cb.damnationgame-第26章

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　　By　the　time　they　got　back；　the　rain　was　beginning　to　e　on　more　heavily。　A　wele　hush　had　descended　on　the　house。　Apparently　Pearl；　unable　to　bear　the　barbarians　in　her　kitchen　any　longer；　had　thrown　a　fit　and　left。　Though　she'd　gone；　the　offending　parties　seemed　well　chastened。　Their　babble　was　reduced　to　a　murmur；　and　few　of　them　made　any　approach　to　Whitehead　as　he　entered。　Those　few　that　did　were　quickly　slapped　down。　〃Are　you　still　here；　Munrow？〃　he　said　to　one　devotee；　to　another；　who　made　the　error　of　thrusting　a　sheaf　of　papers　at　him；　he　quietly　suggested　the　man　〃choke　on　them。〃　They　reached　the　study　with　the　minimum　of　interruptions。　Whitehead　unlocked　the　wall　safe。
　　〃You　would　prefer　cash；　I'm　sure。〃　Marty　studied　the　carpet。　Though　he'd　won　the　bet　fairly；　he　was　embarrassed　by　the　payoff。
　　〃Cash　is　fine；〃　he　murmured。
　　Whitehead　counted　out　a　wad　of　twenty…pound　notes　and　handed　them　across。
　　〃Enjoy；〃　he　said。
　　〃Thank　you。〃　〃Don't　thank　me；〃　Whitehead　said。　〃It　was　a　straight　bet。　I　lost。〃　An　awkward　silence　fell　while　Marty　pocketed　the　money。
　　〃Our　talk　。　。　。〃　the　old　man　said；　〃。　。　。　is　in　the　strictest　confidence；　you　understand？〃　〃Of　course。　I　wouldn't…〃　Whitehead　raised　his　hand　to　ward　off　his　protestations。
　　〃…The　strictest　confidence。　My　enemies　have　agents。〃　Marty　nodded　as　though　he　understood。　In　a　way；　of　course；　he　did。　Perhaps　Whitehead　suspected　Luther　or　Pearl。　Maybe　even　Toy；　who　was　so　abruptly　persona　non　grata。
　　〃These　people　are　responsible　for　the　present　fall　in　my　fortunes。　It's　all　meticulously　engineered。〃　He　shrugged；　eyes　like　slits。　God；　Marty　thought；　I'd　never　want　to　be　on　the　wrong　side　of　this　man。　〃I　don't　fret　about　these　things。　If　they　want　to　plan　my　ruin；　let　them。　But　I　wouldn't　like　to　think　that　my　most　intimate　feelings　were　available　to　them。　Do　you　see？〃　〃They　won't　be。〃　〃No。〃　He　pursed　his　lips；　a　cold　kiss　of　satisfaction。
　　〃You've　seen　something　of　Carys；　I　gather？　Pearl　says　you　spend　time　together；　is　that　right？〃　〃Yes。〃　Whitehead　came　back　with　a　tone　of　detachment　that　was　patently　fake。
　　〃She　seems　stable　much　of　the　time；　but　essentially　that's　a　performance。　I'm　afraid　she's　not　well；　and　hasn't　been　for　several　years。　Of　course　she's　seen　the　best　psychiatrists　money　can　buy　but　I'm　afraid　it's　done　no　good。　Her　mother　went　the　same　way　in　the　end。〃　〃Are　you　telling　me　not　to　see　her？〃　Whitehead　looked　genuinely　surprised。
　　〃No；　not　at　all。　The　panionship　may　be　good　for　her。　But　please；　bear　in　mind　she's　a　highly　disturbed　girl。　Don't　take　her　pronouncements　too　seriously。　Half　the　time　she　doesn't　know　what　she's　saying。　Well；　I　think　that's　it。　You'd　better　go　and　pay　off　your　fox。〃　He　laughed；　gently。
　　〃Clever　fox；〃　he　said。
　　
　　In　the　two　and　a　half　months　Marty　had　been　at　the　Sanctuary　Whitehead　had　been　an　iceberg。　Now　he　had　to　think　about　revising　that　description。　Today　he'd　glimpsed　another　man　altogether：　inarticulate；　alone；　talking　of　God　and　prayer。　Not　just　God。　There　had　been　that　final　question；　the　one　he'd　thrown　away　so　carelessly：　〃And　the　Devil？　Did　you　ever　pray　to　him？〃　Marty　felt　he'd　been　handed　a　pile　of　jigsaw　pieces；　none　of　which　seemed　to　belong　to　the　same　portrait。　Fragments　of　a　dozen　scenes：　Whitehead　resplendent　among　his　acolytes；　or　sitting　at　a　window　watching　the　night；　Whitehead　the　potentate；　lord　of　all　he　surveyed；　or　betting　like　a　drunken　porter　on　the　way　a　fox　might　run。
