Close Behind Him

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“You didn’t ought to of croaked him,” Smudger said resentfully. “What in hell did you want to do a fool thing like that for?”

Spotty turned to look at the house, a black spectre against the night sky. He shuddered.

“It was him or me,” he muttered. “I wouldn’t of done it if he hadn’t come for me – and I wouldn’t even then, not if he’d come ordinary ...”

“What do you mean ordinary?”

“Like anybody else. But he was queer ... He wasn’t – well, I guess he was crazy – dangerous crazy ...”

“All he needed was a tap to keep him quiet,” Smudger persisted. “There’s was no call to bash his loaf in.”

“You didn’t see him. I tell you, he didn’t act human.” Spotty shuddered again at the recollection, and bent down to rub the calf of his right leg tenderly.

The man had come into the room while Spotty was sifting rapidly through the contents of a desk. He’d made no sound. It had been just a feeling, a natural alertness, that had brought Spotty round to him standing there. In that very first glimpse Spotty had felt there was something queer about him. The expression on his face – his attitude – they were wrong. In his biscuit-coloured pyjamas, he should have looked just an ordinary citizen awakened from sleep, too anxious to have delayed with dressing-gown and slippers. But some way he didn’t. An ordinary citizen would have shown nervousness, at least wariness; he would most likely have picked up something to use as a weapon. This man stood crouching, arms a little raised, as though he were about to spring.

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