Hellgoing Read Online Free Page A

She’s read that Freud treated people with recurring dreams — good and bad. He made them talk and talk about the dream until finally the patient understood precisely what was going on in his or her own head. The moment they did, the dream would depart. Freud drew back the curtain. He was like Toto, the yappy little rat who took the magic out of Oz.
    Ned turns, sees her face. “No!” he says, putting the Cheetos aside. He goes to her, stands her up. “No!” he says again, her head between his big musician’s hands.
    THEY’LL SET OFF after lunch. Meanwhile, he’s said she will need clothes even warmer than what she wished she had put on for Signal Hill. The wind off the water and all that. Fortunately, they won’t have to putt-putt too far out into the open ocean, as the twins are situated just at the lip of the narrows. Still, Ned said, it will be “cold enough.” And no doubt the wind will be good.
    She rises early, Ned still asleep in his room. She insisted on the couch after the head-in-hands thing. Her mood is bereft. The day is blinding. She needs fresh air, cleansing wind. Coffee. Not to be in Ned’s house, ashtrays on every surface.
    More than anything, she wants to feel good, anticipatory . Today’s the day we go and see the icebergs.
    The only place she knows to go for clothes is downtown, but the only stores she can find are meant for suckers from away, like her. One of the stores has a poster of the movie in its window, claims to have been the “out-fitter.” Nobody dresses like that, she remembers, and she thinks about Ned in his brown Doc Martens, the locals in their Gore-Tex. She’s even passed a few goths on Duckworth Street. Still, some of the sweaters are gorgeous. One-­hundred percent virgin wool, and upwards of two hundred dollars. She wants one. She treats herself. This is to go and see the icebergs in.
    The young cashier rings it up. Jane can see holes in her face from which jewellery has been removed.
    â€œYou’re the lady from the magazine,” the hole-faced girl accuses, folding the massive sweater into an ungainly woolen lump.
    Jane stares at her. “Yes.”
    â€œDad was saying you’re looking to go out on the boat.”
    â€œDad?” says Jane, jaw to floor. “Ned?”
    The kid laughs. “Oh, God help us, no. Ned’s my uncle.”
    â€œOh!” says Jane, and they laugh together at the misunderstanding, though Jane doesn’t know why.
    â€œWe hoped you would come out to supper,” remarks the girl. She’s sixteen at the most, with an easy, middle-aged way to her, leaning on the counter like a seen-it-all waitress with varicose veins — for whom talking to strangers has long ago lost its sense of adventure.
    â€œI’d be happy to come to supper,” says Jane. Native hospitality at last, and just in time to save the article.
    The kid frowns a stagey sort of frown, poking out her lower lip. “Well, Ned said you couldn’t. He said you were busy.”
    Jane blinks. “I’m the farthest thing from busy.”
    â€œOh,” says the kid, sounding almost disappointed. “We were all set to give you shit. Say you want a last-minute boat ride and won’t even come to supper.”
    â€œBut I want to come to supper,” Jane insists.
    â€œWhen? I’ll call mum.”
    â€œWell, how about after the boat ride?   I know your dad is busy these next couple of days, so whenever is good for him.”
    The kid straightens her back, turns from middle-aged waitress into impudent youngster with a twist of her mouth. “Dad’s not busy,” she scoffs. “It’s off-season.”
    â€œOh.” Jane pauses, the hangover-brain grinding to life. “What business is your father in?”
    The kid gapes. Leans forward a little with her body. Enunciates word for word. “He gives people rides. In his boat.”
    SHE DRIFTS INTO