The Face That Must Die (28 page)

Glancing back from the van, she saw that only her window was lit. It couldn’t have been Fanny, after all. Peter was alone at the top of the emptying house. Well, it was his fault. She drove to the Halliwells’.

Angie read her feelings. “Give Cathy a drink, Frank.”

The alcohol released her speech — not that she needed much persuasion to talk. Talking relieved her, even if they couldn’t help. “I don’t know if it’s worth it. I don’t know if we have a marriage left any more. I don’t know if I want to keep us together because I love him or just because I can’t bear to think of a marriage breaking up.”

“
What seems to be the problem?”

“
Oh, Frank, for heaven’s sake,” said Angie, as though he were displaying typical male insensitivity.

But Cathy hadn’t explained. “All sorts of things,” she said. “He’s been taking drugs.”

Frank tapped his glass. “Well, so are we.”

“
Illegal ones, I mean.”

“
It must be a substitute for something,” Angie said. “I think children would be good for both of you.”

“
We can’t have children till we have a house.”

Frank dawdled over pouring himself a whisky. He kept letting snatches of soda fizz into the glass. Eventually he said “I can’t promise anything.”

Had she asked him to? Cathy blinked at him, bemused. “But I know of some houses that may be going cheap,” he said. “They’re no palaces, mind. They need improvement work. The thing is, there might be a way to get you a loan for the purchase. Someone owes me a favour. Don’t count on it just yet. I don’t want to build up your hopes.”

When she drove home the night seemed mellow. The sodium glow that embraced houses looked like firelight, constant and warm. Was she just heartened by alcohol? Had alcohol made Frank encouraging? No, she was sure he could do what he’d said. He must be able to. She drove slowly, though she was eager to talk to Peter.

She parked. She was more drunk than she’d thought, too much so to have been driving: why, she was seeing a light beyond Fanny’s curtains. She couldn’t focus on it; it seemed dim and mobile. It must be the light from her window, leaking down to Fanny’s. She climbed the emptily reverberating stairs.

* * *

Chapter XXX

“
Frank says he may be able to wangle us a house.”

“
One we can afford? No chance.”

“
Yes, he thinks so. Really, Peter, we’ve got to move while we can. Houses will only get more expensive.”

“
Yeah? Well, I’ve been thinking too, and I think we’re stuck here.”

“
That’s what you’d like, is it?”

“
Jesus, don’t blame me for it. It’s what has to be. Reality. Didn’t you ever hear about that?”

“
Maybe we will be stuck here, if you don’t settle down to something.”

“
Like working in the libraries? You stay there if you want to. That’s not worth shit.”

“
It’s better than sitting around stoned all day.”

“
Oh, that’s what you’re getting at, is it? Did that fuckingfascist tell you what to say?”

“
I don’t need anyone to tell me what to say. You’re so stupid about drugs. Bringing out that joint at your parents’— you only wanted to torment me. You’re so stupid.”

“
Yeah, right.”

“
And you’re sly, as well. You didn’t want me to know you’d been taking acid with those bitches.”

“
Yeah, right.”

“
Is that all you’re going to say?”

“
Yeah, right.”

“
I can’t talk to you. I want to go to bed.”

“
I’ll bring myself down with some Librium if you can stand having me in the same bed.”

“
Oh, don’t be so stupid and self-pitying.”

By now he was sure he had heard her voice before. It was the voice of the girl in the library who had been so curious about his search for Craig. If she lived here, that would explain everything: her curiosity, her pursuit in the fog.

It all made perfect sense. She was married to the creature with the long hair, or living with him and pretending to be married: he remembered the names he’d copied down. Their conversation showed how corrupt the creature was. Had Craig maintained a hold on him through drugs? Perhaps he was homosexual too. Would homosexuals wear beards? They might, to confuse people.

Or had the conversation been staged to delude Horridge? Had the creature recognised him on the stairs? Horridge had heard the girl drive away. Pretending they were poor when they owned a car — whom did they think they were kidding?

Perhaps they were trying to distract him while their friends in the police closed in. He should have killed the creature on the stairs and dragged him in here — but before he’d had the chance, the creature had scurried upstairs into his hole. Let them send their friends. There wouldn’t be much left of anyone who came through that door.

Through the ceiling he heard the creak of a bed. Filthy animals — at least they would be too busy now to spy on him. Suppose the police were on their way? The prisons were full of homosexuals, as they ought to be. They weren’t going to put him in there, in the squirming corruption. He would rather die— but they wouldn’t force him to that, oh no. They were the ones he’d be cutting.

The candlelight plucked at his attention. Objects moved on all sides of him, as though the clutter of the painter’s flat were closing in. The dim room jerked. No, his eyes weren’t twitching nervously. He wished he could switch on the light, but he mustn’t risk lighting up the window.

Stop this nervousness. The long-haired creature had looked blind with drugs. If he had recognised Horridge, the police would be here by now. Or were they biding their time until Horridge slept?

No, that wasn’t their way. They enjoyed using force; he’d seen that on the television in the pub. There would be a mob of them to overpower him. He would be as helpless as Craig’s victims, and perhaps they would do to him what Craig would have.

He hurried to make sure that the catch held the lock closed. His movements disturbed the flame. The wardrobe doors shifted. No, they hadn’t opened; nobody had peered out and ducked back. There was nothing in there but an object, unable to threaten — just like his father.

He sat and stared at the flame. At last his gaze held it steady. The police weren’t coming, no, no. He was safe here. When he’d realised that he could hide here, he’d realised almost simultaneously that he’d saved himself by leaving his payment book in Cantril Farm. Had he applied for his money the police would have pounced at once.

He couldn’t stay here for ever. Where could he get the money to take him to Wales? Dim objects tiptoed towards him, and retreated. Surely circumstance would come to his aid. After all, he was in the right.