　　This　last　fragment　puzzled　Marty　the　most。　In　it；　he　sensed；　was　a　clue　that　could　unite　these　disparate　images。　He　had　the　strangest　feeling　that　the　bet　on　the　fox　had　been　fixed。　Impossible；　of　course；　and　yet；　and　yet　。　。　。　Suppose　Whitehead　could　put　his　finger　on　the　wheel　anytime　he　wanted　to；　so　that　even　the　petty　chance　of　a　fox　running　to　the　right　or　left　was　available　to　him？　Could　he　know　the　future　before　it　happened…as　that　why　the　chips　tingled；　and　fingers　too？…or　was　he　shaping　it？
　　An　earlier　self　would　have　rejected　these　subtleties　out　of　hand。　But　Marty　had　changed。　Being　in　the　Sanctuary　had　changed　him；　Carys〃　ellipses　had　changed　him。　In　a　hundred　ways　he　was　more　plex　than　he'd　been；　and　part　of　him　longed　for　a　return　to　the　clarity　of　black　and　white。　But　he　knew　damn　well　that　such　simplicity　was　a　lie。　Experience　was　made　up。　of　endless　ambiguities…of　motive；　of　feeling；　of　cause　and　effect…and　if　he　was　to　win　under　such　circumstances；　he　had　to　understand　how　those　ambiguities　worked。
　　No；　not　win。　There　was　no　winning　and　losing　here：　not　in　the　way　that　he'd　understood　before。　The　fox　had　run　to　the　left；　and　he　had　a　thousand　pounds　folded　in　his　pocket；　but　he　felt　none　of　the　exhilaration　he　had　when　he'd　won　on　the　horses；　or　at　the　casino。　Just　black　bleeding　into　white；　and　vice　versa；　until　he　scarcely　knew　right　from　wrong。
　　
　　30
　　Toy　had　rung　the　estate　in　the　middle　of　the　afternoon；　spoken　to　an　irate　Pearl；　who　was　just　about　to　make　her　exit；　and　left　a　message　for　Marty　to　call　him　at　the　Pimlico　number。　But　Marty　hadn't　rung　back。　Toy　wondered　if　Pearl　had　failed　to　pass　the　message　along；　or　if　Whitehead　had　somehow　intercepted　it；　and　prevented　a　return　call　being　made。　Whatever　the　reason；　he　hadn't　spoken　to　Marty；　and　he　felt　guilty　about　it。　He'd　promised　to　warn　Strauss　if　events　started　to　go　badly　awry。　Now　they　were。　Nothing　observable　perhaps；　the　anxieties　Toy　was　experiencing　were　born　out　of　instinct　rather　than　fact。　But　Yvonne　had　taught　him　to　trust　his　heart；　not　his　head。　Things　were　going　to　fall　down　after　all；　and　he　hadn't　warned　Marty。　Perhaps　that　was　why　he　was　having　such　bad　dreams；　and　waking　with　memories　of　ugliness　flitting　in　his　head。
　　Not　everyone　survived　being　young。　Some　died　early；　victims　of　their　own　hunger　for　life。　Toy　hadn't　been　such　a　victim；　though　he'd　e　perilously　close。　Not　that　he'd　known　it　at　the　time。　He'd　been　too　dazzled　by　the　new　pools　he　was　introduced　into　by　Whitehead　to　see　how　lethal　those　waters　could　be。　And　he'd　obeyed　the　great　man's　wishes　with　such　unquestioning　zeal；　hadn't　he？　Never　once　had　he　balked　at　his　duty；　however　criminal　it　might　have　seemed。　Why　should　he　be　surprised　then　if；　after　all　these　years　these　same　crimes；　so　casually　mitted；　were　in　silent　pursuit　of　him？　That　was　why　he　lay　now　in　a　clammy　sweat；　with　Yvonne　sleeping　beside　him；　and　one　phrase　circling　his　skull：　Mamoulian　will　e。
　　That　was　the　only　clear　notion　he　had。　The　rest…thoughts　of　Marty；　and　Whitehead…was　a　potpourri　of　shames　and　accusations。　But　that　plain　phrase…Mamoulian　will　e…stood　out　in　the　dross　of　uncertainty　as　a　fixed　point　to　which　all　his　terrors　adhered。
　　No　apology　would　suffice。　No　humiliation　would　curb　the　Last　European's　anger。　Because　Toy　had　been　young；　and　a　brute；　and　he'd　had　a　wicked　way　with　him。　Once　upon　a　time；　when　he'd　been　too　young　to　know　better；　he'd　made　Mamoulian　suffer；　and　the　remorse　he　felt　now　came　too　late…twenty；　thirty　years　too　late…and　after　all；　hadn't　he　lived　on　the　profits　of　his　brutality　all　these　years？　Oh；　Jesus；　he　said　in　the　unsteady　rhythm　of　his　breath；　Jesus　help　me。
　　Afraid；　and　ready　to　admit　to　being　afraid　if　it　meant　she'd　fort　hull；　he　turned　over　and　reached　for　Yvonne。　She　wasn't　there。　Her　side　of　the　bed　was　cold。
　　He　sat　up；　momentarily　disorientated。
