The Face That Must Die by Ramsey Campbell

Author:Ramsey Campbell [Campbell, Ramsey]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Necon E-Books
Published: 2011-01-20T00:00:00+00:00

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Chapter XIII

Just as Cathy reached the landing, the door opened. Light leapt out at her. Her hand jerked; a potato jumped out of her shopping bag and rolled downstairs, loud as a severed head in an absurd horror film. It seemed no louder than her heart, for she’d thought for a moment that it was Mr Craig’s door that had opened.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Fanny said. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right, Fanny. I’m just being stupid.”

“No, you aren’t. I feel the same way about the house now.”

Then for God’s sake let her keep it to herself. Cathy groped about the dim half-landing for the potato, averting her gaze from the wall at the foot of the stairs. That was stupid too — there was nothing to see. She would be all right so long as she didn’t think about it.

Fanny stood as though awaiting the password for the stairs. Cathy made to hurry by; she didn’t want to talk just now — not about that, anyway. But Fanny said “Do you want a coffee?”

“I’d better not, thanks. Peter will be home soon.” She couldn’t think of a better excuse.

“Come in for just a little while. There’s something I’ve got to talk about.”

Cathy sidled towards the top staircase, to make her next refusal easier. Then she saw that Fanny’s wardrobe was open. It looked empty, apart from the flowered overalls Fanny often wore when painting. Clothes gathered in a suitcase on the floor. “You aren’t moving, are you?” Cathy demanded, dismayed.

Fanny stepped back into her room, so that Cathy had to follow her for a reply. “No, but I’ve got to get away for a while. Some friends have invited me.”

“When are you going?” Cathy was taken aback by her own wistfulness.

“The day after tomorrow.”

“But your exhibition won’t be over then, will it?”

“It’ll have to look after itself. I’ve got to go, Cathy.” She seemed almost to be apologising for leaving her in the house. “I haven’t been able to paint since. I’ll be all right once I’ve been away.” As though to emphasise her own restraint she said “Mr Harty’s moving, you know.”

On Friday night he had been waiting in the hall when Cathy and Peter had come home. He’d seemed almost to blame them and the other tenants for having left him alone in the house to deal with the situation. He had been in his toilet when he’d heard scuffling in the hall and had thought a drunk had got in. When he’d looked out at last he hadn’t recognised the man propped against the dim wall. He’d called the police to tell them that a drunk had passed out. Only when they’d lifted the slumped head —

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of coffee?” Fanny said.

“No, really. What did you want?” Cathy wished she didn’t sound so irritable.

Fanny glanced at her unfinished painting of people in a gallery. She tidied a dress which lolled from her suitcase, neck gaping. Then she seemed to run out of distractions.

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