The Face That Must Die (25 page)

The engine groaned, low and monotonous. The bus felt insidiously chill, invaded by fog. Queues bobbed up from the murk; he was compelled to search each grey peering face. The single narrow curve of road led the bus into Cantril Farm, deeper into concrete, into nowhere.

Reluctantly he used the pedestrian subway. At least he couldn’t lose his way down there. He mustn’t get lost. The low dim roof oppressed him; it rumbled as a bus halted. Could the roof support all that weight above his head? Glass ground its teeth underfoot as he limped hastily out. He would stay home until the fog lifted. No more trips to the park — the girl had come too close for comfort. Only a few days to Wales.

Turn left here, and go straight on. Concrete reared vaguely around him. Everything was drowned in anonymity. The branches of a stray tree looked like dusty cobweb. Turn right. Now left, between flats whose lit windows looked waterlogged. Then left again, and then —

A wall rose up before him. Its thick veins of graffiti glistened. There was supposed to be a passage here! He must have missed a turning. Go back to it. He tried to think: since he was returning, the passage would be on the right — but how many turns to the right must he make first? Black specks swarmed over his eyes, distracting him. Wasn’t that a symptom of approaching blindness?

He hurried back. Walls seemed to shift and advance. Right here, it must be. Wasn’t this passage too short? No, it wasn’t a wall that blocked his way, only fog. The fog retreated before him — then at once yielded up a wall. Staggering crimson letters caught in the web of graffiti spelled KILLER.

What was that supposed to mean? He groped for the razor, to hack the letters away. No, he wouldn’t be tricked into wasting his time. The wall didn’t block his path entirely; he could turn left. Surely that was the way he ought to go.

Shortly another wall proved not to be fog, and forced him left again, through a passage. Beyond was the inner yard of a tenement. Piles of flats walled it in on all four sides. It was one of many. He couldn’t judge his direction from it. He was lost.

Grey pressed against his eyes. It felt like blindness, which terrified him. Silence clogged his ears; his nostrils were blocked. The fog was robbing him of all his senses. Everywhere around him, concrete lurked in ambush. Nowhere could he see a name. The yard was lifeless as a place of execution.

His skin felt infested. He ran, but couldn’t escape the crawling. He managed not to flee back the way he’d come; that would take him back into the same maze. Instead he made for the next passage out of the yard, on the left. His leg plucked at his mind with pain.

Almost as soon as he emerged from the passage he saw the bus stop’s metal flag above the drowned concrete valley. He’d returned to where he’d started. Pain set his mind ablaze; he felt an urgent violent fury which he must release somehow. He tried to calm himself. At least he knew where he was; he could start again, more carefully.

Someone was walking down the valley. Perhaps he could ask the way — though most people seemed unable to give directions here: they were as confused as the planners intended. He gazed over the concrete bank of the side path as she emerged from the obscurity. It was the girl. She was still pursuing him.

His fury grew cold and purposeful. This time she’d gone too far. She hadn’t seen him yet. He felt almost detached as he observed her, peering about from beneath her black cap like an executioner’s. He grinned as he reached in his pocket. That cap was appropriate, but not in a way she would enjoy.

She passed without noticing him. As she neared the blurred mouth of the subway, he moved, making sure he was audible. He heard her falter, then hurry after him. Although the vicious ache of his leg was stoking his fury, he grinned as he limped as quickly as he could towards the execution yard.

* * *

Chapter XXIV

Cathy picked herself up. The front of her body throbbed like a single bruise. Her breath, when she managed to catch it, joined in. Beyond the obelisk the limping footsteps faded.

That would teach her to chase people. But her fall had angered her. Was she really going to let a little fall deter her? He could at least have come back to see whether she was all right. She strode past the obelisk, ignoring her bruises. She had to go this way to catch a bus to the house for sale.

