For the first week she let things go on as ever. It seemed the whole class now regarded her with hostile, shielded eyes. Robert smiled distantly at her from his front-row seat, and she did not have the courage to take him to task.
Once, while she was on playground duty, Robert walked over to her, holding a dodgem. ball, smiling. ‘There’s so many of us now you wouldn’t believe it,’ he said. ‘And neither would anyone else.’ He stunned her by dropping a wink of infinite slyness. ‘If you, you know, tried to tell em.’
A girl on the swings looked across the playground into Miss Sidley’s eyes and laughed at her.
Miss Sidley smiled serenely down at Robert. ‘Why, Robert, whatever do you mean?’
But Robert only continued smiling as he went back to his game.
Miss Sidley brought the gun to school in her handbag. It had been her brother’s. He had taken it from a dead German shortly after the Battle of the Bulge. Jim had been gone ten years now. She hadn’t opened the box that held the gun in at least five, but when she did it was still there,
gleaming dully. The clips of ammunition were still there, too, and she loaded the gun carefully, just as Jim had shown her.
She smiled pleasantly at her class; at Robert in particular. Robert smiled back and she could see the murky alienness swimming just below his skin, muddy, full of filth.
She had no idea what was now living inside Robert’s skin, and she didn’t care; she only hoped that the real little boy was entirely gone by now. She did not wish to be a murderess. She decided the real Robert must have died or gone insane, living inside the dirty, crawling thing that had chuckled at her in the classroom and sent her screaming into the street. So even if he was still alive, putting him out of his misery would be a mercy.
‘Today we’re going to have a Test,’ Miss Sidley said.
The class did not groan or shift apprehensively; they merely looked at her. She could feel their eyes, like weights. Heavy, smothering.
‘It’s a very special Test. I will call you down to the mimeograph room one by one and give it to you. Then you may have a candy and go home for the day. Won’t that be nice?’
They smiled empty smiles and said nothing.
‘Robert, will you come first?’
Robert got up, smiling his little smile. He wrinkled his nose quite openly at her. ‘Yes, Miss Sidley.’
Miss Sidley took her bag and they went down the empty, echoing corridor together, past the sleepy drone of classes reciting behind closed doors. The mimeograph room was at the far end of the hall, past the lavatories. It had been soundproofed two years ago; the big machine was very old and very noisy.
Miss Sidley closed the door behind them and locked it.
‘No one can hear you,’ she said calmly. She took the gun from her bag. ‘You or this.’
Robert smiled innocently. ‘There are lots of us, though. Lots more than here.’ He put one small scrubbed hand on the paper-tray of the mimeograph machine. ‘Would you like to see me change again?’
Before she could speak, Robert’s face began to shimmer into the grotesqueness beneath and Miss Sidley shot him. Once. In the head. He fell back against the paper-lined shelves and slid down to the floor, a little dead boy with a round black hole above his right eye.
He looked very pathetic.
Miss Sidley stood over him, panting. Her cheeks were pale.
The huddled figure didn’t move.
It was human.
It was Robert.
No!
It was all in your mind, Emily. All in your mind.
No! No, no, no!
She went back up to the room and began to lead them down, one by one. She killed twelve of them and would have killed them all if Mrs Crossen hadn’t comedown for a package of composition paper.
Mrs Crossen’s eyes got very big; one hand crept up and clutched her mouth. She began to scream and she was still screaming when Miss Sidley reached her and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘It had to be done, Margaret,’ she told the screaming Mrs Crossen. ‘It’s terrible, but it had to. They are all monsters.’
Mrs Crossen stared at the gaily-clothed little bodies scattered around the mimeograph and continued to scream. The little girl whose hand Miss Sidley was holding began to cry steadily and monotonously: ‘Waahhh . . . waahhhh . . . waahhhh.’
‘Change,’ Miss Sidley said. ‘Change for Mrs Crossen. Show her it had to be done.’
The girl continued to weep uncomprehendingly.
‘Damn you, change!’ Miss Sidley screamed. ‘Dirty bitch, dirty crawling, filthy unnatural bitch!
Change! God damn you, change!’ She raised the gun. The little girl cringed, and then Mrs Crossen was on her like a cat, and Miss Sidley’s back gave way.
No trial.
The papers screamed for one, bereaved parents Swore hysterical oaths against Miss Sidley, and the city sat back on its haunches in numb shock, but in the end, cooler heads prevailed and there was no trial. The State Legislature called for more stringent teacher exams, Summer Street School closed for a week of mourning, and Miss Sidley went quietly to juniper Hill in Augusta.
She was put in deep analysis, given the most modem drugs, introduced into daily work-therapy sessions. A year later, under strictly controlled conditions, Miss Sidley was put in an experimental encounter-therapy situation.
Buddy Jenkins was his name, psychiatry was his game.
He sat behind a one-way glass with a clipboard, looking into a room which had been outfitted as a nursery. On the far wall, the cow was jumping over the moon and the mouse ran up the clock. Miss Sidley sat in her wheelchair with a story book, surrounded by a group of trusting, drooling, smiling, cataclysmically retarded children. They smiled at her and drooled and touched her with small wet fingers while attendants at the next window watched for the first sign of an aggressive move.
For a time Buddy thought she responded well. She read aloud, stroked a girl’s head, consoled a small boy when he fell over a toy block. Then she seemed to see something which disturbed her; a frown creased her brow and she looked away from the children.
‘Take me away, please,’ Miss Sidley said, softly and tonelessly, to no one in particular.
And so they took her away. Buddy Jenkins watched the children watch her go, their eyes wide and empty, but somehow deep. One smiled, and another put his fingers in his mouth slyly. Two little girls clutched each other and giggled.
That night Miss Sidley cut her throat with a bit of broken mirror-glass, and after that Buddy Jenkins began to watch the children more and more. In the end, he was hardly able to take his eyes off them.
The Night Flier
1
In spite of his pilot’s license, Dees didn’t really get interested until the murders at the airport in Maryland — the third and fourth murders in the series. Then he smelled that special combination of blood and guts which readers of Inside View had come to expect. Coupled with a good dimestore mystery like this one, you were looking at the likelihood of an explosive circulation boost, and in the tabloid business, increased circulation was more than the name of the game; it was the Holy Grail.
For Dees, however, there was bad news as well as good. The good news was that he had gotten to the story ahead of the rest of the pack; he was still undefeated, still champeen, still top hog in the sty. The bad news was that the roses really belonged to Morrison . . . so far, at least.
Morrison, the freshman editor, had gone on picking away at the damned thing even after Dees, the veteran reporter, had assured him there was nothing there but smoke and echoes. Dees didn’t like the idea that Morrison had smelled blood first – hated it, in fact – and this left him with a completely understandable urge to piss the man off. And he knew just how to do it.
‘Duffrey, Maryland, huh?’
Morrison nodded.
‘Anyone in the straight press pick up on it yet?’ Dees asked, and was gratified to see Morrison bristle at once.
‘If you mean has anyone suggested there’s a serial killer out there, the answer is no,’ he said stiffly.
But it won’t be long, Dees thought.
‘But it won’t be long,’ Morrison said. ‘If there’s another one — ‘
‘Gimme the file,’ Dees said, pointing to the buff-colored folder lying on Morrison’s eerily neat desk.
The balding editor put a hand on it instead, and Dees understood two things: Morrison was going to give it to him, but not until he had been made to pay a little for his initial unbelief . . .