Ramsey Campbell - The Face That Must Die

He stared until the man moved away. The torch-beam wavered on mud spiky with grass; it grew vague, and vanished. No, Horridge didn’t want their pamphlets drawing attention to him – not while he had to decide what to do about Craig.

He locked himself into his flat. He knew of the movement which printed the notices. He might have joined that movement, if he had believed in belonging to groups – although he didn’t care for the way they marched through areas where immigrants lived, to insult them: that was behaving like militant students. Militant! That meant to be like a soldier, but soldiers were on the side of law and order – not at all like students. Still, you couldn’t blame the movement for marching: they wouldn’t need to if people stayed in their own countries and behaved themselves instead of indulging in filthy practices in public lavatories.

There wouldn’t have been a Hitler if there had been fewer Jews in Germany. The movement ought to get itself into the government, as he had.

He lay in bed, imagining the man with his light and his notices groping through the concrete maze. What could he hope to achieve by such furtiveness? Yet Horridge felt a little guilty. At least the man was trying to do something positive.

When he woke, Horridge knew what he ought to do.

As he washed, he stared at himself in the mirror. He simply didn’t look capable of carrying out such a plan. Sometimes when he looked in the mirror, he felt as though he couldn’t recognise himself. Except for his slightly protruding ears, he would pass himself by unrecognised in a crowd. He flapped deodorant away from his face, afraid of inhaling the chemical.

He must buy milk. The bottle in the bucket of cold water beneath the sink was empty. He walked towards the shops near the bus terminus. Everywhere were fences, head-height, ankle-height, as though nobody knew how to behave unless they were made to. Maybe the fences had been put up for vandals to scribble on with paint; the world was mad enough. Amid one tangle of graffiti he read KILLER.

Like his flat, the shopping street was L-shaped. Hardly a path in Cantril Farm ran visibly straight for more than a few yards; the walks sank into concrete valleys, or plunged straight through the hearts of tenements. The whole place reminded him of the mazes with which scientists tormented rats.

Above the shops three tiers of flats were stacked, a layer cake of concrete. Over the heavy metal mesh that protected the windows of the Trustee Savings Bank, iron bars were set – not so trusting, he thought wryly. A child was parked in the doorway of a betting shop, beside a sign LEADERS IN LEISURE. Puddles gathered litter in depressions in the concrete walk.

The walk was loud with shoppers. Let them babble if it did them any good. They’d rather chatter like monkeys than do anything constructive. But could he do more?

Yes, by God. He wouldn’t be dragged down by Cantril Farm. He’d proved that he could act so long as he didn’t hesitate. He felt dwindled by the tenements, but that wouldn’t sap him.

Dull music trickled through the supermarket. Let it mumble – it wouldn’t lull him. He bought a tin of corned beef to replace the one he’d used up for his Christmas dinner. You couldn’t trust many foods now, not with all this experimenting with chemicals, all these amino acids he’d heard they put in foods. God only knew what foreign foods contained.

He hurried towards his flat. KILLER. There it was again, in a different place. No doubt they thought it clever to write such things. Television had a lot to answer for. But at the same time the word seemed addressed to him, urging him to act.

He drowned the bottle of milk in the bucket, and went out. For once he didn’t fear losing his way; most of the walks led eventually to bus stops. Cantril Farm was constructed to herd people in the directions the planners wanted them to follow.

He waited opposite a post-box inscribed savagely as a totem pole. Above the tower blocks, the sky was featureless as whitewash. Nearby was a phone box – but he mustn’t use one so close to home; they might trace him. Craig and the police didn’t yet know where he lived; otherwise, why had they done nothing since trying to scare him outside Craig’s house?

The bus was stuffed with a Saturday crowd. Among shopping bags on their parents’ laps, children struggled like reluctant purchases. He had to stand; he refused to go upstairs into the stale smoke. Whenever the bus turned a corner, it threw his weight on his bad leg. Whenever the bus lurched, the low ceiling thumped his skull.

Please let the bus move faster, before he lost his nerve. But the driver was herding on more passengers, shouting “Move further down the bus.” The advancing crowd forced Horridge back. He had to sway when they did; he felt suffocated by bodies and the wails of children. Let the bus dawdle as long as it liked. By God, they wouldn’t weaken him.

The bus turned out of Lime Street and rushed down the curve to the shoppers’ stop. Those who had been seated joined the crowd in the aisle, hindering him. He was the tail end of the shuffling queue – just one of the crowd.

No, he was not, by God. He pushed his way out of the throng, ignoring the mutters of a knot of gossips. Beyond the boxed-in walkways that lowered over Williamson Square, two telephone boxes guarded each other’s backs. In the square, people bought fruit from a barrow, set balloons adrift to draw attention to the plight of someone or other, sang folk songs beside a hat scattered with coins. He headed for the unoccupied box.

But a woman was bearing down on it, driving a poodle before her like a tartan shopping basket. He mustn’t be made to wait, to falter! He ran lopsidedly, and grabbed the door. He met her glare, though his heart laboured irregularly, until she stalked off in search of another phone.

Suppose there were no directory? Mightn’t that mean that his purpose was mistaken? But the directory was on its shelf. He flicked the pages. No, their fluttering couldn’t infect him. Craig. Craig, R. There were several – but only one at the address in Aigburth Drive.

He drew himself up straight, and dialled. Police cameras were posted all over the city centre, spying. They had no reason to watch him, they wouldn’t even notice him among the crowds. They certainly wouldn’t be able to see what he was dialling. Could their vision be so sharp? He wished people wouldn’t keep passing so near him.

As soon as he’d finished dialling, Craig’s phone rang. Then – far too quickly, as if to take him off guard – the pay tone began.

Instinct convulsed his hand, which thrust in the coin. The shrill chattering was interrupted momentarily, then went on. Perhaps he’d been too hasty, and had wasted the coin. The tone stopped; the earpiece filled with silence. Was anyone there? Was somebody listening to him, stealthy as a hunter?

In a moment he heard the breathing. It was slow and heavy, but he knew it was only pretending to doze: no trapped beast could be more alert. Deep in it was a faint asthmatic wheeze. It seemed too wary to speak. Only after what felt like minutes, during which the breathing pressed close to Horridge’s ear, did the voice say “Yes?”

When speaking to the policemen, it had been deeper. Horridge bit his lip gleefully: Craig must be growing nervous. He oughtn’t to speak. Craig knew that somebody was listening to him; silence would be more disturbing.

He was rationalising his hesitation. He had found he couldn’t speak; disgust had gagged him. Craig’s breathing must have pressed as close to the young men as he had – Horridge stared out of the box, at people feeding pigeons from the benches in the square, at a little girl chasing an apple that had rolled from the barrow. He was desperate for reassurance.