The Face That Must Die (20 page)

He woke with a cry that clung to his ears. It frightened him, for it didn’t sound human. What was digging into his neck through the pillow, like a hidden bone? He had to drag himself free of his nightmare before he remembered that it was the razor. He lunged for the switch. The light showed that it was scarcely midnight. The clock raised its voice mockingly. He still had hours to suffer.

* * *

Chapter XVII

Fanny was struggling to close her suitcase when she heard footsteps on the front drive.

It had to close. There was nothing she could leave out. She sat on the case, which felt like a hard lumpy bed, and dragged the zip shut while the case was overpowered. Its teeth bit an empty sleeve. Who was on the drive? Just let her deal with the case — if she gave it a respite it would never close. She poked the sleeve back, but a dress emerged from the far end of the case like a soggy Jack-in-the-box. “Get in, fustilugs,” she snarled and, heaving the case to her, flapped the dress into place and thumped herself down on the lid. She closed the case after a loud struggle and rested on it, panting.

She hurried to the window. Nobody was to be seen, even when she lifted the sash and leaned out. It must have been the postman. She went in search of the letters.

Except for shadows, the stairs were deserted. She ought to be less nervous now that Roy’s killer had been caught, but there was a shadow at the foot of the stairs — a blurred version of the strut between the front-door panes, perhaps — which unnerved her. Besides, whoever had sent the police to Roy must still be lurking somewhere in the house.

She sorted the strewn letters on top of the cupboard in which the electricity meters chattered among themselves. She felt an odd pang of apprehension: perhaps there might be a letter for Roy. No — but there was one for her.

It was from a girl she knew at the gallery. She dawdled upstairs, slitting the envelope with her nails. Did they want to know why she’d been avoiding the gallery? The page was obscured by its own shadows. Was she misreading it? Surely — But the brightness in her flat confirmed what she thought she’d read. More than half her paintings had been sold.

She sat beside her case, trying to absorb the news. It was incredible. She could bring down her prices spectacularly now, in order to appeal to the people she wanted to reach.

Didn’t she want to reach those who had bought her work? Her heel tapped a floorboard, urging her to answer, ticking off the seconds she had left. Was there such a thing as a wrong audience for one’s work, or a wrong reason to like it? Perhaps — but, she thought abruptly, it wasn’t up to her to judge. According to the letter, the gallery visitors realised that her name on the paintings was an intentional joke. Few people had before.

She must hurry, or she’d miss her train. She opened the curtains wider, to make sure no burglars thought she was pretending to have gone away. Sunlight gleamed in the detective’s eyes.

Might he have been wrong? He hadn’t offered any evidence that Roy’s persecutor lived in the house. Mightn’t it have been the man whom the police had caught? Even detectives could be wrong. She draped the painting to protect it from the sun.

She propped the letter on the mantelpiece, behind the card. The card fluttered to the floor. No time to pick it up. She strode about quickly. Gas off. Toilet flushed. Windows shut. Which coat to wear? The heavy one — it might be cold in Wales. Efficiently she buttoned herself up: snap, snap, snap. God, her case was heavy. She slid it out of the flat, glanced back once, and slammed the door.

In the park, trees feathered the chalk-blue sky. As she walked, branches disentangled themselves gradually and silently to reveal how complex the patterns were. At the end of the avenue the obelisk stood, clean as shell. Everything made her feel restful.

She was singing the
William Tell Overture
as she turned out of Aigburth Drive. “Ya-ta-tum, ya-ta-tum, ya-ta-tyum-tyum-tyum.” A man recoiled from her; his two Pekingese, their faces like furry Oriental demons, tried to snap at her ankles. So much for melody, she thought, giggling.

She plodded along Sefton Park Road. “God, you’re a weight,” she told her case. “I wish you were old enough to walk by yourself.” It wasn’t only the case that was slowing her down: she was suddenly full of ideas for her gallery picture. Wasn’t the painting too bitchy? Some of her new ideas were more genial.

