The doll who ate his mother: a novel of modern terror Page 3

  Dorothy came down in the lift with her. The silver-grey box sank slowly, slowly; it smelled of scrubbing. “Do try and come again soon,” Dorothy said.

  “I’ll have to see.” Through the tiny rectangular window the rough walls of the shaft drifted up sluggishly, grey-crusted smoke; doors sailed lethargically up, scratched like the inside of a coffin lid in a film Clare had once switched on by mistake. She could feel Dorothy wanting her to promise; the wanting filled the lift oppressively. “The beginning of the school year’s always hectic,” she said. “I just go home and doze.”

  When Dorothy made to follow her to the car, she said, “Goodbye, Dorothy. Thank you.” She watched her stride gracefully back toward the lifts as if she were entering a hotel foyer. If it keeps her happy, Clare thought, shaking her head sadly. She was glad she didn’t need illusions. She stumped toward the Reliant as she imagined a hobbit might walk, to show she didn’t care.

  The passenger door was new; around the edge of the doorframe someone at the garage had scrubbed pale a large irregular patch. Aside from the door and the new rear axle, he was mostly the Ringo she’d had for years. The seat leather burned her through her thin dress; she rolled down both windows, flapping her arms at the inert heat. Then she fastened her seat belt and drove home.

  Her father had paid for the repairs. “Good for you,” he’d said when she admitted she might continue driving. She’d fought not to take the money he offered, but he’d stuffed it into her purse. She was still determined it would be only a loan against the insurance. It had been like taking money for killing Rob.

  Even when the car was repaired she hadn’t driven. She’d made an excuse and had had the garage deliver the car. She’d sat in the driver’s seat a few times, beneath the shifting trees in Blackburne Terrace. Each time her gaze had been drawn to the scrubbed patch; each time she’d left the car hurriedly. She couldn’t drive that car again.

  A bus ride had changed her mind. She disliked buses; if she sat upstairs the stench of stale tobacco smoke clung to her clothes all day, while the lower deck was often packed full as a lift with nonsmokers. She had been on her way to visit Dorothy, to get it over with, the day after she’d returned from Cheltenham; she was rather hoping Dorothy would be out. The driver had been playing ninepins with the press of passengers in the aisle; the bus swung a child screaming at the length of his mother’s arm, too far ahead for Clare to reach. As the bus laboured past the lamp standard Clare had heard the car door chop shut. All at once everything had swelled up in her like nausea; the cramped ventilation whose breeze came nowhere near her face, the soft thighs that thumped her shoulder as passengers rocked in the aisle, the flaw in the window glass that pinched thin everything that passed before letting go with a jerk, the tobacco smoke trickling down the stairs, the screaming child, her own sticky body, her helplessness. She’d pulled at the bell cord as if it were a lifeline and had struggled to the folding doors, which parted with a gasp of relief. Once home, she’d climbed into Ringo and had driven for miles. After a few days she’d hardly noticed the scrubbed patch.

  She was driving past the lamp standard now—at least, she was in that area. From this side of the reservation she couldn’t be sure, for someone had removed the bloodstained gravel. Weren’t there darker spots scattered over the reservation even now? Never mind. It wasn’t good to dwell on such things. But she knew she had only shrugged it off until next time, for she had to drive this way to school.

  Christ leaned out from the church beyond the reservation. She’d never liked that Christ; he looked famished, poised to leap on anyone who came too close to the wall. Now she liked him even less. He should have saved Rob. But she knew she was trying to shift the blame. Rob’s death had been her fault, of course.

  Her parents hadn’t blamed her. Her father had blamed Rob for talking to her while she was driving. Dorothy hadn’t mentioned the accident at all; she’d kept gazing at Clare with a large, warm, forgiving expression, sympathetic, encouraging, until Clare could have screamed. All of them made her feel more guilty. They refused to blame her only because they didn’t know what had happened. She was so guilty she had lied to the police.

