Authors: Frederic Lindsay
'I
like
it,'
Billy
Shanks
said.
'The
Watcher,'
the
Prophet
said.
'You'll
find
a
surprising
number
of
stories
with
that
theme.
It
was
one
of
the
ideas
that
haunted
the
nineteenth
century –
the
Watcher – or
wakening
out
of
a
fit
to
find
you'd
been
buried
alive.'
'Bollocks!'
Theo
snarled.
'What
does
that
nineteenth-century
bollocks
mean
to
your
average
punter?
You
want
to
fucking
wake
up.
Nineteenth
century?
We're
nearly
out
of
the
fucking
twentieth
century.'
'I'll
give
you
a
twentieth-century
ghost
story,
if
you'd
like
one.'
The
Prophet
transfixed
Theo.
'You
and
I
are
alone
in
a
house
in
the
country.
Oh,
not
a
Gothic
mansion,
but,
let's
say,
an
old
manse,
painted,
refurbished,
Rentokilled
from
end
to
end.
You'd
buy
it
in
a
moment.
Only
it
has
a
cellar
–
you
can
guess
the
kind,
with
a
door
and
a
flight
of
steps
down
into
the
dark.
You
have
to
give
me
those
–
put
anything
you
like
in
the
cellar,
mushrooms,
wine,
but
as
an
investment,
that's
modern
enough.
We've
been arguing
about
ghosts
and
you
begin
to
press
the
notion
that
there's
“something
down
there”.
Something
predatory
and
unnatural
down
there.
But
the
victim
–
in
this
case
myself –
knows
that
it's
only
a
foolishness,
a
joke
that
would
like
to
be
cruel.
And
so
–
being
much
stronger
than
you
–
I
tie
you
up
and
leave
you
by
the
cellar
door.
I
mean
to
come
back,
of
course,
after
the
second
cigarette.
Only,
while
you're
lying
there
not
able
to
move,
comes
the
knock
and
slithering
of
something
climbing
the
steps
,
I
would
call
it
“Charley-in-the-Cellar”.
’
Theo
rolled
a
white
eye
at
him
like
a
spooked
horse.
'I
don't
have
to
listen
to
this
crap,'
he
said.
It
was
the
Prophet,
however,
who
got
up
and
bent
impressively over
them.
‘“The
shallowest
of
mortals
is
able
now
to
laugh
at
the
notion
of
a
personal
devil.”
That's
not
me
–
a
dry
stick
of
a
nineteenth-century
civil
servant
said
that.
“Yet
the
horror
at
evil
which
could
find
no
other
expression
than
in
the
creation
of
a
devil
is
no
subject
for
laughter,
and
if
it
doesn't
survive
in
some
shape
or
other,
then
the
race
itself
will
not
survive.”
He
lived
to
be
eighty-four
and
died
the
year
before
the
First
World
War
started.
He
wasn't
far
wrong,
eh,
boys?'
'That's
a
wonderful
bloody
man,'
Billy
Shanks
said,
gazing after
him
affectionately
.
Murray
decided
that
rather
than
hearing
Theo's
response,
he
would
prefer
to
go
to
the
lavatory.
Two
men
were
relieving
themselves
in
consort
.
The
nearer looked
quickly
round
as
Murray
stood
into
the
wall.
Tall
and
solidly
built
with
a
high
red
colour
in
his
cheeks
and
prematurely
white
hair,
he
seemed
healthy
and
prosperous
.
'All
right,
so
Parker
is
from
the
Bible
Belt,'
he
boomed
at
his
companion,
'but
don't
tell
me
his
religious
observances
require
him
to
drink
coke
and
eat
hamburgers
exclusively
.
It's
just
that
when
he
comes
over
here,
he
enjoys
making
the
hostesses
squirm.
Coke
and
ham –
burgers
every
time
when
they're
longing
to
do
the
nouvelle cuisine
bit
–
and
everybody
has
to
eat
them
–
all
the
ambitious
shits
chewing
away
and
smiling.
But
when
I
was
at
head
office,
he
had
me
out
for
Thanksgiving
and
that
was
frightfully
traditional
–
sausage
forcemeat
and
turkey.
The
wine,
though,
was
Californian.'
'Lucky
turkeys,'
his
companion
said,
giving
himself
a
hygienic
shake.
'You're
on
your
own
then,'
Murray
said,
remarking
on
the
obvious
as
he
sat
down
again.
'Alone
at
last,'
Shanks
grinned.
'The
poet
has
folded
up
his tent.'
'You
know
some
strange
people
.
I've
never
heard
a
guy
talk
quite
like
that
one,
but
then
I
don't
know
many
poets.'
Shanks
laughed.
'Poet?
You
mean
Tommy
Gregory?'
'The
big
guy.
With
the
beard.'
'Ah,
it's
the
beard
that
does
it.
And
he
is
a
marvellous
bloody
talker
.
If
you
could
work
a
typewriter
with
your
tongue,
Tom
would
be
rich.
He's
a
clerk
with
the
Region.
I
get
the
odd
juicy
bit
from
Tom.'