The Year's Best Horror Stories 21

THE LIMITS OF FANTASY by Ramsey Campbell

In the summer of 1974 Michel Parry, an old friend, complained to me that nobody was sending him tales on sexual themes for his black magic anthologies. Aroused by the suggestion, I wrote “Dolls,” which enabled me both to explore what happened to the supernatural story when the underlying sexual theme (not always present, of course) became overt and to write a long short story that was stronger on narrative than atmosphere, a useful preparation for writing my first novel. Michel hadn’t expected anything quite so sexually explicit, and I was amused when his publishers, Mayflower, felt compelled to show “Dolls” to their lawyers for advice. They were advised to publish, and over the next two years Michel commissioned several more such tales from me, including two for a short-lived series of anthologies of erotic horror which he edited as Linda Lovecraft, who was, in fact, the owner of a chain of sex shops and who is one more reason why asking for Lovecraft in a British bookshop may earn you a dubious look. Perhaps the anthologies were ahead of their time because More Devil’s Kisses, the second in the series, was pulped shortly after publication, apparently in response to objections from Scotland Yard. Rumor had it that the problem was a tale reprinted from National Lampoon, involving a seven-year-old girl and a horse. I confess to being more amused than irritated by the ban, much as I felt upon learning that my first novel had been seen (in a television documentary) on top of a pile of books for burning by Christian fundamentalists—something of a compliment as far as I’m concerned. On reflection, though, I think I wasn’t entitled to feel quite so superior about censorship. Though my sexual tales had been, on the whole, progressively darker and more unpleasant, I’d suppressed the third of them, “In the Picture.” It was the initial draft of the story published here.

At the time (May 1975) I believed I had decided not to revise and submit the story because it wasn’t up to publishable standard, and that was certainly the case. However, the reasons were more personal than I admitted to myself. All fiction is to some extent the product of censorship, whether by the culture within which it is produced or by the writer’s own selection of material, both of which processes tend to be to some extent unconscious. Perhaps the most insidious form of censorship, insofar as it may be the most seductive for the writer, is by his own dishonesty. For me the most immediate proof is that it wasn’t until Barry Hoffman asked me if I had any suppressed fiction that I realized, on rereading “In the Picture,” that my dishonesty was its central flaw.

One mode of fiction I dislike—one especially common in my field—is the kind where the act of writing about a character seems designed to announce that the character has nothing to do with the author. On the most basic level, it’s nonsense, since by writing about a character the writer must draw that personality to some extent from within himself. More to the present point, it smells of protesting too much, and while that may be clear to the reader, for the writer it’s a kind of censorship of self. I rather hope that “In the Picture” is the only tale in which I succumb to that temptation.

“In the Picture” follows the broad outline of “The Limits of Fantasy,” though much more humorlessly, up to the scene with Enid Stone, and then Sid Pym begins to indulge in fantasies of rape and degradation which I believe are foreign to his sexual makeup and which are contrived simply to demonstrate what a swine he is—in other words, that he is quite unlike myself. Of course nothing could be further from the truth. In response to Barry Hoffman I treated “In the Picture” as the first version of the story and rewrote it exactly as I would any other first draft, and I had the most fun writing Pym’s boarding-school fantasy, which is at least as much my fantasy as his. For me his presentation of it is both comic and erotic.

It seems to me that even the most liberal of us employ two definitions of pornography: the kind that turns ourselves on, which we’re more prone to regard as erotic, and the kind which appeals to people with sexual tastes unlike our own and which we’re more likely to condemn as pornographic. In my case the absurdity is that the group of scenarios which I sum up as the boarding-school fantasy (which is obviously as much fetishistic as sadistic) is the only species of pornography I find appealing, and it was therefore especially dishonest of me to include no more than a hint of it when I collected my sexual tales in Scared Stiff. I suppose, then and in my original suppression of “In the Picture,” I was afraid of losing friends, but that really isn’t something writers should take into account when writing. I suspect I was assuming that my readers and people in general are squarer when it comes to erotic fantasy than is in fact the case. Since the publication of Scared Stiff I’ve heard from readers of various sexes that they found parts of the book erotic, and a female reader gave me a copy of Caught Looking, a polemic published by the Feminist Anti-Censorship Taskforce, in which one of the illustrations (all chosen by the FACT designers on the basis that they themselves found the images erotically appealing) is a still from a spanking video made in Britain before such videos were banned outright under a censorship that is fast overtaking the equivalent glossy magazines. (The Spankarama Cinema in Soho, rather unfairly chastised in the Winter 1982/83 Sight and Sound and touched on by association in Incarnate, is long gone; perhaps I should have had a publicity photograph taken under the sign while it was there.) Incidentally, perhaps one minor reason for my reticence was the notion that this sexual taste is peculiarly British, but a day in Amsterdam proved me wrong.

