It wasn’t in a pocket. Something else held it in mid-air. Nor were the overalls swaying only because she had disturbed them. Protruding from the foremost sleeve, holding the bird’s slim body, she saw a hand.
“ Come out,” she cried, as she might have if a mischievous child had startled her.
The flowers flapped outwards; a dim figure came at her. Before she could make out the face above the overall, the metal bird darted towards her. Its jagged beak pecked deep into her forehead.
Chapter XVIII
Horridge limped along the path on the edge of the park. On the pavement across the road, a postman hurried in the opposite direction. Trees interrupted Horridge’s glimpses of the house, which looked deserted. The painter’s window gleamed emptily. Did that mean she had left?
Abruptly her face appeared in the window. He flinched behind a tree; bark scraped his shoulders through his raincoat. He heard the rattle of the sash. She was leaning out to peer, but apparently not for him. Nevertheless he shrank behind the tree again, heart clenching.
At the sound of the sash he peered out. The window was empty. He limped hastily to the telephone box. A stench of tobacco smoke surrounded him like halitosis; the unwashed windows robbed him of light. His heart jerked, trying to get the better of him, to scare him. It wouldn’t succeed, any more than the painter would. He gripped the razor in his pocket.
Had he been right to leave his documents in the reversible? Surely they’d be safe enough in the wardrobe – nobody would want to steal that coat. There was no point in taking risks, in carrying papers that would identify him.
The thought made him feel already trapped. The glass of the box looked coated with smoke: was that exuding the oppressive stench? The silence of the phone seemed threatening, as though its shrill ring were poised to leap at him. His eyes felt feverish, pimply with insomnia. He began to shuffle and stamp nervously, like an imprisoned beast.
Movement halted him. The porch door had opened. When it had displayed its gap for a while, a suitcase emerged. Carrying it – yes, it was the painter! His grin gleamed in one of the few patches of the mirror that were still clear of graffiti.
She might pass the box, and see him! He seized the phone. Dial, for the love of God. Anything. Of course – he knew one number that wouldn’t answer. He dialled Craig’s flat, and imagined the phone crying in the empty room. The trick amused him, yet made him feel inexplicably nervous. When he replaced the receiver, he had to bang it into place several times before the minute trilling stopped.
The painter was turning out of Aigburth Drive. No, she wasn’t coming back. Never mind skulking in his hidey-hole. He had a job to do.
He advanced towards the house. Gravel squirmed underfoot. Six windows glinted at him. Wasn’t it spiders that had six eyes? No need to make himself nervous – nobody was left in there who could recognise him.
The key was right first time. He tried to tiptoe upstairs. The stairs were a vindictive sounding-board: listen, he’s limping, they shouted. He fought to regulate his steps. Was the door opposite the painter’s threatening to open? Most unlikely, he thought, grinning.
The painter’s room blazed out at him, like the springing of a trap. He closed the door quickly behind him. The room was too bright; it displayed him. He sidled to the window and drew the curtains. The room filled with purple twilight, which seemed unhealthy to him. Had Craig and the painter committed secret filth in that light? They would never do so again.
Where was the card? Though he’d seen her suitcase, he needed reassuring. At last he found it, lying on the floor beneath the bony ashen cage of the gas fire. He propped the card on the mantelpiece. See you on Jan 15. He was safe.
He limped into the kitchen. Knives first. Seizing a tea-towel, he pulled open the kitchen drawers. A chorus of rattling announced the knives. Each time he took one out, its neighbours chattered metallically. The noise unnerved him, and might deafen him to warnings. He pushed the kitchen door wide.
As he returned to the drawer, he heard footsteps on the gravel drive. He froze; the knife trembled in his hand. He flung the knife into the drawer and ran to the bay window, almost knocking over a draped painting. He clawed aside the edge of a curtain, which felt cold and slippery. Through the gap he glimpsed the painter entering the porch.
Oh dear God, no! Instinctively he grasped the razor. Perhaps she’d returned for her letters, and would go straight out again. He heard the front door open. Then, accompanied by what sounded like a gang of echoes, she came trudging upstairs.
He couldn’t use the razor; Craig had taken so long – he couldn’t go through that again. He stared about, and saw the bird. It was metal, and sharp. Certainly it looked more like a weapon than a work of art. He grabbed it, and was heartened by its solidity.
The clambering sounded like a drunken giant’s. God, where could he hide? He stumbled to the door beside the kitchen. There was no concealment in the bathroom, nor anywhere amid the stove and sink and cupboards. He jerked the door shut.
The footsteps reached the landing with a thud. Could he hide behind the door and strike her down? Suppose someone else was in the building, and heard? There was only one hiding-place. He dragged the wardrobe doors open, and climbed within.
He left the doors ajar. He couldn’t bear to be imprisoned in total darkness with the dusty smell of wood. Besides, he must hear what she was up to. She was dragging an object towards the flat – her case? As he retreated into the depths a hanger tapped him on the shoulder, creaking, and dangled an overall.
He remembered Craig’s stains on his coat. He couldn’t afford a repetition of that. Snatching the overall from its wire shoulders, he buttoned himself up swiftly.
Her key slithered into the lock. Was she talking to herself? She mustn’t be quite right in the head – but that was true of all these so-called creative people. How many of them were homosexuals? Tchaikowsky had been. Horridge could have done without his music – he would have preferred the world to be clean. His mind was chattering to leave no room for seeds of panic.
He heard her stride to the table. There was a sound of cloth – maybe she’d put something in her pocket. Leave now, go away, get out! Now she wasn’t moving. Was she staring at the wardrobe? Had she seen the gap between the doors?
He was paralysed. If he moved she would hear him. Sweat boiled out of him, pricking his skin; the overall clung to him. It was too small, and oppressed him with his own feverish heat. His hand clenched on the slim metal body.
She was leaving, thank God. He heard the dragging of the case and the slam of the door. The bird drooped from his unclenching hand. Why couldn’t he hear her on the stairs? He was ready to risk movement, since he felt the threat of cramp, when he heard her steps – still in the flat.
Did she know he was there? His limbs twitched, tugged by pangs of cramp. Sweat glued his clothes and the overall to him. He felt unclean, as though she’d made him soil himself. Hatred grew in him.
Her slow tread paced around the room. He was becoming convinced that she knew he was there – that she was playing a game, just as Craig must have played with his helpless victims. He heard her opening doors. Sweat pierced him like shards of ice.
She was approaching the wardrobe. He was trapped. The doors opened. They admitted only meagre light, which framed her silhouette. Despite the twinging of his limbs, he stood absolutely still. Perhaps she wouldn’t see him.
His bad leg betrayed him. Cramp jerked it awry. He stumbled a little; hangers jangled. The silhouette came peering towards him out of the purple twilight, its halo of red hair darkly smouldering. “Come out,” the painter’s voice snapped like a domineering teacher’s.