The Face That Must Die (26 page)

Yes, of course. He never went to the pub — but he could pretend to be one of the herd. Why, that would make him seem normal by their standards; he would be unobtrusive there. He transferred his documents into his raincoat, in case the police broke in, and left.

Men were tramping along the path. Were they going to the pub? They looked brainless enough — too brainless to conspire against him. He followed them, so as not to be alone in the fog.

He’d judged their destination rightly. Already the pub was crowded. Addicts, all of them — but at least the sots would be too befuddled to plot against him. He reached the bar at last and bought himself a lemonade, despite the barmaid’s faint amused contempt. She was there to serve, not to have opinions.

On his way to an empty table, he stooped to pat a dog: some animals were trustworthy, unlike human beings. Then he saw it was a blind man’s dog. Wasn’t its owner watching him? Horridge restrained himself from snatching the dark glasses and hurried to his table.

He surveyed the enemy. A few people sat alone, drinking morosely. Mightn’t they be connected, perhaps communicating by signs? They looked secretive enough. Whenever he caught one of them gazing, the gazer glanced quickly away. Were they homosexuals, or police? He suspected there wasn’t much difference.

Whenever he sipped his lemonade or moved in any way, there came a burst of laughter. Of course it was never from the same direction. They wouldn’t affect him with such a cheap trick — nor with the remarks he could almost hear. Was someone talking in a foreign language? Was it Russian? The dim light seemed to hold him fast, like amber.

He watched the television perched above the bar. Tobacco smoke befogged its screen. Policemen beat up criminals; an orchestra urged them on. “Step into a dream and leave reality behind,” sang an advertisement for a holiday camp. Oh yes, that was what they’d like everyone to do — but they wouldn’t cloud his mind, not with drugs or anything else.

Behind him a workman was talking about “doing a foreigner.” That didn’t mean getting rid of an immigrant; it meant sneaking away from your job to do work while your employer wasn’t watching. It showed how foreigners weren’t to be trusted. Someone sat down opposite Horridge.

He glanced at the man, ready to glare him away. Company would distract and discomfort him. It was Mr Fearon the key-cutter, gazing curiously at him. “I never knew you came here,” the old man said.

“
Didn’t you?” Horridge managed to speak coolly, though his heart was frantic to escape.

“
I don’t see the point in coming here, lad, if you’re going to drink that stuff.”

Did the lemonade make Horridge look effeminate? It might draw attention to him. He rose angrily and struggled to the bar to demand a pint of beer. On the television screen, a beer glass jerked itself thicker and taller, growing gigantic; its cap of froth bulged. “Big head,” a male chorus praised it. “The body that satisfies — it can’t be modest no matter how it tries.” How could they get away with broadcasting such filth?

Though he would have preferred to avoid the old man, he had to return to his place; no other seat was empty. The drinkers who pretended to be alone were still spying. Mr Fearon nodded approvingly at the beer. “That’s right, lad. That’s what you need.”

“
I don’t
need
it at all.”

“
You’re a bit on edge, aren’t you?” The old man seemed to lose interest in him, and gazed at the News. The newsreader muttered amid the uproar. At last Mr Fearon said “I see they’ve caught that murderer.”

Horridge spoke sharply, to cut through the dizziness that had spread from his mouthful of beer. “Which murderer?”

“
Which one?” The old man gazed quizzically at him, as though amused by his sharpness. “Which one do you mean?”

Oh no, Horridge wasn’t caught so easily. They both knew perfectly well whom they meant. He gulped his beer, for the old man had been staring at it, making out that he intended to hold it untouched all night.

“
You’d call him a murderer, would you?” Horridge said.

“
Wouldn’t you?”

He’d had enough of this game of questions. It was time someone had the courage to state a few facts. Deep in the uproar a voice was babbling like a madman’s, but that wouldn’t make Horridge crack. “I’d call him a guardian of the law,” he said. “Someone who stands up for what he knows is right. If the law won’t deal with corruption, someone must. A few more like him and the world would be a lot cleaner.”

