”

　　“Adam　told　me　about　it　once。　It　isn’t　widely　known—at　least　I’ve　never　seen　it　written　up　anywhere。　But　apparently　his　seat　was　originally　all　lined　up　for　her；　only　at　the　last　minute　she　stood

　　aside　and　let　him　have　it。”

　　I　thought　of　my　conversation　with　Rycart。

　　“The　member　for　Michigan；”　I　murmured。

　　“Who？”

　　“The　sitting　MP　was　a　man　called　Giffen。　He　was　so　pro…American　he　was　known　as　the　member

　　for　Michigan。”　Something　moved　uneasily　inside　my　mind。　“Can　I　ask　you　a　question？　Before　Adam　was　killed；　why　were　you　so　determined　to　keep　that　manuscript　under　lock　and　key？”

　　“I　told　you：　security。”

　　“But　there　was　nothing　in　it。　I　know　that　better　than　anyone。　I’ve　read　every　tedious　word　a　dozen　times。”

　　Amelia　glanced　around。　We　were　still　on　the　fringe　of　the　party。　Nobody　was　paying　us　any　attention。

　　“Between　you　and　me；”　she　said　quietly；　“weweren’t　the　ones　who　were　concerned。　Apparently；　it　was　the　Americans。　I　was　told　they　passed　the　word　to　MI5　that　there　might　be　something　early　on　in　the　manuscript　that　was　a　potential　threat　to　national　security。”

　　“How　did　they　know　that？”

　　“Who’s　to