In Baxter's letter to Dr. Paisley, he was less certain and cheerful.
". . . and it is difficult to detect the real motive behind these attacks. The basic theme is that the child gets what it wants without the mother's help. This may be significant. Perhaps a concealed rejection symptom. I don't anticipate danger at this stage, especially since the patient is so amenable to treatment. But I'd look in occasionally, if I were you. We don't want any . . . accidents . . ."
Five weeks of peace followed. Rosie found life considerably easier. Food and playthings were provided on demand, even before demand. Mrs. Roberts, at first on edge to prevent the outbursts that had started the whole thing, found that the easier path was not always so unpleasant.
Disaster came because of the cold weather.
A sharp nip caused Mrs. Roberts to light fires more frequently, and make them up larger. Coal ran short and she ordered more. The blaze had the usual fascination for Rosie that it has for all children, and with bigger fires, the flames became brighter, more desirable. Rosie crept to the fireguard and thrust her small arms through at the flames.
At once her mother drew her back, in spite of kicks.
"Burny, dear," she said soothingly.
But the attraction of the fire was great, and Rosie, now unused to opposition at all, began to cry in earnest. She fought to escape her mother's imprisoning arms. Mrs. Roberts placed the baby beside the guard, but kept her hands firmly gripped.
"Pretty fire, but burny," she cooed to the squirming Rosie. "Mustn't touch!"
Rosie's face became suffused with dark pink as she wrestled to get her hands free. She started to shriek, dragged one hand from her mother's and thrust it through the guard. Mrs. Roberts snatched it back, grazing the soft skin on the metal. Rosie screamed louder and arched her back in a desperate struggle to be free. Rage glared from her small face. Mrs. Roberts held on firmly and at that moment the doorbell rang.
It was the coal delivery.
With due forethought, Mrs. Roberts hastily swung the child over into her play pen that stood in the middle of the room, well away from the fire.
"Mummy won't be long," she said to the screaming child. "You stop there just a minute. Then Mummy play."
There were six bags of coal to be shot into the outhouse, and the money to be found in the kitchen cupboard. As she went outside to the waiting man, Rosie's yells echoed even louder.
The coalman grinned.
"Sounds as if you got trouble in there!"
"She wants to play with the fire," said Mrs. Roberts. "You know what they are."
"All kids are the same," agreed the man amiably. "By God, though, she's got some lungs!"
And indeed, Rosie, was excelling herself with piercing screams. Screams of a different, subtly altered, tone.
When Mrs. Roberts, followed by the curious coalman, ran into the living room this was full of smoke. In the play pen was a pile of flaming coals, and clinging screaming to the bars, Rosie tried to keep her legs up away from the flames. Her dress was smoking . . .
They took Mrs. Roberts away that afternoon, as soon as her husband could be found to take charge of the shocked but almost uninjured Rosie.
She went without resistance. In that smoky room the coalman had saved the baby. She had done nothing but stare and scream and stare again at the coals.
Dr. Paisley was able to deal with the police, and put them in touch with Baxter, who at once arranged for a bed in the General. By evening, Mrs. Roberts was under light sedation, and a conference had been held with Baxter, Paisley and George Roberts present.
"I knew she was nervy, of course," Roberts was saying. "But I never thought she'd harm the kid."
"She didn't," put in Baxter quickly. "Notice how she arranges these things. There was a man actually there, at the time, and she positively encouraged him to come in to help. If she had intended real harm, she would have done it when nobody was about."
"But why, Mr. Baxter? And whatever are we going to do now?"
"Have you anyone who could look after the child. Just for a week or two?" Baxter asked, frowning.
"Oh, yes. Our Frances. She always wanted kids of her own. She's got Rosie now. There's no problem."
"Well, Mr. Roberts, let's leave it there, for the moment. I'm confident that this—trouble of your wife's is something temporary. I admit I never expected such . . . an unusual and dangerous demonstration as this with the fire. Let's see in a week's time."
"Shall I bring the kid, Doctor? I mean, will she . . ."
"I should leave Rosie at home for a few days, Mr. Roberts. Then we'll see . . ."
