Ramsey Campbell - The Face That Must Die

The smells of the van grew stronger, more sickening. The metallic clamour tormented her nerves. Was any of those sounds the click of the blade? Her patch of light seemed hindered by the night, and hardly moving.

The sky glowed ahead. It couldn’t be dawn yet, though she felt she’d been driving for ever. Whatever the glow was, it couldn’t help her. If only she had grabbed the policeman!

The glow hovered over Corwen. She drove across a bridge. Beneath it, unseen, the River Dee rushed darkly. Slate houses surrounded her with the colour of fog. Inns passed, striped like zebras. A clock showed that it was nearly midnight. The long street was deserted. If just one person appeared – What? What could she do?

“ My father brought me here once, in a proper van.” The man’s conversational tone was more than grotesque; it was frightening, for he sounded sure of himself, of his plan. “You thought I’d forget the way, did you? Oh no. My mind isn’t so easily snapped.”

The van echoed beneath a railway bridge. The long street led her through a market square. From the street, alleys of slate houses climbed a looming mountain. It was a small unspoilt town – the kind of place she would have liked to visit with Peter. At the back of her mind was a notion, heavy and immovable as a rock, that she would never see this place again.

She was still praying for someone to appear when Corwen and its light retreated and faded. The night led her into itself. Mouths of side roads glimmered briefly; beyond them all was darkness. She was hardly aware now of driving.

“ Oh no,” the man was muttering. “You all think you’re so clever. You didn’t think I had this place to come to, did you? You aren’t so infallible as you’d like to think.”

Something was wrong. He sounded nervous and threatening. Wind tugged at the van, almost snatching the wheel from her slippery hands. Abruptly he demanded “Where do you think you’re going?”

Panic rose in her throat, harsh and thick. He had lost his way in the dark. She swallowed, choking. At last she managed to calm her voice enough to say “Where you want to go.”

“ Oh, this is where I want to go, is it?” Sibilants hissed viciously.

“ Don’t try that on with me, you bitch. Just don’t try.”

The van edged forward; she seemed hardly in control of her limbs. Her voice shook. “Well, you tell me where you want to go.”

“ Don’t try that, either. You won’t confuse me, don’t bother trying. Shall I make him scream? Will that help your driving?”

The van advanced, inexorable as her nightmare. What could she say that he wouldn’t distort, that wouldn’t madden him further? All at once he shouted “Stop here.”

He was going to finish them. The night was on his side; there was nothing but dark for miles. “Stop here,” he snarled again before, dully, she could do so.

The headlights made a milestone blaze. She felt him leaning forward. The razor was approaching. Sickened, she lowered her head to hide her throat beneath her chin. But he was staring beyond her. “There it is,” he said.

He was gloating again. What hallucination was he seeing, out there in the dark? “You thought you’d pass it when I wasn’t looking,” he muttered. “Very clever of you. But you didn’t succeed, did you? Left past the milestone. That’s where we’re going.”

At last she had to move the van. Reluctance weighted her limbs. If he had mistaken the landmark, what would he do then? If not, they were approaching the end of the journey. What had he in store?

To the left of the milestone was a road of sorts. It wound uphill. The van lurched and swayed, almost beyond her control. Where was the razor? She fought the wheel as the van plunged splashing into a flooded dip.

The road writhed unpredictably. Her surroundings were included in her nightmare now, a maze of stone and blinding darkness. Infrequent slate walls blazed spikily. Trees glinted with raindrops, as though the branches were crowded with watching birds. For a moment she saw their bodies, black and still.

She felt as though she were struggling with fever. She was suffocated by the churning of the van, its monotonous frustrated roaring, the vindictive antics of the road, the stench of petrol, the ominous silence behind her. How long was it before a grey shape loomed ahead – a slate box, a building, a cottage? “Here we are,” the man said.

Exhausted and almost resigned, her shoulders began to slump. Could this really be the destination he’d taken so much trouble to reach? Was he unable to see that the windows were empty, the door askew? Shadows peered out at the van. The cottage could not have seen a light at night for years.

She heard his indrawn breath. Oh God, he’d seen! Would he turn on her now, or force her to drive until the petrol gave out? But he sounded as though he’d had a sudden inspiration. “Just keep going until you’re told otherwise.”

The van ground uphill. The road climbed tortuously. The wheels slipped on fragments of slate, screaming. Objects plodded out of the night – a dead tree split down its middle; a small cairn, half collapsed. Now there was a notice-board, lying on its face beside the track. What did it say? Her light had scarcely touched it when he said “That’s right. Stop here. We’re going to stretch our legs.”

She tried to grasp her frantic thoughts. Once they were out of the van, could she knock him down and drive away with Peter? His limp would help her outrun him – but she must be able to make a quick getaway. “Shall I turn the van?” she said, praying that it didn’t sound like a plea.

“ Oh yes, you do that.” He sounded indifferent or secretly amused.

She had turned it only halfway – it was facing across the track, illuminating a waste of surfaces of slate – when he said “All right, stop now. Leave the key in the lock or whatever you call it. Now get out.”

She would be leaving Peter alone in the van with him. The jagged slate was harsh underfoot. The headlamps spotlighted the bare grey stage. She stood gripping the door, unable to move away. “Go on, Catherine Angela Gardner,” the man said.

How could he know her name? His voice sounded like the sentence of a judge in a nightmare. The blade stirred restlessly. Bewildered, unable to hold onto her thoughts, she backed away slowly.

“ Keep going. Get away from the van. Right away. Now stay, you bitch.”

She could see nothing within the van. The headlamps blazed at her; above them the windscreen was opaque as thick ice. The silence isolated sounds of muted scuffling. Please let him decide that he wouldn’t drag Peter, please let him come out alone. She would win somehow. Every loose chunk of rock was a potential ally.

When he emerged at last, Peter was with him. They staggered out like a seaside postcard’s parody of drunkenness. The lump on Peter’s forehead was larger, and shone purple. The line of dried blood still marked his face, like ink from an untidy child’s pen. He looked drowsy, hardly aware of his situation, perhaps concussed – and absolutely helpless. A yearning to protect him, a refusal to believe that he was going to die, seized her. She felt nauseous and dizzy.

The man propped him against the radiator grille, where he slumped a little. “Go on,” the man said to Cathy. “Walk until you’re told to stop.”

Desperation or her distance from him gave her the courage to say “No, I won’t. I’m not leaving him with you.”

“ Oh yes you are.” The razor flicked up. “Or I’ll take his face off.”

His threats were growing wilder. Mightn’t they be mere words? But the blade flashed; blood started from beside Peter’s eye. She felt like screaming or sobbing, or both: anything to express her powerlessness. Her feet did that for her as she trudged stumbling backwards, away from the light.