The Face That Must Die (24 page)

Cathy hurried to the Aigburth Road takeaway, whose menu covered the wall with over six hundred dishes. On Lark Lane, light caught brass in an antique shop, like a glimpse of a sunset. Her wrapped plastic tray warmed her frosty hands. She’d walk in Sefton Park. Its nearness was one thing she still liked about the flat.

She walked, crunching water chestnuts. Her breath steamed and vanished. Fog diluted the edge of the park, where trees were grey silhouettes. People drifted vaguely in the distance, like smoke. When they reached the fog they dissolved.

At last she found a waste-bin, and deposited her tray and wooden fork. The litter was furry with frost. “Tumsey! Tumsey!” a woman was shouting. When Cathy realised she was calling her dog, that made her giggle more.

She walked by the lake, skimming pebbles over the ice. Frozen ripples wrinkled the surface like frowns. Ducks quacked, a muted creaking, among bushes. Trees shone pale against the darkly luminous sky, as though the landscape were printed in negative

By the bandstand, which was no whiter than the rest of the park, she left the path and walked beneath the trees. The ground squeaked underfoot. She gazed at the intricate tapestry of grass and fallen leaves. Every outline was vivid with frost; every blade of grass, however small, was separately visible. The dusting of frost on the dozens of colours only emphasised them. How could anyone need to take LSD?

She stepped over whitened antlers of branches. Frost drifted like stray snowflakes from the trees and touched her face. Birds the colours of the leaves hopped, searching. They glanced at her, but didn’t fly.

She headed for the avenue which led to the obelisk. That was the way to Lodge Lane, the 27 bus, Anfield, the attractive terraced house. She didn’t fancy driving in this weather. She hurried beside an iced bowling-green. Above the cafe, flags proclaimed Walls Ice Cream.

As she emerged onto the avenue, beside an old metal lamp-post that bore a lantern, she saw a man trudging towards the obelisk, between the trees that paled as they grew distant. She’d race him; it would take her more quickly towards Anfield. She could easily overtake him, for he was limping.

All at once she was convinced that she recognised him.

How could she, when she hadn’t seen his face? Good Lord, the world was full of limping men. But there was something about the lopsided figure — If he were who she thought he was, he might help her to be less nervous in the flat. “Excuse me,” she called loudly without thinking.

His head turned swiftly as a startled animal’s. Then he was limping away, more rapidly. Seen together, his gait and his speed looked grotesque. They made her think of a fleeing injured beast. Was he too frantic to care about appearances?

She’d glimpsed his face. Why was he fleeing? Was he on a job, and anxious not to be questioned? Or had he mistaken her for someone else, in the fog?

She ought to let him go. After all, Fanny wasn’t supposed to have told anyone about him. He looked rather pathetic, a parody of a detective, limping quickly into the murk with his right hand buried in his pocket. Hadn’t Fanny said that the limp was false?

She must have been wrong. There was no reason why detectives couldn’t limp. Abruptly Cathy began to run. She would never forgive herself if she didn’t at least ask about the man who’d persecuted Mr Craig. He needn’t answer if he didn’t want to. She set herself to catch him before he reached Aigburth Drive, a deserted blur that looked more like a drift of smoke than a road. Why, there was a good reason for this detective to limp: it would help her catch him.

* * *

Chapter XXIII

On Sunday the children were intolerable. Horridge felt as though he were locked in a zoo. Did the neighbours let them out of their cages in shifts, to make sure there wouldn’t be a moment’s silence? Cries and squeals surrounded him until long after dark. Clearly their parents weren’t anxious to suffer them. A football pounded the wall of the flats, oppressive as a pulse, dismaying in its unpredictability. Just let them break his window — He thought of the razor in his coat pocket. He must control himself.

On Monday he was ready for the park. Besides, he oughtn’t to depart from his routine; someone might notice. Just behave normally. He strolled to the bus stop. Fog lay in the concrete valleys, as though ghosts of rivers had returned.

The bus nosed forward, illuminating swirls of watery milk. Massive faceless tower blocks floated by. A few trees grew solid and glistening, then melted again.

