The Face That Must Die

by Ramsey Campbell

  He could at least push the card beneath Fanny’s door. Still, there was another, more adventurous possibility. He went into the kitchen and gazed out at the fire escape. He wouldn’t be able to work until he knew whether anything was wrong. Besides, the adventure would be more exciting than work.

  He carried the kitchen chair to the window, and raised the sash. It rattled loudly, unused to being disturbed. The manoeuvre proved to be more difficult than he’d expected: he had to clamber over the sink, and was forced to sit on it for a moment. Would it give way? It held, and he struggled over the windowsill.

  When his heel struck the iron platform, the entire fire escape vibrated audibly. Jesus, this wasn’t so much fun after all. Oh come on, the thing wasn’t going to fall down. He wormed himself noisily beneath the sash, and stood on the platform.

  He felt victorious. Beneath him the back yards and gardens were ranked, penned in by brick walls. Nobody employed him; he was free. Cathy wouldn’t dare stand here. Wasn’t that another reason why they ought to move? Suppose there were a fire?

  He descended the iron stairs, which quivered. He moved slowly, to steady them and his pulse. Fanny’s kitchen window was wide open. Did that mean she was at home? Perhaps – but not that she was unharmed.

  He hesitated, peering into the part of the bare kitchen the window revealed. His blurred shadow made it dim. Eventually he leaned in. Metal gleamed sharply at him: a knife on the draining-board, beside a rolling-pin. The kitchen was deserted. Dare he climb in? He felt bold yet vulnerable, like a child.

  Out of the empty kitchen a voice whispered “Peter.”

  He recoiled. The guillotine of the sash chopped the back of his neck. He swore; of course, the whisper had come from the main room. It must be Fanny. “What?” he hissed, feeling like a parody of a conspirator.

  “ Peter, help me.”

  Clambering through the window was more of a task than emerging from his own had been. At last he succeeded in thrusting his feet past the sink. He grabbed the sink and let himself fall, jarring his ankles.

  At once a voice said “Now close the window, quickly.”

  It wasn’t Fanny’s voice. A man had come into the kitchen – the man who had watched him and Craig, and who’d skulked near the house. “What are you doing in here?” Peter demanded. “Where’s Fanny?”

  The man limped within arm’s reach. Peter remembered the figure on the landing, whose stance had been deformed. “Make less noise,” the man said with a kind of tight-lipped glee, “or I’ll cut you. Close the window.”

  In his hand a razor glared. Immediately Peter was seized by his nightmare: his body was hacked open like meat, like Craig’s. He was paralysed. Could he shout for help? Could he struggle with the man? Craig had been stronger, and he’d been no match for a razor. Already Peter could feel his fingers slashed to uselessness.

  “ The window. I won’t tell you again.”

  Even if Peter shouted the razor would finish him long before help arrived. He reached out and closed the sash; compulsion rather than thought dragged his hands down. Their trembling dismayed and infuriated him. His stomach felt like the whirlpool of a drain.

  “ Now then,” the man said. “You’re going to drive me to Wales.”

  Despite his panic, Peter felt close to hysterical laughter. It made his words jerky. “No chance, brother. I can’t drive.”

  Before he could move, the razor flicked towards his right eye. The pain was steely cold, but the liquid that spilled down his face was warm. He had to struggle to raise his hand, to discover where the blade had touched him: just below the eye.

  “ You’re going to drive me to Wales.”

  “ Jesus Christ, are you mad?” Peter screamed. “I can’t drive!”

  “ Shall I cut you again? I’ve told you once to make less noise.”

  Peter’s hands writhed, struggling to signify his truthfulness. “You’ve got to believe me.” Blood trickled into his mouth. “My wife’s the one who drives. I can’t.” This was grotesque; he was chatting reasonably, as though the man were a persistent hitchhiker. “I can’t fucking drive,” he moaned.

  The man shook his head, as though offended. He advanced; the razor lifted. Peter’s back thumped the corner beyond the window. He was trapped, with no weapon in reach. “Then you’re no use to me at all, are you?” the man said.

