Ramsey Campbell - The Face That Must Die

His footsteps clumped upstairs. “You can see we’re right, can’t you,” his mother told Cathy. Not that Cathy disagreed – but if she had, they would have blamed her for his obstinacy. She was beginning to glimpse their view of her.

His mother took framed photographs from the sideboard, where they interrupted ranks of plates. “That’s Peter when he was little.” Cathy hadn’t seen these before; his mother must have a large stock, so as to be able to change the display. She was treating Cathy as she might have treated any visitor – in order to avoid hearing her thoughts about the argument?

Peter’s childish face beamed smugly out of its frame. Did his parents cling to this image of him so as not to see what he’d become? Perhaps they still saw this image in him – perhaps they ignored the rest of him, as they’d ignored his living with Cathy before they were married. If they suspected anything about him, no doubt they blamed her for it.

Peter reappeared, and saw the photographs. “Oh Jesus, put that stuff away.”

Cathy tugged his beard playfully. “We’re just delving into your guilty past.” His mother frowned as though that were an insult.

“ Well, don’t,” he snapped, and turned to his father. “Anyway, what’s wrong with people taking drugs? Just because they aren’t legal yet – ”

“ Subject closed,” his father said: refusing to be distracted, or determined not to have an argument disturb his home? “I think we’ve made our feelings plain about your living there,” he said. “I hope you’ll take them to heart. In time you’ll see we’re right. I only hope it won’t be too late.”

Silence filled the room, oppressive as humidity. It made Cathy nervous, and she rose. “Where are you off?” said Peter’s mother.

She dawdled in the bathroom, surrounded by the scent of air freshener. A pink fluffy cover disguised the toilet as a large stumpy flower or a toy with a soft head. The room seemed almost intolerably polite.

She trudged downstairs, past miniatures like windows on a better world. Below her in the hall, something fell with a thud. Momentarily the stairs were steep and dizzying. Then she saw it was the newspaper, delivered at last. She hurried down and grabbed it; it might help break the awkward silence. “Here’s the paper,” she called.

At first she hardly dared read on. She hadn’t been able to read any of the reports of Mr Craig’s death. But if the headline meant what it seemed to mean – Her gaze snatched nervously at the words. By the time she reached the living-room she was smiling. “They’ve caught him,” she said.

All three stared silently. “The man who did the killings,” she stammered, excited. “The police have got him. They’re sure he’s the one.”

“ Well, fine. About time,” Peter said.

His parents were less easily convinced. They read the report together, frowning. Eventually his father looked up. “That does seem satisfactory, I’ll admit.” His relief prompted him to say “Shall we have a game of whist?”

Peter’s mother shook her head at her son; her forehead stayed pinched. “It still isn’t a nice area. I don’t like to think of you living there.”

“ We aren’t going to stay there forever. But Christ, nothing else is going to happen.” He grimaced at her, annoyed by her concern. “Nobody else is going to be killed.”

RAZOR KILLER CAUGHT

The man responsible for the slashing to death of three Liverpool men has been caught, police announced today.

They gave his name as Harold Nickelby (28) of Toxteth, Liverpool.

Confession

According to a police spokesman, Nickelby was seen by a young policeman loitering near a public lavatory known to be frequented by homosexuals.

When the policeman, who had noticed his resemblance to the identikit picture recently issued by police, asked Nickelby to accompany him, Nickelby is alleged to have said, “Don’t bother checking. I am the man you want.”

When cautioned, he is alleged to have said, “I’ll be glad when it’s over. I need to be put away.”

Preying

Nickelby is being held by police in connection with the killings of Tommy Hale on 16 November, Norman Roylance on 24 December, and Roy Craig on 9 January.

Nickelby, who is unemployed, is said by police to have a history of unprovoked violence.

According to the police spokesman, Nickelby said he was “glad to be stopped” because the killing of Craig had been “preying on his mind.” He is alleged to have said that he felt compelled to return several items to the house on Aigburth Drive where the murder was committed.

Horridge glared at the newspaper. Twilight was seeping into his flat, insidious as mist; his surroundings grew dim. They thought they could dim his mind so easily, did they? They must think he was mad, to be tricked so simply.

Making out that Craig’s death had been a copy had had no effect – so now they were trying this ruse on him. Had they arrested an innocent man as a scapegoat? They were capable of that, he knew only too well. But no, he was sure that Nickelby didn’t exist – you could tell the book from which they’d borrowed his name.

Their methods were so obvious. If they tried to catch criminals that way, God help the country. Most blatant of all was the purpose of their last line. They wanted to sneak into his mind the idea of returning to Aigburth Drive. Did they really think he’d go back so that they could catch him?

But he had to go back, to wipe away his fingerprints.

Suppose the painter had already shown the police? Like them, she’d tried to suggest he was a homosexual: might they be in league? But then the police would have arrested him by now. No doubt her daubing occupied her time. Besides, why should the police have let her into their secret? She must think Craig’s executioner had been arrested.

She had no cause to go to the police before she went away. But was she going away? Might the words on the card he’d glimpsed have meant that her friends were to visit her?

Babble, babble. He’d watch the house until he saw her leave. But the police might be watching for him. Babble, babble. They couldn’t watch all the time, if they were as undermanned and overworked as they liked people to believe. He’d spot them if they were about: he’d keep an eye open for suspicious characters.

Tomorrow. Wasn’t that when she was going? Surely that was right. His memory wasn’t trying to betray him. He struggled to project the image of the card in his mind. There it was, on the mantelpiece, in the rubbish dump of a flat. But he couldn’t read the end of the line. See you on, on See you on

Twilight brought the walls creeping towards him. They boxed in his mind. Abruptly he stood up, and went walking. The paths were hardly visible. Once he strayed onto a squelching verge. Low fences glimmered like decaying wood in a marsh; the tower blocks looked like tombs – few lights relieved their massiveness. See you on Jan See you on Jan

He wished he could flee to the country. Silhouettes with hollow footsteps tramped overhead on concrete walkways between buildings. Must he live the rest of his life in this prison camp? He thought he remembered where the cottage was, but he dreaded finding out who lived there now – if it hadn’t been pulled down. Besides, he’d once tried walking in the country after his fall. Within an hour he had been near to crying out with the pain in his leg.

Children ran home from school along the dim paths, careless of whom they knocked down. When he lurched aside from one gang they laughed at him as though he were the simpleton whom everyone had mocked when Horridge was a child. Horridge had never been sure that the creature was so simple; he’d known enough to play with himself. Could anyone have made such inhuman sounds in public unless he’d been pretending to be simple? If he had really been so stupid, then he should have been put out of his misery.