Festival of Fear

by Graham Masterton

  He slid open one of the drawers and picked out a pair of white lacy panties. He pressed them against his face and took a deep breath. They smelled of nothing but Comfort softener. She’s gone, he thought. She’s really gone. It just goes to show you that you can make a difference in your own life, you can take control, if you’re brave enough. All you have to do is open your eyes, take your blinkers off, and see that the people all around you are screwing you rotten. They may smile and clap you on the back and pretend to be your friends, but they’re not. And women are the worst.

  He went into the bathroom and stared at his face in the mirror. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, does this look like a murderer to you? No, it looks like a man who was grievously betrayed by the woman who was supposed to love him, and simply started to ask himself the right questions.

  He took off all of his clothes and weighed himself. Then he cleared all of Gemma’s cosmetics from the bathroom shelf – her cleansing lotion, her Clearasil, her toothpaste, her shampoo. He put them in a cardboard wine box, along with her make-up and everything else in her dressing-table drawers.

  After that, he emptied her wardrobe, stuffing all of her clothes into black plastic dustbin-bags. He even went through the kitchen cupboards, removing her Weight Watchers soups and her sachets of green Japanese tea.

  The phone rang. He picked it up and said, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Rick. Is Gem back yet?’

  ‘Gemma’s never coming back, Rick.’

  ‘What do you mean? Where can I get in touch with her?’

  ‘She’s dead, Rick. There was an accident.’

  ‘Oh my God. What happened?’

  ‘Justice caught up with her, Rick. Justice.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Of course you do. Fucking her behind my back.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t try to pretend that you’re innocent, Rick. It was carved in stone, what you two were doing together. Etched in glass, chiseled in brick. You can’t get evidence much more concrete than that, can you?’

  ‘I don’t know what on earth you mean. Tell me what happened to her.’

  But Peter hung up, and sat back in his chair, smiling smugly. Let him find out for himself, the bastard. Gemma’s death would be in all the papers tomorrow. Then everybody would know that all deceitful women have to pay the price.

  A week went past and it rained every day, ceaselessly. The following Saturday morning he went to Gemma’s funeral at West London Crematorium. He saw a lot of her friends there – Kelley and June and David and all of the people from work – but he didn’t see the tall curly-headed Rick. He had probably had the sense to stay away.

  After the ceremony – as he walked back along the puddly asphalt path toward the crematorium gates – a young man with short blond hair and glasses caught up with him.

  ‘We’ve met before, haven’t we?’ he said. Then – seeing Peter frown – ‘Robin Marshall, we met at Bill and Gillian’s party in Kew.’

  ‘Oh, yes. How are you?’

  ‘I’ve been great, actually. I’ve just come back from three months in San Francisco. Such a tragedy, Gemma being killed like that. You must be devastated.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’

  ‘She was such a sweet girl . . . always so graceful, I thought. I never saw her do anything awkward or clumsy, ever. I saw her fall off a stepladder once, when she was putting up some Christmas decorations. Somehow she managed to turn it into a jeté. Landed on her feet – ta-da! – light as a fairy.’

  Peter nodded. He was struck by the intense blueness of Robin Marshall’s eyes. They were almost unreal, like sapphires. He had good cheekbones, a straight nose, and rather sensual lips. His suntan had faded so that he looked as if he were made up for a television appearance.

  ‘Listen, do you fancy a coffee?’ Peter asked. ‘I haven’t really had anybody to talk to since Gemma.’

  ‘Of course. That’d be nice. There’s an Italian restaurant just around the corner. The food’s only fit for regurgitation but they do a terrific espresso.’

  They sat in the steamed-up window of Florentino’s with two large espressos, only two feet away from a hugely fat man in jeans and a squeaky leather jacket who was forking up a bowlful of spaghetti Bolognese.

  ‘You’re bound to be feeling disoriented now that Gemma’s gone,’ said Robin. ‘After all, your choice of partner defines who you are. What you see in your partner, that’s you.’

  ‘I don’t know. It sounds heartless, and I miss her like anything, but I feel relieved, in a way. I don’t really think that we were meant for each other. I just wish I could have found out some other way.’