　　〃Yvonne？〃　The　bedroom　door　was　ajar；　and　the　dimmest　of　lights　from　downstairs　described　the　room。　It　was　chaos。　They　had　been　packing　all　evening；　and　the　task　had　still　not　been　finished　when；　at　one　in　the　morning；　they'd　retired。　Clothes　were　heaped　on　the　chest；　of　drawers；　an　open　case　yawned　in　the　corner；　his　ties　hung　over　the　back　of　a　chair　like　parched　snakes；　tongues　to　the　floor。
　　He　heard　a　noise　on　the　landing。　He　knew　Yvonne's　padding　step　well。　She'd　gone　for　a　glass　of　apple　juice；　or　a　biscuit；　the　way　she　so　often　did。　She　appeared　at　the　door；　in　silhouette。
　　〃Are　you　all　right？〃　he　asked　her。
　　She　murmured　something　like　yes。　He　put　his　head　back　on　the　pillow。
　　〃Hungry　again；〃　he　said；　letting　his　eyes　close。　〃Always　hungry。〃　Cold　air　seeped　into　the　bed　as　she　raised　the　sheet　to　slip　in　beside　him。
　　〃You　left　the　light　on　downstairs；〃　he　chided；　as　sleep　started　to　slide　over　him　again。　She　didn't　reply。　Asleep　already；　probably：　she　was　blessed　with　a　facility　for　instant　unconsciousness。　He　turned　to　look　at　her　in　the　semidarkness。　She　wasn't　snoring　yet；　but　nor　was　she　entirely　silent。　He　listened　more　carefully；　his　coiled　innards　jittery。　It　was　a　liquid　sound　she　was　making：　as　though　breathing　through　mud。
　　〃Yvonne　。　。　。　are　you　all　right？〃　She　didn't　answer。
　　From　her　face；　which　was　inches　from　his；　the　slushing　sound　went　on。　He　reached　for　the　switch　of　the　lamp　above　the　bed；　keeping　his　eyes　on　the　black　mass　of　Yvonne's　head　as　he　did　so。　Best　to　do　this　fast；　he　reasoned；　before　my　imagination　gets　the　better　of　me。　His　fingers　located　the　switch；　fumbled　with　it；　then　pressed　the　light　on。
　　What　was　facing　him　on　the　pillow　was　not　recognizably　Yvonne。
　　He　jabbered　her　name　as　he　scrambled　backward　out　of　bed；　eyes　fixed　on　the　abomination　beside　him。　How　was　it　possible　that　she　was　alive　enough　to　climb　the　stairs　and　get　into　bed；　to　murmur　yes　to　him　as　she　had？　The　profundity　of　her　wounding　had　killed　her；　surely。　Nobody　could　live　skinned　and　boned　like　that。
　　She　half…turned　in　the　bed；　eyes　closed；　as　if　rolling　over　in　her　sleep。　Then…horribly…she　said　his　name。　Her　mouth　didn't　work　as　it　had；　blood　greased　the　word　on　its　way。　He　couldn't　bear　to　look　anymore；　or　he'd　scream；　and　that　would　bring　them…whoever　did　this…bring　them　howling　at　him　with　their　scalpels　already　wet。　They　were　probably　outside　the　door　already；　but　nothing　could　induce　him　to　stay　in　the　same　room。　Not　with　her　performing　slow　gyrations　on　the　bed；　still　saying　his　name　as　she　pulled　up　her　nightdress。
　　He　staggered　out　of　the　bedroom　and　onto　the　landing。　To　his　surprise　they　were　not　waiting　for　him　there。
　　At　the　top　of　the　stairs　he　hesitated。　He　was　not　a　brave　man；　nor　was　he　foolish。　Tomorrow　he　could　mourn　her：　but　for　tonight　she　was　simply　gone　from　him；　and　there　was　nothing　to　be　done　but　preserve　himself　from　whoever'd　done　this。　Whoever！　Why　didn't　he　admit　the　name　to　himself？　Mamoulian　was　responsible：　it　had　his　signature。　And　he　was　not　alone。　The　European　would　never　have　laid　his　purged　hands　on　human　flesh　the　way　someone　had　on　Yvonne；　his　squeamishness　was　legendary。　But　it　was　he　who'd　given　her　that　half…life　to　live　after　the　murder　was　done。　Only　Mamoulian　was　capable　of　that　service。
　　And　he　would　be　waiting　below　now；　wouldn't　he；　in　the　undersea　world　at　the　bottom　of　the　stairs？　Waiting；　as　he'd　waited　so　long；　for　Toy　to　traipse　down　to　join　him。
　　〃Go　to　Hell；〃　Toy　whispered　to　the　dark　below；　and　walked　（the　urge　was　to　run；　but　mon　sense　counseled　otherwise）　along　the　landing　toward　the　spare　bedroom。　With　every　step　he　anticipated　some　move　from　the　enemy；　but　none　came。　Not　until　he　reached　the　door　of　the　bedroom　anyway。
　　Then；　as　he　turned　the　handle；　he　heard　Yvonne's　voice　behind　him：　〃Willy　。　。　。