At last I seized her by the shoulders and tried to force her toward the door. She resisted me and began to scream. In desperation I began to shake her. Was I trying to shake some sense into her or merely trying to end those rasping shrieks? They stopped when her head flopped loosely from side to side like a rag doll’s.
I realized I was supporting her full weight, and lowered her gently to the floor. As I leaned over her, my hands underneath her back, I realized that my arms were not covered by fawn lamb’s-wool, but by black broadcloth ...
Then here I was at my own kitchen door.
So what am I to do now? Tell the authorities what they are likely to find in the old Marlow factory? Why bother? Sooner or later she’ll be found, if not by some prying vagrant then by the inevitable demolition crew. Will anything be found then that can be traced back to me?
Does it matter anyway? Something far more important weighs on my mind. You see, he has me too. He uses me. About the time of change in the moon is worst, when those old lusts rage again. There have been no more supernatural trips. No need because he is always with me, part of me.
Every so often attacks are reported in the newspapers. The police repeat that they are following a lead, though that seems to be a routine statement, and so far nobody has knocked on my door.
But what is to become of me?
MERRY MAY by Ramsey Campbell
Born in Liverpool on January 4, 1946, Ramsey Campbell was 18 when his first collection of horror stories was published by Arkham House, and he hasn’t let up since. One wonders whether he might be some sinister counterculture’s answer to The Beatles, since he has a fondness for using Liverpool settings for his nastiest tales. Presently Campbell lives with his wife and two children in Merseyside in “an enormous turn-of-the-century house with fifteen rooms or more and a cellar and sundry other good things.” Don’t look in the cellar.
Ramsey Campbell’s latest novel is Ancient Images, originally entitled The Dead Hunt (Campbell’s titles seem always to change upon publication). Two recent collections are Cold Print and Scared Stiff, as well as an English “best of” omnibus. Curiously, Campbell’s story in last year’s Year’s Best Horror Stories, “Apples,” was to have appeared in an English reprint of Halloween Horrors, but a copy editor there rewrote the story from start to finish. Sphere Books pulped the entire edition. No word as to the present whereabouts of the copy editor.
As Kilbride left the shadow of the house whose top floor he owned, the April sunlight caught him. All along this side of the broad street of tall houses, trees and shrubs were unfurling their foliage minutely. In the years approaching middle age the sight had made him feel renewed, but now it seemed futile, this compulsion to produce tender growth while a late frost lay in wait in the shadows. He bought the morning paper at the corner shop and scanned the personal columns while his car warmed up.
Alone and desperate? Call us now before you do anything else ... There were several messages from H, but none to J for Jack. Deep down he must have known there wouldn’t be, for he hadn’t placed a message for weeks. During their nine months together, he and Heather had placed messages whenever either of them had had to go away, and the day when that had felt less like an act of love to him than a compulsion had been the beginning of the end of their relationship. The thought of compulsion reminded him of the buds opening moistly all around him, and he remembered Heather’s vulva, gaping pinkly wider and wider. The stirring of his penis at the memory depressed and angered him. He crumpled the newspaper and swung the car away from the curb, deeper into Manchester.
He parked in his space outside the Northern College of Music and strode into the lecture hall. So many of his female students reminded him of Heather now, and not only because of their age. How many of them would prove to be talented enough to tour with even an amateur orchestra, as she had? How many would suffer a nervous breakdown, as she had? The eager bright-eyed faces dismayed him: they’d drain him of all the knowledge and insight he could communicate, and want more. Maybe he should see himself as sunlight to their budding, but he felt more like the compost as he climbed onto the stage.
“Sonata form in contemporary music ...” He’d given the lecture a dozen times or more, yet all at once he seemed to have no thoughts. He stumbled through the introduction and made for the piano, too quickly. As he sat down to play an example there wasn’t a note of living music in his head except his own, his thoughts for the slow movement of his symphony. He hadn’t played that music to anyone but Heather. He remembered her dark eyes widening, encouraging him or yearning for him to succeed, and his fingers clutched at the keys, hammered out the opening bars. He’d reached the second subject before he dared glance at his students. They were staring blankly at him, at the music.
