Ramsey Campbell - 1976 - The Doll Who Ate His Mother (28 page)

 
          
Beyond
a partition was the kitchen area. The first thing she saw was the cat’s dish,
smashed against the wall. She could imagine his dismayed fury. If only he
hadn’t hidden his feelings she would never have upset him! Perhaps in time he
would let her see his feelings. On the table, old salad lay on and beside a
cracked plate. She glanced at the stove.

 
          
Oh,
Chris. She wrinkled her nose. He was more helpless than any other man she’d
met. How could he stand it? Well, she couldn’t. He needed looking after, and
she’d start now. The stove looked like a full day’s job, but at least she could
tidy up.

 
          
She
picked up clothes and laid them on the bed, squashing the burrow of sheets.
Handling the patchwork trousers, she felt a twinge of jealousy. Maybe she
couldn’t have made them, but she wondered how well the girl he’d lived with had
looked after him.
Too well, maybe.
Well, finding his
flat tidied might shock him into improving. She hung clothes over her arm and
went to the wardrobe.

 
          
The
door wouldn’t budge. She tugged at it; the wardrobe’s stumpy legs pawed at the
floor. Something rolled about inside, but the door stayed clamped. She laid the
clothes on the bed again and tugged two-handed. The wardrobe nodded forward,
and she had to let it fall back with a thud; its contents rolled and thumped
against its back. She put one hand on the poster and wrenched at the doorknob
with the other. But the swollen wood was firm in its frame; only her hand
slipped on the poster, and Clyde Barrow’s face tore.

 
          
Oh
no, Clare thought. Oh, where was the tape? Could she tape the back of the tear?
She was glancing about in distress when she heard the door slam downstairs.

 
          
“Mr.
Barrow?” A woman was hurrying upstairs. “Mr. Barrow, is that you?” The landing
thundered; a key struggled in the lock. Clare forced herself to move, over the
sill, slamming the sash, down the clanking fire escape, skidding past the
dustbins, along the alley and out. She didn’t dare look back at the window.

 
          
As
she drove home through the terraced side streets, slowly after her headlong
first few hundred yards, she felt light-headed. Children ran across the
streets, shrieking. Oh dear, poor Chris. Tomorrow she’d look for a poster for
him. But halfway home she had to stop the car, to giggle. She was wondering
what he would do when he saw what had happened to his flat.

 
          
Wednesday, September 24

 
          
Mary
Kelly lay very still. What had wakened her? Heat hung about her, close and
immobile. The house creaked, but it always did; that wasn’t what she’d heard.
The silence didn’t fool her. She had heard something.

 
          
Her
eyes were full of the feeling of light, grey. When she raised her eyelids it
remained, pressing close as thumbs. She held the rest of herself still. The
silence feigned innocence. She heard her heart; it sounded starved and feeble.

 
          
Perhaps
she’d heard a cat, or one of the young drunks who made a row at all hours, with
no thought for anyone. It was early morning: the television her
neighbours
played thoughtlessly past midnight was silent;
there was no traffic; no birds were greeting dawn. Perhaps she’d heard a police
car hunting criminals, howling. She reached for her handbag and pulled it into
bed with her.

 
          
She’d
not sleep again tonight. Since the writer and his cronies had upset her she had
hardly slept at all. They’d succeeded there, though she hadn’t let them see.
Since losing her sight she hadn’t had a single night of unbroken sleep. Last
night, tired out, she had hoped to sleep. She shouldn’t allow herself hope in
this world. It only made God
test
her, every time.

 
          
The
heat stood over her. Heavy weather always felt like an intruder. She remembered
the weeks after he,
Cissy’s
creature, had gone—when
she couldn’t be sure that he’d actually left: groping in her new blindness, she
had sensed the oppressive hulking heat everywhere before her, and she had been
sure it was him, playing a sadistic game. The heat had blocked her path these
last few nights.
Only the heat.
If he dared show his
face here, God would punish him for anything he did to her.

 
          
The
heat surrounded her bed with presences. They stooped toward her, thrust their
grinning faces within an inch of hers, waiting for her to have to touch them.
She closed her eyelids and began to pray.

 
          
She
prayed loudly. Her
neighbours
had complained that she
kept them awake. They’d do better to pray themselves, instead of complaining.
She offered up her soul to God. She prayed for Cissy; let God in His mercy
grant her a place in Heaven. Again she offered up her own soul, more loudly,
for her voice sounded muffled—by the heat, of course. After a pause she prayed
for Christopher. Let God in His infinite mercy save him. Perhaps, after all,
Christopher should not be blamed for what he was.

 
          
Nor
should she be blamed. She had been a woman alone, trying to fend for herself
and a child. In her letter Cissy had told her the Satanist’s name and address,
but what could she have done? If he had been caught she would have had to give
evidence—what might the Devil have done to her, to the child? She didn’t think
God could condemn her fear, and she didn’t care what anyone else thought.
Anyway, she could have changed nothing; the child had already been what he was,
the monster he’d become. She shuddered and offered up her soul a last time.

 
          
When
the silence returned she knew she was not alone in the house.

 
          
The
house was holding itself still, waiting for her to be fooled. Suddenly she
kicked off the sheets, to feel the floor solid underfoot. She wasn’t going to
lie there like Pearl White. Once she’d searched the house, she might at least
be able to rest. If anyone was there, they wouldn’t stop her screaming.

