Ramsey Campbell - The Face That Must Die

“ Eighteen more months as a student, isn’t it? Will you be glad when it’s over?”

“ I don’t know. It isn’t a bad life.”

“ Living off us poor overtaxed workers, you mean?”

She smiled to show that was a joke, but his voice was low as a dog’s warning as he said “I thought all the workers were on the factory floor. That’s who I’d call workers.”

“ That doesn’t say much for your library work then, does it?”

“ Right.”

Angie frowned, then shrugged. “You’ll manage while he isn’t working, will you?”

“ I expect so. We’ve been all right so far. Touch wood,” Cathy added, touching Peter’s head.

He recoiled; his dislike shocked through her like electricity. She hadn’t meant anything. “Come and see what I’m making for supper,” Angie said.

In the kitchen she said “What’s wrong, Cathy?”

“ Oh, Angie, I want a house. I don’t like the flat any more.” She felt close to weeping. “I try to save for the deposit. But if we move to another flat I may not be able to save.”

“ Maybe you could look for just a small house. You’ve got to start somewhere. They might give you a mortgage even if Peter’s not working. They can’t all be male chauvinists.” She gazed at Cathy.

“ What’s really wrong?”

“ I wish I knew. Peter and I seem to be getting on each other’s nerves so much.”

“ You’re bound to be nervous after what happened, even now they’ve caught him.”

“ That’s what I try to tell myself. But it’s so horrible.” She was weeping. “I keep thinking of my parents. They got so they couldn’t bear to be in the same room together.”

Angie hugged her, trying to contain and calm her trembling. “These things happen. Listen, I’m going to tell you something. When we found we couldn’t have children we couldn’t stand each other for a while. Do you know what it was? We couldn’t bear secretly blaming each other. Eventually we had to talk it out, and that brought us closer than we were before. But believe me, Cathy, for a while we felt like separating.”

Perhaps she and Peter were just going through a phase. A child might mature Peter, make him aware of his responsibilities. Maybe she ought to find a small house and take him to see it. “Thanks, Angie,” she said and kissed her. “I needed cheering up.”

Down the hall the television announced the news. “He’d have the box on all night if I didn’t stop him,” Angie said.

“ I hope you switch off before the National Anthem. Otherwise you get bad luck.”

“ Watch it. You’ll end up as bad as Trotsky in there. Let’s go and interrupt them before there’s a war.”

They hurried in the pub mirror, ready for another drink. “ – in a police raid on a London house,” the announcer said.

“ Bastards,” Peter muttered.

Frank glanced quizzically at him. “I take it you aren’t fond of the police?”

“ What do you think? It shows up what you were saying, doesn’t it? You tell me what use it is to own property when the fuzz can break in.”

“ But they won’t, unless you break the law.”

Peter’s eyes grew thin. “You’re in favour of drug raids as well, are you?”

“ Will you get us another drink?” Angie said to separate them.

“ The law must be upheld. I’d rather have a visit from the police than have my house invaded by a mob of anarchists.”

Peter stared as though Frank were possessed. “You know what you are? You’re a fuckingfascist.” It sounded like a single word.

“ Well, if you feel that way – ”

“ Don’t worry.” Had he meant to achieve this from the start? “We’re going,” he said, rising quickly. “Or at least I am.”

Let him walk home: serve him right – but Cathy remembered what Angie had told her. Perhaps she and Peter could talk out all that was wrong. “I’m sorry,” she told Frank, who refused to look at anyone.

“ Maybe Angie will be able to explain. I’ll phone you,” she promised Angie.

Before she reached Penny Lane she had to halt the van; her hands were shaking. Slabs of light lay beneath shop windows. Empty shoes bunched in a window, like fruit. The deserted pavements looked bleak. Everyone was at home or out enjoying themselves.

“ If he didn’t want an argument why did he give me that shit? I bet he thought I’d have to be all middle-class and polite. No chance, brother.”

Once her hands were controllable she ground her heel into the accelerator and drove home. As she opened the porch door, a man with a lopsided face whom she had never seen before emerged. The house would be overrun with strangers now. Nothing could have changed its atmosphere more jarringly. Oh, when could they move? Peter strode into the hall without switching on the light. As though to escape the threatened discussion, he climbed into the resounding dark.

“ Here’s the man,” a woman said. “You’ve had it now.”

But Peter was only replacing a book on the shelves. He resented being made into an ogre. It was the woman’s job to control her child, not his.

He dawdled to the counter. His colleagues were serving a queue; the counter resembled a conveyor belt piled with books. The staff fished book cards from metal trays, hoping the correct reader’s ticket would be attached. “What is your name, please?”

“ Open your books while you’re waiting, please.”

“ And your name is?”

“ Your name? Your name?”

It was all a con. They made their job so important – perhaps they needed to convince themselves. Put people behind a counter or in a uniform and they’d enjoy their power. The more insignificant the job, the more rigidly they exerted their power. “Please don’t turn down the corners of pages. We haven’t much money to spend on books, you know.” The old lady trudged away, looking bewildered, humiliated, resentful.

The temptation of petty power affected Peter too. One reader always cleared his throat before his name: “Huh – Barnes.” It sounded hyphenated. “Pardon?” Peter would say, to make him omit the cough – but he never had. Nor could he meet your gaze while saying his name. Afterwards Peter had detested his own trivial sadism.

A massive woman with a face like a boxer’s advanced on him. “Can I have that book?” She jabbed a finger thick as his thumb at the trolley in the staff area.

“ We’ll be putting the books on the shelves in a minute.” His position behind the counter allowed him to fear nobody.

It was all false. The job let him play a role, avoid himself. Wasn’t that true of all jobs? The minute hand snipped away the time to five o’clock. Soon he would be free. Cathy had suggested he work in the libraries. The only good thing had been meeting Anne and Sue, and smoking with them in the staffroom.

An old lady struggled up to him, trying to manage a pile of books and a poodle like a woolly toy with eyes bright yet inexpressive as the stones in its collar. “Do you like my little doggie? You can stroke him. He won’t bite.”

God forbid. He grabbed the books as they spilled. Nurse Nightingale’s Last Doctor. Operation – In Search of Love. Two Against the world. “That’s a lovely book. I expect it wouldn’t be your style, though.”

Why did she bother saying so? Why must she be so oppressively nice ? “Thank you so much,” she said when at last he extracted her tickets. “Say goodbye to the nice man, Hercules,” she said, waving its paw. Peter felt as though he’d been forced to swallow a mixture of sugar, saccharin and molasses. He was full of loathing.

Jesus, where was five o’clock? The clock’s hands appeared to shift minutely, but perhaps that was an echo of his acid trips. A queue passed sluggishly along the counter; they were all coming in now that it was nearly closing time. “Open your books, please. One on top of the other.”