  ***

  Chapter XXXII

  The library was clear. The last of the old people who converged on the light and warmth like moths had gone. Here was someone, knocking urgently on the doors. He wasn’t Peter; he was a plaintive spinsterish man whose books were due for return today. Cathy accepted the books mechanically and wondered where Peter was.

  He must be on his way. She’d phoned the flat to remind him to meet her, but there had been no reply. She waited outside the library. Her colleagues hurried away. Cars whisked by; groups of people passed, chattering and laughing. The pair of telephone boxes shone, glass exhibition cases with nothing to show. A cold wind nagged at her.

  Fanny’s pictures had been startlingly cheap. A few were still unsold; she’d liked them all. Should she have bought one? Peter bought his comics without consulting her. Where was he?

  On his way through the park, no doubt, and smoking a joint: that would rob him of his sense of time, among other things. She might as well meet him; waiting frustrated her. She dawdled along Lark Lane. The shops were dark, but light and a cheerful uproar filled the Masonic pub. A gargoyle leaned out from the old police station.

  On Aigburth Drive the occasional lamps looked inadequate as matches stuck in the night. By squinting, she could just distinguish the van parked near the house. There was no sign of Peter. He must be in the park. He knew the route that she always used.

  She walked down the path among the trees, avoiding heaps of turf cleared from the lawns. She was sure they could talk more freely away from the house; last night she’d had an irrational suspicion that they were being overheard.

  A car droned along Aigburth Drive. When it had passed, silence closed in. The cold wind set trees creaking. Branches were intricately clear against the dim sky, and looked surrounded by an aura. They stirred delicately as ferns.

  On her right was a tennis court. Beyond the wire netting, a shape squatted. She almost shouted at it, infuriated by her start of nervousness. But it wasn’t Peter lurking to leap out at her. It was a heavy roller.

  Now she was wary. It would be just like him to hide in the dark to scare her. Peering out from behind a tree, head wagging – but it was a bush. She hurried down to the lake. The park exhibited her footsteps, its loudest sound.

  Above her, Eros stood on one tiptoe atop his pinnacle. In daylight he always looked as though he were waiting impatiently outside the cafe for someone to bring him an ice cream. Now the hovering life-size figure troubled her. It made her feel that it wasn’t the only figure nearby.

  She paced beside the lake, towards the bandstand. Violent wings fluttered on the water, which lapped nervously. The dark was crowded with shapes that moved on the edge of her vision, creeping around behind her. “Peter,” she cried, enraged.

  The silence returned her cry, flattened. For no reason that she could define, the sound made her fear for him. Had he had an LSD flashback? Might he be unable to meet her? She peered anxiously into the shelter near the bandstand, but all the shapes in there were darkness.

  No doubt he was home by now, and wondering where she was. And of course he wouldn’t understand why she had been worried. She must hurry home. Shapes were waiting for her: a group of bushes tall as men shifted restlessly beside the path. Were they all bushes?

  Certainly they were. She knew that as soon as she’d passed them, when none of them had seized her. And those were only litter-bins that crouched on the forecourt of the cafe. A black stain spread across the sky, dimming the park. Cracked and wrinkled concrete snagged her feet.

  Wasn’t there one litter-bin too many? Rubbish – she’d never counted them. No, nobody was lurking
on the benches by Eros. Nothing was sneaking after her except windblown litter. She hurried onto the avenue, towards the obelisk.

  Had any of the bins moved? She glanced back. No, of course not. How stupid! Along the avenue, trees stepped out stealthily from behind one another. Again she looked back. None of the blurred shapes moved before the advancing darkness engulfed them.

  Nearly home now. Just let him watch what he said if she found him waiting there. She hoped he was waiting. The obelisk grew nearer. It was wider than a man. Just let him jump out at her! Wasn’t that a shadow protruding from behind it? No, only a wet patch on the ground. Nobody was hiding.

  As she hurried towards the house she saw that the flat was dark. Oh, where could he be? Getting stoned, no doubt – leaving her to shiver on the dark deserted road. She glanced automatically towards the van, to check that nobody had interfered with it.