  Robin watched him from over the rim of his cup. Those deep blue eyes were almost alien, an Atreides from Dune. ‘When you say you weren’t meant for each other – what do you think was wrong?’

  The fat man tore off a piece of bread and pushed it into his mouth to join his churning spaghetti. Peter said, ‘She was absolutely beautiful . . . and graceful, like you say. Everybody else used to say that she was gorgeous, and she was. I loved going out with her and showing her off. But when it came down to it . . .’

  ‘When it came down to it, what? What was wrong? What was missing?’

  Peter didn’t know why he felt able to confide in Robin, but he did. He seemed to be one of those few people who instinctively understand what you’re feeling, because they’ve felt the same way.

  ‘When it came down to it, she didn’t – well, she didn’t, you know, excite me. She didn’t turn me on.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Robin, and sipped his coffee. ‘And why do you think that was?’

  Peter shrugged. ‘I loved her, as a person. I really did. I was jealous if any other man tried to flirt with her. I mean, like, burningly jealous. In the last few days I’ve been worrying that she was seeing somebody else, and that’s been depressing the hell out of me. But I . . . ah—’

  ‘You didn’t find her sexually arousing, is that what you’re trying to say?’

  ‘I suppose it is, yes. I really don’t know why.’

  Robin was thoughtfully silent, peering down into his coffee cup. Then he said, ‘What about other women? Do you find any woman sexually arousing?’

  Peter didn’t answer, couldn’t. He had always liked women, and he had always been curious about women. He had bought jazz mags when he was younger, and masturbated over them. But Robin had come dangerously close to something that he had never dared to ask himself.

  ‘I, er, yes. Some women. Some particular types of women. Not all women. But some women.’

  Robin still didn’t look up from his coffee cup. ‘Do you think it would be a good idea if you and I were to meet and discuss this some more? You could come to my flat for supper, if you liked.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘The truth is, Peter, I’m on my own at the moment. The reason I came back from San Francisco – well, I’ve just broken up with somebody who was very close to me. I’d really appreciate some company. You know – just someone to talk to.’

  Peter didn’t know what to say, but Robin took a business card out of his wallet and said, ‘Think about it. My home number’s on here, too. Next Thursday would be a good day for me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Peter. The fat man sniffed yet again, and let out a loud, ripping burp.

  He decided to walk home, even though it was nearly three miles and it was raining harder than ever. He needed to think, and he felt that he deserved some punishment, too. He kept his umbrella furled, so that the icy rain lashed against his face, and he couldn’t stop thinking about Robin and his Atreides eyes, and those bow-shaped sensual lips.

  He reached the junction with Charleville Road. There was a public lavatory in the middle of the traffic island, surrounded by black cast-iron railings. On the side of it, engraved into the brickwork, were the same jagged letters that he had seen before. WHAT ARE YOU, PETER?

  He crossed over the busy road and went right
up to the wall. Again, the letters were nearly half an inch deep. He pressed his hand against the wet bricks and wondered if he was suffering the first symptoms of schizophrenia. But schizophrenic people hear voices. They don’t see messages chiseled into solid stone.

  He wiped his dripping nose with the back of his hand. He needed a pee so he walked around to the steps that led down to the Gents. As he went down them, a gray-haired man in a damp-shouldered raincoat passed him on the way up, and gave him a wink.

  The toilet was smelly and the floor was wet. A thin young man in a threadbare overcoat was washing his hair in one of the basins, while a painfully ribby Jack Russell stood shivering beside him. ‘Spare some change, mate?’ he asked, huskily, his hair still soapy and his head still immersed.

  Peter was about to open one of the cubicle doors. He found three pounds in his trouser pocket and put it down on the counter next to the young man’s dirty green plastic comb. The young man didn’t thank him so Peter simply said, ‘There, buy yourself a cup of tea or something,’ and went back to the cubicle.

