With that same odd snuffling sound he’d made the last time I was here, he turned away and took a rolled-up newspaper from one of the raincoat’s deep pockets. He threw it on the table, the draught it caused disturbing the newspaper clippings that remained on the surface from the other night, so that one or two fell lazily to the floor. He unfurled the journal, and laid it on the desk, then, looking again at the headline, he undid the buttons of the coat.
Moving to one side for a better view, I saw that the newspaper was the late edition Evening Standard and its headline screamed at me: “AXE KILLER’S 4th VICTIM NAMED”.
Without any doubt whatsoever, I knew the fourth victim referred to was me. In whatever dimension I now existed, some kind of psychic gift came with the territory, and that’s why I was drawn to this place. My murderer was being shown to me. And I had to wonder why? Was this punishment for past misdemeanours? Was this my own personal hell, my killer revealed with nothing I could do about it? My own torment of the gods? Whatever the reason, I wasn’t happy about it.
The man hadn’t yet shed the raincoat, although it was unbuttoned; he just stood hunched over the journal, knuckles pressed against the tabletop, his head hung low so that from behind he looked decapitated. He gazed at the headline before him. No, he was reading beyond the headline; he was reading the text. I drew closer to the desk, but well to the side of the bowed figure. I didn’t want to be that close to him. Hell, I didn’t want to be in the same room as him!
I saw the photograph of myself beneath the block type, a company shot, in fact, one showing me a few years younger.* It was weird reading of my own death and heartbreaking to see a smaller, inset picture of Andrea standing on our doorstep, distress evident in her drawn features; next to her, an arm thrown protectively around her shoulders, was Oliver. In the background, I could make out the figure of Primrose, shyly peeking around her mother’s hip. I could have cried for them all.
*When we’d started the agency, Oliver, Sydney and I had had to have the standard headshots both for the trade rag Campaign and for our own prospectus, so they were formal black-and-white portraits without an inch of personality uncovered. This was one from that bunch and the Evening Standard must have poached it from the magazine’s photo archives, or from our agency itself.
Without warning, the newspaper was picked up and hurled across the dingy room, its pages separating and falling to the floor in disarray. Still angry, the hunched man swept all the clippings, together with the long-bladed scissors I’d watched him use a few nights ago, off the table. He banged the wood and made another of those horrible snuffling/snorting noises.
I dodged out of his way when he whirled round and took a couple of paces towards me. Foolishly, I felt vulnerable, even though I was sure that I could not be seen. Or maybe it was fear of his body invading my space so that I’d share his feelings. I thought that might somehow be very unhealthy.
He paused, again glancing this way and that, his black eyes searching the oppressive room. Scared, I backed further away, finding a spot in a dim corner and holding my breath in case he heard (although air wasn’t necessary for my existence, something in me insisted on carrying on as normal; I was sure if I put a hand over my heart I would still feel it beating). To my relief, the man saw nothing, even if he did stare into my corner for a couple of uncomfortable seconds. He gave a kind of wet growl and I wondered again if he was suffering from a very bad cold, which would explain wearing the raincoat and scarf in the flat. I was soon to learn otherwise.
He turned his back to me again and went to the newspaper now lying in an untidy heap on the floor, shrugging the coat off as he did so, letting it drop from his shoulders. Then he removed the hat and I saw his thin mousy-coloured hair was dirty and lank, long strands at the back tucked into the scarf, bald patches showing through, catching the light, such as it was. Leaning forward, the scarf ends dangling in front of him, he shuffled the paper together again in a loose collection, and laid it on the table. He was staring at the front page with its monochrome picture of me and the smaller inset of Andrea, Oliver and Prim, when he began to unwind the scarf.
I started to panic as he turned and came towards me again, drawing the coarsely knitted scarf from his neck. He paused in front of me and tossed the scarf onto the newspaper- and magazine-cluttered sofa, catching me by surprise, the scarf sailing right through me.
It was at that moment that I looked fully into his face. Or lack of face, I should say.
It must have been shock that made me forget the first time I’d confronted him in this dismal place, because now I remembered instantly. Now I saw it again in all its horribly obscene ugliness.
In fact, this face was not unlike my own after he’d cleaved it down the middle, probably with that axe mentioned in the Standard, except mine had had something at least resembling a nose and mouth, whereas here there was only emptiness, a cavern where features should have been, a dark hole with raw gristle around its edges and something fat and black resting inside like a lazy glistening slug.
It was huge, this open wound, a gaping maw with tendrils of saliva drooling inside, the tip of the slug stirring as if roused. Only the eyes appeared normal, but closer inspection showed even they were wide-set, black and bulging like those of a frog. And there was something in their shine, a madness—no, a malevolence—that was more ghastly than the malformation.
If ghosts can faint, then that’s what I did.
21
Oblivion.
I don’t know where I went, what happened to me, unless it was some kind of mind wipeout, engendered by the sight of that man’s—that thing’s—awful countenance. Or the absence of. I only know that I became lost in some place where neither time nor thought had relevance.
What was I but mind? And maybe, as in life, the mind has to close down for periods of time. Maybe even the psyche needs recovery.
Maybe it was just a hint of the true death yet to come to me. Maybe I was in the transient stage, lingering between existence and complete obliteration. Maybe there was no heaven or hell, only a time to reflect before extinction. I had no idea then.
I have now though.
22
I surfaced again on the day of my funeral.
I had no idea how long I’d blanked out for, nor could I recollect any dreams from my unconscious state. I could remember that awful dingy basement room though. But now there were other things to occupy my mind.
I loitered in the road outside my house, watching the various vehicles park and people—friends and acquaintances mainly, a few other faces I didn’t recognize—emerge to pull raincoat collars tighter around their necks, umbrellas blooming against the cold drizzle. No cars could park directly in front of the house, for a hearse and two dark limousine cars occupied the space.
I observed my mother arrive in a taxi, watched her climb out and walk up the drive, head bowed, but steps taken with a deliberate dignity. Heads turned, following her progress, and I heard the murmurs as the little plump lady in black’s identity was passed among the mourners. I don’t know why I lingered outside so long, rain passing through me without deflection—perhaps I didn’t want to be in a room full of miserable people, absorbing their sadness every time I unavoidably made contact. Eventually though, I felt the overwhelming need to be closer to Andrea and Primrose, but as I moved into the driveway, the front door opened and sombre-suited figures began to leave, led by a tall but stooped man dressed in a black long-tailed suit and pin-stripe charcoal trousers, the funeral director, I assumed. He was followed by Sydney Presswell, and then Andrea’s parents (whom I’d always got on pretty well with), a couple of advertising associates, then Oliver guiding a distraught Andrea, an arm around her shoulders for support, her hand clasping Primrose’s. My daughter’s face was pale, with dark patches under her red- rimmed eyes, while Andrea’s face was covered by a black lace veil. I could see that her eyes were cast downwards.
I stifled a sudden sob, even though no one could possibly hear. I wanted to rush forward and embrace them both, tell them there was no pain for me, nor had there been any at my moment of death. I wanted them to know that I was with them now in their time of grief. But just to be near would mean passing through others, so I hung back and watched from a distance as they went to the big limo behind the hearse. On a velvet-covered stand inside the hearse was a big expensive-looking coffin. It was made of beautifully grained yew, my favourite wood.
