was snatching up pages that had escaped the heap, and piling them indiscriminately on top, when he saw the report that he had missed in the latest batch:
Police are still investigating the murder of a Liverpool homosexual on Friday night. Later that night, on Princes Avenue in Liverpool, an unprovoked attack was made on a coloured man by three youths. He was cut about the face with a razor, and later had to receive seven stitches. This incident occurred about a mile from the scene of the murder.
Horridge stared at the cramped box of print. He felt as though its frame had closed about him. What were they trying to do? “Unprovoked attack” indeed – what had a foreigner been doing out so late, unless he was up to no good? Yet that thought didn’t prevent the report from distressing him. They’d made him sound like a young thug, terrorising people. Was that how his achievement sounded?
His fist thumped the table; the newspapers trembled. No, by God. He was no thug. He was one of the few who still stood up for what was right – and he’d write to them to tell them so. No; letters could be traced. He’d phone them.
Then he grinned. His closed lips tightened over his teeth; his eyes stretched wide. He sat forward, trapping his legs beneath the table. No, he’d do no phoning. That was precisely what they wanted. All their lies and insinuations were meant to make him betray himself. Let them try. He wasn’t Craig, to be distressed so easily.
He dumped the newspapers in the drawer. He didn’t know why he bothered keeping them, except to remind him how sly people were. Well, they could stay shut up in there. They had nothing to tell him. He was turning away when he remembered the editorial.
Gradually his mouth widened into a smile. Of course, he hadn’t been thinking straight. Their confusion had almost infected him. His mounting glee couldn’t be contained by the small room. He must walk, it didn’t matter where.
Mightn’t people notice his new coat and wonder why he had bought it? It didn’t matter. People bought new coats sometimes, even people as badly off as he. Nobody could suspect anything – not when even the police were so mistaken.
He walked, alert with gladness. His relief possessed him; everything looked interesting. His first idea had been right after all: the police were simply incompetent. Each of their theories led them further from him. They would never think to search for someone like him. He was safe.
He enjoyed all he saw. He grinned to himself at the sight of a minute general store housed in a shabby caravan in a parking space. Even the scenic area, which had used to infuriate him, only amused him now: the benches that commanded a view of caged saplings, children’s deserted swings, a few low humps of grassy earth, all walled around by Cantril Farm barracks. There must be somewhere he could enjoy himself more fully. Where could he go?
He’d join the library. He hadn’t borrowed a book for years. He ought to do more reading – there were few enough people left who could read. He climbed the ramp to the library. Women passed him, carrying baskets full of books. Perhaps that showed there was still hope for them, if only they wouldn’t delude themselves with fiction.
The fish-eyed man was hogging the newspapers. Now the tables were turned: he’d achieved far less than Horridge. Horridge grinned openly at him, but the man looked quickly away. Hadn’t he the courage to acknowledge his feelings? That was a weakness Horridge need no longer fear in himself.
He scanned the shelves. He would choose his books, then join. Fiction, fiction, fiction. Adventure and horror were mixed on the shelves, as though one might be a consequence of the other. Detective stories displayed fingerprints on their spines. He grunted low with mirth. That was the one way the police might have caught him, since they already had his fingerprints, but he’d left none on Craig. He’d touched only Craig’s coat, and they couldn’t take fingerprints from cloth. There must be hundreds of fingerprints on the outer doors; they’d never distinguish his. Apart from that -
All at once his face grew cold as plastic. Sweat coated his forehead. He was sure he must have turned pale. His fist clenched in his pocket, and he heard the razor click shut. He hadn’t realised it was ajar; he might have cut his fingers. He could lop them all off without releasing himself from the trap into which he had fallen.
He’d left his fingerprints all over the painter’s flat.
Chapter XV
As Peter and Cathy emerged from the van two women strolled by, humming tunelessly. Everyone around here in Childwall hummed defensively as they passed you, Cathy had noticed. They glanced at Peter, then at her. They resembled birds: brightly feathered heads, sharp intolerant faces. They seemed to be thinking: what did this young couple mean by cluttering this street of snugly paired houses with their tatty van, with Peter’s cartoon on the side like a faded bloom of flower power left over from the sixties? What right had they to invade this tidy garden, with its family of gnomes, its viny trellises, its carriage-lamp beside the front door?
Peter rang the bell and leaned against the lamplit wall. He looked as though he were waiting on a stage set, bored with the part he was to play. Cathy was thinking that perhaps his parents hadn’t heard about Craig’s death. If they had, surely they would know not to seem too anxious; it would only harden Peter’s stubbornness.
His father opened the door. She could see that he’d heard: he looked both determined and faintly embarrassed, like someone bearing his urine specimen through a hospital. He said only “Some of your mother’s friends are here.”
He took Cathy’s coat, but Peter kept on his old denim jacket. A delicately painted plaster saint watched over the hall table from a shelf. “Has the paper come?” Peter’s mother called.
“ No,” his father said, adding to Cathy “You used to be able to rely on people.”
“ Is that Peter?”
“ Yes,” Cathy called. It wasn’t worth feeling annoyed.
In the living-room, Peter’s mother and an elderly couple sat neatly as a window display in their trim suits. His father took his place on the sofa beside his mother, symmetrically. Their conversation seemed light and fragile as the best china, from which they were sipping. They were discussing the Royal Family. “Didn’t Princess Anne look lovely?” the elderly woman said to Cathy.
On television, or in a newspaper? “Oh yes,” Cathy said agreeably. You shouldn’t attack other people’s beliefs without good reason. About her only thought on royalty was that, in being constantly surrounded by a false environment – royal toilets that were built for their coming and then, once they’d used them, torn down – they had something in common with schizophrenics.
The discussion petered out. To Cathy it sounded like chat about characters in a television series. The elderly woman set down her teacup delicately and said “So this is Peter and his wife. Hasn’t he grown, Gerald?”
“ He has,” said her husband.
“ Tell Mr and Mrs Dutton what you’re studying, Peter,” his mother said.
“ Conspiracy Theory and Applied Paranoia.”
Cathy’s toes curled up; her nails slid within her shoes. But Mrs Dutton said “Are you? You must need to be clever for that. Mustn’t he, Gerald?”
“ He must. Very nice.”
Peter’s father was silent. Clearly he wanted the elderly couple to leave so that he could come to the point. Peter was on edge with the careful politeness that limited the conversation. Both tensions worried her nerves.
God, no! She grabbed Peter’s wrist, but Mrs Dutton said “That’s a funny-looking cigarette. Is it a new brand?”
“ I roll my own. Herbal tobacco. Not addictive like cancer sticks.”
“ Oh, why do you want to smoke?” his mother complained. “You never used to. Please don’t smoke now, at any rate. Your father’s getting a cold.”
Reluctantly he put it away. Cathy dug her nails into his wrist. The four were too deep in a new discussion to
