“You are nice and comfy.” She wriggled her bottom and the action made her suddenly grotesque, and a mirthless grin parted his lips. “Do you think I could have a little drinkie?”
“Of course.” He walked over to the sideboard. “Whisky all right?”
“Lovely.” She rubbed her well-corseted stomach. “Nothing like a drop of the hard stuff to turn me on.”
He poured generous splashes of whisky into two glasses, then carried them over to the sofa where she sprawled, displaying a large amount of not particularly appetizing leg. She gulped down the neat spirit with experienced ease, then glanced suggestively over one shoulder.
“I see you’ve got everything handy. Curtains and all. This is quite a treat after my place ... you know how to treat a girl. I always like dealing with gentlemen. At one time I had an extensive refined clientele, if you follow me. No riff-raff. But times are hard now, what with the Squeeze, and the Wolfenden Report, and all. Thank you, darling, perhaps I will have another. Tell me, have you anything special in mind?”
Edward’s eyes were cold, devoid of expression.
“Yes,” he said, “something very special.”
“Well,” she shrugged, “with one or two of those inside me, perhaps I won’t mind. But I’ll have to put my fee up.” She suddenly shivered. “Strike a light, it’s bloody cold in here.”
He backed slowly to the window bay, an alcove lined with dark red curtains and so masked with shadow. The outward edge of a small mahogany table could only just be seen. With his eyes still fixed upon her face, Edward walked slowly backwards until he was stopped by the table; he reached with his right hand and took something from it. Slowly he brought it out and the overhead lamp reflected its light on the steel blade. The woman, her wits dulled with whisky, giggled softly.
“Oh, no, dear, not knives. I mean, there’s a limit...”
Edward came out from the window bay, the knife clasped firmly in his right hand, and behind him strode a second figure. A tall, dark man, with a bitter lean face, his eyes masked by the shadow of his broad-brimmed hat; together they crept forward, the tall man’s hands resting on Edward’s shoulders. Their legs worked in unison. Breast to back, thighs to buttocks, legs to legs; the tall man’s chin rested on Edward’s head, and while his face was white, devoid of emotion, the stranger’s lips were parted in a joyous, anticipatory smile, his eyes gleamed with unholy joy, and his hands pressed down on his partner’s shoulders, steering him ...
“Gawd,” the woman was sober now, and half-rose from the sofa, “not two of you ...?”
The tall man’s eyes willed her to silence, forced her back on to the sofa, where she lay like a plump broken doll with a wide-open mouth and glazed eyes. The four-legged, two-headed monster now stood over her; the two pairs of eyes, one cold, blue, dead fish, the other, black, glittering, stared down. Then the tall man raised his hand, and Edward raised his knife. The stranger’s thin lips moved, and from between the tightly clenched teeth came one hissing word.
“Now.”
Edward’s hand flashed down - then up, then down, then up, then down - until the gleaming knife blade was an unbroken streak of red-blotched silver light.
~ * ~
There was blood everywhere, but no body.
Once the curtains had been pulled back and the early-morning light flooded the room, his eyes refused to be deceived. There was a dark ominous stain covering the sofa and most of the surrounding carpet. In some places the stains were lighter in colour as though they had been scrubbed in a futile effort to remove them. His suit hung in front of the electric fire, shrunken and creased; it was still damp, and although it had clearly been washed, ugly stains darkened the jacket front and trousers. His grey waistcoat was like a screwed-up flannel, and his shirt was missing. He went up close to the overmantel mirror until his reflection filled it.
“Why?”
There was blood in his hair. His face and body had been washed, but the subconscious, or whatever had controlled his body during the dark hours, had not considered shampoo.
“How?”
That one was easy. In the bathroom he found a clean carving knife with a blood-stained towel next to it; the subconscious had not bothered to empty the bath either. The water was pink, red-rimmed and foul; his missing shirt floated on the surface like the upturned belly of a dead fish.
“Where?”
That was indeed the master question. Where was the body that had given forth such a profusion of blood? He stumbled from room to room, searched the six-by-eight kitchen, even looked under the bed, opened cupboards; it took him a full five minutes to summon courage to open the blanket chest, but he did not find a body. His terror became flecked with anger, and he glared at the mirror.
“Where?” He hissed the word.”Where did you hide it?” And instantly there came to him a thought. Maybe the victim had not died, but had managed to escape. If so, why had not the police paid him a visit long since? He went out on to the landing, examined the banisters, stair carpet, even the hall door. There was no sign of blood.
He was about to open the front door when he realized he was still dressed in pyjamas, and the sound of the postman mounting the steps made him scurry back to his top-floor flat. He dressed quickly, then like an unhappy ghost went out to haunt the city.
