Fear Read online

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said. ‘Why do you speak like that? I’ve never done you any harm. I’ve never set eyes on you before.’

  ‘Oh, haven’t you?’ the man said. ‘But you’ve thought about me, and’ – his voice rose – ‘you’ve written about me. You got some fun out of me, didn’t you? Now I’m going to get some fun out of you. You made me just as nasty as you could. Wasn’t that doing me harm? You didn’t think what it would feel like to be me, did you? You didn’t put yourself in my place, did you? You hadn’t any pity for me, had you? Well, I’m not going to have any pity for you.’

  ‘But I tell you,’ cried Walter, clutching the table’s edge, ‘I don’t know you!’

  ‘And now you say you don’t know me! You did all that to me and then forgot me.’ His voice became a whine, charged with self-pity. ‘You forgot William Stainsforth.’

  ‘William Stainsforth!’

  ‘Yes. I was your scapegoat, wasn’t I? You unloaded all your self-dislike on me. You felt pretty good while you were writing about me. Now, as one W. S. to another, what shall I do, if I behave in character?’

  ‘I – I don’t know,’ muttered Walter.

  ‘You don’t know?’ Stainsforth sneered. ‘You ought to know, you fathered me. What would William Stainsforth do if he met his old dad in a quiet place, his kind old dad who made him swing?’

  Walter could only stare at him.

  ‘You know what he’d do as well as I,’ said Stainsforth. Then his face changed and he said abruptly, ‘No you don’t, because you never really understood me. I’m not so black as you painted me.’ He paused and a flame of hope flickered in Walter’s breast. ‘You never gave me a chance, did you? Well, I’m going to give you one. That shows you never understood me, doesn’t it?’

  Walter nodded.

  ‘And there’s another thing you have forgotten.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘I was a kid once,’ the ex-policeman said.

  Walter said nothing.

  ‘You admit that?’ said William Stainsforth grimly. ‘Well, if you can tell me of one virtue you ever credited me with – just one kind thought – just one redeeming feature –’

  ‘Yes?’ said Walter, trembling.

  ‘Well, then I’ll let you off.’

  ‘And if I can’t?’ whispered Walter.

  ‘Well, then, that’s just too bad. We’ll have to come to grips and you know what that means. You took off one of my arms but I’ve still got the other. “Stainsforth of the iron arm”, you called me.’

  Walter began to pant.

  ‘I’ll give you two minutes to remember,’ Stainsforth said.

  They both looked at the clock. At first the stealthy movement of the hand paralysed Walter’s thought. He stared at William Stainsforth’s face, his cruel, crafty face, which seemed to be always in shadow, as if it was something the light could not touch. Desperately he searched his memory for the one fact that would save him; but his memory, clenched like a fist, would give up nothing. ‘I must invent something,’ he thought, and suddenly his mind relaxed and he saw, printed on it like a photograph, the last page of the book. Then, with the speed and magic of a dream, each page appeared before him in perfect clarity until the first was reached, and he realized with overwhelming force that what he looked for was not there. In all that evil there was not one hint of good. And he felt, compulsively and with a kind of exultation, that unless he testified to this, the cause of goodness everywhere would be betrayed.

  ‘There’s nothing to be said for you!’ he shouted. ‘Of all your dirty tricks this is the dirtiest! You want me to whitewash you, do you? Why, the very snowflakes on you are turning black! How dare you ask me for a character? I’ve given you one already! God forbid that I should ever say a good word for you! I’d rather die!’

  Stainsforth’s one arm shot out. ‘Then die!’ he said.

  The police found Walter Streeter slumped across the dining table. His body was still warm, but he was dead. It was easy to tell how he died, for not only had his mauled, limp hand been shaken, but his throat too. He had been strangled. Of his assailant there was no trace. And how he came to have snowflakes on him remained a mystery, for no snow was reported from any district on the day he died.

  Harry

  by Rosemary Timperley

  Such ordinary things make me afraid. Sunshine. Sharp shadows on grass. White roses. Children with red hair. And the name – Harry. Such an ordinary name.

  Yet the first time Christine mentioned the name, I felt a premonition of fear.

  She was five years old, due to start school in three months’ time. It was a hot, beautiful day and she was playing alone in the garden, as she often did. I saw her lying on her stomach in the grass, picking daisies and making daisy-chains with laborious pleasure. The sun burned on her pale red hair and made her skin look very white. Her big blue eyes were wide with concentration.

  Suddenly she looked towards the bush of white roses, which cast its shadow over the grass, and smiled.

  ‘Yes, I’m Christine,’ she said. She rose and walked slowly towards the bush, her little plump legs defenceless and endearing beneath the too short blue cotton skirt. She was growing fast.

  ‘With my mummy and daddy,’ she said clearly. Then, after a pause, ‘Oh, but they are my mummy and daddy.’

  She was in the shadow of the bush now. It was as if she’d walked out of the world of light into darkness. Uneasy, without quite knowing why, I called her:

  ‘Chris, what are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing.’ The voice sounded too far away.

  ‘Come indoors now. It’s too hot for you out there.’

  ‘Not too hot.’

  ‘Come indoors, Chris.’

  She said: ‘I must go in now. Goodbye,’ then walked slowly towards the house.

  ‘Chris, who were you talking to?’

  ‘Harry,’ she said.

  ‘Who’s Harry?’

  ‘Harry.’

  I couldn’t get anything else out of her, so I just gave her some cake and milk and read to her until bedtime. As she listened, she stared out at the garden. Once she smiled and waved. It was a relief finally to tuck her up in bed and feel she was safe.

  When Jim, my husband, came home I told him about the mysterious ‘Harry’. He laughed.

  ‘Oh, she’s started that lark, has she?’

  ‘What do you mean, Jim?’

  ‘It’s not so very rare for only children to have an imaginary companion. Some kids talk to their dolls. Chris has never been keen on her dolls. She hasn’t any brothers or sisters. She hasn’t any friends of her own age. So she imagines someone.’

  ‘But why has she picked that particular name?’

  He shrugged. ‘You know how kids pick things up. I don’t know what you’re worrying about, honestly I don’t.’

  ‘Nor do I really. It’s just that I feel extra responsible for her. More so than if I were her real mother.’

  ‘I know, but she’s all right. Chris is fine. She’s a pretty, healthy, intelligent little girl. A credit to you.’

  ‘And to you.’

  ‘In fact, we’re thoroughly nice parents!’

  ‘And so modest!’

  We laughed together and he kissed me. I felt consoled.

  Until next morning.

  Again the sun shone brilliantly on the small, bright lawn and white roses. Christine was sitting on the grass, cross-legged, staring towards the rose bush, smiling.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I hoped you’d come … Because I like you. How old are you? … I’m only five and a piece … I’m not a baby! I’m going to school soon and I shall have a new dress. A green one. Do you go to school? … What do you do then?’ She was silent for a while, nodding, listening, absorbed.

  I felt myself going cold as I stood there in the kitchen. ‘Don’t be silly. Lots of children have an imaginary companion,’ I told myself desperately. ‘Just carry on as if nothing were happening. Don’t listen. Don’t be