It was three weeks before Rosie saw her mother again.
Not that they were days of unhappiness. Aunt Frances was easy going, kindly and had central heating. Moreover, she had brought large supplies of the small sweets that Rosie favoured.
But after three weeks Mrs. Roberts herself was becoming anxious. In her sedative-confused mind she became harassed by fears that Rosie might, after all, have been burned in the fire and was being kept from her. Baxter felt that a meeting was necessary, and might be interesting. He authorised George Roberts to bring Rosie for half an hour, and arranged to be present.
The meeting was unexpectedly touching.
At first Rosie was too interested in the great white hospital building, the long, glittering corridors, the lift that swept her and Mr. Roberts up to the fifth floor, the white clad nurses and the small room with its sterile bed. She hardly noticed her mother.
But then, Mrs. Roberts raised herself and held out her hands. Rosie's face lit up and with a gurgle of delight she strained in her father's arms to try to reach the bed . . .
Baxter watched for ten minutes, then left, thoughtfully. There was no trace of the problem that he had feared; rejection through fear of the mother by the child. Obviously, Rosie remembered her mother only with pleasure, the old frustrations forgotten, and the fire with its terrors.
He had Roberts called from the private room into the corridor.
". . . not quite yet, Mr. Roberts, but fairly soon. It's obvious that Mrs. Roberts is much better. And Rosie seems quite—er—normal with her."
Roberts nodded.
"I did wonder whether the kid'd remember, like. Be feared of her own mum. But she isn't and that's a fact."
"All the same, Mr. Roberts, I'd like to take a few precautions. Perhaps your sister could stay with Mrs. Roberts a few days, after she comes home. Just until she settles in."
"Easy, Mr. Baxter. Just as long as you say."
They both re-entered the room, to see a happy Rosie trying to reach the glass apparatus that a smiling nurse was placing just out of her reach. A trace of a scowl crossed Rosie's face, but the sight of her mother once again distracted her.
"Time to go, Mrs. Roberts, I'm afraid," smiled Baxter. "But good news. Another week or so and I think it's home for you, for good!"
As her father lifted her from Mrs. Roberts' arms, Rosie began to wail. As Baxter, the nurse and Mr. Roberts paused in the doorway to smile farewell, the wail grew to a cry. As the room door closed the cry became a yell. Rosie squirmed in her father's grip and he smiled wryly at the nurse.
"She's a right handful when she gets mad."
Rosie's screams became louder as they entered the lift and slid downwards. Tears of rage and frustration gathered in her eyes and ran down her soft, rounded cheeks. As Roberts crossed the wide, pale hall of the hospital entrance other visitors turned curiously to stare at the raging, shrieking baby, fighting in his arms.
He hastened out to his car, mercifully parked immediately outside below the tall white walls of the ward block.
As he fumbled awkwardly for his keys, clamping the baby beneath one arm, Rosie's suffused face turned upwards, staring desperately up at the vast rows of steel framed windows behind one of which her mother lay.
Rosie shrieked again, agonisingly, demandingly, raising her free arms towards the high, motionless walls. Her eyes glared with effort.
; From the fifth floor, about sixty feet above, came a crash of glass as a body smashed through a window.
Mrs. Roberts fell screaming, writhing, hurtling to the pavement. Her body swept Rosie from her father's arms and smashed her to the concrete.
George Roberts was uninjured, but mother and child were both dead on examination.
The window glass was supposed to be unbreakable, but it is common knowledge that insane people have unusual strength. There was no other explanation.
THE SCAR by Ramsey Campbell
"It was most odd on the bus today," Lindsay Rice said.
Jack Rossiter threw his cigarette into the fire and lit another. His wife Harriet glanced at him uneasily; she could see he was in no mood for her brother's circumlocutions.
"Most odd," said Lindsay. "Rather upsetting, in fact. It reminded me, the Germans—now was it the Germans? Yes, I think it was the Germans—used to have this thing about dopplegangers, the idea being that if you saw your double it meant you were going to die. But of course you didn't see him. That's right, of course, I should explain."