Surely they were reacting to its unfamiliarity; or could it be too demanding or too esoteric in its language? Not until a student near the back of the hall yawned behind her hand did it occur to Kilbride that they were simply bored. At once the music sounded intolerably banal, a few bits of secondhand material arranged in childishly clever patterns. He rushed through the recapitulation and stood up as if he were pushing the piano away from him, and felt so desperate to talk positively about music that he began another lecture, taking the first movement of Beethoven’s Ninth to demonstrate the processes of symphonic breakdown and renewal. As the students grew more visibly impatient he felt as if he’d lost all his grasp of music, even when he realized that he’d already given them this lecture. “Sorry, I know you’ve heard it all before,” he said with an attempt at lightness.
It was his only lecture that Friday. He couldn’t face his colleagues, not when the loss of Heather seemed to be catching up with him all at once. There was a concert at the Free Trade Hall, but by the time he’d driven through the lunchtime traffic clogged with roadworks, the prospect of Brahms and early Schoenberg seemed to have nothing to do with him. Perhaps he was realizing at last how little he had to do with music. He drove on, past the Renaissance arcades of the Hall, past some witches dancing about for a camera crew outside the television studios, back home to Salford.
The road led him over the dark waters of the Irwell and under a gloomy bridge to the near edge of Salford. He had to stop for traffic lights, so sharply that the crumpled newspaper rustled. He wondered suddenly if as well as searching for a sign of Heather he’d been furtively alert for someone to replace her. He made himself look away from the paper, where his gaze was resting leadenly, and met the eyes of a woman who was waiting by the traffic lights.
Something in her look beneath her heavy silvered eyelids made his penis raise its head. She wasn’t crossing the road, just standing under the red light, drumming silver fingernails on her hip in the tight black glossy skirt. Her face was small and pert beneath studiedly shaggy red hair that overhung the collar of her fur jacket. “Going my way?” he imagined her saying, and then, before he knew he meant to, he reached across the passenger seat and rolled the window down.
At once he felt absurd, aghast at himself. But she stepped toward the car, a guarded smile on her lips. “Which way are you going?” he said just loud enough for her to hear.
“Whichever way you want, love.”
Now that she was close he saw that she was more heavily made up than he’d realized. He felt guilty, vulnerable, excited. He fumbled for the catch on the door and watched her slip into the passenger seat, her fishnet thighs brushing together. He had to clear his throat before he could ask “How much?”
“Thirty for the usual, more for specials. I won’t be hurt, but I’ll give you some discipline if that’s what you like.”
“That won’t be necessary, thank you.”
“Only asking, love,” she said primly, shrugging at his curtness. “I reckon you’ll still want to go to my place.”
She directed him through Salford, to a back street near Peel Park. At least this wasn’t happening in Manchester itself, where the chief constable was a lay preacher, where booksellers were sent to ja
il for selling books like Scared Stiff and the police had seized The Big Red One on videocassette because the title was suggestive, yet he couldn’t quite believe that it was happening at all. Children with scraped knees played in the middle of the street under clotheslines stretched from house to house; when at first they wouldn’t get out of the way, Kilbride was too embarrassed to sound his horn. Women in brick passages through pairs of terraced houses stared at him and muttered among themselves as he parked the car and followed the silvered woman into her house.
Beyond the pink front door a staircase led upward, but she opened a door to the left of the stairs and let him into the front room. This was wedge-shaped, half of an already small room that had been divided diagonally by a partition. A sofa stood at the broad end, under the window, facing a television and videorecorder at the other. “This is it, love,” the woman said. “Don’t be shy, come in.”
