Craig paced forward. The cold that seeped into the porch seized him. Surely this man didn’t live here. Why should he have a key? The calls had made Craig nervous. “What do you want?” he demanded more sharply than he’d intended.
He heard a faint click, and the man’s right hand made a violent lunge towards his face.
For a moment the gesture seemed to have offered more violence than it had achieved. Something had flashed beneath Craig’s eyes, but hadn’t touched him. His throat was very cold. As he recoiled, his hand moved instinctively to draw his collar shut.
Then he realised that he couldn’t swallow. His neck felt unfamiliar, no longer merely cold. Good God, the man had attacked him – he’d whipped him across the windpipe with a piece of metal; that must be the source of this rapidly growing ache.
Only when his fingers touched his neck did he realise that the man had cut his throat.
Chapter XII
Horridge felt so confident that he made the first call from Cantril Farm. Craig was either not at home or lurking. Horridge made his way to the bus stop. Even the unlit walks, overlooked by blinded neon lamps, hardly bothered him now that he could defend himself.
The bus was crowded with young couples, dressed with what passed for smartness these days: they looked cheap to him. No doubt they were all off to get drunk. Let them waste their time if that was all they cared about. Some people had more important things to do.
The notice made him uncomfortable. He’d slipped it down the front of his trousers, having nowhere else to hide it. But the discomfort was worthwhile. This time he would get through to Craig. He had some bits of clay to attach to the notice; that would convince Craig it was the painter’s work. Either he would betray himself by accusing her, or this new distrust would be unbearable.
If only Horridge were able to confront him directly! He found these underhand methods slightly disturbing. Anything was justified under the circumstances. He hurried along Lodge Lane, past gateposts that led to mud which sprouted litter, towards Aigburth Drive.
He called again from the box near the house, waiting only a few seconds before he replaced the phone. After all, Craig’s window was dark. Even Craig would hardly be hiding in the dark. Or might he? Horridge had to remind himself that he was dealing with a madman. Never before had he noticed how meagre and how widely spaced the lamps were along Aigburth Drive.
No need to worry. Craig was out, he must be. Horridge needn’t be bothered about anyone else. If he encountered the painter, he had only to tell her that he was visiting Craig. Nobody else would recognise him.
He popped a sweet into his mouth to encourage himself. Then he made his way slowly up the drive. In the pale light the house looked like a bony ghost of itself. Within the curve of the drive, the ground was ragged with shadows of grass and hedge. He shivered; the night was very cold.
There was a light in the house.
The glass of the front door was bright. He faltered, clutching the razor in his pocket. The glass turned black. What did that mean? Was someone waiting for him in the dark? Perhaps he ought to come back later – but he knew perfectly well that once he retreated he wouldn’t be able to return. No need to be afraid. Nobody could harm him. He was armed.
His shadow rushed at the porch door. He managed to disentangle the keys from the razor. He closed the porch door behind him; he wasn’t about to be startled by its slam. He groped at the lock with the key. It felt wrong. Was the key upside-down? It must be the wrong key. Yes, because the other slipped easily into the slot. Before he could turn the key, the door tugged it from his hand. Darkness gaped before him, and Craig stood there.
The man’s dark bulk loomed over him. The dim white light from the street made Craig’s face look plastic, even more unhealthy. Horridge’s lips dragged his mouth open in a silent scream. His hand fumbled in his pocket.
Craig fell back a pace. Why, he was afraid! And he had every right to be. Could Horridge force a showdown? But the small grey face on the swollen head was peering at him, bearing down on him. “What do you want?” the voice said, high and menacing.
The porch felt shrunken, suffocating. He was trapped. He knew exactly how Craig’s victims must have felt. As the large head advanced towards him, it occurred to him that it must be bloated by disease; that explained the disproportion of the face. From the huge black overcoat that was about to engulf him seeped a faint sly scent.
He twitched open the razor, and slashed. At the last moment he had to close his eyes. At first the cut felt surprisingly easy, then he encountered an obstruction like an unexpected bone in a piece of meat, which made him shudder. But the blade soon cut free.
He opened his eyes. Craig stood clutching his throat. His eyes and mouth looked slack, no doubt with astonishment. He was at Horridge’s mercy now. But he was by no means dead, and he must be: Horridge mustn’t leave him like this. As he backed into the hall Horridge followed him and cut at his fingers, in an attempt to expose his throat.
Craig was growling faintly, like the animal he was. Then Horridge realised he wasn’t quite growling; it was more like a muffled gargling. There was no need to worry about it – it was clearly the loudest noise he could make.
Suddenly Craig surged forward, shouldering him aside. His strength terrified Horridge: had he to drain all that? Craig stumbled into the porch. Only just in time did Horridge realise that he intended to ring the bells to summon help. Horridge limped after him and grabbed the coat sleeve of his uninjured hand. He had to cut deep into the fingers before they recoiled from their groping for the bells.
He went for Craig’s throat again, forcing him into the hall. Each time Craig tried to grapple with him, he retreated; he wouldn’t have been able to bear the touch of the glistening hands. Still, he was able to watch without squeamishness. What he was doing was necessary. They must do worse in slaughterhouses.
He’d reached Craig’s throat several times now. The man turned unsteadily and made for the stairs. He was moving as though his legs were crippled. By God, was he mocking Horridge? Perhaps his movements showed that he was weakening at last. Horridge cut at the side of his neck. When Craig turned, moving as though he were blind drunk, Horridge easily avoided his hands and pushed him by the shoulder back against the wall.
The man lolled there at the foot of the stairs. Horridge felt a kind of detached pity: he ought to be put out of his misery, like any diseased animal. At the same time, the creature’s growing weakness disgusted him. He cut unobstructed at Craig’s throat. Fewer than six cuts, and Craig slid almost silently down the wall to squat on the floor. His head slumped forward. Surely he wouldn’t have been able to bear any weight on that throat if he had been alive.
Glancing at his own hands, Horridge couldn’t suppress a shudder. It was only blood, even if diseased; and there wasn’t much of it, luckily. About Craig he felt nothing but relief. Alive, the man had been beneath contempt; dead, he was less than an object. Horridge perched the razor on Craig’s shoulder while he wiped his hands. Then he wrapped the razor in the stained handkerchief and slipped it into his coat pocket.
God, the front door was still open. Anyone might have come in and discovered him. He was sure he was alone in the building; otherwise, surely someone would have wanted to know what was making all the noise. Luck had been on his side, because of the rightness of his purpose, but he mustn’t tempt fate now.