Ought she to go back? She rested her suitcase and gazed like a pavement artist at the flagstones. Shouldn’t she spend just an hour with her painting? But then she’d have to send a telegram to say she would be late. Besides, she wouldn’t be able to predict how long she would be busy. She hefted her case. She’d sketch her ideas on the train journey.

What time was the train? She dropped her case at the bus stop. Was her memory five minutes fast or slow? She rummaged in her pockets. Don’t say the timetable was in her other coat. When she shouted her annoyance, people in the queue stared or ostentatiously ignored her. Because of all the distractions, she had left her train ticket in the flat.

She hurried home furiously. Her case thumped her leg, challenging her to carry it further. “All right,” she growled, “you just wait.” Where were all the taxis?

It was a good thing she’d had to return: although she thought she’d made sure they were open, she’d left the curtains drawn. So that was what selling did to her concentration! She fought the front door. Come on, damn it! The lock seemed not to recognise her key. At last she reached the stairs, which looked indistinct as a dusty attic. She climbed them anyway — it would have wasted time to go back to the time-switch.

Her suitcase accompanied her: bump, bump. Not until she reached her landing did she see how redundant its clambering was. She could have left the case in the hall. She didn’t need company on the dim stairs.

“
Just don’t start playing me up,” she told her lock. The key turned easily; the door opened, revealing dusk within. Everything was overlaid with the purple of the curtains. How could she remember the room as having been so much brighter?

There was her ticket, waiting amid the clutter on the table for her to choose which coat to wear. She stuffed it into her pocket. Faces hid beneath the cloth that draped her painting. But she’d covered the painting to keep it from the light — because the curtains had been wide.

Something else was wrong.

She stared about. Something was out of place. The lurking faces. The cuttings, and the newspapers with their rectangular holes. Clay on the table. The closed doors to the kitchen and the bathroom. The card on the mantelpiece. But she’d left that card on the floor where it had fallen.

The card held her gaze for minutes. She fought to distrust her memory. Although the card might have fallen after being replaced, the reverse was impossible. Someone had been in her room. When she glimpsed the looming unfamiliar shape, she whirled. It was her suitcase, squatting outside the door.

Now she couldn’t turn away. The depths of her mind were crying that worse was to be seen. Where? There was the door, which showed no evidence of having been forced; beyond it was the landing, guarded by her case. There was nothing else —

There was no sign of the metal bird which Tony had sculpted for her.

After a time which seemed paralysed as her thoughts, she dragged her case into the flat and closed the door. She sat on the case, staring emptily. The theft had violated her flat. She felt soiled, as though after a rape.

She glanced dully at her watch. No chance now of catching the train. In any case she wouldn’t have been able to go. She must call the police, and send a telegram. The dismal tasks burdened her mind; her head drooped.

The thief must have slipped in as soon as she’d left. Must it have been one of the other tenants? Who else would have had the opportunity? If only Cathy weren’t out at work — she couldn’t trust anyone else in the house. Was the thief Roy’s persecutor? Surely he would have taken more than the sculpture, unless he had meant only to distress her. Did he want the whole house to himself?

Still, she didn’t know that he had stolen nothing else. She must check before calling the police. She rose wearily. Confronted by the bathroom door, she was all at once uneasy: suppose he were hiding in there like a ghost train’s dummy, poised? Then by God, she’d scare him more than he had unnerved her. She wrenched the door wide.

She heard a noise within, small but sharp. She glared about, but could see nothing. Nobody could hide behind the bunched shower curtains. The only movement was of water, gathering lazily at the mouth of the tap, preparing to fall and pronounce another small sharp drip.

Stupid! She opened the kitchen door angrily. Nothing visible had been touched. Her memory of how the room had looked fitted snugly over it. One tap was straining to drip into the metal sink, but she wiped its mouth with a finger. Swiftly she checked cupboards and drawers.