Kilbride made himself step forward and close the door behind him. The pelt of dark red wallpaper made the room seem even smaller. Presumably there was a kitchen beyond the partition, for a smell of boiled sprouts hung in the air. The sense of invading someone else’s domesticity aggravated his panic. “Relax now, love, you’re safe with me,” the woman murmured as she drew the curtains and deftly pulled out the rest of the sofa to make it into a bed.
He watched numbly while she unfolded a red blanket that was draped over the back of the sofa and spread it over the bed. He could just leave, he wasn’t obliged to stay—but when she patted the bed, he seemed only able to sit beside her while she kicked off her shoes and hitched up her skirt to roll down her stockings. “Want to watch a video to get you in the mood?” she suggested.
“No, that isn’t ...” The room seemed to be growing smaller and hotter, which intensified the smell of sprouts. He watched her peel off the second stocking, but then the shouts of children made him glance nervously behind him at the curtains. She gave him an unexpected lopsided smile. “I know what you want,” she said in the tone of a motherly waitress offering a child a cream cake. “You should’ve said.”
She lifted a red curtain that had disguised an opening in the partition and disappeared behind it. Kilbride dug out his wallet hastily, though an inflamed part of his mind was urging him just to leave, and hunted for thirty pounds. The best he could do was twenty-seven or forty. He was damned if he would pay more than he’d been quoted. He crumpled the twenty-seven in his fist as she came back into the room.
She’d dressed up as a schoolgirl in gymslip and knee socks. “Thought as much,” she said coyly. As she reached for the money she put one foot on the bed, letting her skirt ride up provocatively, and he saw that her pubic hair was dyed red, like her hair. The thought of thrusting himself into that graying crevice made him choke, red dimness and the smell of sprouts swelling in his head. He flung himself aside and threw the money behind her, to gain himself time. He fumbled open the inner door, then the outer, and fled into the street.
It was deserted. The women must have called in their children in case they overheard him and their neighbor. She’d thought when he glanced at the window that the children were attracting him, he thought furiously. He stalked to his car and drove away without looking back. What made it worse was that her instincts hadn’t been entirely wrong, for now he found himself obsessively imagining Heather dressed as a schoolgirl. Once he had to stop the car in order to drag at the crotch of his clothes and give his stiffening penis room. Only the fear of crashing the car allowed him to interrupt the fantasy and drive home. He parked haphazardly, limped groaning upstairs to his flat, dashed into the bathroom and came violently before he could even masturbate.
It gave him no pleasure, it was too like being helpless. His penis remained pointlessly erect, until he was tempted to shove it under the cold tap, to get rid of his unfulfilling lust that was happier with fantasy than reality. Its lack of any purpose he could share or even admit to himself appalled him. At least now that it was satisfied, it wouldn’t hinder his music.
He brewed himself a pot of strong coffee and took the manuscript books full of his score to the piano. He leafed through them, hoping for a spark of pleasure, then he played through them. When he came to the end he slammed his elbows on the keyboard and buried his face in his hands while the discord died away.
He thought of playing some Ravel to revive his pianistic technique, or listening to a favorite record, Monteverdi or Tallis, whose remoteness he found moving and inspiring. But now early music seemed out of date, later music seemed overblown or arid. He’d felt that way at Heather’s age, but then his impatience had made him creative: he’d completed several movements for piano. Couldn’t he feel that way again? He stared at the final page of his symphony, Kilbride’s Unfinished, The Indistinguishable, Symphony No. -1, Symphony of a Thousand Cuts, not so much a chamber symphony as a pisspot symphony ... Twilight gathered in the room, and the notes on the staves began to wriggle like sperm. When it was too dark to see he played through the entire score from memory. The notes seemed to pile up around him like the dust of decades. He reached out blindly for the score and tore the pages one by one into tiny pieces.
