cb.damnationgame-第73章

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ake　her　stop；　and　when　that　failed　he　slapped　her　hard　across　the　face。　For　an　instant　the　flow　of　conjuring　was　interrupted。　The　tree　and　its　inhabitants　plained　with　growls。　He　slapped　her　again；　harder。　The　fever　behind　her　lids　had　begun　to　abate；　he　saw。　He　called　to　her　again；　and　shook　her。　Her　mouth　lolled　open；　the　tics　and　terrible　intentionality　left　her　face。　The　tree　trembled。
　　〃Please　。　。　。〃　he　begged　her；　〃wake　up。〃　The　black　leaves　shrank　upon　themselves；　the　fevered　limbs　lost　their　ambition。
　　She　opened　her　eyes。
　　Murmuring　its　chagrin；　the　rot　rotted　and　went　away　into　nothingness。
　　The　mark　of　his　hand　was　still　ripening　on　her　cheek；　but　she　was　apparently　unaware　of　his　blows。　Her　voice　was　blurred　by　sleep　as　she　said：　〃What's　wrong？〃　He　held　her　tight；　not　having　any　answer　he　felt　brave　enough　to　voice。　He　only　said：　〃You　were　dreaming。〃　She　looked　at　him；　puzzled。　〃I　don't　remember；〃；　she　said；　and　then；　being　aware　of　his　trembling　hands：　〃What's　happened？〃　〃A　nightmare；〃　he　said。
　　〃Why　am　I　out　of　bed？〃　〃I　was　trying　to　wake　you。〃　She　stared　at　him。　〃I　don't　want　to　be　woken；〃　she　said。　〃I'm　tired　enough　as　it　is。〃　She　disengaged　herself。　〃I　want　to　go　back　to　bed。〃　He　let　her　return　to　the　crumpled　sheets　and　lie　down。　She　was　asleep　again　before　he　had　crossed　to　her。　He　did　not　join　her；　but　sat　up　until　dawn；　watching　her　sleep；　and　trying　to　keep　the　memories　at　bay。
　　
　　〃I'm　going　back　to　the　hotel；〃　he　told　her　in　the　middle　of　the　next　day；　this　very　day。　He'd　hoped　she　might　have　some　explanation　for　the　events　of　the　previous　night…frail　hope！…that　she　might　tell　him　it　was　some　stray　illusion　that　she　had　managed　at　last　to　spit　out。　But　she　had　no　such　reassurances　to　offer。　When　he　asked　her　if　she　remembered　anything　of　the　preceding　night　she　replied　that　she　dreamed　nothing　these　nights；　and　was　glad　of　it。　Nothing。　He　repeated　the　word　like　a　death　sentence；　thinking　of　the　empty　room　in　Caliban　Street；　of　how　nothing　was　the　essence　of　his　fear。
　　Seeing　his　distress；　she　reached　across　to　him　and　touched　his　face。…His　skin　was　hot。　It　was　raining　outside；　but　the　room　was　clammy。
　　〃The　European's　dead；〃　she　told　him。
　　〃I　have　to　see　for　myself。〃　〃There's　no　need；　babe。〃　〃If　he's　dead　and　gone；　why　do　you　talk　in　your　sleep？〃　〃Do　I？〃　〃Talk；　and　make　illusions。〃　〃Maybe　I'm　writing　a　book；〃　she　said。　The　attempt　at　levity　was　stillborn。　〃We've　got　plenty　of　problems　without　going　back　there。〃　That　was　true；　there　was　much　to　decide。　How　to　tell　this　story；　for　one；　and　how　to　be　believed　for　another。　How　to　give　themselves　into　the　hands　of　the　law　and　not　be　accused　of　murders　known　and　unknown。　There　was　a　fortune　waiting　for　Carys　somewhere；　she　was　her　father's　sole　beneficiary。　That　too　was　a　reality　that　had　to　be　faced。
　　〃Mamoulian's　dead；〃　she　told　him。　〃Can't　we　forget　about　him　for　a　while？　When　they　find　the　bodies　we'll　tell　the　whole　story。　But　not　yet。　I　want　to　rest　for　a　few　days。〃　〃You　made　something　appear　last　night。　Here；　in　this　room。　I　saw　it。〃　〃Why　are　you　so　certain　it's　me？〃　she　retorted。　〃Why　should　I　be　the　one　who's　still　obsessed？　Are　you　sure　it　isn't　you　who's　keeping　this　alive？〃　〃Me？〃　〃Not　able　to　let　it　go。〃　〃Nothing　would　make　me　happier！〃　〃Then　forget　it；　damn　you！　Let　it　be；　Marty！　He's　gone。　Dead　and　gone！　And　that's　the　end　of　it！〃　She　left　him　to　turn　the　accusation　over　in　his　head。　Maybe　it　was　him；　maybe　he'd　just　dreamed　the　tree；　and　was　blaming　her　for　his　own　paranoia。　But　in　her　absence　his　doubts　conspired。　How　could　he　trust　her？　If　the　European　was　alive…somehow；　somewhere…couldn't　he　put　those　arguments　into　her　mouth；　to　keep　Marty　from　interfering？　He　spent　the　time　she　was　out　in　an　agony　of　indecision；　not　knowing　a　way　forward　that　wasn't　tainted　with　suspicion；　but　lacking　the　strength　to　face　the　hotel　again；　and　so　prove　the　matter　one　way　or　the　other。