Jack moved in his armchair. "I'm sorry, Lindsay," he interrupted, "I just don't see where you're heading. I'm sorry."
"It's all right, Lindsay," Harriet said. "Jack's been a bit tired lately. Go on."
But at that moment the children tumbled into the room like Pierrots, their striped pyjamas bold against the pastel lines of wallpaper. "Douglas tried to throw me into the bath, and he hasn't brushed his teeth!" Elaine shouted triumphantly.
"There'll be spankings for two in a minute," Jack threatened, but he smiled. "Good night, darling. Good night, darling. No, you've had a hard day, darling, I'll put them to bed."
"Not so hard as you," Harriet said, standing up. "You stay and talk to Lindsay."
Jack grimaced inwardly; he had wanted Harriet to rest, but somehow it now appeared as if he'd been trying to escape Lindsay. "Sorry, Lindsay, you were saying?" he prompted as the thumping on the staircase ceased.
"Oh, yes, on the bus. Well, it was this morning, I saw someone who looked like you. I was going to speak to him until I realized." Rice glanced round the room; although his weekly invitation was of some years' standing, he could never remember exactly where everything was. Not that it mattered: the whole was solid. Armchairs, television, bookcase full of Penguins and book-club editions and Shorrock's Valuer's Manual—there it was, on top of the bookcase, the wedding photograph which Jack had carefully framed for Harriet. "Yes, he was as thin as you've been getting, but he had a scar from here to here." Rice encompassed his left temple and jawbone with finger and thumb like dividers.
"So he wasn't really my double. My time hasn't run out after all."
"Well, I hope not!" Rice laughed a little too long; Jack felt his mouth stretching as he forced it to be sociable. "We've been slackening off at the office," Rice said. "How are things at the jeweller's? Nothing stolen yet, I hope?"
"No, everything's under control," Jack replied. Feet ran across the floor above. "Hang on, Lindsay," he said, "sounds like Harriet's having trouble."
Harriet had quelled the rebellion when he arrived; she closed the door of the children's room and regarded him. "Christ, the man's tact!" he exploded.
"Shh, Jack, he'll hear you." She put her arms round him. "Don't be cruel to Lindsay," she pleaded. "You know I always had the best of everything and Lindsay never did—unhappy at school, always being put down by my father, never daring to open his mouth—darling, you know he finds it difficult to talk to people. Now I've got you. Surely we can spare him kindness at least."
"Of course we can." He stroked her hair. "It's just that—damn it, not only does he say I'm losing weight as though I'm being underfed or something, but he asks me if the shop has been broken into yet!"
"Poor darling, don't worry. I'm sure the police will catch them before they raid the shop. And if not, there's always insurance."
"Yes, there's insurance, but it won't rebuild my display! Can't you understand I take as much pride in the shop as you take in the house? Probably some jumped-up little skinheads who throw the loot away once their tarty little teeny-boppers have played with it!"
"That doesn't sound like you at all, Jack," Harriet said.
"I'm sorry, love. You know I'm really here. Come on, I'd better fix up tomorrow night with Lindsay."
"If you feel like a rest we could have him round here."
"No, he opens out a bit when he's in a pub. Besides, I like the walk to Lower Brichester."
"Just so long as you come back in one piece, my love."
Rice heard them on the stairs. He hurried back to his chair from the bookcase where he had been inspecting the titles. One of these days he must offer to lend them some books—anything to make them like him more. He knew he'd driven Jack upstairs. Why couldn't he be direct instead of circling the point like a wobbling whirligig? But every time he tried to grasp an intention or a statement it slid out of reach. Even if he hung a sign on his bedroom wall—he'd once thought of one: "I shall act directly"—he would forget it before he left the flat. Even as he forgot his musings when Jack and Harriet entered the room.
"I'd better be off," he said. "You never can tell with the last bus round here."
"I'll see you tomorrow night, then," Jack told him, patting his shoulder. "I'll call round and pick you up."
