Ramsey Campbell - 1976 - The Doll Who Ate His Mother (33 page)

 
          
She
must go, or she’d be late for school. The faces peered out of the dimness; the
grains of the dimness swarmed. Flies buzzed in the hall, which sounded full of
them. Oh, all right. She would just see what the object was, quickly, without
digging it up. She began to scrape the earth away.

 
          
It
was a doll.
A woman.
Her face was large, the lips
full. The woman was gazing down at herself in appalled panic. Clare knew the
face, from the photographs at Mrs. Kelly’s. She hesitated; the face gazed down
in immobilized panic, trapped in the light; flies bumbled in the hall. Clare
scraped the earth from the rest of the doll.

 
          
The
woman was pregnant. Her belly swelled between her hands, which clawed at the
earth. That was all. There was nothing more to see, only a small patch of earth
stuck to the doll. But it was dragging Clare down to peer closer, to be
certain. It wasn’t a patch. The earth had collected in a hole in the belly of
the doll: a mouth.

 
          
Clare
stood up too quickly. The basement rocked unsteadily about her, orange. She
closed her eyes, waiting for the orange to drain. She was intensely aware of
the doll at her feet. For the first time she was convinced of the power of John
Strong. He must have been able to do everything he said he could. The pregnant
doll made her feel that his power was still here.

 
          
She
kept her eyes closed. She must be calm, mustn’t flee in panic; she might fall.
The orange faded. Pick up her torch, the spade; Chris’s purse was safe in her
pocket. But the sound of the flies distracted her. Her ears seemed full of it.

 
          
It
was nearer than the hall. It was at the top of the steps. It was coming down
into the basement, buzzing. It was coming toward her, covered with flies, to
take its revenge for what she’d done in the basement. Even when she’d swung the
torch beam toward the steps, it took her a long time to open her eyes.

 
          
“Oh,
Chris,” she said. “You fool.”

 
          
Oh,
poor Chris. She’d come to explain and apologize; that was a fine way to begin!
But her relief was so great that she couldn’t have contained her exclamation.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Chris,” she said, laughing, safe now. “Come and see what I’ve
found.”

 
          
He
didn’t move. He stood halfway down the steps. His hair hung lank beside his
cheeks; his spectacles glared with torchlight. He was wearing old clothes, for
the digging—the clothes she’d seen laid on the bed. Flies circled him. He held
out one arm before him, stiffly.

 
          
“Oh,
don’t play now, Chris. It’s nasty down here, don’t. I’ve got to go in a
minute,” she said.

 
          
He
was descending the steps, slowly, silently. He was pretending to be John Strong
or someone. Perhaps he actually wanted to scare her, for intruding into his
flat. His long pointed face was paler than she’d ever seen it, intent,
unmoving. “Chris,” she said sharply.

 
          
He
had reached the bottom step, still holding one arm stiffly toward her. It
looked paler than his face. “Don’t,” she said. She dropped the torch-beam
toward the stiff arm. He was holding it in both hands. It wasn’t his arm at
all.

 
          
It
was one of those things they sold in joke shops; it was rubber. He’d bought it
to make sure she was frightened. But she could see the flies. She could see the
clothes Chris was wearing, and at last she recognized them.

 
          
At
last she saw Rob, his raw shoulder pressed against the passenger door. She saw
Chris gazing in at him, at her, his orange face at the window. She saw him
running into the mirror, stooping to the explosion of blood on the gravel,
standing up triumphantly, hands full. The worst thing wasn’t what Chris had
done, but the sight of Chris. Chris.

 
          
He
left the steps and came toward her, throwing his burden carelessly toward the
hall. Now that the light had left his spectacles, she could see his eyes gazing
at her. They were as dead as a doll’s.

 
          
She
must get past him. But he was between her and the steps. She must defend
herself, with the spade. But she felt as if she and the spade were stuck in a
marsh. Why couldn’t she move? Why couldn’t she pull up the spade?

 
          
Because if she did she would fall.
Only the spade was
holding her up. She felt exactly as she had just before she’d fainted at the
hospital.

 
          
She
mustn’t. If she fainted she would be at his mercy. But the spade was slipping,
she was tottering sideways. She threw herself back and lunged for the far edge
of the pit. She could hear him behind her, approaching softly across the mud.
His sounds were softer, they were rushing away from her,
they
had rushed into the distance, leaving her with no support at all, poised on the
edge of darkness. She fell.

 
          
Chris
tossed his toy into a corner, where the flies followed it. He had finished
playing now. He moved toward Clare. The torchlight had left his face; the grey
light of the basement settled comfortably around him.

 
          
She
knew what he was going to do. She’d given up trying to talk him out of it,
trying to make him feel he knew her. She was just someone staring at him as his
grandmother had used to. Her mouth was opening, like his grandmother’s when she
had tried to scream. He’d stop that. There was the sharp edge of the spade.

 
          
But
she was turning. She had pushed the spade away. She twisted in the pit and
moved toward the far side, moving as though she couldn’t stop herself. He
watched as she fell across the side with a squelching thud. Light spilled from
the torch ahead of her, across the mud.

 
          
She
lay unmoving. As he gazed at her he felt his first emotion for a while. He was
going to enjoy himself. She had made it easier for him. He moved leisurely
toward her.