  She’d said the brakes had been working before the crash. She’d blamed Rob, for grabbing the wheel. At the inquest, when she stepped down from the witness box once she’d sworn that the statement they’d read out was hers, her face had been burning. The kindly, quiet-voiced coroner had told the jury that she wasn’t allowed to answer any other questions, lest she incriminate herself. She was sure then that everyone knew she was guilty. None of the policemen in the court would look at her. She knew they were biding their time to prosecute.

  But she hadn’t heard from them yet. Either they were waiting for her to assume they’d forgotten, or they hoped her guilt would build up until she was eager to betray herself; then they’d pounce. They knew that she started guiltily when the doorbell rang, that she peered fearfully downstairs whenever the new postman fumbled at the letter slot. She only wished they would get it over with. She couldn’t bear much longer the sense of having wronged Rob.

  She coasted into Blackburne Place, past the Byzantine church of St. Philip Neri, humpy with tiny domes. Behind her in Catharine Street the orange lamps were dormant. She steered the car into Blackburne Terrace. Shade gathered softly beneath the house-high trees; the dimming trunks sailed slowly past her. Beyond the tree nearest her front door stood a man.

  He had halted near the stone pillars, staring back toward her car. He was staring at the car itself. He was walking toward it. He reached it as, struggling in vague panic, she managed to open her door.

  “Miss Clare Frayn?” he said. “I wonder if I can have a word with you?”

  He must have been six feet tall. He was broad as well, big-boned. He towered above the car; the pale blue of his suit seemed to fill the whole of her window. His hand closed on the door handle. Red hair sprang up as his wrist emerged from his sleeve; red hair sprouted from his fingers. She could imagine him winning a wrestling match with the power of that arm alone. For a moment she thought he was going to trap her in the car. Then he was opening the door for her.

  “I’m sorry. Did I startle you?” he said. “I didn’t mean to.”

  Perhaps he wasn’t a policeman, after all. She snatched the key from the ignition and hurried toward her front door, fumbling with the key ring. She heard him slam the car door tight. The key. Not that one, fool.

  With two strides he was beside her on the stone steps of the shadowy porch. “You are Miss Frayn, aren’t you?”

  The key. Got it. She was angry with herself for having left Ringo at his mercy. “What if I am?”

  “I’d like to talk to you.”

  “That depends very much on the subject, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, of course it does. But look, are you all right? You seem worried.”

  “I’m perfectly all right, thank you. What exactly do you want?”

  “I was wondering if you would help me. I’m a writer.”

  She turned to examine him. His face was large, well-fed, blue-eyed, wide-mouthed, bespectacled. He looked earnest and hopeful, though behind that she thought he was faintly amused. The bridge of his disproportionately small nose was dented, as if someone had once broken through his guard. Beneath the neat, discreetly fashionable suit he wore a mauve shirt and tie; the tie was fastened with a tiny platinum dagger, and the shirt bore a motif of minute pistols. He was about thirty. He didn’t look like a writer to her, but what did writers look like? “Here’s my card,” he said.

  Against the glossy white, the black embossed letters said EDMUND HALL: RESEARCHER AND WRITER, and an address outside London, in Surrey. “Why should I be able to help you?” she said.

  He glanced toward an open ground-floor window beside the porch. “Would you mind if we talked inside?” he said.

  It was her landlord’s window. She had her flat cheap, as a favour to her father. If the landlord heard her helping a writer he might think she c
ould afford to pay more. “All right,” she said. “If it doesn’t take too long. I have a lot of work to do.”

  “I’ll keep it brief,” he said. His large voice boomed dully in the hall, among the filigreed mirrors, the vases of flowers. “Are you working tomorrow?”

  “Not until next week. I’m a teacher.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said gratefully, as if she’d helped him.

  She was acutely conscious of him behind her on the stairs. No doubt as a writer he was noting everything about her. Well, she could walk gracefully if she tried. She climbed the stairs lightly; she strode across the landing straight-backed, with poise. “Do you teach your kids ballet?” Edmund Hall asked.

  “No. Movement and drama, we do.”

  “Did you go to ballet lessons when you were a kid?”

  “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.”