  A thick strip of darkness outlined the nearside door – too thick. The door was ajar. Peter must have gone into the van for something – but why on earth couldn’t he have locked it after him? Not that there was anything in there worth stealing.

  She pulled the door back, and poked her head in to glance at the jumble of petrol cans, crumpled stained paperbacks for long journeys, the capacious old armchair for those who wanted to sit in it. Her harsh gasp made her cough. A couple was sitting in the armchair.

  Good God, couldn’t they find anywhere else? Her shock gave way to amused incredulity. She’d heard of squatters, but this was ridiculous. Why were they so still? The girl’s head rested on the man’s shoulder; his arm embraced her. Deep in Cathy’s mind was bewilderment and worse. Dimly she made out that the long-haired one wasn’t a girl at all, for he had a beard. Why, they were both men. She squinted at the face beneath the long hair. Why was it so desperately urgent that she see?

  “ Ah, there you are,” the other man said. “Get in.”

  He sounded as though he were taking up a previous conversation. Her mind refused to work; all she could do was switch on the dashboard light. It revealed the detective whom Fanny had met, sitting with his arm around Peter. Peter’s forehead was darkened by a large bruise, if it was nothing more serious. Dried blood linked the corner of his mouth to his right eye.

  “ Get in and make no noise,” the man said.

  Her mind seemed incapable of grasping the situation. She couldn’t struggle past the notion that Peter was dead. She had no idea what to do. Who was this man?

  As she faltered, his free hand reached towards the hand that dangled negligently beyond Peter’s shoulder. She heard a slight click; a blade gleamed. His free hand pulled back Peter’s right eyelid, exposing the moist white ball, unconscious or lifeless. She had never felt before how thin the skin of an eyeball was.

  “ I won’t tell you again to get in.”

  She thought of Mr Craig, and knew at once what this man had done to him. The police had caught the wrong man. Everything seemed unreal – that wasn’t a detective, that wasn’t Peter, that wasn’t a razor – but nothing was unreal enough. The gear lever punched her leg as she clambered in.

  “ That’s right. Now close the door. Get behind the wheel. Start the engine. Gently. You wouldn’t like my hand to jerk, would you?”

  Perhaps if she obeyed everything he said, immediately, not questioning, the nightmare which threatened her wouldn’t arrive. Surely this must end soon – but she knew it had hardly begun. In the mirror she saw the dull gleam of the blade, hovering before Peter’s eye.

  “ You’re going to drive me to Wales,” the man said.

  ***

  Chapter XXXIII

  She could only concentrate on driving, in the hope that that would hold back her panic. She mustn’t make a single error. The traffic lights at Sefton Park Road jolted the van slightly; so did those at Lodge Lane. Each time the hovering gleam wavered.

  “ That’s right,” the man said. “Just you go slowly. We don’t want the police stopping us, do we? You won’t be able to stop me now.”

  He sounded as though he had a personal score to settle with her. The steering wheel’s jacket was already damp with her sweat. “Which part of Wales do you want me to drive to?” She was trying to gain some hold on the situation, but her voice was jerky, uneven.

  “ Oh, don’t you know? All right, we’ll pretend you don’t. You just keep going until I tell you not to.”

  He was insane. She was beginning to realise that now. If she told him he’d mistaken her for someone else, that might make him worse. Her hands were shaking. When she grasped the wheel, it trembled. She had to slow the van still more as it manoeuvred over the potholes of Lodge Lane.

  “ No need to go to sleep. We can move a bit faster than that. What do you think you’re driving, a hearse? Eh, a hearse?”

  He was laughing, a dry insect sound. She halted the van beside a block of dark shops; a broken window grinned jaggedly. Perhaps he would attack her, but she couldn’t go on like this. “I can’t drive if you hold that so close to him,” she muttered dully. “I can’t concentrate. I won’t risk it.”

  “ Don’t you tell me what to do!” His voice was thin and vicious. The blade gestured before Peter’s face. “I’ve got the upper hand now! I’ll cut him again!”

  Her indifference hardly shocked her; the nightmare had drained her emotions. In any case, Peter might be dead. “That won’t do you any good. It won’t make me drive.”