So I trust this hasn’t been too embarrassing. I haven’t found it so, but then I may sometimes lack tact in these areas: I once greeted a friend I met in a sex shop, who immediately fled. Still, I’m committed to telling as much of the truth as I can, as every writer should be. If we can’t tell the truth about ourselves, how can we presume to do so about anyone or anything? Secretiveness is a weakness, whereas honesty is strength.

As Sid Pym passed his door and walked two blocks to look in the shop window, a duck jeered harshly in the park. March frost had begun to bloom on the window, but the streetlamp made the magazine covers shine: the schoolgirl in her twenties awaiting a spanking, the two bronzed men displaying samples of their muscles to each other, the topless woman tonguing a lollipop. Sid was looking away in disgust from two large masked women flourishing whips over a trussed victim when the girl marched past behind him.

Her reflection glided from cover to cover, her feet trod on the back of the trussed man’s head. Despite the jumbling of images, Sid knew her. He recognized her long blonde hair, her slim graceful legs, firm breasts, plump jutting bottom outlined by her ankle-length coat, and as she glanced in his direction, he saw that she recognized him. He had time to glimpse how she wrinkled her nose as her reflection left the shop window.

He almost started after her. She’d reacted as if he was one of the men who needed those magazines, but he was one of the people who created them. He’d only come to the window to see how his work shaped up, and there it was, between a book about Nazi war crimes and an Enid Stone romance. He’d given the picture of Toby Hale and his wife Jilly a warm amber tint to go with the title Pretty Hot, and he thought it looked classier than most of its companions. He didn’t think Toby needed to worry so much about the rising costs of production. If Sid had gone in for that sort of thing, he would have bought the magazine on the strength of the cover.

The newspapers had to admit he was good, one of the best in town. That was why the Weekly News wanted him to cover Enid Stone’s return home, even though some of the editors seemed to dislike accepting pictures from him since word had got round that he was involved in Pretty Hot. Why should anyone disparage him for doing a friend a favor? It wasn’t even as though he posed; he only took the photographs. There ought to be a way to let the blonde girl know that, to make her respect him. He swung away from the shop window and stalked after her, telling himself that if he caught up with her he’d have it out with her. But the street was already deserted, and as he reached his building her window, in the midst of the house opposite his rooms, lit up.

He felt as if she had let him know she’d seen him before pulling the curtains—as if she’d glimpsed his relief at not having to confront her. He bruised his testicles as he groped for his keys, and that enraged him more than ever. A phone which he recognized as his once the front door was open had started ringing, and he dashed up the musty stairs in the dark.

It was Toby Hale on the phone. “Still free tomorrow? They’re willing.”

“A bit different, is it? A bit stronger?”

“What the punters want.”

“I’m all for giving people what they really want,” Sid declared, and took several quick breaths. The blonde girl was in her bathroom now. “I’ll see you at the studio,” he told Toby, and fumbled the receiver into place.

What was she trying to do to him? If she had watched him come home, she must know he was in his room even though he hadn’t had time to switch on the light. Besides, this wasn’t the first time she’d behaved as if the frosted glass of her bathroom window ought to stop him watching her. “Black underwear, is it now?” he said through his teeth, and bent over his bed to reach for a camera.

God, she thought a lot of herself. Each of her movements looked like a pose to Sid as he reeled her toward him with the zoom lens. Despite the way the window fragmented her he could distinguish the curve of her bottom in black knickers and the black swellings of her breasts. Then her breasts turned flesh-colored, and she dropped the bra. She was slipping the knickers down her bare legs when the whir of rewinding announced that he’d finished the role of Tri-X. “Got you,” he whispered, and hugged the camera to himself.

