On Monday he was ready for the park. Besides, he oughtn’t to depart from his routine; someone might notice. Just behave normally. He strolled to the bus stop. Fog lay in the concrete valleys, as though ghosts of rivers had returned.
The bus nosed forward, illuminating swirls of watery milk. Massive faceless tower blocks floated by. A few trees grew solid and glistening, then melted again.
The fog drew back from Melwood Drive. The bus quickened down the avenue between the trees. He felt released. A woman sat behind him, singing that she was glad she was Bugs Bunny.
Could he hold on to his freedom? During the night he’d dreamed of Wales. Slate had gleamed silver, expanses of grass had flowed softly; the sky and everything beneath it had shone. Surely that must be where he was meant to go.
Sunlight spilled into the bus, which had climbed the hill out of West Derby, above the fog. Next week’s disability benefit would give him the fare to Wales and pounds left over. That would see him through until he found a job. You didn’t need brains or qualifications to work on a farm. There must be jobs available: people liked to huddle together in cities – or believed they did, because they’d been told so. There must be jobs that didn’t involve climbing or too much walking.
He strolled towards Aigburth Drive. Fog lurked in side streets; distant trees were an abstract grey mass. At the roundabout he glanced towards the house. Its horseshoe of a drive lay beside the unkempt grass. The luck of that horseshoe must have been waiting for him; it hadn’t helped Craig or the painter, both of whom had let it become overgrown.
He couldn’t resist a peek at the house. He had conquered evil there. He made his way along the edge of the park. The grass of the path was pale and glistening, a slug’s track.
He held onto a tree, and peered around the trunk. Nothing moved except the silent sluggish lapping of fog. The cracked wet bark made him think of a reptile’s cold hide. He stared harder at the windows, cursing the stealthy veil of fog that made his eyes feel blurred. His fingers gripped cracks in the bark until moisture oozed beneath his nails.
Recoiling, he limped away. His skin stirred uneasily. Nothing had been wrong except the fog and his imagination. He’d stared too long, that was all. There had been no large head in the depths of Craig’s flat, no glistening eyes: just a reflected cloud. There had been no shadow of a seated woman on the painter’s curtain.
Suppose they’d rigged up a dummy in there, to scare him? They might have found her and be keeping quiet about it: they were sly enough. Should he flee to Wales at once?
He mustn’t allow them to confuse him. He flapped his hands at his breath, whose constant drifts interfered with his vision. None of them could know she wasn’t on holiday. There could have been no shadow in her flat, for there had been no light within. Had there? When he glanced back, the house was a featureless block of smoke.
His mind wasn’t befogged. He knew what he had and hadn’t seen. He trudged towards the pool opposite the bandstand. On the avenue, trees were blackened by moisture. Huge cracked boils gleamed on trunks.
The pool was thinly frozen, robbing him of the reflections. On the ice below the bandstand lay a whitish blur. Perhaps that was its reflection – he thought he made out the columns that supported the roof – but it looked more like a great pale spider, trapped in the ice or dormant there.
That was enough. Nobody could say that he hadn’t come to the park. His raincoat wasn’t equal to this weather; he was shivering. He didn’t feel like taking refuge in the library. The girl who’d seemed to know too much might be there.
He crossed the small bridge. A crippled branch reached for him over the railing. He wouldn’t have to ignore that for much longer; he might never come here again. He resisted an urge to snap the branch. He wasn’t a vandal. Besides, he noticed as he limped along the avenue, someone was approaching the bowling-green, and would have seen him. He hurried past, anxious to reach the point at which the end of the avenue would clarify.
“ Excuse me,” a voice said.
He was turning before he could check himself. Where had he heard that voice before? His gasp sucked fog into his throat. Fog tried to persuade him that his eyes were lying – but they were all he could trust. Behind him was the girl who had done her best to hinder his search for Craig.
Was it fog or sweat that clung to him? It felt thick as mud. This was no coincidence, her finding him. Perhaps she was helping the police, to avenge her precious Craig.
Let her catch him. Let her dare. He felt less courageous than his words; he fled, trying to outdistance the violent crawling of his skin. Had the fog rusted his joints? His bad leg felt like a broken puppet’s. Each limping step dragged at him like a dentist’s hook, and maddened him.
Behind him was silence. She was trying to make him turn again, was she? He wasn’t Dick Whittington, he wasn’t a child to be lulled by nursery rhymes. Or was she creeping on the grass, sly as a homosexual? Just let her come near enough – His nails picked the blade ajar.
He heard her running. For a moment he felt as though his entire skin had burst with fear. Then, as the fog revealed Aigburth Drive, he bared his teeth and the blade. She must be a dupe of the police; certainly she was a fool. Didn’t she realise that when they reached the road, nobody would see what happened to her?
The obelisk would block her view of him, and give him the advantage of surprise. He hoped she wouldn’t take as long as Craig, but so long as he made sure that she couldn’t cry out, it wouldn’t matter. He remembered how to do that. He ran towards the obelisk, to give himself time to prepare.
As he reached the obelisk, she slipped on the frosty path.
Her flesh slapped the ground loudly. He hoped she’d injured the breasts she flaunted – that she’d burst them. He turned swiftly. She was yards away. Could he reach her before she recovered, and finish her? Fog thickened on the road, offering him its aid.
She still couldn’t know where he lived; otherwise the police would have visited him. He must cling to that advantage. He ran across the roundabout, clutching his bad knee with his razor hand to drive himself onwards. In his pocket the razor leapt like a trapped bird.
The clank of his heels counted his steps towards Lodge Lane. His limp translated them into dull agony. At Sefton Park Road, cars waited for the smoking traffic lights to change. Fog that stank of petrol helped conceal him; the snarling of engines covered the sound of his limp.
He ran past the lights at the far end. They were mounting their scale to green, to release traffic at him. There was a bus at the stop – a refuge. Ice tried to slip the road from beneath him; cars roared a warning and surged forward. He dodged in front of the bus, daring it to run him down.
Several people were still to board. He edged among them. Only when he’d climbed on board at last and had found a seat did he begin to relax. He had to sit at the back, facing away from the journey. At least he’d be able to see if he was being followed.
The bus juddered away. Discoloured figures trudged beside blurred shops. Yellowed headlights probed towards the bus. A van was following. No, that wasn’t her face peering through a windscreen the colour of ice. His mind refused to unclench; it squeezed his thoughts into a small hard impregnable mass, that felt as though it might explode and sear his head with pain.
Opposite him, someone lit a cigarette. That wasn’t allowed downstairs. He mustn’t complain, mustn’t be conspicuous. The man grinned at his frown; smoke oozed from his face, a defiant mask of black mud pockmarked by rain. Horridge’s hand clenched on his pocket. No, no! Seedy shops drifted by, an empty schoolyard, a tower block whose lit windows looked half-melted. Why, he’d almost passed his stop! They wouldn’t confuse him so easily. He grabbed the metal pole and swung himself into the aisle.