The Face That Must Die (29 page)

How was he to achieve his purpose? He made for the bathroom, to splash cold water on his face. That would wake up his thoughts. He hadn’t reached the door when he heard rapid footsteps on the drive.

As he ran to the window, the easel seemed to dodge into his path. His limping tripped it up. Never mind the crash — he must see who was approaching. It was only the postman, who ducked into the porch and emerged again quickly.

Horridge let the curtain fall. The easel lay silent, playing dead. Had anyone heard the crash? Probably only the long-haired creature, who would be too timid to do anything. Suppose he came down to try and find out what had happened? Horridge grinned; that would help his plan.

* * *

Chapter XXXI

Peter heard Cathy leave the house. Should he have gone with her to Fanny’s exhibition? He didn’t want to be bored by that stuff. But having been closer to the girls than to Cathy made him feel guilty, irritable. Oh come on, he’d promised to meet her tonight.

He watched her from the window until she disappeared towards Lodge Lane. The park looked calm and vivid; its colours stilled him. He could see so many, thanks to the acid. He hoped the effect would remain.

He ought to do some work today — but you should leave the day after a trip clear for re-entry into normal consciousness. Still, the Librium had made him tranquil, not at all nervous of failure. Should he write? Here came the postman, to delay his decision.

He heard the patter of letters, and went downstairs. Jesus, he was the only person in the house — except for the guy with no name on his bell, who must have made that noise a few minutes ago. He didn’t feel in charge of the house — more as though he were abandoned in it. His footsteps rattled in the empty rooms.

All right, he knew he and Cathy ought to move. He was inert, he knew that. He saw himself all too clearly — that was part of his trouble. But it wasn’t his fault if they couldn’t afford to move. He didn’t want charity from that fascist.

He sorted through the post. Nothing for him, except a bill. Wasted journey. He glanced at a card with a Welsh postmark — from Fanny? No, it was addressed to her.

What happened? Wouldn’t your fans let you get away?

At least give us a ring so we know you’re all right. We

hope you’ll still be coming.

Surely she’d gone last Thursday. Cathy had told him so. At least, she was supposed to have gone. Were her friends right to be anxious? Might she be lying injured in her flat?

He climbed slowly to the middle landing. Now he reflected, the fall he’d heard had sounded too loud to have come from the ground floor. Had it been in her flat? He hesitated outside her door. If she answered it and proved unharmed, he’d feel ridiculous. He didn’t even like her; that would make it more embarrassing.

At last he knocked, so softly that he might have been pretending not to. Come on, if that was the best he could do it wasn’t worth doing. He knocked again, and bruised his knuckles.

While he rubbed his knuckles there was silence. Then he heard a sound beyond the door, brief but definite: an object being dragged? He strained his ears, but could hear only their own murmur. “Fanny?” he called.

Silence displayed his voice to him. He called again, and felt ludicrous. Here he was, standing in the middle of an almost empty house, calling “Fanny, Fanny.” If she didn’t want to answer, that was up to her. He trudged upstairs.

Now he was uneasy. He didn’t think she was particularly fond of him — but was that a reason why she wouldn’t answer? Could she be unable to? Cathy had thought she’d heard noises in the flat last night. Perhaps she hadn’t imagined them.

He could at least push the card beneath Fanny’s door. Still, there was another, more adventurous possibility. He went into the kitchen and gazed out at the fire escape. He wouldn’t be able to work until he knew whether anything was wrong. Besides, the adventure would be more exciting than work.

He carried the kitchen chair to the window, and raised the sash. It rattled loudly, unused to being disturbed. The manoeuvre proved to be more difficult than he’d expected: he had to clamber over the sink, and was forced to sit on it for a moment. Would it give way? It held, and he struggled over the windowsill.

When his heel struck the iron platform, the entire fire escape vibrated audibly. Jesus, this wasn’t so much fun after all. Oh come on, the thing wasn’t going to fall down. He wormed himself noisily beneath the sash, and stood on the platform.