When she passed beyond the frame of the window he coaxed his curtains shut and switched the room light on. He was tempted to develop the roll now, but anticipating it made him feel so powerful in a sleepy generalized way that he decided to wait until the morning, when he would be more awake. He took Pretty Hot to bed with him and scanned the article about sex magic, and an idea was raising its head in his when he fell asleep.

He slept late. In the morning he had to leave the Tri-X negatives and hurry to the studio. Fog slid flatly over the pavements before him, vehicles nosed through the gray, grumbling monotonously. It occurred to him as he turned along the cheap side street near the edge of town that people were less likely to notice him in the fog, though why should he care if they did?

Toby opened the street door at Sid’s triple knock and preceded him up the carpetless stairs. Toby had already set up the lights and switched them on, which made the small room with its double bed and mock-leather sofa appear starker than ever. A brawny man was sitting on the sofa with a woman draped facedown across his knees, her short skirt thrown back, her black nylon knickers more or less pulled down.

Apart from the mortar-board jammed onto his head, the man looked like a wrestler or a bouncer. He glanced up as Sid entered, and the hint of a warning crossed his large bland reddish face as Sid appraised the woman. She was too plump for Sid’s taste, her mottled buttocks were too flabby. She looked bored—more so when she glanced at Sid, who disliked her at once.

“This is Sid, our snapshooter,” Toby announced. “Sid, our friends are going to model for both stories.”

“All right there, mate,” the man said, and the woman grunted.

Sid glanced through the viewfinder, then made to adjust the woman’s knickers; but he hadn’t touched them when the man’s hand seized his wrist. “Hands off. I’ll do that. She’s my wife.”

“Come on, the lot of you,” the woman complained. “I’m getting a cold bum.”

It wouldn’t be cold for long, Sid thought, and felt his penis stir unexpectedly. But the man didn’t hit her, he only mimed the positions as if he were enacting a series of film stills, resting his hand on her buttocks to denote slaps. For the pair of color shots Toby could afford the man rubbed rouge on her bottom.

“That was okay, was it, Sid?” Toby said anxiously. “It’d be nice if we could shoot Slave of Love tomorrow.”

“Wouldn’t be nice for us,” the woman said, groaning as she stood up. “We’ve got our lives to lead, you know.”

“We could make it a week today,” her husband said.

“They look right for the stories, I reckon,” Hale told Sid when they’d left. “I’m working on some younger models, but those two’ll do for that kind of stuff. The perves who want it don’t care.”

Sid thought it best to agree, but as he walked home he grew angrier: how could that fat bitch have given him a tickle? Working with people like her might be one of Sid’s steps to fame, but she needed him more than he needed her. “I’ll retouch you, but I won’t touch you,” he muttered, grinning. Someone like the blonde girl over the road, now—she would have been Sid’s choice of a model for Spanked and Submissive, and it wouldn’t all have been faked, either.

That got his penis going. He had to stand still for a few minutes until its tip went back to sleep, and the thought of the negatives waiting in his darkroom didn’t help. He would have her in his hands, he would be able to do what he liked with her. He had to put the idea out of his head before he felt safe to walk.

After the fog, even the dim musty hall of the house seemed like a promise of clarity. In his darkroom he watched the form of the blonde girl rise from the developing fluid, and he felt as if a fog of dissatisfaction with himself and with the session at the studio were leaving him. The photographs came clear, and for a moment he couldn’t understand why the girl’s body was composed of dots like a newspaper photograph enlarged beyond reason. Of course, it was the frosting on her bathroom window.

Having her in his flat without her knowing excited him, but not enough. Perhaps he needed her to be home so that he could watch her failure to realize he had her. He opened a packet of hamburgers and cooked himself whatever meal it was. The effort annoyed him, and so did the eating: chew, chew, chew. He switched on the television, and the little picture danced for him, oracular heads spoke. He kept glancing at the undeveloped frame of her window.

By the time she arrived home the fog was spiked with drizzle. As soon as she had switched on the light, she began to remove her clothes, but before shed taken off more than her coat she drew the curtains. Had she seen him? Was she taking pleasure in his frustration at having to imagine her undressing? But he already had her almost naked. He spread the photographs across the table, and then he lurched toward his bed to find the article about sex magic.

