Stephen (ed.) - The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 18

When it was dark, he buried the slice of tissue in the waste ground behind the flats.

As the decade approached its end, the directionless lifestyle that Maddox and Linzi had drifted into seemed to become more expensive. The bills turned red. Maddox started working regular shifts on the subs’ desk at the Independent . He hated it but it paid well. Linzi applied for a full-time job at a ladies’ salon in Finsbury Park. They took a day trip to Brighton. They went to an art show in the Unitarian Church where Maddox bought Linzi a small watercolour and she picked out a booklet of poems by the artist’s husband as a return gift. They had lunch in a vegetarian café. Maddox talked about the frustrations of cutting reviews to fit and coming up with snappy headlines, when what he’d rather be doing was writing the copy himself. Linzi had no complaints about the salon. “Gerry – he’s the boss – he’s a really lovely guy,” she said. “Nicest boss I’ve ever had.”

They spent the afternoon in the pubs and secondhand bookshops of the North Laines. Maddox found a Ramsey Campbell anthology, an M. John Harrison collection and The New Murderers” Who’s Who . On the train waiting to leave Brighton station to return to London, with the sun throwing long dark shapes across the platforms, Linzi read to Maddox from the pamphlet of verse.

“ ‘This is all I ever wanted/to meet you in the fast decaying shadows/on the outskirts of this or any city/alone and in exile.’ ”

As the train rattled through Sussex, Maddox pored over the photographs in his true-crime book.

“Look,” he said, pointing to a caption: “Brighton Trunk Crime No.2: The trunk’s contents.”

“Very romantic,” Linzi said as she turned to the window, but Maddox couldn’t look away from the crumpled stockings on the legs of the victim, Violette Kaye. Her broken neck. The pinched scowl on her decomposed face. To Maddox the picture was as beautiful as it was terrible.

Over the next few days, Maddox read up on the Brighton Trunk Murders of 1934. He discovered that Tony Mancini, who had confessed to putting Violette Kay’s body in the trunk but claimed she had died accidentally (only to retract that claim and accept responsibility for her murder more than forty years later), had lodged at 52 Kemp Street. He rooted around for the poetry pamphlet Linzi had bought him. He found it under a pile of magazines. The poet’s name was Michael Kemp. He wanted to share his discovery of this coincidence with Linzi when she arrived at his flat with scissors and hairdressing cape.

“Why not save a bit of money?” she said, moving the chair from Maddox’s desk into the middle of the room. As she worked on his hair, she talked about Gerry from the salon. “He’s so funny,” she said. “The customers love him. He certainly keeps me and the other girls entertained.”

“Male hairdressers in women’s salons are all puffs, surely?”

Linzi stopped cutting and looked at him.

“So?” she said. “So what if they are? And anyway, Gerry’s not gay. No way.”

“Really? How can you be so sure?”

“A girl knows. Okay?”

“Have you fucked him then or what?”

She took a step back. “What’s the matter with you?”

“How else would you know? Gerry seems to be all you can talk about.”

“Fuck you.”

Maddox shot to his feet, tearing off the cape.

“You know what,” he said, seizing the scissors, “I’ll cut my own fucking hair and do a better job of it. At least I won’t have to listen to you going on about Gerry .”

He started to hack at his own hair, grabbing handfuls and cutting away. Linzi recoiled in horror, unable to look away, as if she were watching a road accident.

“Maybe I should tell you about all the women at the Independent ?” he suggested. “Sheila Johnston, Sabine Durrant, Christine Healey . . . I don’t know where to start.”

It wasn’t until he jabbed the scissors threateningly in her direction that she snatched up her bag and ran out.

The next day he sent flowers. He didn’t call, didn’t push it. Just flowers and a note: “Sorry.”

Then he called. Told her he didn’t know what had come over him. It wouldn’t happen again. He knew he’d be lucky if she forgave him, but he hoped he’d be lucky. He hadn’t felt like this about anyone before and he didn’t want to lose her. The irony was, he told her, he’d been thinking his flat was getting a bit small and maybe they should look for a place together. He’d understand if she wanted to kick it into touch, but hoped she’d give him another chance.

She said to give her some time.

He shaved his head.

He drove down to Finsbury Park and watched from across the street as she worked on clients. Bobbing left and right. Holding their hair in her hands. Eye contact in the mirror. Gerry fussing around, sharing a joke, trailing an arm. As she’d implied, though, he was distributing his attentions equally among Linzi and the two other girls.

Mornings and evenings, he kept a watch on her flat in Finchley. She left and returned on her own. He chose a route between his flat and hers that took in Cranley Gardens in Muswell Hill. He parked outside No.23 and watched the darkened windows of the top flat. He wondered if any of the neighbours had been Nilsen’s contemporaries. If this man passing by now with a tartan shopping trolley had ever nodded good morning to the mass murderer. If that woman leaving her house across the street had ever smiled at him. Maddox got out of the car and touched the low wall outside the property with the tips of his fingers.

Linzi agreed to meet up. Maddox suggested the Wisteria Tea Rooms. It was almost like starting over. Cautious steps. Shy smiles. His hair had grown back.

“What got into you?”

“I don’t know. I thought we’d agreed to draw a line under it.”

“Yes, you’re right.”

At the next table a woman was feeding a baby.

“Do you ever think about having children?” Linzi asked, out of the blue.

“A boy,” Maddox said straightaway. “I’d call him Jack.”

Maddox didn’t mention Gerry. He took on extra shifts. Slowly, they built up trust again. One day, driving back to his place after dropping Linzi off at hers, he saw that a board had gone up outside 23 Cranley Gardens. For sale. He rang the agents. Yes, it was the top flat, second floor. It was on at £64,950, but when Maddox dropped by to pick up a copy of the details (DELIGHTFUL TOP FLOOR ONE BEDROOM CONVERSION FLAT), they’d reduced it to £59,950. He made an appointment, told Linzi he’d arranged a surprise. Picked her up early, drove to Cranley Gardens. He’d never brought her this way. She didn’t know whose flat it had been.

A young lad met them outside. Loosely knotted tie, shiny shoes. Bright, eager.

Linzi turned to Maddox. “Are you thinking of moving?”

“It’s bigger and it’s cheap.”

Linzi smiled stiffly. They followed the agent up the stairs. He unlocked the interior door and launched into his routine. Maddox nodded without listening as his eyes greedily took everything in, trying to make sense of the flat, to match what he saw to the published photographs. It didn’t fit.

“The bathroom’s gone,” he said, interrupting the agent.

“There’s a shower room,” the boy said. “And a washbasin across the hall. An unusual arrangement.”

Nilsen had dissected two bodies in the bathroom.

“This is a lovely room,” the agent said, moving to the front of the flat.

Maddox entered the room at the back and checked the view from the window.

“At least this is unchanged,” he said to Linzi, who had appeared alongside.

“What do you mean?”

He looked at her and realised what he’d said.