He felt victorious. Beneath him the back yards and gardens were ranked, penned in by brick walls. Nobody employed him; he was free. Cathy wouldn’t dare stand here. Wasn’t that another reason why they ought to move? Suppose there were a fire?

He descended the iron stairs, which quivered. He moved slowly, to steady them and his pulse. Fanny’s kitchen window was wide open. Did that mean she was at home? Perhaps — but not that she was unharmed.

He hesitated, peering into the part of the bare kitchen the window revealed. His blurred shadow made it dim. Eventually he leaned in. Metal gleamed sharply at him: a knife on the draining-board, beside a rolling-pin. The kitchen was deserted. Dare he climb in? He felt bold yet vulnerable, like a child.

Out of the empty kitchen a voice whispered “Peter.”

He recoiled. The guillotine of the sash chopped the back of his neck. He swore; of course, the whisper had come from the main room. It must be Fanny. “What?” he hissed, feeling like a parody of a conspirator.

“
Peter, help me.”

Clambering through the window was more of a task than emerging from his own had been. At last he succeeded in thrusting his feet past the sink. He grabbed the sink and let himself fall, jarring his ankles.

At once a voice said “Now close the window, quickly.”

It wasn’t Fanny’s voice. A man had come into the kitchen — the man who had watched him and Craig, and who’d skulked near the house. “What are you doing in here?” Peter demanded. “Where’s Fanny?”

The man limped within arm’s reach. Peter remembered the figure on the landing, whose stance had been deformed. “Make less noise,” the man said with a kind of tight-lipped glee, “or I’ll cut you. Close the window.”

In his hand a razor glared. Immediately Peter was seized by his nightmare: his body was hacked open like meat, like Craig’s. He was paralysed. Could he shout for help? Could he struggle with the man? Craig had been stronger, and he’d been no match for a razor. Already Peter could feel his fingers slashed to uselessness.

“
The window. I won’t tell you again.”

Even if Peter shouted the razor would finish him long before help arrived. He reached out and closed the sash; compulsion rather than thought dragged his hands down. Their trembling dismayed and infuriated him. His stomach felt like the whirlpool of a drain.

“
Now then,” the man said. “You’re going to drive me to Wales.”

Despite his panic, Peter felt close to hysterical laughter. It made his words jerky. “No chance, brother. I can’t drive.”

Before he could move, the razor flicked towards his right eye. The pain was steely cold, but the liquid that spilled down his face was warm. He had to struggle to raise his hand, to discover where the blade had touched him: just below the eye.

“
You’re going to drive me to Wales.”

“
Jesus Christ, are you mad?” Peter screamed. “I can’t drive!”

“
Shall I cut you again? I’ve told you once to make less noise.”

Peter’s hands writhed, struggling to signify his truthfulness. “You’ve got to believe me.” Blood trickled into his mouth. “My wife’s the one who drives. I can’t.” This was grotesque; he was chatting reasonably, as though the man were a persistent hitchhiker. “I can’t fucking drive,” he moaned.

The man shook his head, as though offended. He advanced; the razor lifted. Peter’s back thumped the corner beyond the window. He was trapped, with no weapon in reach. “Then you’re no use to me at all, are you?” the man said.

* * *

Chapter XXXII

The library was clear. The last of the old people who converged on the light and warmth like moths had gone. Here was someone, knocking urgently on the doors. He wasn’t Peter; he was a plaintive spinsterish man whose books were due for return today. Cathy accepted the books mechanically and wondered where Peter was.

He must be on his way. She’d phoned the flat to remind him to meet her, but there had been no reply. She waited outside the library. Her colleagues hurried away. Cars whisked by; groups of people passed, chattering and laughing. The pair of telephone boxes shone, glass exhibition cases with nothing to show. A cold wind nagged at her.

Fanny’s pictures had been startlingly cheap. A few were still unsold; she’d liked them all. Should she have bought one? Peter bought his comics without consulting her. Where was he?

