cb.damnationgame-第47章

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　　The　lieutenant　wouldn't　have　listened；　of　course。　He　grinned　as　he　worked；　the　red　pole　rooting　and　dislodging；　rooting　and　dislodging。　The　corpse　he　was　pleasuring　rocked　beneath　him；　unimpressed　by　her　paramour's　attentions。
　　How　long　had　the　thief　watched？　The　act　showed　no　sign　of　consummation。　At　last　the　lipless　woman　had　murmured　〃Enough？〃　in　his　ear；　and　he　had　turned　a　little　way　to　her　while　she　had　put　her　hand　on　the　front　of　his　trousers。　She　seemed　not　at　all　surprised　that　he　was　aroused；　though　in　all　the　years　since　he　had　never　understood　how　such　a　thing　was　possible。　He　had　long　ago　accepted　that　the　dead　could　be　woken。　But　that　he　had　felt　heat　in　their　presence…that　was　another　crime　altogether；　more　terrible　to　him　than　the　first。
　　There　is　no　Hell；　the　old　man　thought；　putting　the　boudoir　and　its　charred　Casanova　out　of　his　mind。　Or　else　Hell　is　a　room　and　a　bed　and　appetite　everlasting；　and　I've　been　there　and　seen　its　rapture　and；　if　the　worst　es　to　the　worst；　I　will　endure　it。
　　
　　
　　
　　Part　Five　THE　DELUGE
　　
　　Out　of　a　fired　ship；　which；　by　no　way　But　drowning　could　be　rescued　from　the　flame；　Some　men　leaped　forth；　and　ever　as　they　came　Near　the　foes〃　ships；　did　by　their　shot　decay；　So　all　were　lost；　which　in　the　ship　were　found；　They　in　the　sea　being　burnt；　they　in　the　burnt　ship　drowned。
　　…JOHN　DONNE；　〃A　Burnt　Ship〃
　　
　　IX　Bad　Faith
　　
　　49
　　The　Deluge　descended　in　the　driest　July　in　living　memory；　but　then　no　revisionist's　dream　of　Armageddon　is　plete　without　its　paradox。　Lightning　appearing　out　of　a　clear　sky；　flesh　turned　to　salt；　the　meek　inheriting　the　earth：　all　unlikely　phenomena。
　　That　July；　however；　there　were　no　spectacular　transformations。　No　celestial　lights　appeared　in　the　clouds。　No　rains　of　salamanders　or　children。　If　angels　came　and　went　that　month…if　the　looked…for　Deluge　broke…then　it　was；　like　the　truest　Armageddons；　metaphor。
　　There　are；　it's　true；　some　freakish　occurrences　to　be　recounted；　but　most　of　them　take　place　in　backwaters；　in　ill…lit　corridors；　in　shunned　wastelands　among　rain…sodden　mattresses　and　the　ashes　of　old　bonfires。　They　are　local；　almost　private。　Their　shock　waves…at　best…made　gossip　among　wild　dogs。
　　Most　of　these　miracles；　however…games；　rains　and　salvations…were　slipped　with　such　cunning　behind　the　facade　of　ordinary　life　that　only　the　sharpest…sighted；　or　those　in　search　of　the　unlikely；　caught　a　glimpse　of　the　Apocalypse　showing　its　splendors　to　a　sun…bleached　city。
　　
　　50
　　The　city　didn't　wele　Marty　back　with；　open　arms；　but　he　was　glad　to　be　away　from　the　house　once　and　for　all；　his　back　turned　on　the　old　man　and　his　madness。　Whatever　the　consequences　of　his　departure　in　the　long　term…and　he　would　have　to　think　very　carefully　about　whether　he　now　turned　himself　in…he　at　least　had　a　breathing　space；　time　to　think　things　through。
　　The　tourist　season　was　under　way。　London　was　thronged　with　visitors；　making　familiar　streets　unfamiliar。　He　spent　the　first　couple　of　days　just　wandering　around；　getting　used　to　being　footloose　and　fancy…free　again。　He　had　precious　little　money　left：　but　he　could　turn　his　hand　to　a　laboring　job　if　need　be。　With　summer　at　its　height　the　building　trade　was　hungry　for　fit　workhorses。　The　thought　of　an　honest　day's　work；　its　production　of　sweat　paid　for　in　cash；　was　attractive。　If　necessary　he　would　sell　the　Citro？n　that　he'd　taken　from　the　Sanctuary　in　one　last；　and　probably　ill…advised；　gesture　of　rebellion。