　　Then；　in　the　late　afternoon；　she'd　returned。　They'd　said　nothing；　or　very　little；　and　after　a　while　she'd　gone　back　to　bed；　plaining　of　an　aching　head。　After　half　an　hour　sharing　the　room　with　her　sleeping　presence；　hearing　only　her　even　breath　（no　chatter　this　time）；　he'd　gone　out　for　whisky　and　a　paper；　scanning　it　for　news　of　discovery　or　pursuit。　There　was　nothing。　World　events　dominated；　where　there　were　not　cyclones　or　wars　there　were　cartoons　and　racing　results。　He　headed　back　to　the　flat　prepared　to　forget　his　doubts；　to　tell　her　that　she'd　been　right　all　along；　only　to　find　the　bedroom　locked　and　from　the　inside　her　voice…softened　by　sleep…stumbling　toward　a　new　coherence。
　　He　broke　in　and　tried　to　wake　her；　but　this　time　neither　shaking　nor　slaps　made　any　impression　upon　her　possessed　slumber。
　　
　　74
　　And　he　was　almost　there　now。　He　wasn't　dressed　for　the　cold　that　was　creeping　on；　and　he　shivered　as　he　crossed　the　desolation　to　the　Hotel　Pandemonium。　Autumn　was　making　its　presence　felt　early　this　year；　not　even　waiting　for　the　beginning　of　September　to　chill　the　air。　In　the　weeks　since　he'd　last　stood　on　this　spot　the　summer　had　given　in　to　rain　and　wind。　He　was　not　unhappy　with　its　desertion。　Summer　heat　in　small　rooms　would　never　have　benign　associations　for　him　again。
　　He　looked　up　at　the　hotel。　It　was　coral…colored　in　the　sliding　light…the　details　of　scorch　marks　and　graffiti　looked　almost　too　real。　A　portrait　by　an　obsessive；　each　detail　in　absolute　focus。　He　watched　the　facade　awhile；　to　see　if　something　signaled　to　him。　Perhaps　a　window　might　wink；　a　door　grimace；　anything　to　prepare　him　for　what　he　might　discover　inside。　But　it　remained　politic。　Just　a　solid　building；　face　staled　with　age　and　flame；　catching　the　last　light　of　the　day。
　　The　front　door　had　been　closed　by　the　last　visitor　to　leave　the　hotel；　but　no　attempt　had　been　made　to　replace　the　boards。　Marty　pushed；　and　the　door　opened；　grinding　across　the　plaster　and　dirt　on　the　floor。　Inside；　nothing　had　changed。　The　chandelier　tinkled　as　a　gust　from　outside　trespassed　into　the　sanctum；　a　dry　rain　of　dust　flitted　down。
　　As　he　climbed　the　first　two　flights；　a　smell　began　to　infiltrate；　something　riper　than　damp　or　ash。　Presumably　the　bodies　would　still　be　where　they'd　been　left。　Substantial　decay　would　have　set　in。　He　didn't　know　how　long　such　processes　took；　but　after　the　experiences　of　recent　weeks　he　was　prepared　for　the　worst；　even　the　strengthening　smell　as　he　ascended　scarcely　touched　him。
　　He　halted　halfway　up　and　took　out　the　bottle　of　Scotch　he'd　bought；　unscrewed　the　top；　and；　still　eyeing　the　remaining　flights　of　stairs；　put　the　bottle　to　his　lips。　The　mouthful　of　spirits　sluiced　his　gums　and　throat；　and　scorched　its　way　down　into　his　belly。　He　resisted　the　temptation　to　take　a　second　swig。　Instead；　he　resealed　the　bottle　and　pocketed　it　before　continuing　up。
　　Memories　began　to　besiege　him。　He'd　hoped　to　keep　them　at　bay；　but　they　came　unbidden；　and　he　wasn't　strong　enough　to　resist　them。　There　were　no　pictures；　just　voices。　They　echoed　around　his　skull　as　if　it　were　empty；　as　if　he　were　simply　some　mindless　brute　answering　the　call　of　a　superior　mind。　The　urge　to　turn　tail　and　run　came　over　him；　but　he　knew　that　if　he　capitulated　now；　and　went　back　to　her；　the　qualms　would　only　deepen。　Soon　he'd　be　suspecting　every　twitch　of　her　arm；　wondering　if　the　European　was　preparing　her　for　murder。　It　would　be　another　kind　of　prison：　its　walls　suspicion；　its　bars　doubt；　and　he'd　be　sentenced　to　it　for　the　rest　of　his　life。　Even　if　Carys　left；　wouldn't　he　still　be　glancing　over　his　shoulder　as　the　years　passed；　watching　for　a　someone　to　appear　who　had　a　face　behind　his　face；　and　the　European's　unforgiving　eyes？