He was saying too much. Shut up, he screamed at himself, shut up! But the old man appeared not to be listening; he was staring past Horridge at the television. Giddy with suspicion, Horridge turned. The newsreader’s face was staring straight at him.

The man looked down, pretending to read his script — too late. They were using the television to watch Horridge. It must be easy, with all these bugging devices. And by God, Mr Fearon was in league with them — the old man had been pumping him to make him talk! Before he could restrain himself, his hand plunged into his coat pocket.

He gasped. Oh God, his birth certificate had the names written on it. If they caught him now, that would be evidence against him. He lurched to his feet and stumbled away; his head felt sodden with beer. “Too much for you?” Mr Fearon said.

As Horridge dodged between the stools that barred his way everywhere, as he battled his way through the hubbub that clung to him, he saw his grandfather entering the pub. The old face was strong and calm as a rock. Horridge ran to him, kicking aside a stool. His luck hadn’t changed, he was saved. But it was an old drunkard, his cheeks redly laced.

Horridge staggered into the night. His head was unsteady and brimming; fog had seeped into his skull. By an irony which amused him not at all, his drunkenness helped him find his way home; he kept tramping doggedly until he saw the notice, torn now.

When he opened the door he heard them waiting for him in the dark, muttering. It took him minutes to ease the door shut, and to bare the razor-blade. It was only the voice of the plumbing, the incoherent voice of a madman locked in darkness. It wouldn’t send him mad, they needn’t bother trying.

He felt his documents hanging on him. He had nothing with which to rub out the names. Gardner, Peter David. Gardner, Catherine Angela. He snarled at them: no doubt they too would like to see him locked up. He hid the documents in the wardrobe, and felt slightly less endangered.

Before he touched the radio, his hand drooped. Might they be using the radio to listen to him? Could they do so even when it was supposed to be switched off? He stood in the bare cell. His mind felt hollow. The blade snatched at the light, dulled, snatched. He stared at the razor as if it might direct him.

* * *

Chapter XXVI

“
Where were you?” Peter demanded.

Should she tell him? Her tale would sound absurd. Even if she held his attention, the ending would hardly be worth it. “Looking at houses,” she said.

He turned back to
The Incredible Hulk
. “There’s one I haven’t looked at yet,” she said. “Come and see it now.”

Might her chase have allowed someone else to beat them to it? Her frustration made her persuasive. “Oh, all right,” he grumbled at last.

The fog was lifting intermittently. The van sped through its gaps. People were coming home from work; she watched houses light up. Pavements glistened like tar beneath streetlamps.

As she’d thought, the house was near the football ground. Dead floodlights towered above the tiers of seats. On the corner of the side street, a window was blocked by ripples of tin like a Venetian blind — but on the upper storey, light shone through curtains. She knew how it felt to live over emptiness.

The advertised house didn’t look bad. An arch of bricks framed the front door; alternate bricks were painted brightly. The door opened onto the pavement, but she hadn’t expected a garden. It looked a snug little house — they could make something of it. Not until she struggled to lift the knocker did she realise how rusty it was.

The echoes of its slow thuds died away. Were more echoes returning, or were those sounds footsteps? The door juddered open, revealing an old man in a suit and dressing-gown. His face was shrunken close to the bone, and looked small and timidly hopeful, like a little boy’s.

“
Are you for the house?” he said eagerly. “It’ll be just the job for you, I can tell.”

He trotted backwards, making way for them. The hall was dim; well, they needn’t keep it so. Were all the vague blurs on the walls shadows? Peter touched one and examined moisture on his hand.

“
Here’s the living-room.” Within, a small fire coughed thickly. Cathy understood now why the old man wore so many clothes; she shivered. She would make the house warmer.

“
It’s been a good little house.” The old man rested one hand on a framed photograph of a family; he was the father. The frame and its glass were free of the dust which sprinkled the room. “But it’s too big for one person alone,” he said.