  He locked the door behind him. There was no seat on the lavatory and somebody had unraveled all of the toilet paper on to the floor. The walls were covered in drawings and poems and telephone numbers. If you want the suck of your life meet me here 7:30 Tues 9. I like young black boys with really tight holes. O seasons, O castles! What soul is without fault? Spurs are crap. There were crude felt-tip drawings of naked women and dozens of disembodied penises with semen flying out of them like machine-gun fire. And then – as Peter looked higher up the wall – he felt a cold, crawling sensation around the back of his neck. Hacked into the tiles was the message WHY DON’T YOU TRY IT, PETER?

  He finished and flushed the toilet. He stood in the cubicle for a long time with his hand pressed over his mouth, thinking. Robin had disturbed him deeply, and he had been tempted to say yes when he had asked him around for supper. But he wasn’t at all sure of himself yet. Supposing he wasn’t really gay at all? Supposing he was grieving for Gemma more than he consciously realized, and was simply looking for help and sympathy and a shoulder to cry on? Supposing – for all of her grace and all of her beauty – Gemma simply hadn’t been his type of woman?

  He would need to be sure before he saw Robin again. It would be too embarrassing to accept Robin’s invitation and then discover that he had made a terrible mistake.

  He stayed in the cubicle for three or four minutes, not knowing what to do. But finally he opened the door and stepped outside. The young man in the shabby overcoat was still bent over the basin, almost as if he had been waiting for Peter to emerge. The dog yawned and shook itself.

  Peter went up to the young man and stood close behind him.

  ‘I – ah – I don’t suppose you need any more money?’

  The young man stopped rinsing his tousled hair, but said nothing.

  ‘It’s just that – well, I’ve never done anything like this before. Just come up to a total stranger and asked him if he’s interested. So I’m not sure if this is the way to go about it.’

  Still the stranger said nothing, and remained with his head bent over the gray, soapy water.

  ‘If you’re not interested, just say the word and I’ll go.’

  At last the young man stood up straight, his shoulders bony under his coat. Peter couldn’t see his face properly because the mirror was all steamed up.

  ‘Well?’ said Peter. He was growing anxious and impatient, and he was right on the edge of turning around and leaving.

  ‘You ask far too many questions,’ said the boy, in a dry, whispery voice.

  ‘What? What do you mean?’

  ‘Exactly that. You never stop doubting yourself. You never stop doubting other people. You don’t have any faith.’

  ‘Faith? What does faith have to do with it?’

  ‘Faith has everything to do with it,’ the young man replied. He lifted his right hand, which was very thin and very long-fingered, and unfolded it. To Peter’s horror, he had curved gray fingernails that were almost three inches long.

  He reached up to the mirror, and used the nail of his index finger to scratch the glass. With a gritty scraping noise that set Peter’s teeth on edge, he scrawled NO FAITH, NO FUTURE. Then he turned around.

  To Peter’s shock, he wasn’t a young man at all. His face was leathery and deeply-wrinkled, and his eyes were as black and glittery as beetles. His mouth was almost lipless, as if somebody had made a deep horizontal cut with a very sharp knife.

  Peter took one step back, and then another.

  ‘Where are you going, Peter?’ the man asked him, in the same whispery voice. ‘You can’t run away from your own lack of faith.’

  ‘Who are you?’ said Peter.

  ‘They used to call me the Scrawler, in the East End, during the Blitz, when they were hiding in the tube stations. I used to scratch their worst nightmares on the tunnel walls. HALLO, SIDNEY, EVER WONDERED WHAT YOUR WIFE’S UP TO? That used to put the wind up them!’

  ‘Get away from me. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, and I don’t want to know, either.’

  ‘You can’t get away from me, Peter. Once I’ve sniffed you out, there’s no getting away from me. I’ve been living in London for longer than you can even imagine, mate. I’ve been scrawling and scratching my way through the East End slums, and the sex clubs of Soho, and Holborn, and Notting Hill, and Brixton. I have a very keen nose for fear, Peter. I can smell it on people, like body odor. Toffs, drunks, newspaper reporters, bank clerks.’ He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep, appreciative breath.

  ‘Who the hell are you? Leave me alone.’