  He stared at her in the mirror. Her face felt slack, too burdened to show concern. At last the blade drooped beside Peter’s shoulder. “All right,” the man said. “Now get on with what you’re here to do. And just remember, I’ve had enough of all your tricks. I’ll have his eye out in no time.”

  It had begun to rain. She wished she could feel it on her cheeks, to refresh her. The van’s cacophony of small noises surrounded her, refusing to be left behind. The smell of petrol had turned cloying; it clung to her nostrils. In the mirror heads swayed, and the gleam.

  Rain glittered on splashes of light outside pubs. It slashed headlamp beams obliquely, and made the van sound like a tin can beneath a storm. Vague lights drifted underwater on the roadway. Shops and terraced streets glistened blackly. A few people ran, hiding their heads.

  She drove across the lights at Smithdown Road. “Where are you going?” the man demanded.

  His voice twitched her hands on the wheel. “To the tunnel,” she said almost angrily.

  “ Is that so. Just make sure you’ve no idea of heading for Cantril Farm.”

  A Bingo hall swam up, spreading its carpet of light. Another set of traffic lights stood on the roots of their deformed reflections. She turned left, hurling a puddle aside.

  “ Where are you going now?”

  “ To the tunnel. That’s the way to Wales.”

  “ I know the way. Don’t think I don’t. You’ve underestimated me long enough.”

  She mustn’t answer. His words might drag her into his madness. Whenever she spoke to him she felt her mind unfocusing. She drove. Rain pelted the van; rain rushed incessantly over land bared by demolition. It emphasised her metal cell.

  The van rolled downhill, towards the city centre. Ahead and to her left was the university clock. Nearly five to ten. Surely the downtown streets would be crowded. Mightn’t someone see what was wrong? Mightn’t they call the police or even be quick enough to overpower the man before he injured Peter permanently – if he hadn’t already done so?

  Rain streamed down bright display windows. Streams deepened in the gutters. Rainbow patches of petrol shone on the roadway, amid the riot of neon. London Road was almost deserted. A few couples hurried, or huddled in doorways; sombre figures queued in a chemist’s. Whenever anyone crossed in front of the van, the gleam lifted in the mirror.

  The empty foyer of the Odeon sailed by on its amber glow. Two men were striding away from the cinema. Could she call out, wrench, the van off balance, disarm the man? He might go berserk, and even her nightmare failed to show her what would happen then.


  She drove towards the Mersey Tunnel. There were few pavements now. Cavernous subways led beneath the roadway, but nobody was walking. The tenements of Gerard Gardens stood close to the road, deafened by incessant traffic.

  The tunnel closed overhead. It was bright and pale as a hospital corridor, and seemed as ominous. Rear lights led her along the subterranean trail. She felt the city pressing on the tunnel, and then the weight of the river. She was trapped and helpless as a puppet in a tin box.

  Overhead lights flicked by. In the mirror the faces flickered monotonously with shadow; the image in the frame looked like a senile film – unreal, unconvincing. Peter was so still. She hadn’t seen or heard him breathing. Mightn’t he be dead? If he were, that would end the nightmare; she could jump from the van at the far end of the tunnel, without worrying about him.

  Her thoughts – surely they weren’t hopes – dismayed her. She mustn’t think such things, she must plan how to save him. Somehow, when she halted at the toll booth, she had to alert the man in the booth without letting the madman see.

  She passed the halfway sign: LIVERPOOL/BIRKENHEAD. The tunnel was interminable; its vanishing point receded like an optical illusion. Sweat stung her eye. She dabbed the trickle away, blinking and weeping. She must clutch the tollman’s hand when she paid him, and show him with her eyes that something was wrong behind her. Suppose he spoke and gave her away?

  The string of red lights dawdled uphill. A string of white lights was let down beside them. The vanishing point became a curve in the tunnel, and crept forward. Nearly there. It’ll work, she reassured her shaking hands.

  An arch of glaring light advanced down the tunnel, dazzling her; a driver had neglected to switch off his headlights. She was groping stealthily in her handbag for the toll, so as not to betray to the man with the razor what was coming, when he spoke.