 
          
He
was nearly at the pit when his foot slipped. It slithered on a small round
object near the edge, like a stone. He was skidding toward the pit.

 
          
The
earth gaped at him, its lips crumbled, glistening. At the bottom he could see a
doll. It was a woman with a swollen belly. A mouth was emerging from the belly.
At once he knew it was him in his mother.

 
          
He
couldn’t keep his balance on the edge. He was falling toward the doll. He
managed to take most of the fall on his left foot, but his right came down on
the doll. Beneath his weight he felt the doll sink into the earth.

 
          
It
was taking him down with it. It was dragging him down into his dream, to lie
beneath the earth. He heard earth falling behind him, into the pit. Soon he
wouldn’t be able to see even the dimness, only the earth packed on his eyes.
His mouth and nose would be full of earth; his ears would be plugged with it.
In sudden panic he wrenched up his foot and stamped the doll into fragments.

 
          
He
stood in the pit. The earth had ceased falling. He stared at the grey fragments
around his feet. They had been him and his mother. He had been lying there in
the earth; he’d broken himself in pieces. He couldn’t understand what that
meant. He gazed down.

 
          
At
last the torchlight attracted his gaze. Clare lay near it. That confused him
more. What was he going to do about her? The others—her brother, Mrs. Pugh—had
been dead before he’d done anything. His grandmother had struggled to protect
herself; he’d enjoyed that. But Clare
lay
breathing,
yet still. It bewildered him.

 
          
He
would wait until she moved, so that he could stop her. He climbed out of the
pit and turned the torch to show her face in the mud, her breathing torso. Then
he stepped back to watch for movement.

 
          
He
was still watching when he heard someone creeping along the hall.

 
          
He
turned toward the steps. Sunlight from a window slit fell across his face. He
watched the grey rectangle of the hall. A figure appeared, peering down. The
figure came forward into the doorway, stood at the top of the steps, staring at
him. It was Alice, George Pugh’s wife.

 
          
The
sunlight clung to his face as she scrutinized him. She was trembling, trying to
conceal it. Let her come down if she wanted to. He had nothing against her.

 
          
At
last she came down the steps, as if there were nothing else she could do. Her
face was set hard; it looked in danger of breaking, releasing a flood of
emotion. She swatted flies viciously away as they rose toward her. She passed
him on the far side of the pit, gazing at him all the while, and went to Clare.

 
          
He
turned to watch. She was thrusting the torch at Clare’s face.
Breath
slabbered
in the mud at
Clare’s mouth. Alice was slapping her face as she lay in the mud. She stooped
further and tried to drag Clare to her feet. After an effort she let her fall
back and stood panting.

 
          
She’d
never do it. He could help. But as he went forward Alice brandished the torch
at him, battering his face with light. “Don’t you come near,” she said. She
crouched over the girl, like a cat protecting her kitten.

 
          
He
hadn’t done anything; he hadn’t touched Clare. He wasn’t going to hurt her now.
He’d show Alice. “I’ll help,” he said; his voice seemed distant. He stooped to
Clare, gazing up at Alice.

 
          
She
shone the torch into his face. All he could see was the glare, aching in his
eyes. At last he heard her say, “All right, you carry her.” She sounded weary,
helpless.

 
          
She
shone the light on him as he picked up Clare’s small body and carried her
easily toward the steps. The knife wound stung. As he passed the pit he kicked
earth down on the grey fragments. Near the pit, a small grey face smiled
upside-down at him from the mud.

 
          
Clare’s
head felt brimming with liquid, liquid that swayed. Leather burned on her back;
her shoulder rested against metal. She felt painted with heat. She only hoped
she wouldn’t be sick. She opened her eyes.

 
          
She
was sitting in Ringo, outside the house. She was in the front passenger seat.
Through the windscreen she saw Alice and Chris, standing on the pavement with
their backs to her. When she saw Chris she wound the windows closed more
tightly and locked the doors. Something touched her breast: the purse. Ripping
her pocket in her haste, she hurled the purse out onto the rubble and screwed
the window tight again. Then she sank back against the hot leather. She felt
faint. She just wanted to rest.

 
          
Alice
and Chris stood aimlessly. They glanced unseeing at the fall of the purse.
Alice’s bicycle leaned against the yard wall. Through the glass Clare heard
Alice chattering. “I rang Clare at school. I wanted to meet her, to tell her
something. I thought it might be best if she heard it from me. It doesn’t
matter now. They told me she was looking for you. I thought she’d probably come
here.” Clare could tell she was talking so as not to think.

 
          
Alice
fell silent. At last she said, “Chris, will you come with me?”

 
          
“Where?” he said dully.

 
          
“To the police station.”

 
          
In
a voice in which there was no life at all he said, “Yeah, all right.”

 
          
A
lorry left the corrugated tin wall, flashing sunlight. The sun hung near the
grey house. Alice stood irresolute, now that she had charge of Chris. There was
movement down
Mulgrave
Street, at Princes Avenue. A
tiny George had appeared there.

 
          
He
was hurrying toward the house. Edmund appeared behind him, small as a doll; he
looked as if he were trying to call George back, gesticulating. Clare watched
Edmund see Chris.