The doll who ate his mother: a novel of modern terror

by Ramsey Campbell

  The day after he’d realized there was no God, Chris had let himself go into the part without even trying.

  He couldn’t have imagined how easy it was. The lightness and relief he’d felt on the way to school, free of his guilt, had been nothing to the ease he’d felt while acting. Later, if he ever felt uneasy with himself, it helped him; what he did to people was only acting, after all; it was only something he did, not the whole of him. Except for the day he’d returned to St. Joseph’s with the Vale School Players, when the cat had distracted the audience from him, he had never felt easier than when acting, or with actors.

  Until Maggie had begun to nag him. The people in TTG left him alone when he wanted to be, didn’t probe. But Maggie had been different, more aggressive. She’d given him hash cake to eat with the rest of them, in her flat. He hadn’t been sure he wanted to eat it; he blamed her. Then for hours he’d kept sinking into himself as if into thick mud; he’d pulled himself free with a start like the start of awakening, except that each time he began sinking again at once; no light had seemed to reach him; the others were far away, cut off from him by the gaps that widened in his consciousness. It seemed impossible that he would ever escape.

  Eventually he’d fled to catch a bus downtown, anywhere, to try to leave behind what was happening. Voices rose from the crowd on the bus, hurtling at him; everyone knew he’d been eating hash. He’d taken refuge in Bonnie and Clyde, which was showing again, but he’d had to leave when the first of the Barrow gang was shot, face exploding into blood. By then the worst of his experience was over. Later, when he’d moved to this flat, he found he felt very much like that near Mulgrave Street at night. Another time Maggie had offered him acid, but he’d never touched drugs again.

  She’d kept asking to come to his flat. TTG met at one another’s homes for drinks or a smoke. Chris had managed to avoid inviting them; he felt safest of all in his flat, where he could always make problems come right in his mind. In his flat he didn’t even need to act being easy with people, he need only be himself. Then Maggie had begun: “When are we coming up to yours?” One of these days she’d try to get in without an invitation. He couldn’t even be sure of his own flat now.

  He slammed the plate of cheese salad on the table; the plate cracked. Of all the things his grandmother had hung on him, vegetarianism was the one he hadn’t slipped off—that, and his first name, which he’d always assumed his mother had given him. Vegetarianism showed he didn’t need to eat anything else.

  His toenails scraped at his sandals, nervous from the restless plucking. He knew where it came from now: the magician’s house, somewhere up Mulgrave Street. It reached into his flat for him. He took off his spectacles, but then the walls were insubstantial as fog; he put on his spectacles hastily.

  He had been returning toward that house ever since he’d left Liverpool. When he’d left his grandmother he had gone at once to London, to stay with the actor who had introduced him to the Vale School Players. After that he’d worked with various theatre groups, always nearer Liverpool. Once back in Liverpool, he had begun moving closer to the house.

  He chewed. His salads weren’t as good as Diane’s. He’d lived with her for a year or so; she had made most of his clothes. Her thighs had gripped him softly, her cunt gulped him; he’d thought he might have that with Clare. When his restlessness had grown imperative he’d left Diane. “Tell me why. Just tell me why,” she’d pleaded, but she was just a voice; since the day his grandmother had screamed him out of the house when he’d offered to help her get used to her blindness, pleas and sympathy were things he didn’t bother with. From Diane’s he had moved here. He found he could hardly remember anything about her now.

  After he’d moved here everything was good, until he’d met Clare.

  He shoved his plate away and spat a mouthful of salad toward it. The plucking nagged at him. He felt enclosed; he would feel enclosed even if he went out. He wrenched up the window over the fire escape and gazed down into the backyard, the blearing twilight.

  His cat was the nearest he’d come to regret. Killing Mrs. Pugh’s fat dog had been like a revenge; he had enjoyed it all the more. His cat had been a stray he’d brought home from the Arts Centre, under his jacket. After the car crash he’d realized the police might question everyone in the area. He’d lain in bed pondering how to deal with them. Suddenly he’d seen that he could head them off: he could make himself a victim. He’d leapt out of bed to grab the cat and hurl her down at the yard wall. She’d made no sound except a thump and a soft crack. Five minutes later he had gone down into the silence to make sure. The cobblestones of the alley were black glistening boils; black plastic sacks of rubbish squirmed feebly in a breeze, rustling. He had lifted the broken cat toward his face.