By themselves the photographs were only pieces of card, but what had the article said? Toby Hale had put in all the ideas he could find about images during an afternoon spent in the library. The Catholic church sometimes made an image of a demon and burned it to bring off an exorcism… Someone in Illinois killed a man by letting rain fall on his photograph… Here it was, the stuff Toby had found in a book about magic by someone with a degree from a university Sid had never heard of. The best spells are the ones you write yourself. Find the words that are truest to your secret soul. Focus your imagination, build up to the discharge of psychic energy. Chant the words that best express your desires. Toby was talking about doing that with your partner, but it had given Sid a better idea. He hurried to the window, his undecided penis hindering him a little, and shut the curtains tight.

As he returned to the table he felt uneasy: excited, furtive, ridiculous—he wasn’t sure which was uppermost. If only this could work! You never know until you try, he thought, which was the motto on the contents page of Pretty Hot. He pulled the first photograph to him. Her breasts swelled in their lacy bra, her black knickers were taut over her round bottom. He wished he could see her face. He cleared his throat, and muttered almost inaudibly: “I’m going to take your knickers down. I’m going to smack your bare bum.”

He sounded absurd. The whole situation was absurd. How could he expect it to work if he could barely hear himself? “By the time I’ve finished with you,” he said loudly, “you won’t be able to sit down for a week.”

Too loud! Nobody could hear him, he told himself. Except that he could, and he sounded like a fool. As he glared at the photograph, he was sure that she was smiling. She had beaten him. He wouldn’t put it past her to have let him take the photographs because they had absolutely no effect on her. All at once he was furious. “You’ve had it now,” he shouted.

His eyes were burning. The photograph flickered, and appeared to stir. He thought her face turned up to him. If it did, it must be out of fear. His penis pulled eagerly at his fly. “All right, miss,” he shouted hoarsely. “Those knickers are coming down.”

She seemed to jerk, and he could imagine her bending reluctantly beneath the pressure of a hand on the back of her neck. Her black knickers stretched over her bottom. Then the photograph blurred as tears tried to dampen his eyes, but he could see her more clearly than ever. By God, the tears ought to be hers. “Now then,” he shouted, “you’re going to get what you’ve been asking for.”

He seized her bare arm. She tried to pulled away, shaking her head mutely, her eyes bright with apprehension. In a moment he’d trapped her legs between his thighs and pushed her across his knee, locking his left arm around her waist. Her long blonde hair trailed to the floor, concealing her face. He took hold of the waistband of her knickers and drew them slowly down, gradually revealing her round creamy buttocks. When she began to wriggle, he trapped her more firmly with his arm and legs. “Let’s see what this feels like,” he said, and slapped her hard.

He heard it. For a moment he was sure he had. He stared about his empty flat with his hot eyes. He almost went to peer between the curtains at her window, but gazed at the photograph instead. “Oh, no, miss, you won’t get away from me,” he whispered, and saw her move uneasily as he closed his eyes.

He began systematically to slap her: one on the left buttock, one on the right. After a dozen of these her bottom was turning pink and he was growing hot—his face, his penis, the palm of his hand. He could feel her warm thighs squirming between his. “You like that, do you? Let’s see how much you like.”

Two laps on the left, two on the right. A dozen pairs of those, then five on the same spot, five on the other. As her bottom grew red she tried to cover it with her hands, but he pinned her wrists together with his left hand and forcing them up to the dimple above her bottom, went to work in earnest: ten on the left buttock, ten on its twin… She was sobbing beneath her hair, her bottom was wriggling helplessly. His room had gone. There was nothing but Sid and his victim until he came violently and unexpectedly, squealing.

He didn’t see her the next day. She was gone when he wakened from a satisfied slumber, and she had drawn the curtains before he realized she was home again. She was making it easier for him to see her the way he wanted. Anticipating that during the days which followed made him feel secretly powerful, and so did Toby Hale’s suggestion when Sid rang him to confirm the Slave of Love session. “We’re short of stories for number three,” Toby said. “I don’t suppose you’ve got anything good and strong for us?”

“I might have,” Sid told him.

