Nobody must know where he lived, not now.
The skin of Horridge’s face felt as though it were shrinking. “If it’s all the same to you,” he managed to say between stiffening lips, “I’ll wait for them.”
“ Well, it’s not the same to me at all. It’s a damned long job, son. Did you know that?”
“ No, I didn’t. I’m sorry.” Before the old man could win the conversation, he added hastily “It’s urgent, you see. I can’t get into the house without it.”
“ You’ll just want the front door key, then. Which one is that?”
Oh God. God, no. Could the old man see the sweat exploding all over Horridge’s body? “I won’t be able to get into my bedroom either,” he complained.
“ You’re in a bad way, aren’t you?”
Unsure what the comment referred to, Horridge didn’t dare answer. “All right, I’ll do it now,” the old man sighed at last, shaking his head. “Just you wait there and don’t start getting restless. This is going to take longer than you think.”
He plodded behind the screen, and drew it closed behind him. Eventually he emerged, bearing some object which he concealed from Horridge, and trudged into the kitchen. Horridge heard the flare of gas, and its monotonous breath, sometimes interrupted. After a considerable time Mr Fearon pottered back. The screen creaked shut.
His comings and goings seemed to dawdle on for hours. Each time he appeared he made some remark, as though he’d spent the interval thinking of it. “I suppose you still miss your father. Always good for a laugh, old Frank.”
“ There aren’t many like him these days.”
“ Brought you up single-handed and looked after you when you had the accident, with never a word of complaint.”
Horridge could only agree inarticulately; he felt at the mercy of the old man’s goodwill. Once Mr Fearon said “Getting much work?” Perhaps he was growing senile. And once, to Horridge’s dismay, he said “Just keep your ears open for the door. I’ve got someone coming for keys.”
The cramped room, the old man’s small sounds which Horridge could neither ignore nor interpret, his infuriating slowness, his secrecy which preyed on Horridge’s imagination – everything reminded him of life with his father. His hands moved restlessly, neither quite opening nor becoming fists: he felt he was a puppet of his nerves. When the metallic shrieking began, it seemed to drill deep into his teeth. At least it meant that the ordeal was almost over, for the old man soon emerged with two keys. Horridge clasped them gratefully. “How much do I owe you?”
“ How much is it worth to you?”
What was that supposed to mean? What did his stare imply? Perhaps that he wouldn’t ask a direct question so long as his customer wasn’t too blatant. Angry to be made to feel guilt but helpless, Horridge had no idea what to reply.
At last the old man said wearily “Oh, give us two quid. That won’t break you, will it?”
Perhaps he’d hoped to be offered more – but he could be no poorer than Horridge. He crumpled the notes in his hand as if they were litter, and plodded to let Horridge out. But Horridge said “I’d like my impressions back, please.”
“ Right enough, you wouldn’t want to be leaving them. They’re no use to anyone now, son. I had to crack them.”
“ I’d still like the clay.”
Not until he was crossing the third square of concrete patched with uncombed grass did he realise why Mr Fearon had stared sideways at him. The old man felt suspected now: he thought Horridge hadn’t trusted him to dispose of the clay. Horridge grinned to himself as he limped to the shops. Mr Fearon wouldn’t dare betray him.
Now he must act fast, just in case the painter mentioned him to Craig despite her promise. After all, why had so many pieces been cut out of the newspapers in her flat? Could she have been making sure that none of her visitors saw Craig’s face? He bought a plastic wallet full of marker pens and hurried to his flat.
He lifted his newspapers from their lair. Eventually he found the photograph: the wardrobe in which the first victim had been discovered, with one word hacked out of the wood of the door: BITCH.
He stared at his blank piece of cardboard, then he grinned. Of course! He took it to the window, and gazed at the graffiti that crawled over the fence. He’d never thought he would be grateful for that eyesore. But now, as he wrote BITCH with the pens, he copied the discords of colour, adding flourishes and elaborations as his memory prompted. At last he pinned the notice to his bedroom door and admired his handiwork. It reminded him of the paintings that cluttered the walls in the painter’s flat. He grinned, wiping his hands. He was convinced, and he was sure his victim would be: the writing looked exactly like Fanny Adamson’s signature.
Chapter XI
Craig had one foot in the bath when the telephone rang.
The water was warm around his ankle. Should he answer the call, and perhaps be made to feel worse? By the time he had dried his foot and inserted it into his slipper, the ringing had ceased. He sank into the water, grateful for its soothing embrace. He’d had a bad enough day already.
There had been another letter from the intolerable pensioner. Craig’s colleagues read out their hostile correspondence or passed it around the long Inland Revenue office, but the letters depressed him too much for that. “Maybe if you have time between your cups of tea you’ll deign to work out how much tax you owe me on these dividends.” That was bearable; years ago, bitterly gleeful, Craig had written DIFFICULT TAXPAYER in red ink on the man’s control card. But there was always the postscript: “Haven’t you anyone in your department who can write legibly?”
“ When are you going to buy me new glasses?” Craig knew his poor handwriting was growing worse – hardly surprising, under all the circumstances.
Still, he might have read the letter out if he had been sure of his colleagues, except that he no longer knew himself. One police visit and three phone calls had done that. Not since his marriage had he felt so uncertain how to behave.
He tried to relax, to feel like the water. At least the third-floor discotheque wasn’t thumping overhead; they must all be out, thank heaven. Though he admired Cathy: a capable woman. She needed to be, with that husband of hers.
Had that been true of Daphne? Perhaps she hadn’t been quite capable enough. Memories floated up. Of late they had been uncomfortably vivid, sharp with guilt. Perhaps the lulling of the water might soften them. He knew he couldn’t elude them.
Had he really wanted to marry? He’d thought so then, but had that come of a need to prove he could have a girlfriend? Still, he’d grown fond of Daphne; they’d talked and hummed Mozart together, to the amusement of their colleagues; in restaurants, they were happy to be quiet together as well as to chat. Best of all, she’d seemed content with affection rather than outright sex.
Marriage had released her sexuality. Sometimes he had satisfied her, more often they’d lain side by side, dummies in a bedroom display. He’d known she was brooding on why she didn’t appeal to him – but he had been trying not to believe what was wrong. Surely one teenage relationship couldn’t have exerted such a hold over him.
Had it been desperation which had made him at last go drinking with Nelson, a colleague who he’d known was homosexual? Had he simply wanted to discuss his troubles, or to be taken to the club?
The club had shown him what he was. Despite the shock of unfamiliarity, despite his shrinking from the shrieks of the flamboyant, before the evening was over he had felt at home. He’d been able at last to be open – but how was this helping his marriage? That doubt had stiffened his movements, tripped up his speech.