  He gazed down into the yard. He was sure of one thing: Clare would have told nobody what she’d realized. He bared his teeth at the alley below. He was beginning to hope she would find the house and take him there.

  Edmund leaned back, patting his stomach. That had been a bloody good meal. It had been worth lingering over; the hotel restaurant was almost empty. The Scandinavian blonde he’d begun to chat up in the lift passed his table, and he smiled and half rose before he noticed the man with her. Never mind, at least he’d had a good dinner. It proved they took trouble once you showed them you knew about food.

  But as the forelegs of his chair touched the floor his contentment faded. Now he’d eaten, what was he going to do?

  His fingertips stood and galloped on the tablecloth. Bloody waiters. He’d been kept waiting minutes. He signalled the head waiter, who ordered at once, “Bring Mr. Hall’s check.”

  “You’re doing a good job there. Have one on me later,” Edmund said, stuffing a pound note into the head waiter’s hand. He was all right, the head waiter. Edmund wouldn’t have minded a drink and a chat with him, except that the hotel management might disapprove.

  Hold on. The man was only a waiter, after all. Edmund wasn’t so hard up for company. He could ring George Pugh. George was all nerves with that cinema of his; he needed taking out for a break. Edmund signed the check and was halfway to the telephones when he halted, frowning. No doubt that wife of George’s would object; she didn’t like Edmund. And George was the type who would give in to her. Edmund headed for the residents’ bar, thwarted. He hated interfering women.

  The bar was as full of polite hushed conversations as a hospital ward at visiting time. A thin blanket of piped music shifted behind the conversations, occasionally trailing through them, elusive as mist. Edmund drained his bourbon and held out the glass for a refill. He would have gone to a nightclub, but a dozen of Liverpool’s weren’t worth one of London’s.

  He felt frustrated, helpless. He hadn’t felt so much on edge since his first year in London, when he’d written most of Secrets of the Psychopaths in Frank Baxter’s two-roomed flat, using a board laid over the sink as a table. Frank had been a friend of his at school. He had never asked Edmund to contribute more to the rent than he’d offered; he’d never remarked how Edmund’s bank balance was growing. Still, even Frank had sometimes distracted him from his writing. But he was all right, Frank: Edmund always sent him his books, and he always wrote back that he’d enjoyed them. Edmund hoped he’d enjoy Satan’s Cannibal, formerly The Flesh Eater, when it was finished.

  If it was finished. He should have known not to base his hopes on anything in Liverpool. He’d known what he was doing when he had got out; he shouldn’t have let anything entice him back.

  Working at the newspaper in Liverpool had been the worst time of his life. He’d gone there to learn how to write; it had nearly turned him off writing for good. After they’d encouraged his writing throughout his childhood, his parents—who had both had small pieces published, who had even called him Edmund because it sounded literary—had pleaded with him not to embark on full-time writing: it was too insecure. Journalism, that was secure. His teachers, the youth employment officer, had backed them up. He’d given in.<
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  At least he’d learned from the experience—learned never to let himself be used again: not by a boss, not by the fatuous people he had had to interview at any hour that suited them. He’d learned contempt—for his colleagues, their pettiness and spite and pathetic eagerness to compromise. He’d learned efficiency of writing; he could thank his parents for that, at least. But if he hadn’t been researching and writing Secrets of the Psychopaths in his spare time he could never have stood the newspaper. When he’d seen the advertisement in a trade paper, he had written to the new publisher at once; then he’d begun to pack his luggage, already sure Secrets of the Psychopaths was what the publisher needed.

  He would never have come back to Liverpool, except that his parents refused to move. He had room for them in his house in Surrey, but they’d too many friends here, they said. Even when he had them to stay they wouldn’t be persuaded. He couldn’t imagine how they stood Liverpool after Surrey.