He turned to Peter; this was man’s talk. “The rates are a bit high for me. They’re very reasonable. They’d be no trouble if I were your age.”

Cathy didn’t quite see why that should make a difference. Behind the scenes she thought she heard rodents moving. “Let’s see the rest,” Peter demanded.

She frowned at his rudeness — or was she less anxious now to view the rest? They followed the old man. The kitchen walls were sweaty; a table hardly wider than a chair stood beside a protruding sink. “You could have a dining-table in here,” said the old man hopefully.

He led the way upstairs. Peter stepped aside to tread on a board under the staircase; it leapt up, exposing an earthy hollow like a grave. Dust hung swaying from a lampshade above the stairs and made the flex thick and furry as a caterpillar.

“
This is the married bedroom.” The old man sounded wistful. Half of the double bed was bare; rust outlined the nuts and bolts of its frame.

He leaned on the headboard, smiling like a salesman, as if they must be persuaded by now.

“
What’s in here?” said Peter on the landing.

“
Oh, that’s another room. It needs a few things doing.” The old man hurried towards him; the floor broke into a chorus of creaks. Peter held open the door for Cathy to see. Beneath a ragged tear that displayed wooden ribs, a heap of plaster lay on paper fallen from the ceiling. The walls streamed.

In the living-room, the old man said “How does it look to you?”

His hopefulness was dismaying, for it seemed to contain no pretence. Peter waited impatiently in the hall. “We’ll have to think about it,” Cathy said trying to be gentle. “But — I’m afraid it isn’t quite what we’re looking for.”

“
Well, never mind.” Was his smile meant to reassure her, or himself? “I understand,” he said. “It’s a bit small if you’re planning to have children.”

Peter was hurrying to the van. “So much for that,” he said triumphantly. “If that’s all we can afford it’s not worth looking.” She didn’t bother keeping up with him. Let him wait. He was only hurrying to roll another joint.

* * *

Chapter XXVII

At last Horridge managed to sleep, but never for very long. Beer lay uneasily in his head and his stomach. His skull throbbed in time with the beat of the clock, whose ticking chanted nonsense, trying to tempt him to listen. In the darkness the plumbing muttered. Just let them come near. He clutched the razor.

He should have followed Mr Fearon home. There was no use trying to find him now, in the fog. The old man would be able to look up his address in the voters’ list, if he didn’t know already. Horridge writhed beneath the imprisoning blankets. He should have killed Mr Fearon.

Dawn crept into the room. It looked like fog, though the day was clear. Were they waiting for daylight before they arrested him, so that his neighbours could watch and approve? No doubt they would make the arrest appear legal and necessary. People were eager to believe anything.

There was one place where they mightn’t look for him. He need hide for only a few days, until his money was due. He’d thought of it during the dark hours. The idea had seemed dreamlike, but now it felt solid and right.

He switched on the radio. That would make them think he was staying. “Scattered showers and good sunny periods,” the newsreader said. What was the other voice murmuring — about a man obsessed with the idea that he was being watched, who had attacked a policeman?

Oh no, that wasn’t Horridge. They needn’t waste their time. No doubt they’d faked the incident to confuse people. Or perhaps they’d driven the man mad. The voice withdrew, having failed to delude Horridge. He turned to another station, and another. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that each new voice was the same voice, disguised. Were they aiming special broadcasts at him for some reason? A blare of pop music faded abruptly. “And it’s just ten past nine,” a disc jockey said. “Ten past eight, I mean.”

Horridge scrubbed himself thoroughly. He didn’t know when he would next be able to wash. Razor in hand, he squirmed into his raincoat and slipped the weapon into his pocket. He spent minutes easing open the front door, so that the radio wouldn’t hear. Let it sit there singing to itself — it was a fool, like its masters. His last glance showed him the wardrobe. He was glad to be leaving that behind. During the night he’d dreamed that blood had burst it open.