He didn’t fully realize how involving it would be until he began to write. He was dominating her not only by writing about her but also by delivering her up to the readers of the magazine. He made her into a new pupil at a boarding school for girls in their late teens. “Your here to lern disiplin. My naime is Mr Sidney and dont you forgett it.” She would wear kneesocks and a gymslip that revealed her uniform knickers whenever she bent down. “Over my nee, yung lady. Im goaing to give you a speling leson.” “Plese plese dont take my nickers down, Ill be a good gurl.” “You didnt cawl me Mr Sidney, thats two dozin extrar with the hare brush…” He felt as if the words were unlocking a secret aspect of himself, a core of unsuspected truth which gave him access to some kind of power. Was this what they meant by sex magic? It took him almost a week of evenings to savor writing the story, and he didn’t mind not seeing her all that week; it helped him see her as he was writing her. Each night as he drifted off to sleep he imagined her lying in bed sobbing, rubbing her bottom.

At the end of the story he met her on the bus.

He was returning from town with a bagful of film. She caught the bus just as he was lowering himself onto one of the front seats downstairs. As she boarded the bus, she saw him and immediately looked away. Even though there were empty seats she stayed on her feet, holding onto the pole by the stairs.

Sid gazed at the curve of her bottom, defining itself and then growing blurred as her long coat swung with the movements of the bus plowing through the fog. Why wouldn’t she sit down? He leaned forward impulsively, emboldened by the nights he’d spent in secret with her, and touched her arm. “Would you like to sit down, love?”

She looked down at him, and he recoiled. Her eyes were bright with loathing, and yet she looked trapped. She shook her head once, keeping her lips pressed so tight they grew pale, then she turned her back on him. He’d make her turn her back tonight, he thought, by God he would. He had to sit on his hands for the rest of the journey, but he walked behind her all the way from the bus stop to her house.

“You’re not tying me up with that,” the woman said. “Cut my wrists off, that would. Pajama cord or nothing, and none of your cheap stuff neither.”

“Sid, would you mind seeing if you can come up with some cord?” Toby Hale said, taking out his reptilian wallet. “I’ll stay and discuss the scene.”

There was sweat in his eyebrows. The woman was making him sweat because she was their only female model for the story, since Toby’s wife wouldn’t touch anything kinky. Sid kicked the fog as he hurried to the shops. Just let the fat bitch give him any lip.

Her husband bound her wrists and ankles to the legs of the bed. He untied her and turned her over and tied her again. He untied her and tied her wrists and ankles together behind her back, and poked his crotch at her face. Sid snapped her and snapped her, wondering how far Toby had asked them to go, and then he had to reload. “Get a bastard move on,” the woman told him. “This is bloody uncomfortable, did you but know.”

Sid couldn’t restrain himself. “If you don’t like the work, we can always get someone else.”

“Can you now?” The woman’s face rocked toward him on the bow of herself, and then she toppled sideways on the bed, her breasts flopping on her chest, a few pubic strands springing free of her purple knickers like the legs of a lurking spider. “Bloody get someone, then,” she cried.

Toby had to calm her and her suffused husband down while Sid muttered apologies. That night he set the frosted photograph in front of him and chanted his story over it until the girl pleaded for mercy. He no longer cared if Toby had his doubts about the story, though Sid was damned if he could see what had made him frown over it. If only Sid could find someone like the girl to model for the story… Even when he’d finished with her for the evening, his having been forced to apologize to Toby’s models clung to him. He was glad he would be photographing Enid Stone tomorrow. Maybe it was time for him to think of moving on.

He was on his way to Enid Stone’s press conference when he saw the girl again. As he emerged from his building she was arriving home from wherever she worked, and she was on his side of the road. The slam of the front door made her flinch and dodge to the opposite pavement, but not before a streetlamp had shown him her face. Her eyes were sunken in dark rings, her mouth was shivering; her long blonde hair looked dulled by the fog. She was moving awkwardly, as if it pained her to walk.

She must have female trouble, Sid decided, squirming at the notion. On his way to the bookshop his glimpse of her proved as hard to leave behind as the fog was, and he had to keep telling himself that it was nothing to do with him. The bookshop window was full of Enid Stone’s books upheld by wire brackets. Maybe one day he’d see a Sid Pym exhibition in a window.

He hadn’t expected Enid Stone to be so small. She looked like someone’s shrunken crabby granny, impatiently suffering her hundredth birthday party. She sat in an armchair at the end of a thickly carpeted room above the bookshop, confronting a curve of reporters sitting on straight chairs. “Don’t crowd me,” she was telling them. “A girl’s got to breathe, you know.”