　　After　two　days　of　liberty；　his　thoughts　turned　to　an　old　theme：　America。　He'd　had　it　tattooed　on　his　arm　as　a　keepsake　of　his　prison　dreams。　Now；　perhaps；　was　the　time　for　him　to　make　it　a　reality。　In　his　imagination；　Kansas　beckoned；　its　grain　fields　running　to　the　eye's　limit　in　every　direction；　and　not　a　man…made　thing　in　sight。　He'd　be　safe　there。　Not　just　from　the　police　and　Mamoulian；　but　from　history；　from　stories　told　again　and　again；　round　in　circles；　world　without　end。　In　Kansas；　there　would　be　a　new　story：　a　story　that　he　could　not　know　the　end　of。　And　wasn't　that　a　working　definition　of　freedom；　unspoiled　by　European　hand；　European　certainty？
　　To　keep　himself　off　the　streets　while　he　planned　his　escape　he　found　a　room　in　Kilburn；　a　dingy　one…room　flat　with　a　toilet　two　flights　down；　which　was　shared；　the　landlord　informed　him；　with　six　other　people。　In　fact　there　were　at　least　fifteen　occupants　of　the　seven　rooms　in　the　house；　including　a　family　of　four　in　one。　The　bawling　of　the　youngest　child　kept　his　sleep　fitful；　so　he'd　rise　early　and　leave　the　house　to　its　own　devices　all　day；　only　returning　when　the　pubs　were　closed；　and　then　only　grudgingly。　Still；　he　reassured　himself；　it　wasn't　for　long。
　　There　were　problems　about　the　departure；　of　course；　not　the　least　of　which　was　getting　a　passport　with　a　visa　stamp　in　it。　Without　it　he　would　not　be　allowed　to　step　onto　American　soil。　Securing　himself　these　documents　would　have　to　be　a　speedy　operation。　For　all　he　knew　his　parole…jumping　had　been　reported　by　Whitehead　and　damn　what　tales　Marty　told。　Perhaps　the　authorities　were　already　bing　the　streets　for　him。
　　On　the　third　day　of　July；　a　week　and　a　half　after　leaving　the　estate；　he　decided　to　take　fate　by　the　horns　and　visit　Toy's　place。　Despite　Whitehead's　insistence　that　Bill　was　dead；　Marty　kept　hope　intact。　Papa　had　lied　before；　many　times：　why　not　in　this　instance？
　　The　house　was　in　an　elegant　backwater　in　Pimlico；　a　road　of　hushed　facades　and　expensive　automobiles　straddling　the　narrow　pavements。　He　rang　the　doorbell　half　a　dozen　times；　but　there　was　no　sign　of　life。　The　venetian　blinds　were　drawn　on　the　downstairs　windows；　there　was　a　fat　wedge　of　mail…circulars　mostly…thrust　in　the　mailbox。
　　He　was　standing　on　the　step　staring　dumbly　at　the　door；　knowing　full　well　it　wasn't　going　to　open；　when　a　woman　appeared　on　the　next…door　step。　Not　the　owner　of　the　house；　he　was　sure：　more　likely　a　cleaner。　Her　tanned　face…who　wasn't　tanned　this　blistering　summer？…bore　the　suppressed　delight　of　a　bad…news　bringer。
　　〃Excuse　me。　Can　I　help　you？〃　she　inquired　hopefully。
　　He　was　suddenly　glad　he'd　dressed　in　jacket　and　tie　to　e　to　the　house；　this　woman　looked　the　kind　who'd　report　her　slightest　suspicions　to　the　police。
　　〃I　was　looking　for　Bill。　Mr。　Toy。〃　She　clearly　disapproved；　if　not　of　him；　of　Toy。
　　〃He's　not　here；〃　she　said。
　　〃Do　you　happen　to　know　where　he's　gone？〃　〃Nobody　knows。　He　just　left　her。　He　just　upped　and　left。〃　〃Left　who？〃　〃His　wife。　Well　。　。　。　lady　friend。　She　was　found　in　there　a　couple　of　weeks　ago；　didn't　you　read　about　it？　It　was　all　over　the　papers。　They　interviewed　me。　I　told　them；　I　said　he　wasn't　a　pretty　piece　of　work：　not　at　all。〃　〃I　must　have　missed　it。〃　〃It　was　all　over　the　papers。　They're　looking　for　him　at　the　moment。〃　〃Mr。　Toy？〃　〃Murder　Squad。〃　〃Really。〃　〃You're　not　a　reporter？〃　〃No。〃　〃Only　I'm　willing；　you　know；　to　tell　my　story；　if　the　price　is　right。　The　things　I　could　tell　you。〃　〃Really。〃　〃She　was　in　a　terrible　state；　apparently　。　。　。〃　〃What　do　you　mean？〃　Mindful　of　her　salability；　the　matron　had　no　intention　of　divulging　the　details；　even　if　she　knew　them；　which　Marty　doubted。　But　she　was　willing　to　offer　a　tantalizing　trailer。　〃There　was　mutilation；〃　she　promised；　〃unrecognizable；　even　to　her　nearest　and　dearest。〃　〃Are　you　sure？〃　The　woman　looked　affronted　by　this　smear　on　her　authenticity。
