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Authors: Ramsey Campbell
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see, and heard the man padding after him. He wouldn’t be intimidated; the man had none of his friends with him now. He turned and stared straight into the man’s eyes.
The face looked absurd on the large head: a small patch crowded with all the features, surrounded by luxuriant flesh. It gazed at Horridge for a moment, then it frowned. But it knew well enough why he was staring. It was the face he’d seen outside the house on Aigburth Drive, and spying from the window.
Was it the dim light that made it look indefinably different — or makeup? There was something about it, something he couldn’t quite determine: something that reached deep into his guts and touched off a slow explosion of fear. As he fled, the threat of a nervous itch swarmed over the whole of his skin. His limp dragged at him.
He’d grasped the chill handle before he realised that his panic had driven him back to Screen 3. The unnatural voice squealed. He let go of the door as though it were the lid of a box of maggots.
Behind him, feet padded stealthily over the carpet. Horridge dodged towards the adjacent pair of doors. But was the man pursuing him? Perhaps he was returning to the cinema in search of victims —
At once Horridge knew. Revulsion surged through him, sweat burst out of his skin, gluing his clothes to him. The dim face that was bearing down on him was the face of the sketch in all the papers.
An expression was emerging onto the face. It seemed slow as corruption. Though he was fascinated, Horridge shuddered himself free. Before the expression could reveal itself, he hurled open the double doors.
Beyond them was another airlock. It was full of people, almost immobile beneath a stagnant spread of tobacco smoke. He struggled towards the far pair of doors. The hot thick cloth that blocked his way hardly yielded; people turned slowly to stare at him. He was panting, and deafened by his heartbeats. When he glanced back, he saw that the man was still following.
Horridge bumped into a stout woman. She raised a hand that could have engulfed his face in fat, and barred his way like a traffic policeman. “You just watch where you’re going. There’s a crippled lady here.”
He had an urge to giggle wildly. He was being pursued by a murderer, as though he’d become trapped in one of the films — and nobody seemed to notice. But the absurdity wasn’t reassuring, for his plight wasn’t at all like a film: his clothes were sticking to him, his coat felt huge and cumbersome; the smell of his sweat suffocated him, he felt desperate for a bath. Even when delirious, he had never been so conscious of his body.
He squeezed past the woman, though she shouted “Look at him, what’s he think he’s doing?” He dragged open one of the pair of doors. He hadn’t reached an exit: he was in another cinema.
The long slope of rows of seats was full of an audience, staring at no film. Beneath red and green lights, the red and green pattern of the carpets jangled. Up the slope illuminated masks came drifting above ice cream trays. At the far end of the rows, he saw a luminous EXIT sign. An usherette touched his arm. “Can I see your ticket, please?”
The lights were dimming. She wouldn’t have the chance to look too closely. He brandished the blurred sodden fragment of paper hastily at her. At once she said “You’re in the wrong cinema. You want — ”
He pushed past her and stumbled towards what looked to be an empty row. Darkness flooded the cinema. The usherette was calling “Wait a minute, please, wait a minute!” The curtains parted, and a picture sprang onto the screen: Peter Sellers’ face towered there, pretending to be a French policeman’s. In the jerky light Horridge saw the man with the cramped face say something to the usherette, and come after him.
Horridge blundered along the row. It wasn’t empty, after all. The children were reluctant to let him through. Fear ached in his stomach like gas, and filled his skull; his
The face looked absurd on the large head: a small patch crowded with all the features, surrounded by luxuriant flesh. It gazed at Horridge for a moment, then it frowned. But it knew well enough why he was staring. It was the face he’d seen outside the house on Aigburth Drive, and spying from the window.
Was it the dim light that made it look indefinably different — or makeup? There was something about it, something he couldn’t quite determine: something that reached deep into his guts and touched off a slow explosion of fear. As he fled, the threat of a nervous itch swarmed over the whole of his skin. His limp dragged at him.
He’d grasped the chill handle before he realised that his panic had driven him back to Screen 3. The unnatural voice squealed. He let go of the door as though it were the lid of a box of maggots.
Behind him, feet padded stealthily over the carpet. Horridge dodged towards the adjacent pair of doors. But was the man pursuing him? Perhaps he was returning to the cinema in search of victims —
At once Horridge knew. Revulsion surged through him, sweat burst out of his skin, gluing his clothes to him. The dim face that was bearing down on him was the face of the sketch in all the papers.
An expression was emerging onto the face. It seemed slow as corruption. Though he was fascinated, Horridge shuddered himself free. Before the expression could reveal itself, he hurled open the double doors.
Beyond them was another airlock. It was full of people, almost immobile beneath a stagnant spread of tobacco smoke. He struggled towards the far pair of doors. The hot thick cloth that blocked his way hardly yielded; people turned slowly to stare at him. He was panting, and deafened by his heartbeats. When he glanced back, he saw that the man was still following.
Horridge bumped into a stout woman. She raised a hand that could have engulfed his face in fat, and barred his way like a traffic policeman. “You just watch where you’re going. There’s a crippled lady here.”
He had an urge to giggle wildly. He was being pursued by a murderer, as though he’d become trapped in one of the films — and nobody seemed to notice. But the absurdity wasn’t reassuring, for his plight wasn’t at all like a film: his clothes were sticking to him, his coat felt huge and cumbersome; the smell of his sweat suffocated him, he felt desperate for a bath. Even when delirious, he had never been so conscious of his body.
He squeezed past the woman, though she shouted “Look at him, what’s he think he’s doing?” He dragged open one of the pair of doors. He hadn’t reached an exit: he was in another cinema.
The long slope of rows of seats was full of an audience, staring at no film. Beneath red and green lights, the red and green pattern of the carpets jangled. Up the slope illuminated masks came drifting above ice cream trays. At the far end of the rows, he saw a luminous EXIT sign. An usherette touched his arm. “Can I see your ticket, please?”
The lights were dimming. She wouldn’t have the chance to look too closely. He brandished the blurred sodden fragment of paper hastily at her. At once she said “You’re in the wrong cinema. You want — ”
He pushed past her and stumbled towards what looked to be an empty row. Darkness flooded the cinema. The usherette was calling “Wait a minute, please, wait a minute!” The curtains parted, and a picture sprang onto the screen: Peter Sellers’ face towered there, pretending to be a French policeman’s. In the jerky light Horridge saw the man with the cramped face say something to the usherette, and come after him.
Horridge blundered along the row. It wasn’t empty, after all. The children were reluctant to let him through. Fear ached in his stomach like gas, and filled his skull; his
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