On his way through the park, no doubt, and smoking a joint: that would rob him of his sense of time, among other things. She might as well meet him; waiting frustrated her. She dawdled along Lark Lane. The shops were dark, but light and a cheerful uproar filled the Masonic pub. A gargoyle leaned out from the old police station.

On Aigburth Drive the occasional lamps looked inadequate as matches stuck in the night. By squinting, she could just distinguish the van parked near the house. There was no sign of Peter. He must be in the park. He knew the route that she always used.

She walked down the path among the trees, avoiding heaps of turf cleared from the lawns. She was sure they could talk more freely away from the house; last night she’d had an irrational suspicion that they were being overheard.

A car droned along Aigburth Drive. When it had passed, silence closed in. The cold wind set trees creaking. Branches were intricately clear against the dim sky, and looked surrounded by an aura. They stirred delicately as ferns.

On her right was a tennis court. Beyond the wire netting, a shape squatted. She almost shouted at it, infuriated by her start of nervousness. But it wasn’t Peter lurking to leap out at her. It was a heavy roller.

Now she was wary. It would be just like him to hide in the dark to scare her. Peering out from behind a tree, head wagging — but it was a bush. She hurried down to the lake. The park exhibited her footsteps, its loudest sound.

Above her, Eros stood on one tiptoe atop his pinnacle. In daylight he always looked as though he were waiting impatiently outside the café for someone to bring him an ice cream. Now the hovering life-size figure troubled her. It made her feel that it wasn’t the only figure nearby.

She paced beside the lake, towards the bandstand. Violent wings fluttered on the water, which lapped nervously. The dark was crowded with shapes that moved on the edge of her vision, creeping around behind her. “Peter,” she cried, enraged.

The silence returned her cry, flattened. For no reason that she could define, the sound made her fear for him. Had he had an LSD flashback? Might he be unable to meet her? She peered anxiously into the shelter near the bandstand, but all the shapes in there were darkness.

No doubt he was home by now, and wondering where she was. And of course he wouldn’t understand why she had been worried. She must hurry home. Shapes were waiting for her: a group of bushes tall as men shifted restlessly beside the path. Were they all bushes?

Certainly they were. She knew that as soon as she’d passed them, when none of them had seized her. And those were only litter-bins that crouched on the forecourt of the café. A black stain spread across the sky, dimming the park. Cracked and wrinkled concrete snagged her feet.

Wasn’t there one litter-bin too many? Rubbish — she’d never counted them. No, nobody was lurking on the benches by Eros. Nothing was sneaking after her except windblown litter. She hurried onto the avenue, towards the obelisk.

Had any of the bins moved? She glanced back. No, of course not. How stupid! Along the avenue, trees stepped out stealthily from behind one another. Again she looked back. None of the blurred shapes moved before the advancing darkness engulfed them.

Nearly home now. Just let him watch what he said if she found him waiting there. She hoped he was waiting. The obelisk grew nearer. It was wider than a man. Just let him jump out at her! Wasn’t that a shadow protruding from behind it? No, only a wet patch on the ground. Nobody was hiding.

As she hurried towards the house she saw that the flat was dark. Oh, where could he be? Getting stoned, no doubt — leaving her to shiver on the dark deserted road. She glanced automatically towards the van, to check that nobody had interfered with it.

A thick strip of darkness outlined the nearside door — too thick. The door was ajar. Peter must have gone into the van for something — but why on earth couldn’t he have locked it after him? Not that there was anything in there worth stealing.

She pulled the door back, and poked her head in to glance at the jumble of petrol cans, crumpled stained paperbacks for long journeys, the capacious old armchair for those who wanted to sit in it. Her harsh gasp made her cough. A couple was sitting in the armchair.

Good God, couldn’t they find anywhere else? Her shock gave way to amused incredulity. She’d heard of squatters, but this was ridiculous. Why were they so still? The girl’s head rested on the man’s shoulder; his arm embraced her. Deep in Cathy’s mind was bewilderment and worse. Dimly she made out that the long-haired one wasn’t a girl at all, for he had a beard. Why, they were both men. She squinted at the face beneath the long hair. Why was it so desperately urgent that she see?