Free The Face That Must Die by Ramsey Campbell Page B

and said “Can I help you?”
    Exactly the girl’s words. They were like automatons, not a pinch of character among them. “I want to consult the voters’ list, please.” Now that his request could be more specific he felt a little less uneasy.
    “ What street do you want?”
    He wouldn’t be caught like that twice. “I’ll find that out for myself, thank you.”
    The youth groped out the list from beneath the counter. Through the dustily translucent plastic cover Horridge read AIGBURTH DRIVE, blurred as though drowned. He’d soon dredge it up. He sat as far as possible from the counter, in the junior wing. Surely the children wouldn’t spy on him: Britain wasn’t one of those countries yet, however many people wanted it to be. But he pretended to scrutinise several pages, in case anyone was watching. Only when his nervousness began to creep behind him, urging him to flee while he was still safe, did he turn to Aigburth Drive. He wasn’t safe — he hadn’t been since he had looked into the killer’s eyes. He must make himself safe.
    An instinct surer than his thoughts directed him to the exact spot on the page. His gaze fastened on the number of the house: it appeared eight times, alongside eight names. Lurking among them, pretending to be like the rest, was the name.

    Harty, Brendan Sean (Flat 1)
    Lunt, Aneurin Cornelius (Flat 2)
    Craig, Roy (Flat 3)
    Adamson, Frances Sybil (Flat 4)
    Day, Patricia Anne (Flat 5)
    Shone, Susan Gloria (Flat 5)
    Gardner, Peter David (Flat 6)
    Gardner, Catherine Angela (Flat 6)

    Alongside the listings, consecutive numbers counted the names. Somewhere on such a list, Horridge must be numbered. No time to brood on that now. The killer lived on the middle floor, and his flat must be one of the two middle numbers — which singled his name out at once.

    Roy Craig

    It lay there challenging him to see through its disguise. It sounded too masculine, too strong: that betrayed it — that, and the fact that “Roy” was a little like “gay”. That was what homosexuals called themselves, though Horridge was damned if he knew what they had to be gay about: it was an insult to the word.
    Something else was struggling to emerge into his mind: a memory, a similarity — When he grasped it, he sniggered mirthlessly. Two children stared at him and hid, giggling. The name of the latest victim had been Roylance. That was no coincidence. Perhaps the killer’s guilty conscience had made him leave that clue for those who weren’t too blind to see.
    He fumbled in his pockets. His pencil was shorter than his thumb, and as blunt. Still, it would write — but on what? He didn’t want to draw attention to himself by asking for paper. Disentangling his birth certificate from the rest of his documents, he printed Roy Craig’s name on the back. Then, from an obscure inkling that it might prove useful, he listed the names of the other tenants.
    He stared at Craig’s name, hidden in the official list. Why didn’t it writhe maggot-like with shame? Let it stay as still as it liked — it couldn’t hide from him now. “Thank you very much,” he said at the counter, delighted with the way his politeness concealed his plan.
    When he emerged, the cold seized him. His resolution began to shiver. He was provided with a telephone box too soon: a pair of them stood back to back not twenty paces from the library. He hadn’t thought out what to say. He mustn’t falter when he picked up the phone. Besides, the boxes stood between a Ladies’ and a bus queue. Suppose he were overheard?
    There was another box beyond the dual carriageway. The roadway was lethal with cars, and railings barred pedestrians from crossing — unless you leapt over, of course, assuming you were lucky enough not to have an injured leg. A subway trained pedestrians from one pavement to the other. Too much regimentation for his liking: it reminded him of Cantril Farm. There would be a phone box in Lark Lane.
    But now he had faltered,