The Face That Must Die

Chapter XXXI

Peter heard Cathy leave the house. Should he have gone with her to Fanny’s exhibition? He didn’t want to be bored by that stuff. But having been closer to the girls than to Cathy made him feel guilty, irritable. Oh come on, he’d promised to meet her tonight.

He watched her from the window until she disappeared towards Lodge Lane. The park looked calm and vivid; its colours stilled him. He could see so many, thanks to the acid. He hoped the effect would remain.

He ought to do some work today – but you should leave the day after a trip clear for re-entry into normal consciousness. Still, the Librium had made him tranquil, not at all nervous of failure. Should he write? Here came the postman, to delay his decision.

He heard the patter of letters, and went downstairs. Jesus, he was the only person in the house – except for the guy with no name on his bell, who must have made that noise a few minutes ago. He didn’t feel in charge of the house – more as though he were abandoned in it. His footsteps rattled in the empty rooms.

All right, he knew he and Cathy ought to move. He was inert, he knew that. He saw himself all too clearly – that was part of his trouble. But it wasn’t his fault if they couldn’t afford to move. He didn’t want charity from that fascist.

He sorted through the post. Nothing for him, except a bill. Wasted journey. He glanced at a card with a Welsh postmark – from Fanny? No, it was addressed to her.

What happened? Wouldn’t your fans let you get away?

At least give us a ring so we know you’re all right. We hope you’ll still be coming.

Surely she’d gone last Thursday. Cathy had told him so. At least, she was supposed to have gone. Were her friends right to be anxious? Might she be lying injured in her flat?

He climbed slowly to the middle landing. Now he reflected, the fall he’d heard had sounded too loud to have come from the ground floor. Had it been in her flat? He hesitated outside her door. If she answered it and proved unharmed, he’d feel ridiculous. He didn’t even like her; that would make it more embarrassing.

At last he knocked, so softly that he might have been pretending not to. Come on, if that was the best he could do it wasn’t worth doing. He knocked again, and bruised his knuckles.

While he rubbed his knuckles there was silence. Then he heard a sound beyond the door, brief but definite: an object being dragged? He strained his ears, but could hear only their own murmur. “Fanny?” he called.

Silence displayed his voice to him. He called again, and felt ludicrous. Here he was, standing in the middle of an almost empty house, calling “Fanny, Fanny.” If she didn’t want to answer, that was up to her. He trudged upstairs.

Now he was uneasy. He didn’t think she was particularly fond of him – but was that a reason why she wouldn’t answer? Could she be unable to? Cathy had thought she’d heard noises in the flat last night. Perhaps she hadn’t imagined them.

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.