The Mammoth Book of Terror (75 page)

He stretched out a hand towards the tower of bones behind us, the lesson of the extinction of the mighty, the roaring rulers of earth for millions of years reduced to skeletal silence on a
platform.

“I planned a book on this subject,” he said. “I never completed it, however. It would never have been published. It would merely have invited outraged attacks.”

“The idea certainly invites attack,” I said.

“You don’t agree with me?”

“I see your logic. But surely man is above the laws of the jungle. We have mastered survival and now it is curiosity which directs us, governs us, brought us through dark ages and may yet
take us to the stars.”

“Curiosity? Ah yes. That will take us – somewhere . . .”

For a time we did not speak.

“However,” said Claymore, atlength, “all this is conjecture. I am truly sorry about that nurse . . .”

As, indeed, it did.

But first the maniac struck again.

In many respects, the next attack was the most perplexing of all. The strangest aspect was that the victim survived – was allowed to survive the ordeal. And certainly the most horrible
aspect was that the poor fellow was blind, his affliction adding to the monstrous nature of the unprovoked assault. These facts added a new twist to the emerging pattern, complicating and confusing
the issue. But what really struck me was purely subjective.

I was acquainted with the victim.

His name was Bill, a big jovial sort who refused to let his blindness change his cheerful nature. He’d lost his sight in the war, spent some time in hospital, and emerged with complete
selfconfidence and a fierce independence. He refused even the assistance of a guide dog and was frequently seen roaming the familiar streets with a firm and steady step, behind dark glasses and a
fibre-glass stick; pausing at kerbs to listen for approaching traffic or halting for a moment at a corner, head raised and senses alert as he got his bearings. I was appalled when I read of the
vicious attack which had taken place in his own basement flat. It is always so much more shocking when it is someone one knows. Bill had been brutally battered and beaten and then left alive on his
floor. And that was the extraordinary thing. He had not been supposed dead, for he was still conscious. The maniac had simply walked off and left him, and that behaviour was so far removed from the
other attacks that the police were not ruling out the possibility of a second madman amuck in the city. However the method of attack, until it had ceased, fitted the pattern. It was calculated and
efficient.

I phoned the hospital immediately and inquired about his condition; found, to my relief, that he was recovering and asked how soon he would be able to have visitors. Apparently he had already
been demanding that visitors be allowed in, which was very much to be expected of Bill, and I went to see him in the morning.

He was sitting up in bed, a white bandage around his head and a cigar in his teeth. His big solid shoulders sloped down beneath the sheets, he greeted me in a loud voice and roared cheerfully at
the nurse who told him he must be quiet. She turned her eyes upwards and smiled despite herself. Bill was able to make people smile that way. He was pleased to have a visitor, we chatted for a few
minutes and then, without urging or suggestion from me, he told me what had happened. He seemed more angered than frightened by the attack, his self-reliance had survived and he did not, in his
dark world, understand how one with sight would project and magnify the terror of his position.

“Well, Johnny boy,” said Bill, “I don’t know if this bastard was waiting inside my flat or if he followed me home. The coppers think he was already inside, on account of
one of my neighbours, old widow down the street, got an idea she’s got designs on me, you know? – well, this widow saw me come home and says there was no one following me. But I’m
not so sure. Seems I would have sensed his presence if he’d been waiting there. Maybe the old gal don’t see too well. Anyway, don’t matter which way it was. I’d been out for
my afternoon walk and I never bother to lock the door so it was a simple matter for him to get in before me or behind me, whichever. I went right into the kitchen as soon as I got home and put a
pan on for coffee. I leaned my walking stick against the stove and stood there, waiting for the water to boil. Then I heard him. Just a faint sound, at first, but we blind guys get used to
listening for those soft noises. I turned around real sharp and heard his foot scrape as he stepped back in surprise. “Who’s there?” I asked. Ysee, I wasn’t worried at that
point, I thought it might have been a friend or maybe even that old widow come to tempt me. Maybe even one of the younger gals on the street. Plenty of gals like to call on a blind guy, Johnny.
Gals that don’t like it known they’re passionate – figure they can get me to give ‘em some lovin’ and never even speak, see, so I won’t know who they are.
Happens all the time. ‘Course, once they gets to pantin’ and snortin’, why, straight off I can tell who it is, long’s I’ve heard their voice before. Easy to tell by
the way they pant, how long their hair is, how wide they are in the hips. But, ‘course, I don’t let on I know, ‘cause then they won’t come back. I just go along with it,
askin’ who they are even after I know and then they think they’re on to the perfect set-up and come back again. Yeah, this bein’ a blind guy got some advantages. An’ if
their husbands find out, why I got the perfect excuse. Ha ha. Not a bad old game. Got some real fine unfaithful wives on that street, real fine.

