The Face That Must Die

by Ramsey Campbell

  The advertised house didn’t look bad. An arch of bricks framed the front door; alternate bricks were painted brightly. The door opened onto the pavement, but she hadn’t expected a garden. It looked a snug little house – they could make something of it. Not until she struggled to lift the knocker did she realise how rusty it was.

  The echoes of its slow thuds died away. Were more echoes returning, or were those sounds footsteps? The door juddered open, revealing an old man in a suit and dressing-gown. His face was shrunken close to the bone, and looked small and timidly hopeful, like a little boy’s.

  “ Are you for the house?” he said eagerly. “It’ll be just the job for you, I can tell.”

  He trotted backwards, making way for them. The hall was dim; well, they needn’t keep it so. Were all the vague blurs on the walls shadows? Peter touched one and examined moisture on his hand.

  “ Here’s the living-room.” Within, a small fire coughed thickly. Cathy understood now why the old man wore so many clothes; she shivered. She would make the house warmer.

  “ It’s been a good little house.” The old man rested one hand on a framed photograph of a family; he was the father. The frame and its glass were free of the dust which sprinkled the room. “But it’s too big for one person alone,” he said.

  He turned to Peter; this was man’s talk. “The rates are a bit high for me. They’re very reasonable. They’d be no trouble if I were your age.”

  Cathy didn’t quite see why that should make a difference. Behind the scenes she thought she heard rodents moving. “Let’s see the rest,” Peter demanded.

  She frowned at his rudeness – or was she less anxious now to view the rest? They followed the old man. The kitchen walls were sweaty; a table hardly wider than a chair stood beside a protruding sink. “You could have a dining-table in here,” said the old man hopefully.

  He led the way upstairs. Peter stepped aside to tread on a board under the staircase; it leapt up, exposing an earthy hollow like a grave. Dust hung swaying from a lampshade above the stairs and made the flex thick and furry as a caterpillar.

  “ This is the married bedroom.” The old man sounded wistful. Half of the double bed was bare; rust outlined the nuts and bolts of its frame.

  He leaned on the headboard, smiling like a salesman, as if they must be persuaded by now.

  “ What’s in here?” said Peter on the landing.

  “ Oh, that’s another room. It needs a few things doing.” The old man hurried towards him; the floor broke into a chorus of creaks. Peter held open the door for Cathy to see. Beneath a ragged tear that displayed wooden ribs, a heap of plaster lay on paper fallen from the ceiling. The walls streamed.

  In the living-room, the old man said “How does it look to you?”

  His hopefulness was dismaying, for it seemed to contain no pretence. Peter waited impatiently in the hall. “We’ll have to think about it,” Cathy said trying to be gentle. “But – I’m afraid it isn’t quite what we’re looking for.”

  “ Well, never mind.” Was his smile meant to reassure her, or himself? “I understand,” he said. “It’s a bit small if you’re planning to have children.”

  Peter was hurrying to the van. “So much for that,” he said triumphantly. “If that’s all we can afford it’s not worth looking.” She didn’t bother keeping up with him. Let him wait. He was only hurrying to roll another joint.

  ***

  Chapter XXVII

  At last Horridge managed to sleep, but never for very long. Beer lay uneasily in his head and his stomach. His skull throbbed in time with the beat of the clock, whose ticking chanted nonsense, trying to tempt him to listen. In the darkness the plumbing muttered. Just let them come near. He clutched the razor.

  He should have followed Mr Fearon home. There was no use trying to find him now, in the fog. The old man would be able to look up his address in the voters’ list, if he didn’t know already. Horridge writhed beneath the imprisoning blankets. He should have killed Mr Fearon.

  Dawn crept into the room. It looked like fog, though the day was clear. Were they waiting for daylight before they arrested him, so that his neighbours could watch and approve? No doubt they would make the arrest appear legal and necessary. People were eager to believe anything.

  There was one place where they mightn’t look for him. He need hide for only a few days, until his money was due. He’d thought of it during the dark hours. The idea had seemed dreamlike, but now it felt solid and right.