She reached the bus just as the doors were closing. The driver winked at her, and waited. The poles of the aisle were cold in her hands. Below her heads were displayed, swaying slightly. Was that the detective, sitting with his back to her? She couldn’t speak to him. What on earth could she say among all these people?

Fog flooded by. Beginnings of streets emerged momentarily. The man who sat beside her left the bus; someone else trapped her next to the window. She turned her head gingerly to watch the aisle. If that were the detective, what could she do?

When he stood up, she did nothing. She felt rather childish and silly. Well, the bus would take her to the attractive terraced house; that was why she’d boarded it, not to chase him. God, he was looking! Acutely embarrassed, she turned hastily to the window.

His face floated off into the murk. It had all been fun in a peculiar way, despite her bruises. What would Peter say? “Yeah? What happened then? Jesus, you mean you let him go?” Or perhaps he would say “Good job you didn’t catch him. We don’t want to get involved with the law.” Abruptly she stood and grabbed the bell-pull.

She hurried back towards West Derby Road. Ahead the traffic lights seemed hardly to inch towards her, as though they and she were drowned in mud. They changed, and released a herd of slow buses. There he was — climbing into a lighted entrance.

Before she could reach the stop the bus closed, and carried his illuminated head away. A second bus was waiting for the space. She jumped aboard, though her bruises complained.

Although she didn’t like the smoke, she sat upstairs, the better to observe her quarry. She grabbed the front seat, like a child eager to see everything. Her excitement was almost embarrassing. She’d never done anything like this before.

Every glimpse that the fog doled out was vivid: rugby posts on a playing field, tall thin white letter Hs left over from a giant’s alphabet; a little railway station which was now the Two Acres Poultry Farm. Crowds of housewives boarded at Tuebrook and West Derby Village, but the detective didn’t use them as cover to sneak away.

The bus was full of greetings and chat. All the housewives must be from Cantril Farm, and must prefer to journey to these shopping areas. She enjoyed the slow pursuit, almost laughing; it was like a parody of a car chase. “Follow that bus!” she giggled to herself.

All at once the landscape became greyer. Tower blocks loomed as though embodying the fog. Long featureless walls crammed with windows dawdled by. Even the colours of curtains were obscured by fog. Housewives called goodbye. Gazing about, Cathy didn’t wonder they preferred to shop elsewhere.

She sat forward as though to watch the climax of a film. There couldn’t be many stops before the terminus. On the single road, people trudged beside the high curbs, along the paths of yellow lines. Her bus halted, blocked by its leader. Among the women emerging from the bus ahead and descending into the subway, she saw the detective.

She clattered downstairs. Oh, don’t let her lose him! “You’ll forget your head one of these days,” the driver remarked, opening the doors for her. The bus drew away its light; the chill of the fog seized her. When the sounds of the bus had retreated, she found she couldn’t hear the limping.

Wasn’t this a bit ridiculous? How far was she going to chase the poor man? Was she really going to trudge about this unfamiliar foggy place in search of him? It would be frustrating to have come so far for nothing. She thought of the unpleasantness that was seeping into the house on Aigburth Drive. If he could do something about that, he was worth chasing. Though she felt absurd, she hurried into the subway.

On the far side was silence. The walk climbed into the fog. It looked as likely a direction as any. She hurried past concrete yards and patches of grass soaked with grey. Only fog kept her company.

Within minutes she was lost. High identical walls full of flats surrounded her. A notice she’d hoped was the name of the block, or even a direction, proved to say ALL BALL GAMES PROHIBITED. Otherwise the walls were a mess of painted names. Paths led onto tufted mud in which lurked puddles and glass.

When she heard a bus on the main road, she headed back. There was no point in straying further. What a disappointing end to her adventure! She slithered down towards the subway, looking for steps that would take her to the outward bus stop.

Then she heard the limping. It began abruptly, surprisingly close. She whirled, and saw him in a concrete tributary. Was he lost too? He disappeared at once into the fog, but she could hear him clearly. She hurried in pursuit.

