Dreamer by Peter James

Author:Peter James [James, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror, Thriller
ISBN: 9781409133483
Google: YJhgbJMSc0UC
Goodreads: 1943814
Publisher: Hachette UK
Published: 1989-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

22

It was after midnight when she arrived home, and the hall was in darkness. She closed the front door quietly and took off her soaking wet coat. She could see a dim pool of light through in the living area, and walked down the corridor.

Richard was hunched over his desk, in front of his Reuters screen, whisky tumbler and bottle of Teacher’s beside him. He turned his head.

‘Look wet,’ he slurred.

And you looked smashed out of your brains. ‘It’s pelting.’ She walked over and kissed his cheek. ‘Still working?’

‘Andreas said there was going to be some action tonight. Reckoned there could be some big movements.’

He blearily rubbed his nose, poured out another four fingers, then tapped his keyboard and leaned forward as if trying to focus on the screen. He frowned at the changing figures. ‘Where’ve been?’

‘Oh – we’ve got a problem over a shoot. Fish fingers – Superfingers – the client wants it done on location in the Arctic, and we’re trying to persuade them to do it here in a studio.’ She was glad he wasn’t looking at her; she had never been good at lying. ‘Then the car wouldn’t start.’

‘Bloody ridiculous car to poddle round London in. I tell you, that bloke Ken’s got a serious ego problem.’

‘It’s nothing to do with ego. He likes old cars; they’re a good investment and a good image.’

‘Especially when they break down in the middle of the night.’ He frowned again at the screen.

She stared out of the window, watching the rain sheeting down onto the dark silhouettes of the restless lighters and the black water of the river. At least the aggression had gone, that strange violent temper he’d arrived home with when he’d ripped her bra. Her slap seemed to have done something and he’d been calm since; testy, but calm.

‘Jon Goff rang. They’ve got some theatre tickets for Thursday, to see some new Ayckbourn thing.’

‘Damn, I want to see that. Can’t, Thursday. That’s the night I have to go to Leeds. We’ve got a presentation on Friday morning.’

He squinted at some figures, then checked something on a pad on his desk. ‘Jesus!’ he shouted at the screen, his voice an agonised roar. ‘You can’t fucking do that! How can you?’ He crashed his fist down on his desk. ‘How can you fucking do that?’

‘Ssh,’ Sam said. ‘You don’t have to shout like that. Nicky—’

‘Fuck Nicky. Jesus Christ. What’s the Market fucking doing? Andreas never gets it wrong! What do they think they’re playing at? Tokyo told me they thought New York looked cheap.’ He glared belligerently at the screen cluttered with endless rows of figures and the strange names and symbols. Jargon. Language. A language that was as alien to her as the language of the dream group would have been to him.

She stayed, standing silently behind him for several minutes, watching as he drank more, tapped in more commands, cursed some more. He seemed to have forgotten she was there, seemed oblivious to anything outside of the small screen with its green symbols.

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