The fog drew back from Melwood Drive. The bus quickened down the avenue between the trees. He felt released. A woman sat behind him, singing that she was glad she was Bugs Bunny.

Could he hold on to his freedom? During the night he’d dreamed of Wales. Slate had gleamed silver, expanses of grass had flowed softly; the sky and everything beneath it had shone. Surely that must be where he was meant to go.

Sunlight spilled into the bus, which had climbed the hill out of West Derby, above the fog. Next week’s disability benefit would give him the fare to Wales and pounds left over. That would see him through until he found a job. You didn’t need brains or qualifications to work on a farm. There must be jobs available: people liked to huddle together in cities — or believed they did, because they’d been told so. There must be jobs that didn’t involve climbing or too much walking.

He strolled towards Aigburth Drive. Fog lurked in side streets; distant trees were an abstract grey mass. At the roundabout he glanced towards the house. Its horseshoe of a drive lay beside the unkempt grass. The luck of that horseshoe must have been waiting for him; it hadn’t helped Craig or the painter, both of whom had let it become overgrown.

He couldn’t resist a peek at the house. He had conquered evil there. He made his way along the edge of the park. The grass of the path was pale and glistening, a slug’s track.

He held onto a tree, and peered around the trunk. Nothing moved except the silent sluggish lapping of fog. The cracked wet bark made him think of a reptile’s cold hide. He stared harder at the windows, cursing the stealthy veil of fog that made his eyes feel blurred. His fingers gripped cracks in the bark until moisture oozed beneath his nails.

Recoiling, he limped away. His skin stirred uneasily. Nothing had been wrong except the fog and his imagination. He’d stared too long, that was all. There had been no large head in the depths of Craig’s flat, no glistening eyes: just a reflected cloud. There had been no shadow of a seated woman on the painter’s curtain.

Suppose they’d rigged up a dummy in there, to scare him? They might have found her and be keeping quiet about it: they were sly enough. Should he flee to Wales at once?

He mustn’t allow them to confuse him. He flapped his hands at his breath, whose constant drifts interfered with his vision. None of them could know she wasn’t on holiday. There could have been no shadow in her flat, for there had been no light within. Had there? When he glanced back, the house was a featureless block of smoke.

His mind wasn’t befogged. He knew what he had and hadn’t seen. He trudged towards the pool opposite the bandstand. On the avenue, trees were blackened by moisture. Huge cracked boils gleamed on trunks.

The pool was thinly frozen, robbing him of the reflections. On the ice below the bandstand lay a whitish blur. Perhaps that was its reflection — he thought he made out the columns that supported the roof — but it looked more like a great pale spider, trapped in the ice or dormant there.

That was enough. Nobody could say that he hadn’t come to the park. His raincoat wasn’t equal to this weather; he was shivering. He didn’t feel like taking refuge in the library. The girl who’d seemed to know too much might be there.

He crossed the small bridge. A crippled branch reached for him over the railing. He wouldn’t have to ignore that for much longer; he might never come here again. He resisted an urge to snap the branch. He wasn’t a vandal. Besides, he noticed as he limped along the avenue, someone was approaching the bowling-green, and would have seen him. He hurried past, anxious to reach the point at which the end of the avenue would clarify.

“
Excuse me,” a voice said.

He was turning before he could check himself. Where had he heard that voice before? His gasp sucked fog into his throat. Fog tried to persuade him that his eyes were lying — but they were all he could trust. Behind him was the girl who had done her best to hinder his search for Craig.

Was it fog or sweat that clung to him? It felt thick as mud. This was no coincidence, her finding him. Perhaps she was helping the police, to avenge her precious Craig.

Let her catch him. Let her dare. He felt less courageous than his words; he fled, trying to outdistance the violent crawling of his skin. Had the fog rusted his joints? His bad leg felt like a broken puppet’s. Each limping step dragged at him like a dentist’s hook, and maddened him.