  If he hadn’t come back to visit them he might never have heard of Kelly’s reappearance. But on one of his visits a young writer had invited him to a party, where he’d met Desmond Harris, a newspaper reporter. Desmond had eagerly offered to keep him supplied with reports of any crimes he might be able to use. At the time, the man’s eagerness had seemed as pathetic as the rest of the party, the provincialism, the second-hand trendiness, the ludicrous civic pride they expected him to share. But months later, when Edmund had forgotten his name, Desmond rang him to describe the car crash and its aftermath. The third incident near Mulgrave Street convinced Edmund that they were worth a book; the second had already made him expectant, for he’d always been sure he must hear more of Kelly.

  He had been sure since the incident with Cyril. It had linked him with Kelly, for he’d wished Kelly on Cyril, as revenge for his broken nose. Though he’d beaten Cyril, that broken nose had hurt; he had felt Cyril should suffer more. But he didn’t intend himself to be harmed further; he wouldn’t take that risk again—his nose had been agonizing.

  When Cyril had begun baiting Kelly he’d watched and hoped. He was sure that if Kelly lost control Cyril would be sorry. But when it was over he’d felt there should have been more; he had waited to hear of a sequel. Maybe that had made him overestimate it when it came. And maybe he’d felt Liverpool owed him a bestseller.

  The bar was crowded now; the murmur was louder, more annoying. He downed his bourbon and went to his room. For a moment, gazing at the neat deserted room, he wished he’d stayed with his parents. But he needed to be central and available; they didn’t even have a phone.

  Enough of this. No use getting depressed. He still had a salable book, even if events had hindered the one he’d planned. He had made sure Desmond Harris would ring him as soon as he heard they’d caught Kelly. But it wouldn’t be the same as being there at the arrest; it wouldn’t be the same as confronting Kelly. Perhaps the police would let him interview Kelly. Books had been written that way, after all.

  When he’d poured a bourbon he switched on the radio for pop and uncovered his typewriter. At least he could write up the people he’d met so far. He was sure that was one reason why his books sold—that he understood people.

  __If you tell George Pugh the family is out of date you’d better stand well back. He’s a big man, and he knows what he thinks.

  If it were out of date George wouldn’t care, because he’s an independent man. The cinema he owns and runs is independent too. In these days of big faceless organizations it’s good to meet a man like George.

  He enjoys his job, maybe too much so to relax. But then his job is people as well as entertainment. That’s why he wouldn’t join a cinema chain, because where he is he knows his clientele. His Saturday-morning shows are the biggest and happiest family you’ll see for miles.__

  That’s George all right, Edmund thought, paragraphing.

  __But George’s family is smaller now, and you can see that hurts. It’s been smaller since the night he said goodbye to his mother and rode__

  George’s mother. George hadn’t written her up yet. You couldn’t put a deadline on something like that, but nevertheless it would hold up the chapter. Maybe after all he should talk to George about her, then write her up himself.

  His fingers typed invisible curses on the table. Everything in this book was balked. Most of all he was frustrated by his ignorance of the black magician’s name. If he knew that, he was sure he could research an extra chapter or two; black magic sold books. Only Mrs. Kelly’s stubbornness was thwarting him. Again he thought of giving her address to the police. If he could be sure they’d agree to letting him watch the arrest, or at least let him interview Kelly—

  He ripped the page out of the typewriter and shoved it in his folder. Come on. Write something. The publishers would soon be getting uneasy about the advance they’d paid him. “Clare Frayn,” he typed.

  And halted. He wasn’t sure about her anymore. He’d thought she was open and straightforward, the kind of girl he liked—not too aggressive, not trying to compete with him, not too proud to show she needed men: feminine, in fact. But he’d come to suspect her of using him deceitfully, of pretending she only wanted to help him when really she was furthering her relationship with Chris Barrow. How she could care for someone like him, Edmund didn’t know. One thing was sure: he wouldn’t appear in Edmund’s book. He wasn’t worth the paper.

  He hurled the crumpled page at the waste bin. No good. He couldn’t concentrate: too much bourbon. He’d get to bed soon, and in the morning write up Mrs. Kelly. Who else? Dr. Miller—no, he’d been helpful; he’d earned anonymity. But what he’d told George deserved a chapter. A thought was struggling at the back of Edmund’s mind. He turned down the three-chord pounding of the radio.