  The Scrawler’s eyes popped open again. ‘How can I leave you alone when you won’t leave me alone? You’re always doubting yourself, that’s your trouble. You’re always afraid that you’re going to be alone. You thought it was your mind that carved all of those questions, didn’t you? Or maybe some holy miracle. But it wasn’t you and it wasn’t a miracle. It was me.’

  ‘Get away from me, will you?’

  ‘Every city holds the same terrors, Peter. And what’s the greatest terror of all? The terror of not being loved. The terror of living amongst millions and millions of people and having nobody.

  ‘That’s who I am, mate, and that’s what I am. I’m nothing more than the terror of loneliness, come to life. And if you ask me where I come from, and how I came to be wandering the streets sniffing out people’s insecurity, then all I can say is, I’ve always been here. You look at Rowlandson’s etchings, my friend. You look at Punch engravings of the London mob. You look at photographs of Piccadilly in the nineteen twenties. That fellow by the gin-house door; that fellow sitting on the top deck of the open omnibus; that face in the crowd on Waterloo Bridge. That’s me, Peter, looking for people like you.’

  ‘You’re mad. You’re just mad. Get away from me.’

  ‘I can’t do that, Peter. So long as you doubt yourself, mate, I will follow you everywhere, wherever you go, and I will never, ever, ever give you peace.’

  Peter stared at the Scrawler for a very long time, his chest rising and falling like a man who’s been running. He did have faith. He did believe in himself. But what did he really believe in? And why did he always feel that he never fitted in? At work, he suspected that his colleagues didn’t like him, and that they talked about him behind his back. And he couldn’t even walk along the street without thinking that people were staring at him, and thinking what a misfit he was. He had never been able to believe that Gemma had really loved him and really wanted to marry him, and maybe that was why he had never been able to trust her.

  But if he could get rid of his doubt – if he could stop asking himself so many questions – if he could kill his lack of faith—

  He lifted his umbrella and struck the Scrawler on the shoulder. The Scrawler instantly snatched the umbrella and hurled it across to the other side of the toilet. Peter struck him with his fist, but he felt as if he had nothing beneath t
hat flapping raincoat but a cage of bare bones. Without a word, the Scrawler opened out the index fingernails of both hands and slashed Peter across his face, first one cheek, then the other. The nails cut right through to his tongue, leaving his cheeks wide open, like extra mouths. Blood sprayed everywhere, all over the basins, halfway up the walls.

  Peter tried to seize the Scrawler’s neck. He was too shocked to speak, and in any case he couldn’t feel his tongue, but he let out a fierce and bloody hhhuurrrhhhhhhh! and hit the Scrawler’s head against the mirror, cracking it in half.

  ‘Now you’ve fucking done it,’ the Scrawler breathed into his ear. He locked his left arm around Peter’s neck and pushed the hard, sharp nail of his right up against Peter’s groin. He grunted, and pushed even harder, and his nail pierced Peter’s black funeral trousers, punctured his shirt tail and his underpants, and then plunged deep into subcutaneous fat, puncturing his body cavity with an audible exhalation of gases. Peter felt the fingernail slide inside him, right inside, and it was the most indecent invasion of his body that he could have imagined, a single long fingernail cutting through intestines and muscle and connective tissue.

  He didn’t utter a sound as the Scrawler slowly dragged his hand further and further up, so that its fingernail cut into his stomach, right up to his breastbone. His shirt front was suddenly soaked with blood. The Scrawler stepped back, breathing harsh and hard. Peter swayed and coughed and then sank slowly to the wet tiled floor, pressing his forehead against it like a religious penitent.

  Right in front of his eyes, he saw the words HOW ARE YOU FEELING TODAY, PETER? They were cut deep into the ceramic, and they were slowly filling up with blood.

  A month later, on a cold, brilliant day, Robin Marshall was called to the inquest at West London Coroner’s Court, so that he could give evidence about Peter’s apparent state of mind on the day that he died.

  He stood in the witness box with the mid-morning sun shining on his blond hair. ‘I had the impression that Peter was confused.’

  ‘Confused about what?’ asked the coroner.