The Face That Must Die by Ramsey Campbell

his purpose turned liquid within him. Though he struggled with the feeling, he was heartened not to see a phone box in Lark Lane immediately. No need to feel guilty — he could use the delay to prepare his words. Interruptions distracted him: a butcher’s cleaver chopped something brightly raw, a man trotting delicately ahead of Horridge with two tartaned poodles kept stopping to let his pets drip. All he could hold still in his mind was Roy Craig’s name.
    It was too good for the creature. How could names be so unfair? Decent people were made to sound like buffoons — such as John Horridge. “Horridge the Porridge”, they’d used to chant at school, until he’d kicked and punched them: and then he was always blamed for fighting. “Horridge, you horror!” a teacher had roared, grabbing him by the collar, frowning at the smothered titters of the onlookers like a comedian pretending to be angry with his audience. For years Horridge had looked forward to leaving school. He’d expected life outside to be fairer.
    Babble, babble. A glimpse hushed his memories: a side street, a tall red shape on the pavement, a cage with windows — a phone box. Apprehension plunged deep into his stomach. He advanced two lopsided steps, and saw that the box was occupied. He was reprieved. Angrily he forced himself to approach. He’d wait, and compose his speech while waiting. He was nearly at the box when a woman emerged from a car amid a fall of parcels and stood beside the box. She would have time for a good look at him. He retreated towards Aigburth Drive.
    The road was empty of traffic. The tips of the bare trees swayed nervously; a few dogs played in the park. He was afraid to phone, was he? Scared to behave like a man? What was he, a lump of cringing slimy scum that slunk round corners and went limp whenever there was a problem to be faced? Wasn’t he a man?
    Ahead of him on the deserted pavement a telephone box stood soldierly. It seemed to march towards him as he walked. There could be no excuses now, nothing to tempt him to falter, nothing to intervene between him and the box. If he passed it he was a coward, less than a woman. Only yards beyond it lurked the house that concealed Roy Craig. If he passed that house without having phoned he would be guilty too, soiled, an accomplice. He strode forward unevenly and dragged open the door of the box.
    There was no directory on the shelf. He couldn’t use that as an excuse: he’d often heard the number on the radio, he had memorised it in case he ever needed it. Perhaps the phone wouldn’t work. Furious with himself, he groped for a coin and dialled.
    The silence gave him time to feel how near Craig’s house was. It didn’t matter. Craig couldn’t spy on him: that window of the box was covered with a poster for domestic telephones, saying ISN’T IT WARMER AT HOME? The phone was ringing now: a pair of pulses, another. The sound was so close within his ear that it might have been his blood, throbbing unnaturally. If they didn’t answer after six rings —

He heard no click, but where the next pulse should have been, a girl’s voice said “Merseyside Police, can I help you?”
    The pay tone cut her off, a rapid peeping like the cry of a frantic bird. He thrust at the coin, which refused to slip in. It was bent, or the coin-box was faulty! He struggled with it while the tone babbled urgently and sweat covered him like a shower of hot ash. All at once the coin broke through into the slot. A silence followed which he dared not disturb.
    “ Merseyside Police, can I help you?”
    She was still there. If he had lost her, he wouldn’t have been able to call again. But she had given him no time to think of what to say. Jesus Mary and Joseph, whom should he ask for? When he spoke, it was only to fight off the suffocating frustration. “I want to speak to someone about the murder of Roylance.”
    He sounded absurd to himself: he might have been calling a shop to complain about