She still couldn’t know where he lived; otherwise the police would have visited him. He must cling to that advantage. He ran across the roundabout, clutching his bad knee with his razor hand to drive himself onwards. In his pocket the razor leapt like a trapped bird.
The clank of his heels counted his steps towards Lodge Lane. His limp translated them into dull agony. At Sefton Park Road, cars waited for the smoking traffic lights to change. Fog that stank of petrol helped conceal him; the snarling of engines covered the sound of his limp.
He ran past the lights at the far end. They were mounting their scale to green, to release traffic at him. There was a bus at the stop – a refuge. Ice tried to slip the road from beneath him; cars roared a warning and surged forward. He dodged in front of the bus, daring it to run him down.
Several people were still to board. He edged among them. Only when he’d climbed on board at last and had found a seat did he begin to relax. He had to sit at the back, facing away from the journey. At least he’d be able to see if he was being followed.
The bus juddered away. Discoloured figures trudged beside blurred shops. Yellowed headlights probed towards the bus. A van was following. No, that wasn’t her face peering through a windscreen the colour of ice. His mind refused to unclench; it squeezed his thoughts into a small hard impregnable mass, that felt as though it might explode and sear his head with pain.
Opposite him, someone lit a cigarette. That wasn’t allowed downstairs. He mustn’t complain, mustn’t be conspicuous. The man grinned at his frown; smoke oozed from his face, a defiant mask of black mud pockmarked by rain. Horridge’s hand clenched on his pocket. No, no! Seedy shops drifted by, an empty schoolyard, a tower block whose lit windows looked half-melted. Why, he’d almost passed his stop! They wouldn’t confuse him so easily. He grabbed the metal pole and swung himself into the aisle.
The girl was sitting between him and the exit doors.
Even if the black cap pulled low on her head hadn’t been enough, her profile was turned to him. Was she making sure that she saw him, or trying to dismay him with the sight of her? Either way, the shock paralysed him.
His hand clung to the pole, dangling him. The bus lurched, jerking him like a drunken puppet. BUS STOPPING, a lighted plaque announced. Would she try and prevent him from reaching the doors? Would she set the mob of passengers on him?
The bus halted, throwing him forward. The doors squeaked open. Let her try to stop him, by God. His hand plunged into his pocket. He’d do for a few of them, and she would be first. The edge of the blade bit into his nail.
Nobody hindered him. As he stepped down he glanced at her. Did she look hastily away? She was so intent on the window and its spectacle of fog that she must be pretending. What was she up to now?
The bus moved off, carrying her face among its framed display. He saw her glance at him before her gaze flinched aside. He waited beneath the dripping inverted L of the bus shelter, in case she stopped the bus and dodged back. The lights and the noise withdrew into the fog, which dulled and engulfed them like sleep.
He waited for the Cantril Farm bus. Buses lumbered towards him, unveiling their lit faces. None was any use to him. The fog seemed to congeal his time. Had he been waiting minutes or hours? When at last his bus arrived he tried to clear the window, to watch for pursuit; but fog or dirt was glued to the glass. As the bus drew away, another took its place.
The engine groaned, low and monotonous. The bus felt insidiously chill, invaded by fog. Queues bobbed up from the murk; he was compelled to search each grey peering face. The single narrow curve of road led the bus into Cantril Farm, deeper into concrete, into nowhere.
Reluctantly he used the pedestrian subway. At least he couldn’t lose his way down there. He mustn’t get lost. The low dim roof oppressed him; it rumbled as a bus halted. Could the roof support all that weight above his head? Glass ground its teeth underfoot as he limped hastily out. He would stay home until the fog lifted. No more trips to the park – the girl had come too close for comfort. Only a few days to Wales.
Turn left here, and go straight on. Concrete reared vaguely around him. Everything was drowned in anonymity. The branches of a stray tree looked like dusty cobweb. Turn right. Now left, between flats whose lit windows looked waterlogged. Then left again, and then -
A wall rose up before him. Its thick veins of graffiti glistened. There was supposed to be a passage here! He must have missed a turning. Go back to it. He tried to think: since he was returning, the passage would be on the right – but how many turns to the right must he make first? Black specks swarmed over his eyes, distracting him. Wasn’t that a symptom of approaching blindness?
He hurried back. Walls seemed to shift and advance. Right here, it must be. Wasn’t this passage too short? No, it wasn’t a wall that blocked his way, only fog. The fog retreated before him – then at once yielded up a wall. Staggering crimson letters caught in the web of graffiti spelled KILLER.
What was that supposed to mean? He groped for the razor, to hack the letters away. No, he wouldn’t be tricked into wasting his time. The wall didn’t block his path entirely; he could turn left. Surely that was the way he ought to go.
Shortly another wall proved not to be fog, and forced him left again, through a passage. Beyond was the inner yard of a tenement. Piles of flats walled it in on all four sides. It was one of many. He couldn’t judge his direction from it. He was lost.
Grey pressed against his eyes. It felt like blindness, which terrified him. Silence clogged his ears; his nostrils were blocked. The fog was robbing him of all his senses. Everywhere around him, concrete lurked in ambush. Nowhere could he see a name. The yard was lifeless as a place of execution.
His skin felt infested. He ran, but couldn’t escape the crawling. He managed not to flee back the way he’d come; that would take him back into the same maze. Instead he made for the next passage out of the yard, on the left. His leg plucked at his mind with pain.
Almost as soon as he emerged from the passage he saw the bus stop’s metal flag above the drowned concrete valley. He’d returned to where he’d started. Pain set his mind ablaze; he felt an urgent violent fury which he must release somehow. He tried to calm himself. At least he knew where he was; he could start again, more carefully.
Someone was walking down the valley. Perhaps he could ask the way – though most people seemed unable to give directions here: they were as confused as the planners intended. He gazed over the concrete bank of the side path as she emerged from the obscurity. It was the girl. She was still pursuing him.
His fury grew cold and purposeful. This time she’d gone too far. She hadn’t seen him yet. He felt almost detached as he observed her, peering about from beneath her black cap like an executioner’s. He grinned as he reached in his pocket. That cap was appropriate, but not in a way she would enjoy.
She passed without noticing him. As she neared the blurred mouth of the subway, he moved, making sure he was audible. He heard her falter, then hurry after him. Although the vicious ache of his leg was stoking his fury, he grinned as he limped as quickly as he could towards the execution yard.
Chapter XXIV
Cathy picked herself up. The front of her body throbbed like a single bruise. Her breath, when she managed to catch it, joined in. Beyond the obelisk the limping footsteps faded.
That would teach her to chase people. But her fall had angered her. Was she really going to let a little fall deter her? He could at least have come back to see whether she was all right. She strode past the obelisk, ignoring her bruises. She had to go this way to catch a bus to the house for sale.
She reached the bus just as the doors were closing. The driver winked at her, and waited. The poles of the aisle were cold in her hands. Below her heads were displayed, swaying slightly. Was that the detective, sitting with his back to her? She couldn’t speak to him. What on earth could she say among all these people?
Fog flooded by. Beginnings of streets emerged momentarily. The man who sat beside her left the bus; someone else trapped her next to the window. She turned her head gingerly to watch the aisle. If that were the