He sat for hours in the dark, experiencing no emotion at all. He seemed to be seeing himself clearly at last, a middle-aged nonentity with a yen for women half his age or even younger, a musical pundit with no ability to compose music, no right to talk about those who had. No wonder Heather’s parents had forbidden him to visit her or call her. He’d needed her admiration to help him fend off the moment when he confronted himself, he realized. The longer he sat in the dark, the more afraid he was to turn on the light and see how alone he was. He flung himself at the lightswitch, grabbed handfuls of the torn pages and stuffed them into the kitchen bin. “Pathetic,” he snarled, at them or at himself.
It was past midnight, he saw. He would never be able to sleep: the notes of his symphony were gathering in his head, a cumulative discord. There was nowhere to go for company at this hour except nightclubs, to meet people as lonely and sleepless as himself. But he could talk to someone, he realized, someone who wouldn’t see his face or know anything about him. He tiptoed downstairs into the chilly windswept night and snatched the newspaper out of the car.
Alone and desperate? Call us now before you do anything else ... The organization was called Renewal of Life, with a phone number on the far side of Manchester. The distance made him feel safer. If he didn’t like what he heard at first he needn’t even answer.
The phone rang for so long that he began to think he had a wrong number. Or perhaps they were busy helping people more desperate than he. That made him feel unreasonably selfish, but he’d swallowed so much self-knowledge today that the insight seemed less than a footnote. He was clinging stubbornly to the receiver when the ringing broke off halfway through a phrase, and a female voice said “Yes?”
She sounded as if she’d just woken up. It was a wrong number, Kilbride thought wildly, and felt compelled to let her know that it was. “Renewal of Life?” he stammered.
“Yes, it is.” Her voice was louder, as if she was wakening further, or trying to. “What can we do for you?”
She must have nodded off at her post, he thought. That made her seem more human, but not necessarily more reassuring. “I—I don’t know.”
“You’ve got to do something for me first and then I’ll tell you.”
She sounded fully awake now. Some of what he’d taken for drowsiness might have been something else, still there in her voice: a hint of lazy coyness that could have implied a sexual promise. “What is it?” he said warily.
“Swear you won’t hang up on me.”
“All right, I swear.” He waited for her to tell him what was being offered, then felt absurd, embarrassed into talking. “I don’t know what I was expecting when I called your number. I’m just at a low ebb, that’s all, male menopause and all that. Just taking stock of myself and not finding much. Maybe this call wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe I need someone who’s known me for a
while to show me if there’s anything I missed about myself.”
“Well, tell me about yourself then.” When he was silent she said quickly, “At least tell me where you are.”
“Manchester.”
“Alone in the big city. That can’t be doing you any good. What you need is a few days in the country, away from everything. You ought to come here, you’d like it. Yes, why don’t you? You’d be here for the dawn.”
He was beginning to wonder how young she was. He felt touched and amused by her inexpertness, yet the hint of an underlying promise seemed stronger than ever. “Just like that?” he said laughing. “I can’t do that. I’m working tomorrow.”
“Come on Saturday, then. You don’t want to be alone at the weekend, not the way you’re feeling. Get away from all the streets and factories and pollution and see May in with us.”
Sunday was May Day. He was tempted to go wherever she was inviting him—not the area to which the telephone number referred, apparently. “What sort of organization are you, exactly?”
“We just want to keep life going. That’s what you wanted when you rang.” She sounded almost offended, and younger than ever. “You wouldn’t have to tell us anything about yourself you didn’t want to or join in anything you didn’t like the sound of.”
Perhaps because he was talking to her in the middle of the night, that sounded unambiguously sexual. “If I decide to take you up on that I can call you then, can’t I?”
“Yes, and then I’ll give you directions. Call me even if you think you don’t want to, all right? Swear.”
“I swear,” Kilbride said, unexpectedly glad to have committed himself, and could think of nothing else to say except, “Good night.” As soon as he’d replaced the receiver he realized that he should have found out her name. He felt suddenly exhausted, pleasantly so, and crawled into bed. He imagined her having been in bed while she was talking to him, then he saw her as a tall slim schoolgirl with a short skirt and long bare thighs and Heather’s face. That gave him a pang of guilt, but the next moment he was asleep.
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