Ramsey Campbell - 1976 - The Doll Who Ate His Mother (5 page)

 
          
“Yes,
a few.” As a teenager she’d used to pirouette when she was happy, until she’d
heard herself called Stumpy-legs. “Why do you ask?” she said.

 
          
“It
shows in the way you walk.”

 
          
She
turned from unlocking her flat to smile at him. “There, that’s better,” he
said. “What was wrong with you before?”

 
          
“Nothing.
You made me jump, that’s all.”

 
          
“I
thought that was it. I am sorry,” and he looked so: even his faint, lingering
amusement seemed dampened.

 
          
“No,
I shouldn’t blame you. I just thought you were a policeman.”

 
          
The
flat was a mess. George the guitar and his music were sitting on one chair; the
other chair was crowded with carrier bags full of spray cans and
bottles—shampoo, lotion, disinfectant—which she’d cleared out of the bathroom
that morning. The couch was a jumble of books and newspapers and letters, her
sewing machine sat on the dining table, clothes lolled patiently on the dining
chairs. He must be noting all this. Well, she couldn’t help it. Let him take
her as he found her. “Sit anywhere,” she said. “Just put that stuff on the
floor.”

 
          
George
thumped the carpet, his strings emitting a muffled protest within the canvas
bag. Yes, Edmund Hall would love some instant coffee, if she had to go into the
kitchen anyway. Was she sure he couldn’t buy her dinner? Well, in that case
he’d be out of her way before she ate.

 
          
She
stirred sugar into his coffee and carried in the mugs. He laid aside a
Merseyside tabloid as she entered. “Used to work for that lot,” he said, slapping
the newspaper. “Tell me. If I had been a policeman, why on earth should that
have
bothered you?”

 
          
“My
brother was killed in a car crash while I was driving.”

 
          
“Yes,
I know. To be honest, that’s why I’m here. But that’s not a police matter,
surely.”

 
          
“It
is if they decide to prosecute. They could get me for dangerous driving, or
driving without due care and attention, at least.”

 
          
“Haven’t
they let you off the hook yet? They need sorting out. I’ve got a few contacts;
I’ll see what I can do. God, that’s typical.
Wasting their
time with the petty crimes and the innocent.
If I can see you’re
innocent, they can.”

 
          
He
almost convinced her, he seemed so sure of himself. “You think I’m innocent?”

 
          
“I
know you are. I only wish I were a policeman. Believe
me,
I’d hunt down the man who killed your brother.”

 
          
For
a moment she didn’t understand. Then she remembered the inquest, remembered the
other driver swearing that her crash had been the fault of the madman who’d
walked in front of her. But Edmund Hall meant more than that; she could hear
more in his voice. “Which man?” she demanded.

 
          
“The
man who made you crash, and who did,” he gazed at her with a kind of furious
sympathy, “what he did to your brother afterwards. I know there’s such a man,
perhaps even better than you do.
Because I’ve met him.”

 
          
She
stared at him. He gazed back at her, frowning slightly as if unsure she’d
understood. Of course she had. He meant that after the man had caused the
crash, he’d—when he’d stooped by the lamp standard, he’d—no, it was too
ridiculous to think about, or too horrible, or both. It was up to the police to
find out what had happened; it would do no good for her to think about it. Now
here was Edmund Hall, saying it out loud. One thing was certain: she wouldn’t
react like a wilting female, not like Dorothy. Just give her a minute to
prepare herself. “Excuse me a moment,” she said distractedly, heading for the
kitchen.
“My vegetables.”

 
          
A
saucepan lid chattered nervously beneath her hand. She turned on the gas for
the vegetables,
then
stood unnecessarily watching
them. She was realizing that she might not want to hear what Edmund Hall had to
say. At last she ventured back into the living room.

 
          
“I
want to be completely open with you,” he said. “First, I want you to know
exactly why I’m here. I write books about crime.”

 
          
“Hence
the shirt,” she said, gazing at the reiterated pistols. She was both impatient
with the change of subject and glad of it: mostly glad, she thought.

 
          
“You
may have read some of my books,” he said. “I wrote a series first, that
everybody liked.
Secrets of the Psychopaths.”

 
          
“No,
I haven’t, I’m afraid,” she said, pacing restlessly. She’d abandoned her
gracefulness and was stumping glumly, because she’d caught him glancing about
the room, taking mental notes; she couldn’t fool him, he was a writer. She was
damned if she was going to bother trying.

 
          
“
The Homicidal Heart
?” he demanded, with
an air of faint disbelief.
“
Sinister Sirens
?”

 
          
“No,
I don’t think so.” Perhaps he was glancing about for the bookcase, like a
too-polite child looking surreptitiously for the toilet.

 
          
“
Love Has Many Weapons
?”

 
          
“Oh
yes. At least, someone told me that was good. I’ve been meaning to read it,”
she said, to forestall further embarrassment. Let’s get to the point. She
plonked
herself down on the couch. “You were going to tell
me about this man you’d met,” she said.

 
          
“I
will. But first I want you to understand my motives, Miss
Frayn
.”

 
          
“Call
me Clare, for heaven’s sake,” she said. “You’re making yourself sound like a criminal.”