　　And　still；　with　every　step　taken；　his　fears　multiplied。　He　gripped　the　filthy　banister；　and　forced　himself　onward　and　upward。　I　don't　want　to　go；　the　child　in　him　plained。　Don't　make　me　go；　please。　Easy　enough　to　turn　around；　easy　enough　to　delay　the　whole　thing。　Look！　Your　feet　will　do　it；　just　say　the　word。　Go　back！　She'll　wake　eventually；　just　be　patient。　Go　back！
　　And　if　she　doesn't　wake？　the　voice　of　reason　replied。　And　that　made　him　go　on。
　　As　he　took　another　step；　something　moved　on　the　landing　ahead　of　him。　A　flea…jump　noise；　no　more；　so　soft　he　could　barely　hear　it。　A　rat；　perhaps？　Probably。　All　manner　of　scavengers　would　e　here；　wouldn't　they；　in　the　expectation　of　a　feast。　He'd　preempted　that　horror　too；　and　was　hardened　to　the　thought。
　　He　reached　the　landing。　No　rats　scurried　away　from　his　footfall；　at　least　he　saw　none。　But　there　was　something　here。　At　the　head　of　the　stairs　a　small　brown　maggot　rolled　around　on　the　carpet；　twisting　upon　itself　in　its　enthusiasm　to　get　somewhere。　Down　the　stairs　probably：　into　the　dark。　He　didn't　look　at　it　too　closely。　Whatever　it　was；　it　was　harmless。　Let　it　find　a　niche　to　grow　fat　in；　and　bee　a　fly　in　time；　if　that　was　its　ambition。
　　He　crossed　the　penultimate　landing　and　started　up　the　final　flight　of　stairs。　A　few　steps　up；　the　smell　abruptly　worsened。　The　stench　of　fetid　meat　assaulted　him；　and　now；　despite　the　Scotch　and　all　the　mental　preparation；　his　innards　turned　over　and　over；　like　the　maggot　on　the　carpet；　twisting　and　turning。
　　He　stopped　two　or　three　steps　up　the　flight；　pulled　out　his　whisky；　and　took　two　solid　throatfuls；　swallowing　it　so　quickly　it　made　his　eyes　water。　Then　he　continued　his　ascent。　Something　soft　slid　beneath　his　heel。　He　looked　down。　Another　maggot；　the　larger　brother　of　the　one　below；　had　been　arrested　in　its　descent　by　his　foot：　it　was　squashed　to　a　fatty　pulp。　He　glanced　at　it　for　only　a　second　before　hurrying　on；　aware　that　the　sole　of　his　shoe　was　slimy；　either　that　or　he　was　pressing　other　such　grubs　underfoot　as　he　went。
　　The　gulps　of　liquor　had　made　his　head　sing；　he　took　the　last　two　dozen　steps　almost　at　a　run；　eager　to　have　the　worst　over　with。　By　the　time　he'd　reached　the　top　of　the　stairs；　he　was　breathless。　He　had　an　absurd　image　of　himself；　a　drunkard's　fancy；　as　a　messenger　ing　with　news…lost　battles；　murdered　children…to　the　palace　of　some　fabulous　king。　Except　that　the　king　too　was　murdered；　his　battles　lost。
　　He　started　toward　the　penthouse；　the　smell　had　bee　so　dense　it　was　almost　edible。　As　he　had　once　before；　he　caught　sight　of　himself　in　the　mirror；　he　looked　down；　ashamed；　from　the　frightened　face　and…God！…the　carpet　crawled。　Not　two　or　three　but　a　dozen　or　more　fat；　ragged　maggots　were　laboring；　blindly　it　seemed；　to　find　their　way　across　the　carpet；　which　was　stained　by　their　travels。　They　were　like　no　insect　he'd　ever　seen　before；　lacking　any　decipherable　anatomy；　and　all　different　sizes：　some　finger…thin；　others　the　size　of　a　baby's　fist；　their　shapeless　forms　purple；　but　streaked　with　yellow。　They　left　trails　of　slime　and　blood　like　wounded　slugs。　He　stepped　around　them。　They'd　got　fat　on　meat　he'd　once　debated　with。　He　didn't　want　to　examine　them　too　closely。
　　But　as　he　pushed　open　the　door　of　the　suite；　and　stepped；　cautiously；　into　the　corridor；　an　appalling　possibility　crept　into　his　head　and　sat　there；　whispering　obscenities。　The　creatures　were　everywhere　in　the　suite。　The　more　ambitious　of　them　were　scaling　the　pastel　walls；　gluing　the　slivers　of　their　bodies　to　the　wallpaper　wit