The man lolled there at the foot of the stairs. Horridge felt a kind of detached pity: he ought to be put out of his misery, like any diseased animal. At the same time, the creature’s growing weakness disgusted him. He cut unobstructed at Craig’s throat. Fewer than six cuts, and Craig slid almost silently down the wall to squat on the floor. His head slumped forward. Surely he wouldn’t have been able to bear any weight on that throat if he had been alive.
Glancing at his own hands, Horridge couldn’t suppress a shudder. It was only blood, even if diseased; and there wasn’t much of it, luckily. About Craig he felt nothing but relief. Alive, the man had been beneath contempt; dead, he was less than an object. Horridge perched the razor on Craig’s shoulder while he wiped his hands. Then he wrapped the razor in the stained handkerchief and slipped it into his coat pocket.
God, the front door was still open. Anyone might have come in and discovered him. He was sure he was alone in the building; otherwise, surely someone would have wanted to know what was making all the noise. Luck had been on his side, because of the rightness of his purpose, but he mustn’t tempt fate now.
When he reached the porch, he saw that his coat was spattered with blood.
There were surprisingly few stains, under the circumstances; and none was very large. But oh God, how could he conceal them? He couldn’t throw his coat away. All his documents were in the pockets, and he mustn’t risk carrying them openly. Around him the porch grew oppressive.
The solution made him grin widely. As he took off his coat the sleeves pulled themselves inside out, to help him. He buttoned the coat again, tartan side outwards. Looking down at himself, he couldn’t help gasping. Such blood as had seeped through had been absorbed by the tartan; the pattern concealed it. Could anything else have proved so conclusively that he had been meant to kill Craig?
Before he emerged into the porch, he pulled out his notice. Snatching his keys, he closed the front door quietly. As he strolled along Aigburth Drive, feeling invulnerable in his tartan disguise, he tore the notice into tiny pieces and sowed them in the gutter. It amused him to be leaving a trail that nobody could follow. A breeze carried the scraps into the park.
On the first bus he felt the beginnings of panic – the stains weren’t quite the same colour as the tartan – but nobody looked at him twice. He relaxed, smiling secretly. It just showed how blind everyone was. A good job there was someone left who could still see.
Something tapped against his teeth. It was the sweet, almost untouched. He sucked it as though it were a prize. It helped him ignore his faint nausea at the thought of Craig’s blood within his coat.
His throat felt strange. A sensation was mounting there. For an uneasy moment he couldn’t tell what it was. Then he sucked the sweet harder, to keep down his wry mirth. He could feel how spasmodic and uncontrollable it would be. But really, he couldn’t blame himself. Even if he had planned for years he could never have devised a more appropriate death for Craig. Life was fair, after all.
Chapter XIII
Just as Cathy reached the landing, the door opened. Light leapt out at her. Her hand jerked; a potato jumped out of her shopping bag and rolled downstairs, loud as a severed head in an absurd horror film. It seemed no louder than her heart, for she’d thought for a moment that it was Mr Craig’s door that had opened.
“ I didn’t mean to startle you,” Fanny said. “I’m sorry.”
“ That’s all right, Fanny. I’m just being stupid.”
“ No, you aren’t. I feel the same way about the house now.”
Then for God’s sake let her keep it to herself. Cathy groped about the dim half-landing for the potato, averting her gaze from the wall at the foot of the stairs. That was stupid too – there was nothing to see. She would be all right so long as she didn’t think about it.
Fanny stood as though awaiting the password for the stairs. Cathy made to hurry by; she didn’t want to talk just now – not about that, anyway. But Fanny said “Do you want a coffee?”
“ I’d better not, thanks. Peter will be home soon.” She couldn’t think of a better excuse.
“ Come in for just a little while. There’s something I’ve got to talk about.”
Cathy sidled towards the top staircase, to make her next refusal easier. Then she saw that Fanny’s wardrobe was open. It looked empty, apart from the flowered overalls Fanny often wore when painting. Clothes gathered in a suitcase on the floor. “You aren’t moving, are you?” Cathy demanded, dismayed.
Fanny stepped back into her room, so that Cathy had to follow her for a reply. “No, but I’ve got to get away for a while. Some friends have invited me.”
“ When are you going?” Cathy was taken aback by her own wistfulness.
“ The day after tomorrow.”
“ But your exhibition won’t be over then, will it?”
“ It’ll have to look after itself. I’ve got to go, Cathy.” She seemed almost to be apologising for leaving her in the house. “I haven’t been able to paint since. I’ll be all right once I’ve been away.” As though to emphasise her own restraint she said “Mr Harty’s moving, you know.”
On Friday night he had been waiting in the hall when Cathy and Peter had come home. He’d seemed almost to blame them and the other tenants for having left him alone in the house to deal with the situation. He had been in his toilet when he’d heard scuffling in the hall and had thought a drunk had got in. When he’d looked out at last he hadn’t recognised the man propped against the dim wall. He’d called the police to tell them that a drunk had passed out. Only when they’d lifted the slumped head -
“ Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of coffee?” Fanny said.
“ No, really. What did you want?” Cathy wished she didn’t sound so irritable.
Fanny glanced at her unfinished painting of people in a gallery. She tidied a dress which lolled from her suitcase, neck gaping. Then she seemed to run out of distractions. “You know that Roy – ” She faltered, perhaps at having to speak his name. “Did you know that someone was trying to drive him out of the house?”
Of course Cathy didn’t – she had hardly known him. “Why should anyone want to do that?” she demanded.
“ You know he was gay.”
“ We assumed so. You don’t mean they wanted him out because of that?”
“ They must have. They called the police and tried to make out he was a criminal.”
“ God, how disgusting. How can people be like that?” She was growing uneasy: who might the culprit be? “But the police didn’t arrest him,” she said and wished that were reassuring.
“ No, but he was upset, you can imagine. I’m not supposed to tell anyone this, but – he hired a detective.”
“ Oh.” Cathy wasn’t anxious to help the conversation, which seemed more and more threatening.
“ I met him once. He didn’t look like a detective. Of course that helped him do his job.”
Fanny seemed glad to avoid the point too. “What did he look like?” Cathy said to delay further.
“ Like that,” Fanny said, pointing.
From the foreground of the picture of the gallery – insofar as you could speak of a foreground amid the painting’s jokes about perspective – a man’s face gazed. It looked glowingly scrubbed, like a little boy’s before a party. His vividly blue eyes fastened on his audience, scrutinizing them. His thoughts were unreadable.
“ Why, I know him,” Cathy said. “He comes into the library.”
“ Well, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t,” Fanny said. She sounded nervous.
“ No, of course not. He has a limp, doesn’t he?”
“ He puts it on sometimes as a disguise.” They were drifting away from Fanny’s point. She said abruptly “He was sure it was someone living here who wanted Roy out.”
“ That’s terrible.” Cathy felt less outraged than numbed.
“ I know. But do you think that’s the worst of it?”
“ What do you mean?” Vague panic roughened her voice.
“ Oh, I don’t know, Cathy.” Plainly she did, but had been hoping not to have to be specific. “Suppose
