The Face That Must Die by Ramsey Campbell Read Free Book Online

like a woman. There wouldn’t be so much unemployment if they stopped all these women working. No chance of that: it wouldn’t please the herd.
    The noise of children drove him out into the dark. Passers-by were carrying plastic trays of curry, as though English food weren’t good enough for them. On the road that encircled the park, lamps lit trees from beneath. Was that the blonde girl ahead, or a man? Horridge plunged his hands deep among his documents, to try to warm his fingers. Before he could overtake the figure, it disappeared.
    He knew when he reached the house where he’d seen the two men, for he’d observed the number; nobody could say his vision wasn’t sharp. Besides, the van which he had vaguely noticed was outside: a battered vehicle painted with large cartoonish flowers. Whoever was responsible had no idea what real flowers looked like. No doubt that was the fault of all their drugs.
    He was staring at the parody of a flower when light reached out from the house towards him, and displayed a face.
    The light came from curtains parting: no reason for his fists to clench. But the face which the window displayed as though it was something to admire was the face of the hefty effeminate man. It looked even more mask-like now. It turned as if searching the dark road, then faced Horridge.
    Suddenly he realised how he looked, standing beneath the lamp as though waiting to be seen, while the sly corrupt mask hunted eagerly. Shivering, his face frozen by rage and the night into an expression which he could not read, he limped violently away.

    The lights of Sefton Park Road dazzled him, but could not clear his mind. The face at the window clung to his memory; it lay on his thoughts, close and heavy. His skin felt prickly, nervous. He had seen that face earlier, outside the house. But where — his thoughts struggled vainly, as though in a dream — had he seen it before?

    * * *

    Chapter II

    Before Cathy was halfway upstairs she was running. Somewhere in her pocket, amid the clumsy bundle of iced sticks that were her fingers, was the key. She poked the time-switch outside the flat and aimed the key; it was like trying to thread a needle while wearing gloves. The god of frozen fingers was on her side, for she managed to turn the key before the light clicked off.
    She nudged the door shut with her shoulder, which felt like a huge lump, as though she were Quasimodo made of ice. A tiny Charles Laughton went swinging away in her mind, shouting “Sanctuary, sanctuary.” She ran to light the fire and squatted before it on the floorboards. Sanctuary much. God, her puns were getting worse.
    The flames rose in their cage. As the bars turned orange, her body thawed and grew familiar; she wasn’t Quasimodo with fat unwieldy fingers after all. Christmas cards had fallen from the kite’s-tail display on the dangling tapes over the mantelpiece; she stuck them into place. She drew the curtains and began to tidy the room.
    She picked up Peter’s sweater, which was lolling on the bed. He must have come home and gone out again. She collected the sprawl of his comic books from the round Scandinavian table and stacked them on top of the storage units. Books and a Tangerine Dream record occupied the chairs, as though keeping all his places. She put them away, sighing. It would be nice if he occasionally did more than empty ashtrays.
    Today was macrobiotic day. This week she was going to make a vegetable curry. She hoped it would work. She cooked, adding more or less what the recipe indicated, tasting constantly.
    Somewhere beyond the kitchen window a man was croaking. At last she made out that the word was “Rags, rags.” He sounded like a throaty old night-bird. But wasn’t it late for a rag-and-bone man to be calling? Perhaps he was searching for a lost dog.
    Footsteps clumped upstairs. She heard Peter opening the door. “What’s for dinner?” he called.
    “ Vegetable curry.”
    Silence. A little encouragement would do