Behind him was silence. She was trying to make him turn again, was she? He wasn’t Dick Whittington, he wasn’t a child to be lulled by nursery rhymes. Or was she creeping on the grass, sly as a homosexual? Just let her come near enough — His nails picked the blade ajar.

He heard her running. For a moment he felt as though his entire skin had burst with fear. Then, as the fog revealed Aigburth Drive, he bared his teeth and the blade. She must be a dupe of the police; certainly she was a fool. Didn’t she realise that when they reached the road, nobody would see what happened to her?

The obelisk would block her view of him, and give him the advantage of surprise. He hoped she wouldn’t take as long as Craig, but so long as he made sure that she couldn’t cry out, it wouldn’t matter. He remembered how to do that. He ran towards the obelisk, to give himself time to prepare.

As he reached the obelisk, she slipped on the frosty path.

Her flesh slapped the ground loudly. He hoped she’d injured the breasts she flaunted — that she’d burst them. He turned swiftly. She was yards away. Could he reach her before she recovered, and finish her? Fog thickened on the road, offering him its aid.

She still couldn’t know where he lived; otherwise the police would have visited him. He must cling to that advantage. He ran across the roundabout, clutching his bad knee with his razor hand to drive himself onwards. In his pocket the razor leapt like a trapped bird.

The clank of his heels counted his steps towards Lodge Lane. His limp translated them into dull agony. At Sefton Park Road, cars waited for the smoking traffic lights to change. Fog that stank of petrol helped conceal him; the snarling of engines covered the sound of his limp.

He ran past the lights at the far end. They were mounting their scale to green, to release traffic at him. There was a bus at the stop — a refuge. Ice tried to slip the road from beneath him; cars roared a warning and surged forward. He dodged in front of the bus, daring it to run him down.

Several people were still to board. He edged among them. Only when he’d climbed on board at last and had found a seat did he begin to relax. He had to sit at the back, facing away from the journey. At least he’d be able to see if he was being followed.

The bus juddered away. Discoloured figures trudged beside blurred shops. Yellowed headlights probed towards the bus. A van was following. No, that wasn’t her face peering through a windscreen the colour of ice. His mind refused to unclench; it squeezed his thoughts into a small hard impregnable mass, that felt as though it might explode and sear his head with pain.

Opposite him, someone lit a cigarette. That wasn’t allowed downstairs. He mustn’t complain, mustn’t be conspicuous. The man grinned at his frown; smoke oozed from his face, a defiant mask of black mud pockmarked by rain. Horridge’s hand clenched on his pocket. No, no! Seedy shops drifted by, an empty schoolyard, a tower block whose lit windows looked half-melted. Why, he’d almost passed his stop! They wouldn’t confuse him so easily. He grabbed the metal pole and swung himself into the aisle.

The girl was sitting between him and the exit doors.

Even if the black cap pulled low on her head hadn’t been enough, her profile was turned to him. Was she making sure that she saw him, or trying to dismay him with the sight of her? Either way, the shock paralysed him.

His hand clung to the pole, dangling him. The bus lurched, jerking him like a drunken puppet. BUS STOPPING, a lighted plaque announced. Would she try and prevent him from reaching the doors? Would she set the mob of passengers on him?

The bus halted, throwing him forward. The doors squeaked open. Let her try to stop him, by God. His hand plunged into his pocket. He’d do for a few of them, and she would be first. The edge of the blade bit into his nail.

Nobody hindered him. As he stepped down he glanced at her. Did she look hastily away? She was so intent on the window and its spectacle of fog that she must be pretending. What was she up to now?

The bus moved off, carrying her face among its framed display. He saw her glance at him before her gaze flinched aside. He waited beneath the dripping inverted L of the bus shelter, in case she stopped the bus and dodged back. The lights and the noise withdrew into the fog, which dulled and engulfed them like sleep.

He waited for the Cantril Farm bus. Buses lumbered towards him, unveiling their lit faces. None was any use to him. The fog seemed to congeal his time. Had he been waiting minutes or hours? When at last his bus arrived he tried to clear the window, to watch for pursuit; but fog or dirt was glued to the glass. As the bus drew away, another took its place.