on a single feature. “For Christ’s sake, let me do it,” Peter had snarled at last. “You’re no use at all.” But the sketch the artist produced to his instructions looked stiff and unconvincing. Neither he nor Cathy had been satisfied.
Her clasp was softer; its meaning had changed. Did she want to make love? Dimness flooded the room, then the orange blaze rushed back as the stray cloud moved on. He couldn’t work up any desire; the positions her pregnancy forced them to adopt seemed too absurd. A noise in the hall saved him from seeming aloof. Her grip tightened spasmodically. “That’s the postman, isn’t it?” she demanded.
“ Right. I’ll go and see.”
She let go reluctantly. Again her nervousness annoyed him. She ought to be happy now, with the house and the promise of the baby. Was he trying to shift his own unease by blaming Cathy for hers?
He had been lolling against a shoulder in the dark. Cold metal had caressed his face: a razor-blade. That had held him still while he gathered memories, blurred and incomplete: being supported half conscious to the van, as though he’d been stoned out of his head on cake; Horridge in the kitchen, glancing at a rolling-pin, seizing it and thumping Peter’s skull. That had enraged Peter – but he’d slumped in the dark of the van, paralysed by images of the razor. Only the sheer dullness of the drive had allowed his fear to drift away and enabled him to plot revenge.
Yes, it had been the postman. Envelopes overlapped in the hall. He was glad he’d smashed Horridge; pity he’d struck him only once. And he was still protecting Cathy. No need for either of them to be nervous.
He faltered on the landing. He felt odd; his forehead was tight with undefined apprehension. The landing was oppressively small and hot. He found the house less spacious than the large main room of their flat. He hadn’t a room to himself, after all; the spare room was full of books, comics, furniture that they couldn’t bring themselves to throw away. Soon they’d need the room for the child. He might sell his comics then, before the child ruined them. He didn’t read them now.
Halfway down he was forced to halt. The light twitched, plucking at his vision. Outlines trembled; walls and stairs moved uneasily. He closed his eyes and waited for the flashback to recede. Christ, he’d thought he was over the flashbacks. He hadn’t taken acid since before that night in Wales.
At last he was able to go downstairs, though the envelopes shifted a little over one another, like cards eager for a deal. All of them looked official. Was someone offering him a job? He hoped he’d be working before the birth. That gave him three months.
One letter was an advertising circular, forwarded from Aigburth Drive. He dropped it angrily. Eighteen months and they were still addressing stuff there. The other letters were from newspapers. Two invited him to be interviewed, one said there were no vacancies for trainee reporters.
Maybe one of the interviews would lead somewhere. Those he’d had so far had been dispiriting. One editor had sounded like a senile comedian. “When did you stop beating your wife? That’s the way we have to phrase our questions. That’s the secret of reporting.” How could Peter work for someone as plastic as that?
“ Nothing much,” he called to Cathy, and stooped to pick up the circular.
The envelope had fallen on its face. For the first time he saw what was scribbled on the back, by whoever was now living in the flat on Aigburth Drive. The noose of apprehension tightened round his skull.
SOMEONE PHONED
He was reading too much into the words. They could mean a dozen things. Maybe someone had wanted to get in touch with him in search of dope.
SOMEONE PHONED AND WANTED YOUR ADDRESS
When at last Cathy had felt capable of driving away from the quarry, they’d gone in search of the police. By the time the police reached the quarry there had been no sign of Horridge. Peter had been secretly glad: they might have detained him over the killing, searched his flat, found his dope. Horridge had never been seen again, as far as the police could ascertain. They’d concluded that he must have crawled away somewhere to die.
SO WE GAVE IT TO HIM. WE HOPE THAT’S ALL RIGHT!
Upstairs the bed creaked. Cathy was preparing to come down. For a moment he glared at the envelope. Then he hurried to the kitchen, tearing the envelope as he went. ALL RIGHT! said the largest fragment before he tore it in half.
He strode into the back yard. The door to the alley drooped on its hinges. He must attend to that, before it fell. He scattered the envelope into the bin. Clouds were massing; shadows stepped forward within the gaping outhouse, into which his dazzled eyes could hardly see.
Thank Christ Cathy hadn’t read it. What effect might her panic have had on the child? There would have been no need for panic. He dumped the contents of the kitchen bin on top of the fragments.
When he grabbed the bag of vegetables from the hall floor, Cathy was standing at the top of the stairs. “Wasn’t there anything important?” she said wistfully.
“ Not today.” He glanced back as he returned to the kitchen. A shadow loomed on the front-door pane; the hall plunged into dimness. “Nothing worth bothering about,” he called.
