The Ghost(英文版)-第32章
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it； and then the job was done： all tangible effects of Michael McAra； former aide to the Right Honourable Adam Lang； were crammed into a suitcase and ready to be dumped。 I dragged it out into the corridor and around to the solarium。 It could stay there until the summer； for all I cared； just as long as I didn’t have to see it again。 It took me a moment to recover my breath。
And yet； even as I headed back toward his—my—our—room； I could sense his presence； loping along clumsily at my heels。 “Fuck off； McAra；” I muttered to myself。 “Just fuck off and leave me alone to finish this book and get out of here。” I stuffed the photographs and photocopies back into their original envelope and looked around for somewhere to hide it； then I stopped and asked myself why I should want to conceal it。 It wasn’t exactly top secret。 It had nothing to do with war crimes。 It was just a young man； a student actor； more than thirty years earlier； on a sunlit riverbank； drinking champagne and sharing a spliff with his friends。 There could be any number of reasons why Rycart’s number was on the back of that photo。 But still； somehow； it demanded to be hidden； and in the absence of any other bright idea； I’m ashamed to say I resorted to the cliché of lifting the mattress and stuffing it underneath。
“Lunch； sir；” called Dep softly from the corridor。 I wheeled round。 I wasn’t sure if she’d seen me； but then I wasn’t sure it mattered。 Compared to what else she must have witnessed in the house over the past few weeks； my own strange behavior would surely have seemed small beer。
I followed her into the kitchen。 “Is Mrs。 Lang around？” I said。
“No； sir。 She go Vineyard Haven。 Shopping。”
She had fixed me a club sandwich。 I sat on a tall stool at the breakfast bar and compelled myself to eat it； while she wrapped things in tinfoil and put them back in one of Rhinehart’s array of six stainless steel fridges。 I considered what I should do。 Normally I would have forced myself back to my desk 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 pas
