Chapter V
As he fled onto Lodge Lane, Horridge gasped with relief. The crowd within the bus shelter stared at him through apertures framed by claws of glass. The girl had seemed to know more than she should. What reason could there be for her to know?
He trudged unevenly, cursing his display of panic. The man at the table had looked like an official, but there had been no reason for him to notice Horridge. By fleeing, Horridge had drawn attention to himself – and he must be inconspicuous now.
He trudged. His leg throbbed, and felt swollen. His thigh felt as though burdened with a clinging child. The memory of his flight through the cinemas was aching there. He had to plod and sway like a drunkard. He couldn’t move faster than his doubts.
What had the girl been doing in that library? She wasn’t supposed to be there. She might almost have been planted there to send him on this trudge, to give his doubts more time to trouble him. She had seemed all too ready to tell him that she couldn’t help, without bothering to look in any index. How could she have known that he’d gone to that library so as to finish as quickly as possible what he had to do?
At last he managed to escape the faded street, the patrolling shoppers, the plague of shops that displayed dusty emptiness. At the roundabout he found he dared not pass the decayed house. He had to use the path just within the park, which followed the road but whose border of trees screened him from the house. He limped hastily by, distracting himself with a glimpse of a bench that had been turned to face away from the park, no doubt by vandals.
The lake was surrounded by fishermen, immobile as posts. If they’d nothing better to do they should go and clean up Cantril Farm, to make it fit for decent folk to live in. Why weren’t they at work? No wonder the Social Security were suspicious, with all these people who didn’t know right from wrong. But that was no reason to treat him as if he didn’t know how to behave. Babble, babble. Was his mind trying to distract him from his purpose too?
It seemed so, for his thoughts tried to fasten on Lark Lane, to slow him. How like a village it was: a butcher’s open-fronted shop with slabs, an old police station, an antique shop glowing brassily. It felt familiar, as though he had been here as a child – but he was sure he never had. Couldn’t he linger? A fish and chip shop said it was Chinese and English, which was a lie: it couldn’t be both. Enough chuntering. Get on with the job that must be done.
Behind the library counter stood a bearded youth with far too much hair. No, he wasn’t the goatish creature from the corrupt house. He tugged his beard as though ringing himself awake and said “Can I help you?”
Exactly the girl’s words. They were like automatons, not a pinch of character among them. “I want to consult the voters’ list, please.” Now that his request could be more specific he felt a little less uneasy.
“ What street do you want?”
He wouldn’t be caught like that twice. “I’ll find that out for myself, thank you.”
The youth groped out the list from beneath the counter. Through the dustily translucent plastic cover Horridge read AIGBURTH DRIVE, blurred as though drowned. He’d soon dredge it up. He sat as far as possible from the counter, in the junior wing. Surely the children wouldn’t spy on him: Britain wasn’t one of those countries yet, however many people wanted it to be. But he pretended to scrutinise several pages, in case anyone was watching. Only when his nervousness began to creep behind him, urging him to flee while he was still safe, did he turn to Aigburth Drive. He wasn’t safe – he hadn’t been since he had looked into the killer’s eyes. He must make himself safe.
An instinct surer than his thoughts directed him to the exact spot on the page. His gaze fastened on the number of the house: it appeared eight times, alongside eight names. Lurking among them, pretending to be like the rest, was the name.
Harty, Brendan Sean (Flat 1)
Lunt, Aneurin Cornelius (Flat 2)
Craig, Roy (Flat 3)
Adamson, Frances Sybil (Flat 4)
Day, Patricia Anne (Flat 5)
Shone, Susan Gloria (Flat 5)
Gardner, Peter David (Flat 6)
Gardner, Catherine Angela (Flat 6)
Alongside the listings, consecutive numbers counted the names. Somewhere on such a list, Horridge must be numbered. No time to brood on that now. The killer lived on the middle floor, and his flat must be one of the two middle numbers – which singled his name out at once.
Roy Craig
It lay there challenging him to see through its disguise. It sounded too masculine, too strong: that betrayed it – that, and the fact that “Roy” was a little like “gay”. That was what homosexuals called themselves, though Horridge was damned if he knew what they had to be gay about: it was an insult to the word.
Something else was struggling to emerge into his mind: a memory, a similarity – When he grasped it, he sniggered mirthlessly. Two children stared at him and hid, giggling. The name of the latest victim had been Roylance. That was no coincidence. Perhaps the killer’s guilty conscience had made him leave that clue for those who weren’t too blind to see.
He fumbled in his pockets. His pencil was shorter than his thumb, and as blunt. Still, it would write – but on what? He didn’t want to draw attention to himself by asking for paper. Disentangling his birth certificate from the rest of his documents, he printed Roy Craig’s name on the back. Then, from an obscure inkling that it might prove useful, he listed the names of the other tenants.
He stared at Craig’s name, hidden in the official list. Why didn’t it writhe maggot-like with shame? Let it stay as still as it liked – it couldn’t hide from him now. “Thank you very much,” he said at the counter, delighted with the way his politeness concealed his plan.
When he emerged, the cold seized him. His resolution began to shiver. He was provided with a telephone box too soon: a pair of them stood back to back not twenty paces from the library. He hadn’t thought out what to say. He mustn’t falter when he picked up the phone. Besides, the boxes stood between a Ladies’ and a bus queue. Suppose he were overheard?
There was another box beyond the dual carriageway. The roadway was lethal with cars, and railings barred pedestrians from crossing – unless you leapt over, of course, assuming you were lucky enough not to have an injured leg. A subway trained pedestrians from one pavement to the other. Too much regimentation for his liking: it reminded him of Cantril Farm. There would be a phone box in Lark Lane.
But now he had faltered, his purpose turned liquid within him. Though he struggled with the feeling, he was heartened not to see a phone box in Lark Lane immediately. No need to feel guilty – he could use the delay to prepare his words. Interruptions distracted him: a butcher’s cleaver chopped something brightly raw, a man trotting delicately ahead of Horridge with two tartaned poodles kept stopping to let his pets drip. All he could hold still in his mind was Roy Craig’s name.
It was too good for the creature. How could names be so unfair? Decent people were made to sound like buffoons – such as John Horridge. “Horridge the Porridge”, they’d used to chant at school, until he’d kicked and punched them: and then he was always blamed for fighting. “Horridge, you horror!” a teacher had roared, grabbing him by the collar, frowning at the smothered titters of the onlookers like a comedian pretending to be angry with his audience. For years Horridge had looked forward to leaving school. He’d expected life outside to be fairer.
Babble, babble. A glimpse hushed his memories: a side street, a tall red shape on the pavement, a cage with windows – a phone box. Apprehension plunged deep into his stomach. He advanced two lopsided steps, and saw that the box was occupied. He was reprieved. Angrily he forced himself to approach. He’d wait, and compose his speech while waiting. He was nearly at the box when a woman emerged from a car amid a fall of parcels and stood beside the box. She would have time for a good look at him. He retreated towards Aigburth Drive.
The road was empty of traffic. The tips of the bare trees swayed nervously; a few dogs played in the park.