 
          
“Call
me Ted. The trouble is
,
some people don’t like the way
a writer has to work. Their attitude gets to me sometimes.” He sat forward.
“I’ve sold the idea of a book,” he said. “It could be a bestseller. It’ll have
a damn good publisher, and one of the Sunday papers wants it as a serial. It’s
to be about how the man who killed your brother was caught, written almost as
it happens. There’s never been a book like this one’s going to be. I can write
it with your help.”

 
          
“How
can I help?” she said, not at all sure that she wanted to give him Rob to use
in a book with a title like those he’d mentioned.

 
          
“Well,
do you remember what the man who killed your brother looked like? Average
height, I see. Not as tall as me, then? Don’t
worry,
nobody could expect you to be certain in the circumstances. What about his
clothes?”

 
          
“I
thought you were supposed to have met him.”

 
          
“Yes,
but years ago. I’ll tell you about that in a moment. You can’t remember
anything at all specific? Never mind. Still, you never know what you may have
noticed that might come back to you. That could be one way you’d help me, but
if you can’t, it doesn’t matter. Also, if I can be a bit cheeky, I wondered if
you’d be able to help me investigate a little. A woman might spot things I’d miss,
you see. Besides, there might be sources of information you’d know that I
wouldn’t.
All that is no reason for you to help, of course.
But it struck me you might want to help catch the man who killed your brother.”

 
          
Of
course she would. If there really were a man who had done all that to Rob, then
he would be the guilty one, not Clare. But there was something missing from
Edmund’s sales talk. Yes. “Isn’t it up to the police to catch him?” she said.

 
          
“Yes,
it is, and they will. But they won’t want us tagging along while they do so.
Don’t get the idea I want us to arrest the man. All we’re going to try to do is
track him down and tell them. But, generally speaking, the police here won’t
help me, and I don’t intend to help them at my own expense. I shouldn’t think
you’re too fond of them yourself. Let me reassure you on one thing, though.
This man doesn’t kill, so we’re not putting anyone at risk by keeping away from
the police. I’m sure he didn’t mean to kill your brother, though he certainly
meant to do what he did afterward. So I’ve no qualms about keeping quiet. You
see, I have information the police don’t have.”

 
          
He
waited until she said, “What information is that?”

 
          
“I’ll
tell you.
Just one more thing.”
My God, she thought,
he’s a writer all right. He’s making sure the suspense is killing. “Tell me
honestly,” he said, “does the thought of my making money out of this offend
you?”

 
          
“No,
I don’t think so. It’s your job.
Now come on, Edmund.”
She’d call him Ted when she was
more sure
of him. She
sat forward, prepared at last. “What exactly do you know? What is this man
like?”

 
          
“He
wasn’t a man when I knew him. He was about eleven years old,” he said. “I was
in my last year at school. Both of us went to St. Joseph’s in
Mulgrave
Street. You know
Mulgrave
Street, off Princes Avenue by the statue of Christ—of course you do, sorry. I
didn’t make grammar school—not quite good enough in the exams. I lived a few
miles away, in
Aigburth
, but my folks had heard St.
Joseph’s was a good school. Besides, we were right in the middle-class
prejudice belt in
Aigburth
; they didn’t want me
learning it at school too. So they dumped me in working-class prejudice
instead. Still, it helped me to learn about people.

 
          
“Now,
I must have seen this lad around the school for years without noticing him. Six
years, if he was eleven. But you know how boys are—someone that much younger
was beneath my notice. Then one day I did notice him, on the bus to town one
Saturday.

 
          
“He
got on a few stops before
Mulgrave
Street. I had the
impression he lived near the school; maybe he’d been visiting a friend—he had a
lot of friends, though I never spotted any really close ones. I was sitting at
the front of the upper deck, and he sat a few seats behind me. I was trying to
think where I’d seen him before. There was one of those mirrors above my
head, that
the driver uses in a kind of periscope to see
upstairs. So I looked at this lad in the mirror, trying to place him. He didn’t
see me looking. The bus was just coming up to
Mulgrave
Street when his expression changed.”

 
          
He
leaned forward at Clare, gripping his knees; she sat back involuntarily. “I’ve
tried to describe that expression for years,” he said. “You’ve seen lads of
that age. There he was, picking his nose while nobody was watching, staring out
the window, looking a bit aimless and bored. And all of a sudden, just as we
came to
Mulgrave
Street, this other expression came
welling up—welling up, and I don’t care if this sounds melodramatic, like
poison. It was the unhealthiest look of anticipation I’ve ever seen in my life.

 
          
“But
that doesn’t make you even begin to see it. He looked eager, dreadfully
eager,
to do something he wanted to keep secret even from
himself. He looked apprehensive and somehow secretly delighted all at once. His
eyes were shifting about as if he
were
afraid to see
himself, and he was licking his lips, really, licking his lips. He didn’t look
that way long. We were only a few blocks past
Mulgrave
Street when the expression went back into him. But believe me, it was hotter
than today, yet it took me a while to get warm again. And he had that
expression at the spot where your brother was killed.”

 
          
He
was gazing at her. “Well, that’s strange,” Clare said, “but even so—”

 
          
“Oh,
that isn’t all. That was only what made me begin watching him. And you know
,
that look was there most of the time. Not as blatant as
that, obviously. But it was there, a kind of tension and anticipation. He was
waiting for something.