So the thief had taken only the sculpture — unless he’d gone into the capacious wardrobe. There was nothing in there worth stealing; she had virtually stripped it when filling her case. Still, she’d better make sure. She was upset enough without looking foolish to the police.

The double doors were ajar, although she thought she’d closed them. She pulled them wide. Dimness, faintly purple, lay within. Her hanging overalls were huddled in the left-hand corner, as if for companionship. Their hangers squeaked, startled. At first the swaying of the flowered overalls obscured what else was in the wardrobe.

It was the metal bird, hovering waist-high in front of the overalls. It gleamed dully. So he hadn’t stolen it, after all! Why had he hidden it there, in one of the pockets? What was that meant to achieve?

It wasn’t in a pocket. Something else held it in mid-air. Nor were the overalls swaying only because she had disturbed them. Protruding from the foremost sleeve, holding the bird’s slim body, she saw a hand.

“
Come out,” she cried, as she might have if a mischievous child had startled her.

The flowers flapped outwards; a dim figure came at her. Before she could make out the face above the overall, the metal bird darted towards her. Its jagged beak pecked deep into her forehead.

* * *

Chapter XVIII

Horridge limped along the path on the edge of the park. On the pavement across the road, a postman hurried in the opposite direction. Trees interrupted Horridge’s glimpses of the house, which looked deserted. The painter’s window gleamed emptily. Did that mean she had left?

Abruptly her face appeared in the window. He flinched behind a tree; bark scraped his shoulders through his raincoat. He heard the rattle of the sash. She was leaning out to peer, but apparently not for him. Nevertheless he shrank behind the tree again, heart clenching.

At the sound of the sash he peered out. The window was empty. He limped hastily to the telephone box. A stench of tobacco smoke surrounded him like halitosis; the unwashed windows robbed him of light. His heart jerked, trying to get the better of him, to scare him. It wouldn’t succeed, any more than the painter would. He gripped the razor in his pocket.

Had he been right to leave his documents in the reversible? Surely they’d be safe enough in the wardrobe — nobody would want to steal that coat. There was no point in taking risks, in carrying papers that would identify him.

The thought made him feel already trapped. The glass of the box looked coated with smoke: was that exuding the oppressive stench? The silence of the phone seemed threatening, as though its shrill ring were poised to leap at him. His eyes felt feverish, pimply with insomnia. He began to shuffle and stamp nervously, like an imprisoned beast.

Movement halted him. The porch door had opened. When it had displayed its gap for a while, a suitcase emerged. Carrying it — yes, it was the painter! His grin gleamed in one of the few patches of the mirror that were still clear of graffiti.

She might pass the box, and see him! He seized the phone. Dial, for the love of God. Anything. Of course — he knew one number that wouldn’t answer. He dialled Craig’s flat, and imagined the phone crying in the empty room. The trick amused him, yet made him feel inexplicably nervous. When he replaced the receiver, he had to bang it into place several times before the minute trilling stopped.

The painter was turning out of Aigburth Drive. No, she wasn’t coming back. Never mind skulking in his hidey-hole. He had a job to do.

He advanced towards the house. Gravel squirmed underfoot. Six windows glinted at him. Wasn’t it spiders that had six eyes? No need to make himself nervous — nobody was left in there who could recognise him.

The key was right first time. He tried to tiptoe upstairs. The stairs were a vindictive sounding-board: listen, he’s limping, they shouted. He fought to regulate his steps. Was the door opposite the painter’s threatening to open? Most unlikely, he thought, grinning.

The painter’s room blazed out at him, like the springing of a trap. He closed the door quickly behind him. The room was too bright; it displayed him. He sidled to the window and drew the curtains. The room filled with purple twilight, which seemed unhealthy to him. Had Craig and the painter committed secret filth in that light? They would never do so again.

Where was the card? Though he’d seen her suitcase, he needed reassuring. At last he found it, lying on the floor beneath the bony ashen cage of the gas fire. He propped the card on the mantelpiece. See you on Jan 15. He was safe.