Sid joined the photographers who were lined up against the wall like miscreants outside a classroom. Once the reporters began to speak, having been set in motion by a man from the publishers, Enid Stone snapped at their questions, her head jerking rapidly, her eyes glittering like a bird’s. “That’ll do,” she said abruptly. “Give a girl a chance to rest her voice. Who’s going to make me beautiful?”

This was apparently meant for the photographers, since the man from the publishers beckoned them forward. The reporters were moving their chairs aside when Enid Stone raised one bony hand to halt the advance of the cameras. “Where’s the one who takes the dirty pictures? Have you let him in?”

Even when several reporters and photographers turned to look at Sid, he couldn’t believe she meant him. “Is that Mr Muck? Show him the air,” she ordered. “No pictures till he goes.”

The line of photographers took a step forward and closed in front of Sid. As he stared at their backs, his face and ears throbbing as if from blows, the man from the publishers took hold of his arm. “I’m afraid that if Miss Stone won’t have you I must ask you to leave.”

Sid trudged downstairs, unable to hear his footsteps for the extravagant carpet. He felt as if he weren’t quite there. Outside, the fog was so thick that the buses had stopped running. It filled his eyes, his mind. However fast he walked, there was always as much of it waiting beyond it. Its passiveness infuriated him. He wanted to feel he was overcoming something, and by God, he would once he was home.

He grabbed the copy of the story he’d written for Toby Hale and threw it on the table. He found the photograph beside the bed and propped it against a packet of salt in front of him. The picture had grown dull with so much handling, but he hadn’t the patience to develop a fresh copy just now. “My name’s Mister Sidney and don’t you forget it,” he informed the photograph.

There was no response. His penis was as still as the fingerprinted glossy piece of card. The scene at the bookshop had angered him too much, that was all. He only had to relax and let his imagination take hold. “You’re here to learn discipline,” he said soft and slow.

The figure composed of dots seemed to shift, but it was only Sid’s vision; his eyes were smarting. He imagined the figure in front of him changing, and suddenly he was afraid of seeing her as she had looked beneath the streetlamp. The memory distressed him, but why should he think of it now? He ought to be in control of how she appeared to him. Perhaps his anger at losing control would give him the power to take hold of her. “My name’s Mr. Sidney,” he repeated, and heard a mocking echo in his brain.

His eyes were stinging when it should be her bottom that was. He closed his eyes and saw her floating helplessly toward him. “Come here if you know what’s good for you,” he said quickly, and then he thought he knew how to catch her. “Please,” he said in a high panicky voice, “please don’t hurt me.”

It worked. All at once she was sprawling across his lap. “What’s my name?” he demanded, and raised his voice almost to a squeak. “Mr. Sidney,” he said.

“Mr. Sidney sir,” he shouted, and dealt her a hefty slap. He was about to give the kind of squeal he would have loved her to emit when he heard her do so—faintly, across the road.

He blinked at the curtains as if he had wakened from a dream. It couldn’t have been the girl, and if it had been, she was distracting him. He closed his eyes again and gripped them with his left hand as if that would help him trap his image of her. “What’s my name?” he shouted, and slapped her again. This time there was no mistaking the cry which penetrated the fog.

Sid knocked his chair over backward in his haste to reach the window. When he threw the curtains open, he could see nothing but the deserted road boxed in by fog. The circle of lit pavement where he’d last seen the girl was bare and stark. He was staring at the fog, feeling as though it was even closer to him than it looked, when he heard a door slam. It was the front door of the building across the road. In a moment the girl appeared at the edge of the fog. She glanced up at him, and then she fled toward the park.

It was as if he’d released her by relinquishing his image of her and going to the window. He felt as though he was on the brink of realizing the extent of his secret power. Suppose there really was something to this sex magic? Suppose he had made her experience at least some of his fantasies? He couldn’t believe he had reached her physically, but what would it be like for her to have her thoughts invaded by his fantasies about her? He had to know the truth, though he didn’t know what he would do with it. He grabbed his coat and ran downstairs, into the fog.

