Ramsey Campbell - The Face That Must Die

There was another box beyond the dual carriageway. The roadway was lethal with cars, and railings barred pedestrians from crossing – unless you leapt over, of course, assuming you were lucky enough not to have an injured leg. A subway trained pedestrians from one pavement to the other. Too much regimentation for his liking: it reminded him of Cantril Farm. There would be a phone box in Lark Lane.

But now he had faltered, his purpose turned liquid within him. Though he struggled with the feeling, he was heartened not to see a phone box in Lark Lane immediately. No need to feel guilty – he could use the delay to prepare his words. Interruptions distracted him: a butcher’s cleaver chopped something brightly raw, a man trotting delicately ahead of Horridge with two tartaned poodles kept stopping to let his pets drip. All he could hold still in his mind was Roy Craig’s name.

It was too good for the creature. How could names be so unfair? Decent people were made to sound like buffoons – such as John Horridge. “Horridge the Porridge”, they’d used to chant at school, until he’d kicked and punched them: and then he was always blamed for fighting. “Horridge, you horror!” a teacher had roared, grabbing him by the collar, frowning at the smothered titters of the onlookers like a comedian pretending to be angry with his audience. For years Horridge had looked forward to leaving school. He’d expected life outside to be fairer.

Babble, babble. A glimpse hushed his memories: a side street, a tall red shape on the pavement, a cage with windows – a phone box. Apprehension plunged deep into his stomach. He advanced two lopsided steps, and saw that the box was occupied. He was reprieved. Angrily he forced himself to approach. He’d wait, and compose his speech while waiting. He was nearly at the box when a woman emerged from a car amid a fall of parcels and stood beside the box. She would have time for a good look at him. He retreated towards Aigburth Drive.

The road was empty of traffic. The tips of the bare trees swayed nervously; a few dogs played in the park. He was afraid to phone, was he? Scared to behave like a man? What was he, a lump of cringing slimy scum that slunk round corners and went limp whenever there was a problem to be faced? Wasn’t he a man?

Ahead of him on the deserted pavement a telephone box stood soldierly. It seemed to march towards him as he walked. There could be no excuses now, nothing to tempt him to falter, nothing to intervene between him and the box. If he passed it he was a coward, less than a woman. Only yards beyond it lurked the house that concealed Roy Craig. If he passed that house without having phoned he would be guilty too, soiled, an accomplice. He strode forward unevenly and dragged open the door of the box.

There was no directory on the shelf. He couldn’t use that as an excuse: he’d often heard the number on the radio, he had memorised it in case he ever needed it. Perhaps the phone wouldn’t work. Furious with himself, he groped for a coin and dialled.

The silence gave him time to feel how near Craig’s house was. It didn’t matter. Craig couldn’t spy on him: that window of the box was covered with a poster for domestic telephones, saying ISN’T IT WARMER AT HOME? The phone was ringing now: a pair of pulses, another. The sound was so close within his ear that it might have been his blood, throbbing unnaturally. If they didn’t answer after six rings -

He heard no click, but where the next pulse should have been, a girl’s voice said “Merseyside Police, can I help you?”

The pay tone cut her off, a rapid peeping like the cry of a frantic bird. He thrust at the coin, which refused to slip in. It was bent, or the coin-box was faulty! He struggled with it while the tone babbled urgently and sweat covered him like a shower of hot ash. All at once the coin broke through into the slot. A silence followed which he dared not disturb.

“ Merseyside Police, can I help you?”

She was still there. If he had lost her, he wouldn’t have been able to call again. But she had given him no time to think of what to say. Jesus Mary and Joseph, whom should he ask for? When he spoke, it was only to fight off the suffocating frustration. “I want to speak to someone about the murder of Roylance.”

He sounded absurd to himself: he might have been calling a shop to complain about damaged goods. But after a short pause she said “Just hold on, I’ll put you through to someone.”

Waiting, he started nervously. Had the receiver turned live and dangerous? Eventually he realised that the irregular thumping which shook the plastic in his hand was the jerking of a nerve in his palm. The plastic was slippery with sweat. What was taking them so long? Were they tracing his call?

If they didn’t answer by the time he’d counted ten, they’d had their chance. No, his mind couldn’t sneak that excuse past him. The phone sucked at his ear and kept touching his lips like a plastic kiss, whenever he forgot to hold it and other people’s germs away. Was somebody whispering amid the loud hiss? Were they sending a car to trap him?

It didn’t matter. He must see this through. He knew he was right. He must act like a man. Instantly he saw how he could make sure he wasn’t recognised. He shared a grin with himself in the disfigured mirror.

The man’s voice leapt out as if to scare him. “Yes, sir, can I help you?”

All these people pretending to be so helpful! This time they needed help from him. “You want to know who murdered Roylance,” Horridge said, making his voice as high and effeminate as he could.

“ Yes, sir. We have that under investigation.”

Horridge heard an almost imperceptible change in his tone. He was fooled, he thought Horridge was a pansy! “Well, I can tell you,” Horridge said.

“ Can I have your name and address, please?”

“ No, you most certainly can not.” He grinned back at himself between the tangled graffiti, delighted with his control of the situation. He was unaware now of his sweat, the stuffy box, the slippery burden in his hand.

“ Take this down,” he said, pulling out his birth certificate. “I won’t repeat it. I’m going to tell you the name of the killer.”

When he heard paper rusfling, he read out Craig’s name and address.

“ Have you got that?” he said tartly, and stood grinning at his grubby entangled reflection. What in heaven’s name was he waiting for – to be trapped by the police?

The phone was halfway to the receiver when the policeman’s voice arrested him. “May I ask where you got this information, sir?”

Horridge couldn’t resist fooling him once more. Effeminately wistful, he said “Roylance was my friend.”

Stuffing his birth certificate into his pocket, he elbowed his way out of the box. He felt inflated by laughter. He must suppress it, in case it drew attention to him. Next time he mustn’t hesitate so long, not when having acted felt like this. No longer was he conscious of his limp. He felt weightless with self-confidence.

He absorbed the view of the leafless trees against the pale bare sky. Nothing else had looked so clean to him since the quarry. Deliberately he walked towards Craig’s house. He had nothing to fear now. It was Craig’s turn to be afraid, just as his bound and helpless victims must have been. A breeze chilled Horridge’s grin.

The sight of the bench that faced away from the park halted him. Did he dare? But there was nothing to be dared – only to be enjoyed. Craig couldn’t touch him now. He crossed the road and sat on the bench. When the police arrived, he could pretend to be asleep. Eager as a child at his first pantomime, he waited for the show to begin.

He waited. The dark house squatted before him, sullen as a bully; it seemed to challenge him. He smiled tightly: he wasn’t to be tricked into anything rash, he had the upper hand now. Whenever he gazed at the house for a while, it appeared to stir nervously.