　　〃She　either　did　it　to　herself；　or　else　somebody　did　it　to　her　and　kept　her　in　there；　locked　up；　bleeding　to　death。　For　days　and　days。　The　smell　when　they　opened　the　door…〃　The　sound　of　the　slushy；　lost　voice　that　had　answered　the　telephone　came　back　to　Marty；　and　he　knew　without　doubt　that　Toy's　lady　had　already　been　dead　when　she　spoke。　Mutilated　and　dead；　but　resurrected　as　a　telephonist　to　keep　up　appearances　for　a　useful　while。　The　syllables　ran　in　his　ear：　〃Who　is　this？〃　she'd　asked；　hadn't　she？　Despite　the　heat　and　light　of　a　brilliant　July；　he　started　to　shiver。　Mamoulian　had　been　here。　He'd　crossed　this　very　threshold　in　search　of　Toy。　He　had　a　score　to　settle　with　Bill；　as　Marty　now　knew；　what　might　a　man　not　plan；　while　the　humiliations　festered；　in　return　for　such　violence？
　　Marty　caught　the　woman　staring　at　him。
　　〃Are　you　all　right？〃　she　said。
　　〃Thank　you。　Yes。〃　〃You　need　some　sleep。　I　have　the　same　problems。　Hot　nights　like　these：　I　get　restless。〃　He　thanked　her　again　and　hurried　away　from　the　house；　without　looking　back。　Too　easy　to　imagine　the　horrors；　they　came　without　warning；　out　of　nowhere。
　　Nor　would　they　go　away。　Not　now。　The　memory　of　Mamoulian　was　with　him…night　and　day　and　restless　night…from　then　on。　He　became　aware　（was　it　just　his　dream　life；　denied　its　span　in　sleepless　nights；　spreading　into　wakefulness？）　of　another　world；　hovering　beyond　or　behind　the　facade　of　reality。
　　There　was　no　time　for　prevarication。　He　had　to　leave；　forget　Whitehead　and　Carys　and　the　law。　Trick　his　way　out　of　the　country　and　into　America　any　way　he　could；　away　to　a　place　where　real　was　real；　and　dreams　stayed　under　the　eyelids；　where　they　belonged。
　　
　　51
　　Raglan　was　an　expert　at　the　fine　art　of　forgery。　Two　telephone　calls　located　him；　and　Marty　struck　a　deal　with　the　man。　The　appropriate　visa　could　be　forged　in　a　passport　for　a　modest　fee。　If　Marty　could　bring　along　a　photograph　of　himself　the　job　could　be　done　in　a　day；　two　at　the　most。
　　It　was　the　fifteenth　of　July：　the　month　was　simmering；　a　few　degrees　off　the　boil。　The　radio；　blaring　from　the　room　next　door；　had　promised　a　day　as　faultlessly　blue　as　the　one　preceding；　and　the　one　preceding　that。　Not　even　blue；　white。　The　sky　was　blind　white　these　days。
　　Marty　set　out　for　Raglan's　house　early；　partially　to　avoid　the　worst　of　the　heat；　and　partially　because　he　was　eager　to　get　the　forgery　made；　buy　his　ticket；　and　be　away。　As　it　was；　he　got　no　further　than　Kilburn　High　Road　Tube　Station。　It　was　there；　on　the　cover　of　the　Daily　Telegraph　that　he　read　the　headline：　MILLIONAIRE　RECLUSE　FOUND　DEAD　AT　HOME。　Beneath　it；　a　picture　of　Papa；　a　younger；　beardless　Whitehead；　snapped　at　the　height　of　his　looks　and　influence。　He　bought　the　paper；　and　two　others　that　carried　the　story　on　their　covers；　and　read　them　standing　in　the　middle　of　the　pavement；　while　harried　muters　nudged　and　tutted　at　him　as　they　surged　down　the　stairs　into　the　station。
　　〃The　death　was　announced　today　of　Joseph　Newzam　Whitehead；　the　millionaire　head　of　the　Whitehead　Corporation；　whose　pharmaceutical　products　had；　until　recent　falls；　made　it　one　of　the　most　successful　panies　in　Western　Europe。　Mr。　Whitehead；　sixty…eight；　was　found　at　his　hideaway　sanctum　in　Oxfordshire　in　the　early　hours　of　yesterday　morning　by　his　chauffeur。　He　is　believed　to　have　died　of　heart　failure。　Police　say　there　are　no　suspicious　circumstances。　For　Obituary；　see　page　seven。〃　The　obituary　was　the　usual　amalgam　of　information　gleaned　from　the　pages　of　Who's　Who；　with　a　brief　outline　of　the　fortunes　of　the　Whitehead　Corporation；　plus　a　spicing　of　conjecture；　mostly　concerning　the　corporation's　recent　fall　from　financial　grace。　There　was　a　potted　history　of　Whitehead's　life；　though　the　early　years　were　skimpily　reported；　as　though　there　was　some　doubt　as