 
          
She
put on her dressing gown and slippers. Grasping her handbag, she made slowly
for the door. Her legs creaked painfully, like sticks swollen a little in
sockets. Her movements sounded oddly muffled.
By the heat.
Her footfalls were enclosed by the wall,
then
fell out
onto the landing. At least nobody could hide behind a door. The house was
colder without its doors, but she felt more secure; she’d told Mr. Wright so
when he’d argued.

 
          
The
backs of her fingers ticked across ridged strips of the wallpaper. Her other
hand closed on the knob at the top of the banister; its paint was chill. Her
footfalls were open and hollow now, but the heat still crowded her; the grey
feeling of light pressed into her face like a constant threat. Let anyone try
to threaten her. Go on, let them hurt her. God would catch up with them.

 
          
The
banister cracked loudly beneath her grip. That would startle any lurkers. She
smiled bitterly, though her thin blood was rushing faster in her ears. In the
hall she stopped to rest,
then
shuffled to the front
door.

 
          
The
lock and bolts were fastened. Beyond the door she could hear a dog scrabbling
at litter, whining. She moved along the hall. Dust-furred grease from the kitchen
walls gathered on her nails. The back door was locked and bolted too; the key
was still in the lock, just beneath the bolt. All the windows that could have
been opened were nailed shut.

 
          
The
kitchen table flitted vaguely on the
greyness
.
Objects often did that; people, seldom. Its flitting startled her; suddenly she
was afraid. She groped for the table drawer. But it was shut, and the knives
were all there. In any case, most of them were blunt. She had almost closed the
drawer when she reached in and chose the sharpest knife. She would carry that
in future.

 
          
In
the front room her movements sounded padded; the grey seemed thicker. The
presence of chairs loomed at her; there were no other presences—her oppression
had lifted somewhat. The fire-irons rattled as she checked them. They were the
only potential weapons. Ash whispered dryly beside her face, crumbling. No,
there were the photographs; their corners were sharp. She unfolded painfully
from squatting. Her hand trembled as it gripped the
mantlepiece
.
She shuffled to the table in the alcove.

 
          
One
of the photographs was gone.

 
          
It
was the larger one, the family group. It was nowhere on the table, which was
rough with dust; nor on the floor, nor in the corners of the alcove among the
ropes of dust. Her tension pulled her to her feet; her whole body shook. She
clung to her handbag with one hand; the other gripped the trembling knife.

 
          
Mrs.
Laird must have moved the photograph. The woman had been interfering lately.
She wasn’t satisfied just to read out the newspapers to her; she had to keep
going outside to the toilet, so she could see how bad the kitchen looked. Let
her take herself back to the launderette if she was going to interfere, her and
her oily soapy smell. She’d been dusting the house surreptitiously, Mary Kelly
was sure.

 
          
Or
perhaps that interfering teacher had moved the photograph—the one
who
had come with the writer. Or Mr. Wright—he’d come the
other day, pretending to make sure the wiring was safe. They were all taking
advantage of her. Well, let them. God would see to them. He’d protect her.

 
          
But
she knew none of them would have moved only one photograph.
Cissy’s
creature had been here. He must have come with the writer; she’d let no other
strangers in. They had all been playing a game with her. They must all have
been his friends, helping him.

 
          
He
was welcome to the photograph. See if it did him any good. She had her memories
of Cissy—they had been a happy family; they would be again, in Heaven. God in
His mercy would allow that. Claws scraped the window, something snarled at her:
the dog. That wouldn’t frighten her, however hard it tried.

 
          
She
trudged upstairs. Her handbag hung from her elbow; her hand on the banister
still held the knife. Before she returned to bed she would put that knife in
her bag. The heat loomed at her, grey. It muffled her footsteps again as she
entered her room.

 
          
But
heat didn’t do that.

 
          
It
could pretend to be presences, but it never played with sounds like that. Only
a real presence could do so: the presence of someone standing absolutely still
in her room, someone who’d been standing still ever since she’d awakened,
waiting for her beyond the grey. She froze, but her foot had touched something.

 
          
It
hadn’t been there before. She stooped; the heat bent menacingly toward her, at
her back. She brandished the knife at it. The object on the floor was
sharp-edged, square, glass. The photograph—no, a pane of glass with a handhold
of putty stuck to it. It could only have come from the back door. There had
been no breeze to show her the gap. He had put the pane there to let her know
how he had got in.

 
          
“What
do you want?” she demanded. She wouldn’t let him frighten her.

 
          
His
voice came from beyond the grey, against the wall; he made no other sound. “The
letter my mother wrote you,” he said.

 
          
She
recognized his voice now, its coldness, lack of feeling; it had sounded like
that when he had told her he was leaving. He’d disguised it when he had come
with the writer. “You want that to remember your mother by, do you?” she said.
“To remind you of your birth, eh?
Try and get it, then. Just
try!”

 
          
“I
already have.”

 
          
“You
don’t even know where it is,” she sneered.

 
          
“It
was in your handbag.”

 
          
He
was only guessing, only trying to make her betray herself. But she was already
feeling in her handbag, searching, scrabbling; one of her nails cracked. The
letter was gone.