Chapter VI
As Horridge pulled out the stack of newspapers, something rattled deep in the chest of drawers.
He started; the newspapers jerked in his hands. The chest was suddenly as ominous as it had seemed when it had stood in his parents’ bedroom, made dimmer by the huge shadows of the tassels on the lampshade. Those shadows had never been quite still. They’d hovered round the bed like a restless audience.
He had often wondered uneasily what his parents had kept in the looming chest next to the bed. After their deaths, when he’d dragged the chest away from the wall it had revealed its own shape on the aging wallpaper, like a patch of grass beneath a stone.
He laid the newspapers on the floor, then he inched out the bottom drawer. Perhaps the sound had been caused by something fallen from a drawer – but what could it be? Might it be a rodent, lurking in the darkness? The idea made his room seem unclean.
He knelt and peered into the space left by the drawer. A long thin object lay in its depths: a bone? It didn’t look alive, whatever it was, yet his fingers hesitated as they reached in: its texture might be unpleasant. But it proved to be cold metal, or a substance equally hard. He fished it out and gazed at it, bewildered. It was his father’s cut-throat razor.
It must have been transferred inside the chest of drawers from his old home. After his father’s death he had meant to throw away the razor but had been unable to find it. He remembered the loud scrape of the blade on his father’s throat, the foam oozing down his face like spawn alive with hairs, the specks of blood.
He pushed the razor hastily away, but kept gazing. The timing of his find – now, when he felt so vulnerable, so desperately in need of self-defence – could not be ignored. He carried the razor to the bathroom, which was even more spacious than a telephone box, and washed it fastidiously.
The tap muttered and groaned. The plumbing had never sounded right. He could do nothing, and he certainly didn’t intend to call the plumber whose van was often parked nearby: he wasn’t about to put his inadequacies on show. He wiped the razor and laid it on top of the chest of drawers.
He read the newspapers. Here was the story of Craig’s murderous career. Horridge had bought the most detailed reports, and kept them. He felt bound to know the worst, to learn how low the world could sink. You couldn’t stay safe by keeping your eyes shut. The young men had been bound and helpless, soiled, mutilated. In the photographs they looked hardly more than children.
He read, moaning with horror. He writhed inwardly, frustrated by his helplessness. It was thought that the killer had enticed the young men from a public toilet used by homosexuals for picking up their victims. They called such places cottages. How could they be allowed to besmear words in that way?
He knew what a cottage ought to be: a place where one’s parents retired, somewhere one could retreat from the grime and the clamour. He’d never known what had happened to the cottage after his grandparents had died. He remembered his grandfather, an old tree of a man, strong and quiet and gnarled.
Someone thumped on the window; the glass boomed. Nothing separated the window from the public walk except an unfenced patch of grass. His heart leapt unsteadily before he did. When he dragged the curtains apart, a gang of boys was running away. None of the boys round here was up to any good – nor the girls either. He glanced at the top of the chest of drawers. Just let them take care. He wasn’t defenceless now.
He’d lost the thread of his memories. He would have liked to recall the cottage. He wished he had some photographs of Wales. Still, perhaps it was just as well that he couldn’t see the cottage – no doubt it was overcrowded with young layabouts now, taking drugs and living off the country, as they called it. They lived off the country, right enough, but not in the way they meant the phrase.
He returned the papers to their drawer. Reading further would depress him too profoundly now. He stared through the window. He might as well have stared at the pane itself: out there were small marshes of muddy grass, separated by paths and hemmed in by anonymous walls, but none of that was visible – most of the lamps had been smashed. In the upstairs flat, a record throbbed as though savages were invading.
By the time he had washed himself, scrubbing his face until it blushed, the drums had stopped. The silence didn’t enlarge his rooms, which seemed scarcely larger than interview cubicles, and as featureless. He’d left the walls plain white, thinking they would look clean. Often they made him feel trapped in nothingness.
When the water ceased jerking out of the tap, he heard mumbling somewhere in his flat. Had he left the radio on? No, the receiver was silent – and besides, surely the voice was too monotonous for the radio. It was beyond the bathroom wall. Was it speaking to him – trying to hypnotise him?
Eventually he realised that it was the sound of water in the pipes. It still didn’t sound any less like a voice. Even when he closed his bedroom door he could hear the mumbling, as though an idiot were talking in his sleep.
Over the years he’d learned the source of every sound in his old home. The sounds had been familiar and comforting. He still didn’t know where half the sounds here came from. It would take a damn sight more than that to scare him. As soon as he’d slipped the razor beneath his pillow he felt less vulnerable.
He lay in the dark, which robbed him of all sense of the size of his bedroom. He wished he could afford a new clock; the dark allowed the ticking to grow louder, louder. The sound was a four-beat rocking, too quick and harsh to be a lullaby. Roy Craig, kill-er. Roy Craig, kill-er. Couldn’t it stop, just for a moment? Couldn’t it at least slow down? Wouldn’t it give him even a second of silence during which he might fall asleep?
He had no idea when it stopped: perhaps hours later. He was in the alley, among the stuffed dustbins. The girls surrounded him. As he backed against the wall, the rough stone plucked at his clothes. The bricks were hard and harsh; they felt like his fever dream, when his brain had seemed composed of chunks of rubble that ground together.
“ Make it stand up,” the girls were saying. The icy wall pressed against him. He was shivering; they must think he was afraid – and he was, for once his father had beaten him for handling himself. His body shook and throbbed, at the mercy of his panic. He stood helpless as he was seized by a painful orgasm.
He woke terrified, and pressed himself against the wall through the blankets, recoiling from the stain in the bed. For the love of God, why had that happened? It hadn’t happened in the alley; he had been far too scared to achieve an erection. “Don’t you be going with those girls,” his father had used to say ominously, and Horridge hadn’t wanted to; they had tricked and trapped him. Beyond the alley walls, frost had grown like lichen on the roofs of the outside toilets. “He can’t make it stand up. He must be queer,” the girls had said, and he’d listened appalled while they explained what that meant.
He felt as though he had been possessed in his sleep. He couldn’t be blamed for that – but his bed felt invaded. Only once in his life had he masturbated, alone in his old home after his parents had died, his willpower enfeebled by dozing. The experience had been wholly unpleasant, pumping away as though to make a reluctant toilet work, to achieve the sudden uncontrollable flushing. How could people waste their time wallowing in sex? It wasn’t as though it took much self-control to refrain. After all, one seldom had erections, and then only while asleep.
He was growing calmer, the side of the bed on which he’d taken refuge was beginning to feel safe, sleep was slowing down his thoughts – when, amid the ticking of the clock, he heard another sound.