  He switched on the radio. That would make them think he was staying. “Scattered showers and good sunny periods,” the newsreader said. What was the other voice murmuring – about a man obsessed with the idea that he was being watched, who had attacked a policeman?

  Oh no, that wasn’t Horridge. They needn’t waste their time. No doubt they’d faked the incident to confuse people. Or perhaps they’d driven the man mad. The voice withdrew, having failed to delude Horridge. He turned to another station, and another. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that each new voice was the same voice, disguised. Were they aiming special broadcasts at him for some reason? A blare of pop music faded abruptly. “And it’s just ten past nine,” a disc jockey said. “Ten past eight, I mean.”

  Horridge scrubbed himself thoroughly. He didn’t know when he would next be able to wash. Razor in hand, he squirmed into his raincoat and slipped the weapon into his pocket. He spent minutes easing open the front door, so that the radio wouldn’t hear. Let it sit there singing to itself – it was a fool, like its masters. His last glance showed him the wardrobe. He was glad to be leaving that behind. During the night he’d dreamed that blood had burst it open.

  Before he reached the bus stop the ground began to hiss, rattle, blanch. Above the concrete desert the grey air was viciously striped with hail. The pelting stung his cheeks; his skin felt slashed. So the newsreader had been lying. He was one of their dupes.

  Horridge wouldn’t be driven back. He knew where he was going; they wouldn’t stop him. Hail melted underfoot, and tricked his bad leg from beneath him; he almost fell. The storm slackened, only to renew itself vindictively. A mass like frozen porridge collected amid the grass, which twitched. Icy dandruff clung to his shoulders.

  He stumbled under the bus shelter. It had no wall to ward off the hail – one of the planners’ sadistic jokes. Against a stagnant sky the colour of dust, tower blocks menaced him. The rushing air cut at his face. Let them do their worst. Did they think he had no stamina? He grasped the razor. If only he could meet Mr Fearon now!

  The bus was full of workmen – at least, presumably that was what they called themselves. No doubt they were off to erect one of their signs: MEN WORKING, as though that were news – which of course it was these days. They mumbled to one another. Didn’t they dare own up to what they were saying? Talking about him, were they? Too many of them looked elusively familiar. They’d better not come too close, if they knew what was good for them.

  When the bus reached Shiel Road, he stayed on board. That’d surprise a few of them! He rose just before the Boaler Street stop and tugged peremptorily at the bell. He waited until the bus had carried its mob of spies away.

  Opposite was the box from which he’d spoken to Craig. It was appropriate that he’d returned to the scene of his first triumph. He was shivering; his raincoat was glued coldly to him. Could he really take refuge in his old home, where there weren’t even windows?

  Yes, by God. Someone else had been able to sleep there. It would only be until he collected his train fare. He could drag the mattress into the most sheltered corner. He would survive. They wouldn’t get rid of him, oh no.

  He limped towards Boaler Street. No time for doubts. He’d have plenty of time to ponder once he was safely hidden. Why did the line of shops look false as a stage set? Why did it seem terrifyingly insubstantial?

  Because there was nothing behind it: his street had gone.

  He stared at the muddle of bricks and wood that had been his home. He felt as
though his innards had been ripped out. He was beaten. They had won. Had someone told them of his plan to hide here? Nearby a bulldozer prowled, a bully making sure that he didn’t take refuge anywhere else.

  The fallen streets had revealed a large building of orange brick. It squatted on a patch of mud, and looked like a toy lost while still new. Above its door a sign said POLICE. At once it became menacing as a dream grown solid in daylight.

  He fled, limping. A car marked POLICE drew away from the orange block, but turned aside from him. Let them arrest him – they wouldn’t find much. His birth certificate was shut in the wardrobe: all his documents -

  Including his payment book. He wouldn’t be able to collect his disability benefit. They’d managed to trick him. They’d robbed him of escape. His limp carried him staggering onwards, onwards, with nowhere to go. The razor patted his hip. It was his only friend, the only thing he could trust. But where could the two of them hide?