But he never had the courage to invite them to his flat, Lindsay thought; he knew it wasn't good enough for them. Not that they would show it—rather would they do everything to hide their feelings out of kindness, which would be worse. Tomorrow night as usual he would be downstairs early to wait for Jack in the doorway. He waved to them as they stood linked in the bright frame, then struck off down the empty road. The fields were grey and silent, and above the semi-detached roofs the moon was set in a plush ring of cold November mist. At the bus-stop he thought: I wish I could do something for them so they'd be grateful to me.
Harriet was bending over the cooker; she heard no footsteps—she had no chance to turn before the newspaper was over her face.
"I see the old Jack's back with us," she said, fighting off the Brichester Herald.
"You haven't seen it?" He guided her hand to the headline: Youths Arrested—Admit to Jewel Thefts. He was beaming; he read the report again with Harriet, the three boys who'd hoped to stockpile jewellery but had been unable to market it without attracting the police. "Maybe now we can all get some sleep," he said. "Maybe I can give up smoking."
"Don't give it up for me, Jack, I know you need it. But if you did give it up I'd be very happy."
Douglas and Elaine appeared, pummelling towards their tea. "Now just you sit down and wait," Jack told them, "or we'll eat it for you."
After tea he lit a cigarette, then glanced at Harriet. "Don't worry, darling," she advised. "Take things easy for a while. Come on, monsters, you can help clear up." She knew the signs—spilled sugar, dropped knife: Jack would hypertense with relief if he didn't rest.
But ten minutes later he was in the kitchen. "Must go," he said. "Give myself time for a stroll before I meet Lindsay. Anyway, the news ought to give the conversation a lift."
"Come back whole, darling," Harriet said, not knowing.
Yes, he liked to walk through Lower Brichester. He'd made the walk, with variations, for almost two years; ever since his night out drinking with Rice had settled into habit. It had been his suggestion, primarily to please Harriet, for he knew she liked to think he and Lindsay were friends; but by now he met Lindsay out of a sense of duty, which was rarely proof against annoyance as the evening wore on. Never mind, there was the walk. If he felt insecure, as he often did when walking—the night, Harriet elsewhere—he gained a paradoxical sense of security from Lower Brichester; the bleared fish-and-chip shop windows, the crowds outside pubs, a drunk punching someone's face with a soft moist sound—it reassured him to think that here was a level to which he could never be reduced.
Headlights blazed down a side-street, billowing with mist and
motor-cycle fumes. They spotlighted a broken wall across the streets from Rossiter; a group of girls huddled on the shattered bricks, laughing forth fog as the motorcycle gang fondled them roughly with words. Rossiter gazed at them; no doubt the jewel thieves had been of the same mould. He felt a little guilty as he watched the girls, embracing to keep out the cold; but he had his answer ready—nothing would change them, they were fixed; if he had money, it was because he could use it properly. He turned onward; he would have to use the alley on the right if he were not to keep Rice waiting.
Suddenly the shrieks of laughter behind the roaring engines were cut off. A headlight felt its way along the walls, finding one house protruding part of some ruined frontage like a piece of jigsaw, the next shuttered with corrugated tin which had been torn down from the doorway, its neighbour dismally curtained. Briefly the beam followed a figure: a man in a long black coat swaying along the pavement, a grey woolen sock pulled down over his face. The girls huddled closer, silently. Jack shuddered; the exploratory progress of the figure seemed unformed, undirected. Then the light was gone; the girls giggled in the darkness, and beyond a streetlamp the figure fumbled into the tin-shuttered house. Jack turned up his coat collar and hurried into the alley. The engines roared louder.
He was halfway up the alley when he heard the footsteps. The walls were narrow; there was barely room for the other, who seemed in a hurry, to pass. Jack pressed against the wall; it was cold and rough beneath his hand. Behind him the footsteps stopped.
He looked back. The entrance to the alley whirled with fumes, against which a figure moved towards him, vaguely outlined. It held something in its hand. Jack felt automatically for his lighter. Then the figure spoke.
"You're Jack Rossiter." The voice was soft and anonymous yet somehow penetrated the crescendo of the motorcycles. "I'll be visiting your shop soon."
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