The Face That Must Die by Ramsey Campbell Page B

even know his name; he had been just an anonymous official voice. What secret might the owner of that voice have had? Horridge’s thoughts dragged his head down to stare at his shabby toecaps. He should have known better than to trust the police, after what they’d done to him.
    He had still been at school; his father hadn’t long been allowing him to help on the ladder at weekends and on summer evenings. The knocking at the front door had shaken the house. He’d heard his mother’s sick enfeebled voice crying out upstairs, from where she was trapped in her bed: “What’s wrong? What is it? What’s the matter?”
    Two policemen had wanted to know everything he knew about the cat burglaries. His father had tried to argue with them while his mother had cried out in the emptiness, unanswered. At last his father had given up, exhausted. “Go with them, John. Let them take your fingerprints. They’ll soon see their mistake.” But as he hurried upstairs to calm his wife, hadn’t he glanced uncertainly at his son?
    They’d questioned Horridge at the police station for two hours. They had seemed unable to believe that he hadn’t heard about the burglaries, all of which had been of first-floor bedrooms. Because he minded his own business, they’d suspected him of lying. Eventually they had taken his fingerprints; then grudgingly they’d let him go. One of them had pointed at their copy of his prints. “Just remember — behave yourself.” He had never found out who had given his name to the police; he had suspected everyone.
    He jerked free of the trance of his memory. A car was slowing outside Craig’s house. It halted there. It wasn’t marked like a police car — but when the two men strode towards the house, purposeful but unhurried, Horridge knew at once what they were. He had been right to phone. Some people could be trusted, after all.
    He narrowed his eyes unobtrusively, so as to appear to be sleeping, and watched them ring the bell. Suppose Craig were not at home? Suppose one of the other tenants saw the police and warned Craig to stay away? Then Horridge would have helped him to escape justice! He squeezed his eyes viciously shut, to punish himself.
    He heard the clatter of a window, and opened them in time to see Craig leaning out like a gargoyle. The swollen face seemed to venture into the daylight reluctantly as a maggot’s. “Who is it?” Craig called. His voice was deep enough to pass for a man’s, but Horridge heard something wrong with his intonation.
    The policemen had to step out from beneath the porch before he could see them. “Mr Roy Craig?” one said, and displayed something in a small folder.
    Craig hesitated, peering. “Just a moment,” he said, and closed the window.
    As the policemen waited, Horridge saw them exchange a meaningful nod. He hugged himself, not to keep out the cold but to make sure that none of his glee drained away. Mightn’t there be a back way out of the house? At this moment Craig might be making his escape! For the love of heaven, why didn’t one of them go round the back? He squirmed on the bench, restraining his urge to do their job for them.
    The door in the porch faltered open. When he saw Craig being escorted into the darkness within, Horridge closed his eyes gently and grew calm. Only once before had he felt so secure — in his grandparents’ cottage in Wales.
    Some time later he heard the front door open. He let his eyes widen. No need to pretend to be asleep. He was greedy for the sight of Craig’s arrest.
    The policemen were emerging from the porch, but Craig stood in the inner doorway. Was he resisting arrest? Then why was he smiling? Was he so brazen that he could still smile? Not until Horridge realised that the policemen were apologising did the truth seize him like paralysis.
    It was as though the arrest had been turned on him — for one policeman was striding straight towards him. Horridge’s legs shook; if he stood up, they would give way.