The limping echoed in a passage. She managed to distinguish the entrance, though the gap looked almost as solid as the framing wall, with fog. Beyond it, she found herself in what seemed to be a wide deserted yard within a square of tenements.

Oh, don’t say she’d lost him! Entrances gaped in the tenements, revealing stone stairs wet with fog. He could have vanished into any opening. She held her breath, though it tasted of the murk.

She heard something. Footsteps? Yes, though they were faint — shuffling. They were advancing towards her, slowly and unevenly. Unevenly! It must be the detective. How would he react when he saw her? While she pondered that, he might elude her yet again. She ran on tiptoe towards the shuffling.

Fog blanked her vision, and robbed her of any sense of distance. How near was the shuffling now? Surely he ought to be visible. She was certain she would jump when they came face to face — and so would he, no doubt, poor man. The thought made her tense, and distracted her. She almost collided with the dim shapeless figure when it shuffled into view.

Cathy gasped. It was an old woman in bedraggled carpet slippers. Her bare legs were red and thickly veined. She shrank back as though Cathy were a mugger.

“
I’m sorry,” Cathy blurted. “I thought — ” She couldn’t say more for choking on her mirth.

“
I should think so.” The old woman shuffled past, staring: her vacant gums smoked. “Just about think so too,” she muttered.

All at once Cathy heard the limping. It was on the far side of the yard, and retreating rapidly. For a few steps it echoed in a passage. She ran towards the sound. Obstacles seemed to menace her, but they were fog.

She found the passage quickly, and ran through. Footsteps came at her from the obscurity — her own echoes. Outside, a path dissolved into fog. On one side stretched a fence, on the other was a rank of two-storey flats that protruded boxily into tiny concrete yards. The prospect resembled an H with its top legs missing, repeated again and again.

The limping stopped. How far ahead? She ran faster than her doubts. Passages gaped between flats; windows dull as fog stood above them. Fancy having a hole where your ground floor ought to be!

Was he in one of the passages? She dodged towards each, then veered away. She had to go deep in each shadowy blurred gap before she could be sure. Oh, please don’t let him have hidden in his flat after all this — There he was, in a passage!

It was a dangling shirt that swung its arms as she ran at it.

When she reached the end of the fence, she gave up. Beyond the fence, another passage led out to wide murk. She stood beside a torn poster. AY NO T A BLACK ITAIN, it said. She stared at the flats opposite. A door which looked hardly coloured lurked beneath glistening stone steps.

She was dismally fascinated. Anyone who passed could bang on the windows or the walls: no doubt children did. She couldn’t have borne living in such a place. It must be like a cage. She would have gone mad.

* * *

Chapter XXV

So now she knew where he lived. He spied on her through a crack between the curtains. He ought to have killed the old woman as well, instead of letting her presence deter him. At last the girl slunk into the fog. She must have been making sure that he knew he was trapped.

Would she send the police for him? Let them come — he’d make some cuts in the police force. His joke failed to sustain him. He felt shrunken, a rat in a trap; his mind felt crushed. He would flee, except that there was nowhere to go besides the fog.

He sat in the centre of the anonymous room, facing the door, razor in hand. He listened to the radio. It might warn him, or help him somehow; surely his luck hadn’t deserted him entirely. The gathering night robbed him of the room. He found himself listening for words, he didn’t know which, that would tell him what to do. There must be someone on his side. Blurred stations drifted behind the newsreader’s voice. Horridge sat forward; the blade clicked. What was that about conspiracy?

But the blurred voice had gone. Oh yes, he knew about conspiracies; the world was full of them. Even presidents could be involved in them, which showed that anyone might be. Sometimes the plotters were careless enough to be found out, but what of those who weren’t? What about those homosexuals and their dupes, conspiring against him?

When he switched on the light the walls didn’t retreat far. He shut off the radio, which was trying to distress him. He couldn’t bear waiting; the room seemed like a condemned cell. Where could he hide? Where might the police not look for him?