  ***

  Chapter XXVIII

  In Peter’s head a loud metallic voice said “We have lift-off.” Symbols were crystallising rapidly and unstably on the walls. When he looked in the mirror, his pupils were spectacularly dilated; he had the eyes of a mummy’s mask. Instead of a face he had a set of masks that played over one another constantly, like shuffled cards. Today he would find himself beneath them.

  Sue lay on his bed; Anne was sunk in the deepest chair. He was glad he’d decided to take the trip with them. Already he felt closer to them than he’d felt to Cathy for a while. He didn’t feel criticised, even implicitly. They accepted him for what he was.

  He oughtn’t to take acid while Cathy was near. Her anxiety for him only made him feel threatened by a bad trip. If she had been here, her obsession with the atmosphere of the house would have infected all of them.

  Like an oracle, Sue announced “I’m not going to work tomorrow.”

  “ We’ll report sick,” Anne said.

  He nodded sagely. You shouldn’t work the day after taking a trip. Reporting sick was funny, though: acid was ultimate health. Still, work was a game, and lies were a way to win like any other.

  They were sharing visions now. They watched the elaboration of the trees beyond the window. He couldn’t remember when he’d felt so safe. Was he secure enough to reach down into himself, to the part of him which he knew was there but which he could never quite perceive, the part that would solve all his problems?

  “ We got some nice sounds from the record library,” Anne said. “They’d be good now.”

  Without her asking aloud, Sue and Peter waited on the landing, so that she didn’t feel alone in her flat. Eventually she returned with a record of Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto. Mozart made Peter think of Craig: he’d liked that sort of thing. A faint stench drifted out of the dark stairwell. It was all right. Cathy wasn’t here to make them apprehensive. He seemed to recall having heard some nice sounds by Mozart.

  The music sounded deft and sinuous. Fat Germans danced over fields. Peter saw Mozart performing rapid conjuring tricks, waving his wand which was the baton he used to beat the orchestra, capitalism’s club beating the workers, all of whom had to lock themselves into evening dress to look middle-class. Bright caricatures raced through his mind, a speeded-up cartoon film.

  In the park a dog was barking. It tried to join in the music, then it began to snap at Mozart’s heels. All three of them giggled uncontrollably. Mirth exploded from them like farting.

  The second movement of the concerto was slower. The long notes of the clarinet seemed oily. Peter moved uneasily in his chair. A huge worm oozed along. Its moisture clung to his skin. The worm was dying. A corpse was near him.

  Fear paralysed him. It was all right, the images must be coming from the girls, they weren’t his. The acid couldn’t be as strong as this; they’d split the tab three ways. Just let it slow down, just for a moment, just so he could see what was coming, please stop for a moment, he wouldn’t take acid again, ever, he promised – But death had entered the room, and held him immobile. If he opened his eyes they would burst, putrefy.

  At last he opened them, to escape the sight of Mozart’s face collapsing. The face was there on the record cover, squirming. Mozart was dead, that was all! The acid strobe flashed in his eyes like an unavoidable warning. Trees were bones on which writhed remnants of flesh. In the clouds Craig’s face was flaking away beside a woman’s face. Death was total disintegration, the core of yourself flying apart into a void. Sue’s and Anne’s faces were coming away from the bone, pried loose by their terror.

  He managed to stand, on legs that felt scrawny and fleshless. The light seemed not to reach him, as though he were unable to perceive it properly – as though his eyes had died. Dimness was advancing. Beneath the floor, which felt thin as ice, lay an eager grave. For a moment he meant to flee and leave the girls. “Let’s go in the park,” he blurted.

  They stood up gingerly, as if going blind. Their slowness clung to him like the moisture of the worm. A pair of Cathy’s tights hung like the skin of a starved child, a terrible sexless absence between its legs. He mustn’t scream. He guided them as far as the landing. The stairwell was an enormous dark pit that shifted and crawled like earth.

  Sue drew back trembling. “It’s too far,” she wailed.