  The bourbon washed back down the bottle; the bottle’s mouth hung dripping over the glass. Dr. Miller. Mrs. Kelly. Dr. Miller—

  Edmund barely caught the bottle from smashing the glass. My God, he thought, my God! He’d almost missed seeing it. He snatched up the telephone receiver. Hold on, it’s only an idea, let’s be sure before writing any cheques. But he was sure already. “Get me the Newsham Cinema,” he told the girl. He was back in business. George would get him what he needed. He would have his black magic, after all.

  Tuesday,

  September 23

  “There’s a man on the phone for you, Miss Frayn.”

  Three more of Clare’s little girls were waiting outside the staffroom to watch her reaction. “Thank you, Debbie,” she said, and saw them glimpse her eagerness.

  Why were there so many stairs? Her mind counted her footfalls, forty-eight loud hollow blows on stone, retarded by the duller clunks of her hurry across four landings. Why couldn’t they have a phone in the staffroom? The playground dazzled her. “John and Trevor are fighting, Miss Frayn,” Lynn shouted.

  “They hadn’t better be when I come back.” She hurried past screams of glee, hurtling footballs, impromptu Morris dancers and morose watchers, but her kids were converging from various directions. “Have a sweet, Miss Frayn.”

  “Oh, thank you, Susie.” She popped the boiled sweet in her mouth and almost running (Susie, or was it Yvonne? swallowed it whole. Oh no, she groaned. The sweet bulged her throat as she tried to choke it up; it felt enormous. She could only keep hurrying upstairs. The sweet slipped down into her chest, held immobile and painfully hard for a moment before slipping further, beyond discomfort. She stumbled into the office, gasping her thanks to the deputy head, and picked up the receiver tenderly. But it wasn’t Chris. It was George.

  “I’ve booked you a show,” he said. “Next month, the morning of Friday the twenty-fourth. The Amazing Mr. Blunden.”

  “Oh, great. Thank you, George. The kids will be pleased.” She wished she felt more so. “Have you seen Edmund lately?” she said, to say something.

  “He’s been in touch with me.”

  “We had a row. Anyway, I think Chris and I have done all we can to help. We went looking for the magician’s hou
se on Sunday. A bit pointless, really.”

  “Didn’t you find it? We have, nearly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we’d missed something. Ted only realized on Sunday. Mrs. Kelly told Dr. Miller the magician’s name when she took the boy to see him. I went to ask him yesterday, and he didn’t mind telling. The magician’s name was John Strong. John Strong!” he repeated incredulously. “Ted is getting his address from the Local History library. I should stay out of it now, my dear,” he said. “We’ll deal with it.”

  She went to her classroom instead of the staffroom, to think. The walls looked less bare now; they were beginning to accumulate paintings and stories. John Strong could be a reason to ring Chris.

  Her class crowded in, chattering, then calmed down. Yvonne Lo was less tidily dressed than Susie Lo; Susie was tidying her hair. So there was a way to tell them apart; good. Debbie and her friends gazed at Clare, speculating. John Strong. It must be a false name. It would be useless.

  They had to calm down again when she announced George’s film. “Now we’re going to do division,” she said, and they groaned. She hadn’t understood division either, at their age—it was the hardest arithmetic to grasp; they had to be reminded of it constantly. Soon they’d be faced with long division, poor kids. “John Strong” didn’t sound like a magician, but what did magicians sound like? Wouldn’t he have to sound unremarkable, except to his victims?

  David and Trevor and Margery didn’t understand what she’d said so far; she began again. At least Trevor and Margery were good readers. She was getting a sense of the class; she’d tested their reading ages and sorted them out a reading scheme each. John and Mark were fighters. Sandra and Ranjit tended to sit apart and mope, and had to be encouraged to work in groups. Half the kids had unstable family backgrounds.

  She wanted to get in touch with Chris; she wanted to know why he’d left so abruptly on Sunday. Had he been offended because she’d made excuses for Kelly? He was so unpredictable: she remembered how his feelings about his cat had changed. Had her excuses reminded him what Kelly had done to his cat? Surely he wouldn’t still feel offended. She could ring him about TTG, but he hadn’t seemed too interested when she’d mentioned that. She knew he was interested in John Strong’s house. The children struggled with division, tongues squeezed out, pencils awry. She mustn’t lose touch with Chris.