“Anyhow, that’s what I thought – thought it was one o’ them passionate wives, so I wasn’t worried. Just asked who it was and sort of smiled. Then when there was no
answer, I was sure it must be a gal. I stood there, waitin’ for her to come up and start snugglin’. But nothing happened for quite a while. The water started to boil, still
nothin’ happened. I guessed the gal was shy – figured it was her first visit, see? So I said, ‘Want some coffee, whoever you are?’ and then I heard the bastard take a deep
breath, real quick, and I thought: Oh ho, Billy boy, that ain’t no gal . . . What I thought was it was an irate husband, come to rant and rave. That was when he jumped on me . . .”

Bill paused. His brow furrowed beneath the bandage and I noticed several scratches on his face and neck, parallel rows that looked like fingernail marks. His big shoulders shifted as he recalled
the violence of the attack and his heavy jowled face was set. I stared at him with great respect – saw that he was reliving only the violence, not the horror. Blindness has always seemed so
ultimate a handicap and I had already imagined the scene – imagined Bill cringing, asking who and why, his sightless face questing at the strange sounds, unguided hands groping before him
protectively, helpless and terrified, all this in the darkness of his affliction . . . This I had imagined; had pictured with my vision. But this was not the way it had been for Bill. He remembered
only his anger and rage.

“He grabbed me by the throat,” Bill said. “Well, Johnny boy, that was a mistake. Pretty strong fellow, I could feel his strength in his fingers, but ‘course with both his
hands on me I knew just where he was. I didn’t panic. I got my feet set right and then gave him a couple of good belts in the belly. Good short shovel hooks. Bang bang, just like that.”
His shoulders rolled, his arms moved under the sheet, the long muscles in his jaw tightened. “He let go real quick then, boy. Real quick. I heard his wind rush out hard as he stepped back.
But I hadn’t caught him in the solar plexus like I planned and he didn’t go down. I took an almighty swipe at where I reckoned his jaw oughta be, but I misjudged it. Missed the bastard.
But I followed up, pulling my shoulder around and tuckin’ my chin down behind it and coiled into a hitter’s crouch. I still sort of suspected it was one o’ them irate husbands.
Wasn’t worried much. I got both fists cocked and my head down and I said, ‘Come on, you bastard! You want a fight, you found the right blind fellow. Just come in here, let’s see
what you can do!’