  “ Come on. We’ve got to try.” He sounded like dozens of films. It wasn’t how he sounded that mattered, only what he did. He poked the time-switch. Wide bare staircase, stark unsteady bulbs: Psycho.

  “ Come on. We’re all right. Come on,” he repeated all the way downstairs, and led them out of the horror film.

  So that was all. It was so simple. He need only act masculine, instead of holding back for fear of failure. He’d led them all to safety. He closed the front door carefully, like a home-owner protecting his house.

  They walked in the park. Never before had he seen so many colours. Piercingly vivid ripples passed through the grass. Trees unfolded patterns, mysterious and Oriental. Primitive hieroglyphs appeared on stone. He was an archetypal man, guiding and guarding his women. They sat by the lake and became the movement of light on water.

  A dog ran past them. Its red pelt glowed; each hair was separate. They watched the play of its muscles, complex and graceful. “You ought to become vegetarian,” Anne said.

  “ Cathy cooks vegetarian once a week.”

  He sensed their silent contempt. Was it justified? He felt disloyal to her, and alienated from the girls. Perhaps they could tell, for Sue said “We’re going on.”

  It didn’t sound like an invitation. “I’ll stay here,” he said.

  Climbing the grassy slope, they held hands. It occurred to him that neither of them seemed involved with men. Did they have sex together? That was irrelevant. Though he’d pretended to accept it, he had never really believed lesbianism existed. Now he saw it, it seemed in no way startling. The acceptance made him feel more masculine, less vulnerable.

  Eventually he managed to read his watch. Cathy would be home soon. Should he be there when she arrived, to rid himself of the lingering sense of disloyalty? He strolled towards the house, which moved wakefully.

  Someone was ahead of him on the stairs: a man, who looked deformed. Strangers often did when you were tripping. The face looked elusively familiar, but its masks were shifting. He must be moving into one of the flats; he was fumbling in his pocket, no doubt for a key. His stare made Peter paranoid – but perhaps it was the trip that made the stare seem odd.

  Peter hurried upstairs. The slam of his door calmed him slightly. He sat at the window to watch the mystical gestures of the trees, the temple dancers. He tried to inhale calm. Shit, it was Cathy’s fault. She was infecting him. Just now he’d felt as panicky on the middle landing as she had behaved.

  ***

  Chapter XXIX

  “ Shall we eat vegetarian tonight?” Peter asked.

  Cathy knew at once that he was tripping. When he embraced her, his smell had changed. That dismayed her. It was as though he’d
become someone she didn’t know – someone who might not want to know her? “All right,” she said dully.

  She’d hoped to interest him in homes for sale, and to discuss their budget – some hope, no doubt. Or might the trip have made him more suggestible? It was impossible to tell, for during the meal he insisted on listening to Mozart. He looked relieved, triumphant.

  In a lull between movements she said “Is that Fanny?”

  Surely she’d heard a vague noise. Perhaps Fanny had come home early. The music scurried brightly. She made to turn it down, but saw his growing unease. Her question must have made him paranoid for some reason. She’d go down later, and knock.

  They were washing up when Sue and Anne called. The girls looked timid, anxious not to tarry. Well, that was a relief. “We’re going to stay with some people,” Sue said.

  “ We don’t like the house any more. We nearly had a bad trip today.”

  Cathy glimpsed Peter’s grimace. She didn’t especially care that he’d taken his trip with the girls: if he had to take the stuff at all, what did it matter who his companions were? But it depressed her that he didn’t want her to know.

  When the girls had gone, he turned the record over. All right, she didn’t want to talk either – not to him. A flute and a harp played together, blithe as children. She sat and closed her eyes. She felt exhausted. The music faded as she withdrew into herself in search of peace.

  His voice woke her: her name, or some word. “What’s the matter?” she said irritably.

  “ You were asleep.”

  “ Yes, I know that.” Perhaps he didn’t want to be left alone while he was tripping, but he would never let her doze: he was like a spoilt child who couldn’t bear a moment’s inattention to him.