He walked all day. The sunlight burned up the hours like a fire devouring the last frail barricade, and night was sending forth its first dark spears when sheer weariness forced him to come to rest, and enter a workmen’s café. The table at which he sat was situated by a mirror; a long, oblong frame with its surface misty with steam, flyblown, and in some places the quicksilver had become blurred but still cast a reflection.
His coffee had grown cold, and the food on his plate congealed when that familiar face looked at him out of the mirror. He tried not to look into the eyes; made one futile effort to rise from his chair, then the great coldness froze him, and slowly his head came up, and then round.
The thin lips moved, and Edward did not have to read the word.
She was young this time, and walked with pathetic bravado along the pavement, swinging her cheap green handbag with childlike abandon, and recklessly eyeing the men who passed.
The tall young man with a white drawn face stepped out of the shadows, and the girl slowed her pace and looked back over one shoulder.
“You a nosy?”
Her voice had a North-country accent, and her grey eyes, in that pitifully young, grossly over-made-up face, were hard. Like chips of grey flint.
“If you mean, am I a policeman, the answer is no.”
“Oh, la-di-da.” She relaxed and moved towards him, her hips swinging in what she considered to be a seductive walk. “Are you lonely, then? Looking for a friend, then?”
“I could be.”
“You look as if you need one.”
She eyed him up and down with some distaste. “You’re not down on yer luck, are you? I mean, you’ve got some of the ready? I mean, I don’t do it for peanuts.”
The young man smiled and took out his pocket book. The girl’s eyes widened when she saw the thick wad of bank notes, and her smile flashed on like a neon sign.
“Oh, well,” she patted her Elizabeth Taylor hairdo, “looks as if this is my lucky night.”
The young man nodded gravely. “It is indeed.”
For the first time the girl betrayed signs of embarrassment.
“Look, have you got a car? Or maybe a place nearby? You see, I haven’t been in Fogsville long, and me landlady ain’t a regular, if you get my meaning. She won’t stand for anything.”
“I was going to suggest you came back to my place. It’s not very far.”
She took his arm and he looked down at her bright red fingernails; the hand was small, plump, and not over-clean; her false eyelashes were long, and stuck out like black spikes.
“We’ll get a taxi,” he said.
~ * ~
The flat lo
oked like a well-furnished slaughter-house. There was blood everywhere; the bedclothes were sopping wet, again there had been a futile effort at washing; the old stains on the carpet were overlaid with fresh ones; blurred red fingerprints stood out on the pale blue-emulsioned wall; there were even red spots on the ceiling. Another ruined suit hung before the electric fire.
Edward stood against the door and surveyed the macabre scene with curious detachment. He was shocked to find his feeling of terrified disgust was less strong than yesterday. It was as though his senses were numb; his brain seemed to have absorbed its full capacity for horror, and now was willing to view the outrageous rationally. Terror, black dread, still smarting under the first healing skin, but it was just bearable. Tomorrow - next time — the pain would be less, and one day, perhaps when the room was a red cavern and he paced a squelching carpet, there would be the strange sense of peace that comes with normality.
For the second time - was it only the second time? - there was no body. At least almost no body. In the bathroom he caught a glimpse of his white, unshaven face; three long scratches curved down over one cheek. Three red lines that scarcely broke the skin, save in one place, just a little to the left of his mouth. A small fragment was embedded in the flesh. He pulled it out and stared down at that sliver of fingernail; it still retained traces of bright red lacquer, and the horror flared up, burned away the healed scab, and gave him a brief moment of sanity.
“I must confess!” He shouted the words, ran into his tiny hall and screamed his defiance. “I’ll give myself up. I’ll make them lock me away.”
The tall figure came out of the kitchen and moved towards him. The deep sunken eyes glared their awful anger from under the broad-brimmed hat, and the lips were stretched back in a mirthless grin.
“Never again,” Edward was whispering now, a harsh madman’s whisper, “I’ll bring the police up here. I’ll let them see it all...”
He stopped short as the gaunt head slowly moved from side to side. The voice spoke and his ears heard the word it uttered.
“Mine.”
“I’m not yours. Not - not - not...”
The words came slowly, with great effort.
“Life - I - now - walk - in - daylight.”
The teeth parted and he saw the black nothingness beyond. Then the laughter came, hollow, punctuated by silent pauses, like a faulty radio.
“Ha - ha - ha ...”
He covered his ears with shaking hands, but the laughter echoed round the limitless caverns of his skull; then the figure was gone, and the laughter was his. Hollow, madman’s laughter, that the walls absorbed, the very air contained, and whose vibrations still throbbed long after he had sunk to the floor in merciful oblivion.
~ * ~
The days passed and became weeks. In the world outside questions were being asked, but without great concern, for no mutilated bodies had been found and there were many reasons why a prostitute might find it good policy to disappear.
