He shoved open the inner door. It cost him a few moments to realize that the door to the passage opened inward, and to grab the handle. Behind him the inner door halted half-open. It was being held.
He wrenched at the handle. Between the doors, the vestibule was claustrophobic as an airlock. His nervousness hindered the door. As he dragged it open, a large hand reached over his shoulder and laid itself flat on the wood.
He saw its hairs, black as an ape's. He saw the penumbra of moisture which outlined it on the door. It was inches from his face. He limped into the dim passage, clenching his eyes to 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.
I give the Millipede Press edition of The Face That Must Die (which includes the "fractured photographic montages" of JK Potter):
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