“Well, he didn’t do anything for a while. I could hear him gettin’ his breath back and sort of feel his eyes on me. Weird feelin’, that. I could tell he was sizing me up,
plannin’ his attack – could tell he was a pretty cool fellow. He was standin’ just out of reach. I thought about lungin’ for him, but figured it was better to wait –
try to time a haymaker as he came to me. So I feinted a couple of times, to get him to make some sounds movin’ but he stayed real calm. I guess we stood like that maybe two minutes. Then I
heard him move to the side, very quiet. I thought he was leavin’, that he’d had enough. But then I heard the cupboard door open and straight off I knew what the sonabitch was
doin’. He was looking for a weapon. Well, there were bottles and things there he could use to club me and I didn’t like that idea; tried to play on his pride; said, ‘Hey, you need
a weapon against a blind fellow? What sort o’ man are you?’ But that didn’t work. He started movin’ towards me again. Then I got a little worried. I reached behind me and
got the handle of the pan and held the pan in front of me. The water was boilin’ away real good by then. I could feel the steam. He hesitated and I swung the pan across my chest,
waitin’. I figured if I could give ‘im a face full of steam I’d have a chance to get my hands on him. That’s all I wanted. Just to get my hands on the bastard.
Should’ve grabbed him straight off when he was chokin’ me, ‘course, but at that point I didn’t know how serious he was and figured a couple o’ belly hooks would be
plenty. But he was cautious now. I couldn’t hear him movin’ at all. Then somethin’ hit the pan and tilted it and the hot water ran down my forearm. I threw the pan away and missed
him and somethin’ smacked me alongside the head. In the temple. The coppers told me it was a whisky bottle. How about that? Smacks me with my own Scotch, the swine. Anyway, it was a pretty
good wallop and I had to cover up and he hit me again, behind the neck that time and the floor slammed against my knees. I kept trying t’ get a hold on him but he stayed out of reach and
belted me a few more times in the head and neck and then, for the first time, I realized he wanted to kill me. Not much I could do, just kneel there and dart my hands out in different directions
hopin’ to get him. He was a cool one. No hurry at all. Wasn’t even breathin’ hard enough to hear now. Couple o’ times I thought he’d gone, even, and then whop! he
clubs me again. Would’ve killed me, I guess, ‘cept I touched the handle of my cane then as I slid to the side and I got the cane and made a great wide sweep in front of me, low down,
and felt it whip against his leg. Good snappy cane, fibre glass, gave him a helluva slash. Heard him yelp. So I saw that was my only chance, and I sat there with my back against the stove and swung
the stick back and forth in a low arc in front of me, fast enough so he couldn’t get close without gettin’ hit. I was in a bad way by then. Sort of dizzy and sick from the
hammerin’ I’d had. But the only thing I could think was: Grab the cane, you dirty bastard! Just waitin’ for him to grab it so I’d know where he was and could lunge at him.
Just wanted him in my hands, y’know. I’d have broken every bone in his body.”

Bill shook his head; shrugged. Then he passed a hand along hisjaw. The anger left his countenance and a look of perplexity replaced it.

“Then he left,” Bill said, simply, and he shrugged once again. “Hard to figure out. I was pretty helpless by that time. And there’s no doubt he wanted to kill me. Only
thing I can figure is that when I hit him with the cane I hurt him pretty bad. Worse’n I thought. Took the heart out o’ the bastard. I guess maybe that’s what happened,
‘cause he was limpin’ when he left. I heard him go. Thought maybe he was trying to fool me – that he’d wait by the door an’ then come sneakin’ back after I
stopped whippin’ the cane about. But he left all right. He wasn’t breathin’ hard and he walked calm enough but he seemed to be favouring one leg. I heard the front door close. I
sat there for a long time, holdin’ the cane ready and listenin’ but he was gone all right. Then I crawled out to the street and called for help. And that was that. Hard to figure. The
coppers said it might have been the guy who killed a couple of other people, too, so I got to think he bit off more’n he could chew with ol’ Billy, eh?”

“I expect you’re right,” I said.

“Guess so.”

He nodded. His cigar had gone out while he spoke and he lighted it again, holding the match cupped in his hands to guide the flame. The leaf had started to uncurl and there was white ash on the
bed. He held the cigar in his teeth. He was very much alive. We chatted for a few more minutes and then I left. As I was going out several other visitors came into the room. They nodded to me the
quiet way one nods in a hospital and went over to Bill’s bed. They were all women. Widows and unfaithful wives, no doubt. Bill greeted them cheerfully and I went out and walked to the
museum.

I sat in the library and ran my eyes over the pages, again and again, without comprehension. My thoughts kept drifting back to Bill’s account of the attack. The most remarkable aspect was
that he had been left alive. Whether or not Bill actually believed he had driven the attacker away with his cane, it seemed obvious to me that was not the case – that Bill had been helpless
at the end. He’d been terribly battered and must have been nearly unconscious. And yet, even in that brutal beating, there was an element of calculation related to the murders. The blows all
appeared to have been struck with the solitary purpose of causing unconsciousness and subsequent death – not pain. There seemed no element of sadism in the method of attack. There had been
pain, certainly, but not deliberate, not as an end in itself, the agony no more than a side effect of an amateur attempt at striking a mortal blow. And this created a paradox for, when the end was
in sight, the maniac had broken off the attack. It had not been panic. He had not fled and, by Bill’s own account, had been cool and calm. And still he had left the job unfinished. Or was it
unfinished? Was there some purpose which escaped me? If the goal had been death, why should the man have settled for less? And if the goal had not been death, why had his blows been so obviously
intended as lethal?