Some of the floorboards were missing; pieces of timber lay on the gap-toothed floor. He picked up a piece of wood to test his footing. As he straightened up, he saw the three bent nails still protruding from beneath the windowsill, like the legs of a rusty spider. So this was his room. What was that in the middle of the floor, where his bed had stood? He peered incredulously. His mouth filled with disgust. It was a heap of filth.
His father had beaten him several times for wetting his bed. Horridge had felt that that part of his body was out to get the better of him, to soil him. Now someone had fouled his room. Nothing could have robbed him of his house and all its memories more viciously.
As he stumbled forward inadvertently, he saw the cat. It was crouched in the corner nearest the door, waiting for him to vacate the doorway so that it could flee. It looked dirty and shapeless as the stuffing of the torn mattress. He knew that it was the culprit that had soiled his house.
He advanced delicately, raising the piece of wood. It seemed vitally important to kill the creature. He had almost reached it when it leapt. He whirled, and brought the club crashing down. It tore a hole in the wall; plaster rained on the boards. He heard the cat scuttling downstairs and out.
He stood in the derelict room, gnawing a splinter out of his hand. His teeth ripped at the skin, as though to drain his fury. “Filth. Filth. Filth,” he snarled.
He hurried to the dual carriageway. His limp swayed him violently, but his rage urged him on: he must be rid of it. He made himself wait for the pay tone before thrusting in the coin. “Just you remember I’m never far away,” he said without giving Craig a chance to speak, and felt powerful at once. “You’d be surprised how close I am to you.”
Chapter VIII
For the next few days he listened to the radio. Whenever it tried to sidle beyond audibility he reeled it back. Old Beatles songs. Music and memories of the thirties. Couldn’t they face up to the present? He listened to every news report – but there was no word of Craig.
He read the papers in Cantril Farm Library, but they had no more to offer. On an impulse he asked to see the voters’ list. There was his name, lined up with the rest, pinned down by its number. Each day he was first for the papers, until he found the man with the fishbowl eyes waiting at the table. Horridge left at once. He was taking no risks.
Of course Craig betrayed himself by his silence. Had he not been guilty, he would have reported the calls to the police. But mightn’t he have reported them? Might the police have forbidden the press to mention the calls, while they hunted the caller? Let them hunt. If they’d known where to find Horridge they would have arrested him by now. The listing of his name made him feel indefinably vulnerable.
Craig’s refusal to betray himself to witnesses frustrated him. He couldn’t call again, in case the police had tapped Craig’s phone. He must find another way to speed things up. Suppose they traced him somehow before Craig broke!
With the razor he cut out all the photographs of the victims from the newspapers. The photographs were too flimsy; they might be overlooked. On the kitchen windowsill he found an old tube of glue, curled up like a grub. He mounted the photographs on pieces of cardboard. That night he dreamed that he was playing in the quarry.
Next day the sky was flat as ice, and drained of colour. Everything looked frail, and made him nervous. At least the buses seemed to be on his side: one came at once to take him out of Cantril Farm; his connection arrived at the Shiel Road bus stop just as he limped up. They gave him no time to doubt. He would be fine so long as he didn’t start brooding. The police wouldn’t be watching the house – they had no reason.
Nevertheless he couldn’t walk straight past the house. He had to detour through the park to reach the telephone box. Now that he didn’t intend to speak, the threat of hearing Craig’s voice unnerved him. But there was no answer. As he’d hoped, Craig was not at home.
He’d taken only a few steps towards the house when he averted his face and crossed the road to dodge behind a tree. Suppose his calls had disturbed Craig so much that he was refusing to answer the phone? Peering round the tree, he saw that the front door was ajar within the porch. Couldn’t he put the photographs in an open envelope and drop it in the hall? Perhaps he could write Craig’s name on the envelope.
That was idiotic. The photographs must be placed outside Craig’s door, and one ought to be protruding from beneath the door, as though Craig had dropped them. If a neighbour found them, that would give him something to explain. If Craig himself found them, he might well blame someone in the building; that would prey on his mind.
Horridge stared across the road. Craig’s curtains were parted; they looked luxuriously thick. Wasn’t there a glint beyond them, as of eyes watching? Wasn’t there a dark bulk that contained the glint, like a large head? Perhaps Craig was sitting in the dim room, afraid to show his face.
Horridge stared until his eyes felt parched, willing Craig to emerge. Beneath his gaze the house seemed to twitch, unnerving him. The glary sky made the trees look thin and brittle. He felt drained of purpose.
A postman poked letters through the front door. Why didn’t the man go in and leave them in the hall? Later a woman slipped a handful of pamphlets through the door. Neither arrival moved the dark shape with the glinting eyes, if they were eyes. By now Horridge was watching aimlessly, emptily. He’d wasted hours. What if those visitors had been detectives, disguised in order to guard the house? He turned dully and went to look at the reflections by the bandstand.
A crisp-bag swollen by bubbles floated in the water. Nothing was clean: perhaps nothing had been since the quarry. He had stepped down through the roughly carved gap and had halted, gazing at the massive cliff, shining grey in the sunlight. He’d felt alone with the bright surfaces of rock, and free. Even the rubble underfoot had been spotless. The strength of the quarry had seemed to fill him. Each day he’d played for hours, a bandit in his lair, a soldier manoeuvring, until his grandfather called him to dinner. Why had that week ever had to end?
Because he’d grown up, that was why. He had more important things to do than stand moping by the water. And by God, he knew how he could succeed. He could stand in the porch and ring Craig’s doorbell. If Craig were at home he would hear the window opening, but Craig wouldn’t be able to see him. He hurried down the avenue towards the obelisk, disregarding the twinges in his leg.
A figure was idling along Aigburth Drive. Horridge slowed to let him trudge out of sight. He turned, hair trailing over his shoulders, and stared at Horridge. It was the student with the shifty eyes, whom he’d seen talking to Craig.
His eyes were blank, preoccupied; he seemed hardly able to see across the road. No doubt he was plodding home to his drugs. Horridge heard the door slam, though it didn’t look as though the youth had closed it properly. Had he noticed Horridge? Probably not – but he’d certainly prevented him from carrying out his plan. Weighed down by rage, he limped away.
When he reached his flat, the morose boy who lived overhead was kicking a football against the twilit fence. Often he did nothing else all day: thud, thud, thud. “Haven’t you anything better to do?” Horridge snarled. The boy gaped after him. With his gangling limbs and small head the boy looked insect-like, performing some instinctive ritual with the ball.
Horridge was struggling with his attacker in a cramped dark place. When he woke, his arms were tied. The indifferent ticking of the clock made him feel more alone and helpless as he writhed convulsively in the dark. Before he was free he realised he was only tangled in the blankets, but that lessened his fear not at all.
Sleep had deserted him. He lay trying to conquer his fears. He was going to do Craig’s work for him, was he? Was he going to terrify himself into waiting to be trapped by the police? Not bloody likely. He wasn’t an invalid, to lie awaiting the worst. For once he had the chance to achieve something. He’d see it through, whatever the consequences.
Wind hissed through the maze of concrete wastes of Cantril Farm. Again the sky resembled ice; it looked thin, treacherous. The bus took its time in arriving. Alighting at the corner of Shiel Road and West Derby Road, he called Craig’s number. There was no reply.