The Face That Must Die

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?