One person was perturbed, but for a different reason. Mr Hulbert Jeffries stood on the landing outside Edward’s flat and gently pressed the bell-push. He waited for a few moments, then pressed again. He heard a door open, then footsteps; a slow hesitant tread. A voice, muffled by the closed door, came to him; a tired, frightened voice.
“Who is it?”
“The chap from downstairs.” Hulbert was irritated by all this security. In his world a fellow never spoke from behind a closed door; in fact, if he had any sense he would never lock his door in the first place. There was no telling who you might lock out. “Can I have a word with you?”
For a while it seemed as if his request was going to be ignored, then the door reluctantly opened, and Hulbert gasped when he saw the skeleton face, the sunken eyes that flickered with a baleful light, and almost abandoned his self-imposed mission. Then he remembered what had prompted that mission, and hardened his heart.
“Sorry to bother you, ‘specially if you’re feeling under the weather, but I had to speak with you.”
He paused, waiting for encouragement, but those awful eyes just stared at him, so he swallowed hastily and continued.
“I hope you’ll take this in the right spirit, but I wondered if you would quieten things down a bit? I mean, when you entertain your lady friends. I know a certain amount of noise is unavoidable, but there is a limit...”
Again he waited for some response; an excuse, even possibly an explanation, however feeble. But the bloodless lips only moved and muttered something that sounded like “sorry”, and the door began slowly to close.
“Here, wait a minute!” Hulbert’s normally placid disposition became ruffled. “That’s not the only thing. There’s all that hammering, and if you must throw things, and spill stuff over the floor, for Pete’s sake mop up the mess. I’ve got bloody great patches all over my ceiling.”
The door jerked back, and a bony-fingered hand shot out and gripped Hulbert’s shirt front; a hollow voice croaked:
“What patches?”
“Watch it, matey.” Hulbert gripped the slender wrist and wrenched his shirt free. “You’re asking for a punch-up. The patches on my ceiling. It’s beginning to look like the map of the world before we lost the empire. You must have knocked a couple of barrels of port over to make a mess like that.” He sniffed suddenly. “What the hell is that bloody stink?”
The door was slammed in his face, and he was left pounding out his rage upon its unresponsive panels. After a while he went back to his own apartment, muttering angrily to himself.
He looked up at his disfigured ceiling. The dark red stains were deeper towards the centre; even as he watched, one swelled into a scarlet globule, it elongated, its tip became detached, then fell to a table-top with a minute splash. Another red, glistening driblet yo-yoed down as Hulbert reached for the telephone.
~ * ~
Edward was ripping up his fitted carpet, an easy task for most of the tacks had already been removed, and those that remained slid out of their holes at the first pressure. He rolled back the carpet, tore at the underfelt, and stared at the bare boards. They bore many scrapes, made by a hammer wielded by an inexperienced hand; they were also blood-stained, and in some places not quite flat, like the lid of a suitcase that has been forced down on a too-full interior. Edward stood up as the tall man entered the room.
“Is this the end?”
“I fear so.” The tall man bowed his head gravely. “And it is to be regretted that our fruitful association has to terminate. But,” he smiled, or rather bared his teeth, “the vessel is, in more respects than one, full, and indeed overflowing.”
Fear had long since died, now only curiosity remained; an unsated lust for forbidden knowledge.
“What now?”
The once-lean cheeks were tinted with colour, the lips full and red, the eyes bright with fully charged life.
“Now I am replete, and the wheel has turned full circle -almost. You alone can seal the circle, give me the power to walk abroad. Eighty years ago I suspected the truth, now I know. I too called forth a shade from the dark lands, and I gave him the seven sacrifices that are necessary, plus the ultimate.”
“Your master,” Edward asked, “he still walks the Earth?”
The eyes sparkled, and the deep voice took on a joyous tone.
“He walks, they all walk, for we are legion. We sit in high places and fan discord until the guns begin to boom, and the bayonets flash. Your lovely wars are a feast, a banquet that charges us for twenty or thirty years. Once past the first barrier there is no reason why any of us should starve.”
“What is the ultimate?” Edward knew the answer but he wanted the tall man to tell him. The strong, deep voice went on.
“It is important that the seven initial sacrifices be dispatched in a special way. You were an apt pupil, although at first your tiresome conscience wanted to cover up. That futile scrubbing and washing. But,” he glanced round at the blood-spotted, in some p
laces blood-coated, room, “you grew out of that in time.”
He pulled his greatcoat open and lovingly selected a long-bladed knife; when he looked up his smile was gentle, his voice soft, comforting.
“How said Brutus on the Plains of Philippi?”
Edward looked into those shining eyes and knew he must follow the path of knowledge to the end - and beyond.
‘“Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face, while I do run upon it.’”
“That,” whispered the tall man, “is the ultimate.”
Edward moved forward and the knife came up; the blade quivered, then was still. The lean face turned and looked back over one shoulder.
Psychomania: Killer Stories Page 29