He felt both chilled and coated with sweat. He crept to the bathroom. The candlelight tried to make him avoid shadows and collide with their objects. He dared to switch on the bathroom light; it couldn’t reach the window. Should he stay in here, where it was brighter? But he would feel trapped.

He scrubbed himself and searched for a towel that he could use. All of them smelled of the painter, a cloying sweetish scent. Eventually he had to use one. The scent clung slyly to him. Outside the bathroom things moved in the dimness, conspiring. When a face appeared, his snarl of fear rasped his throat. He had to stare at the face with its protruding ears before he was convinced that he knew it: his face in the bathroom mirror.

His stomach felt queasy. He had to use the toilet. He left the bathroom door open, so as not to be closed in. In the main room things moved stealthily to watch him. He found to his disgust that the painter had no lid with which to cover the toilet. His face stared up, drowned in filth. Though it risked alerting Craig’s spies upstairs, he pulled the chain.

The candlelight fluttered as he emerged. What had disturbed it? Had the wardrobe doors just closed? No, he wasn’t deluded so easily. There was a faint unpleasant smell: paint, probably. Why wasn’t there any air freshener? Because the painter had scorned cleanliness, of course.

He felt observed. He’d left the lighted bathroom open; now he lit the kitchen. The bright rooms looked as though they were threatening to stage a shock, and they made the outer room more dim.

Should he lie down and try to sleep? No, he needed to keep his wits about him. Besides, there was no bed. She must have slept in Craig’s. Horridge wouldn’t have touched her bed if she had had one: it would have been infected.

What was observing him? No, it was none of the dim twitching objects; nothing was raising its head to peer at him. But there were hidden eyes in the room. They were hiding from him on the draped canvas. He’d bring them out into the open. That would settle them.

When he uncovered the canvas, the candlelight shook. The face that stared up at him writhed as though ashamed; its eyes gleamed. Was this another mirror? Or was the light deforming the face? When at last he was sure that it was a painting of himself, the tension of his entire body twisted his hands into claws.

So she had been completely in Craig’s power. She must have meant to show her painting to the police. Had he killed her before she’d done so? His warped hand dragged out his razor. He began to slash the face. Flakes of its eyes and other features rustled down the canvas. When the face was a scraped blur, he slashed the canvas into streamers.

He sank back on the chair, smiling. So much for the trap she’d tried to set for him. Now she could do nothing: she was lifeless and locked away, as she ought to be. Let her clutter leap about frantically; it didn’t impress him. It looked scared of him, as well it might.

The room steadied. That was right, just let it keep still. He nodded approval. The flame moved sleepily, gentle as firelight. He remembered the cottage, mellowed by the glow. The light lulled him. He nodded, and dozed.

The cottage was near, and the quarry. He must stop dawdling. He struggled dreamily to his feet and limped towards the wardrobe. Somehow he managed not to trip up. How had he acquired so much junk? He must have strewn the floor in order to select what to pack.

His eyes were glued half shut by sleep. The wardrobe looked unfamiliar. Never mind musing — he wanted to be sure that his payment book was safe. The wardrobe doors opened for him, or seemed to, though he had to help them.

His coat had fallen. It lay huddled on the bottom of the wardrobe. Or was it his coat? The light was so dim. He leaned closer. Dear God, it was one of Craig’s victims. He must release the sufferer, if it wasn’t too late.

Only when he turned to hurry to the light switch did he realise where he was. His movement plucked at the flame of the remaining stub of candle. Oh God, he’d blown it out! He felt darkness surge out of the wardrobe behind him, hands outstretched. But the flame calmed at last, though it sputtered intermittently. He had to close his eyes before he could turn back and slam the wardrobe doors.

He dragged the chair to the patch of brightness from the lighted rooms. Paper tore beneath its legs. He sat staring at the wardrobe, whose doors moved feebly. No, she couldn’t get out. She was too weak.

He couldn’t spend another night like this. He must escape — to Wales. There was nowhere else in the world that he felt would welcome him. How could he get there? Steal aboard a train? Walk all the way? The thought dragged his lips harshly over his teeth.

Dawn sneaked into the room. The curtains stained it purple, as though to signify the painter’s continuing presence. When sunlight reached through the curtains, it seemed not to touch him. He was imprisoned in his skull, trying to see his way to Wales.

Upstairs the bed creaked. Did they indulge their filth in the mornings as well? He heard the pad of footsteps, brief mutters, more creaking. A low conversation began. They didn’t want him to hear — they must be talking about him. He strained his ears.

“
Will you meet me from work?” the girl was saying. “We haven’t walked in the park for ages.”

There came a muffled sound that might have been assent. What did the conversation mean? It was obviously false, this friendliness after last night’s row. Perhaps they were arranging not to be there when their friends came for Horridge.

Once the girl had passed his door, he tiptoed to the window and parted the curtains narrowly. As she hesitated by the van before walking away, he saw her face. Yes, it was the girl from the library. The confirmation made him feel in control again.

The girl and her creature must have been completely in Craig’s power. The entire house must have been. She hadn’t wanted Horridge to know she lived here; that was why she’d followed him by bus — because he would have recognised the van.

Now only she and the long-haired thing could recognise him. He ought to finish them: the world would be better off without them. As an achievement, that seemed unsatisfactory; he would still be trapped here. If only there were some way of —

His mouth fell open. He didn’t care that he must look like a simpleton. Yes — yes, of course! That was the way! It was so simple. It solved all his problems.

He gazed about triumphantly. Strips of canvas dangled; the wardrobe doors were closed and still. Those things he’d conquered. Now he must plan his final victory. How lucky he was to be alone, without distractions! It allowed him to think everything through clearly.