Once on the pavement he stood still and held his breath. He heard his heartbeat, the cackling of ducks, the girl’s heels running away from him. He advanced into the fog, trying to ensure that she didn’t hear him. The bookshop window drifted by, crowded with posed figures and their victims. Ahead of him the fog parted for a moment, and the girl looked back as if she’d sensed his gaze closing around her. She saw him illuminated harshly by the fluorescent tube in the bookshop window, and at once she ran for her life.

“Don’t run away,” Sid called. “I won’t hurt you, I only want to talk to you.” Surely any other thoughts that were lurking in his mind were only words. It occurred to him that he had never heard her speak. In that case, whose sobs had he heard in his fantasies? There wasn’t time for him to wonder now. She had vanished into the fog, but a change in the sound of her footsteps told him where she had taken refuge: in the park.

He ran to the nearest entrance, the one she would have used, and peered along the path. Thickly swirling rays of light from a streetlamp splayed through the railings and stubbed themselves against the fog. He held his breath, which tasted like a head cold, and heard her gravelly footsteps fleeing along the path. “We’ll have to meet sooner or later, love,” he called, and ran into the park.

Trees gleamed dully, wet black pillars upholding the fog. The grass on either side of the path looked weighed down by the slow passage of the murk which Sid seemed to be following. Once he heard a cry and a loud splash—a bird landing on the lake which was somewhere ahead, he supposed. He halted again, but all he could hear was the dripping of branches laden with fog.

“I told you I don’t want to hurt you,” he muttered. “Better wait for me, or I’ll—” The chase was beginning to excite and frustrate and anger him. He left the gravel path and padded across the grass alongside it, straining his ears. When the fog solidified a hundred yards or so to his right, at first he didn’t notice. Belatedly he realized that the dim pale hump was a bridge which led the path over the lake, and was just in time to stop himself from striding into the water.

It wasn’t deep, but the thought that the girl could have made him wet himself enraged him. He glared about, his eyes beginning to sting. “I can see you,” he whispered as if the words would make it true, and then his gaze was drawn from the bridge to the shadows beneath.

At first he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. He seemed to be watching an image developing in the dark water, growing clearer and more undeniable. It had sunk, and now it was rising, floating under the bridge from the opposite side. Its eyes were open, but they looked like the water. Its arms and legs were trailing limply, and so was its blonde hair.

Sid shivered and stared, unable to look away. Had she jumped or fallen? The splash he’d heard a few minutes ago must have been her plunging into the lake, and yet there had been no sounds of her trying to save herself. She must have struck her head on something as she fell. She couldn’t just have lain there willing herself to drown, Sid reassured himself, but if she had, how could anyone blame him? There was nobody to see him except her, and she couldn’t, not with eyes like those she had now. A spasm of horror and guilt set him staggering away from the lake.

The slippery grass almost sent him sprawling more than once. When he skidded onto the path the gravel ground like teeth, and yet he felt insubstantial, at the mercy of the blurred night, unable to control his thoughts. He fled panting through the gateway, willing himself not to slow down until he was safe in his rooms; he had to destroy the photographs before anyone saw them. But fog was gathering in his lungs, and he had a stitch in his side. He stumbled to a halt in front of the bookshop.

The light from the fluorescent tubes seemed to reach for him. He saw his face staring out from among the women bearing whips. If they or anyone else knew what he secretly imagined he’d caused… His buttocks clenched and unclenched at the thought he was struggling not to think. He gripped his knees and bent almost double to rid himself of the pain in his side so that he could catch his breath, and then he saw his face fit over the face of a bound victim.

It was only the stitch that had paralyzed him, he told himself, near to panic. It was only the fog which was making the photograph of the victim appear to stir, to align its position with his. “Please, please,” he said wildly, his voice rising, and at once tried to take the words back. They were echoing in his mind, they wouldn’t stop. He felt as if they were about to unlock a deeper aspect of himself, a power which would overwhelm him.

He didn’t want this, it was contrary to everything he knew about himself. “My name is—” he began, but his pleading thoughts were louder than his voice, almost as loud as the sharp swishing which filled his ears. He was falling forward helplessly, into himself or into the window, wherever the women and pain were waiting. For a moment he managed to cling to the knowledge that the images were nothing but the covers of magazines, and then he realized fully that they were more than that, far more. They were euphemisms for what waited beyond them.