cb.booksofblood2-第15章

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　'You　did　it　for　the　good　of　Titus？'
　'Of　course。'
　'And　the　blackmail；　that　was　also　for　the　good　of　Titus；　was　it？'
　'Get　out　of　my　office　…'
　'Was　it；　Lyndon？'
　'You're　a　whore！　Whores　know　nothing：　they　are　igno…rant；　diseased　animals；'　he　spat。　'Oh；　you're　cunning；　I　grant　you　that　…　but　then　so's　any　slut　with　a　living　to　make。'
　She　stood　up。　He　expected　a　riposte。　He　got　none；　at　least　not　verbally。　But　he　felt　a　tautness　across　his　face：　as　though　someone　was　pressing　on　it。
　'What。　。　。　are。　。　。　you。　。　。　doing？'　he　said。
　'Doing？'
　His　eyes　were　being　forced　into　slits　like　a　child　imitat…ing　a　monstrous　Oriental；　his　mouth　was　hauled　wide　and　tight；　his　smile　brilliant。　The　words　were　difficult　to　say　…'Stop。。　。it。　。　。'　She　shook　her　head。　'Whore。　。　。'　he　said　again；　still　defying　her。　She　just　stared　at　him。　His　face　was　beginning　to　jerk　and　twitch　under　the　pressure；　the　muscles　going　into　spasm。
　'The　police。　。　。'　he　tried　to　say；　'if　you　lay　a　finger　on　me。。。'
　'I　won't；'　she　said；　and　pressed　home　her　advantage。　Beneath　his　clothes　he　felt　the　same　tension　all　over　his　body；　pulling　his　skin；　drawing　him　tighter　and　tighter。
　
　Something　was　going　to　give；　he　knew　it。　Some　part　of　him　would　be　weak；　and　tear　under　this　relentless　assault。　And　if　he　once　began　to　break　open；　nothing　would　prevent　her　ripping　him　apart。　He　worked　all　this　out　quite　coolly；　while　his　body　twitched　and　he　swore　at　her　through　his　enforced　grin。
　'Cunt；'　he　said。　'Syphilitic　cunt。'
　He　didn't　seem　to　be　afraid；　she　thought。
　In　extremis　he　just　unleashed　so　much　hatred　of　her；　the　fear　was　entirely　eclipsed。　Now　he　was　calling　her　a　whore　again；　though　his　face　was　distorted　almost　beyond　recognition。
　And　then　he　began　to　split。
　The　tear　began　at　the　bridge　of　his　nose　and　ran　up；　across　his　brow；　and　down；　bisecting　his　lips　and　his　chin；　then　his　neck　and　chest。　In　a　matter　of　seconds　his　shirt　was　dyed　red；　his　dark　suit　darkening　further；　his　cuffs　and　trouser…legs　pouring　blood。　The　skin　flew　off　his　hands　like　gloves　off　a　surgeon；　and　two　rings　of　scarlet　tissue　lolled　down　to　either　side　of　his　flayed　face　like　the　ears　of　an　elephant。
　His　name…calling　had　stopped。
　He　had　been　dead　of　shock　now　for　ten　seconds；　though　she　was　still　working　him　over　vengefully；　tugging　his　skin　off　his　body　and　flinging　the　scraps　around　the　room；　until　at　last　he　stood；　steaming；　in　his　red　suit；　and　his　red　shirt；　and　his　shiny　red　shoes；　and　looked；　to　her　eyes；　a　little　more　like　a　sensitive　man。　Content　with　the　effect；　she　released　him。　He　lay　down　quietly　in　a　blood　puddle　and　slept。
　My　God；　she　thought；　as　she　calmly　took　the　stairs　out　the　back　way；　that　was　murder　in　the　first　degree。
　
　She　saw　no　reports　of　the　death　in　any　of　the　papers；　and　nothing　on　the　news　bulletins。　Lyndon　had　apparently　died　as　he　had　lived；　hidden　from　public　view。
　But　she　knew　wheels；　so　big　their　hubs　could　not　be　seen　by　insignificant　individuals　like　herself；　would　be　moving。　What　they　would　do；　how　they　would　change　her　life；　she　could　only　guess　at。　But　the　murder　of　Lyndon　had　not　simply　been　spite；　though　that　had　been　a　part　of　it。　No；　she'd　also　wanted　to　stir　them　up；　her　enemies　in　the　world；　and　bring　them　after　her。　Let　them　show　their　hands：　let　them　show　their　contempt；　their　terror。　She'd　gone　through　her　life；　it　seemed；　looking　for　a　sign　of　herself；　only　able　to　define　her　nature　by　the　look　in　others'　eyes。　Now　she　wanted　an　end　to　that。　It　was　time　to　deal　with　her　pursuers。
　Surely　now　everyone　who　had　seen　her；　Pettifer　first；　then　Vassi；　would　e　after　her；　and　she　would　close　their　eyes　permanently：　make　them　forgetful　of　her。　Only　then；　the　witnesses　destroyed；　would　she　be　free。
　Pettifer　didn't　e；　of　course；　not　in　person。　It　was　easy　for　him　to　find　agents；　men　without　scruple　or　passion；　but　with　a　nose　for　pursuit　that　would　shame　a　bloodhound。
　A　trap　was　being　laid　for　her；　though　she　couldn't　yet　see　its　jaws。　There　were　signs　of　it　everywhere。　An　eruption　of　birds　from　behind　a　wall；　a　peculiar　light　from　a　distant　window；　footsteps；　whistles；　dark…suited　men　reading　the　news　at　the　limit　of　her　vision。　As　the　weeks　passed　they　didn't　e　any　closer　to　her；　but　then　neither　did　they　go　away。　They　waited；　like　cats　in　a　tree；　their　tails　twitching；　their　eyes　lazy。
　But　the　pursuit　had　Pettifer's　mark。　She'd　learned　enough　from　him　to　recognize　his　circumspection　and　his　guile。　They　would　e　for　her　eventually；　not　in　her　time；　but　in　theirs。　Perhaps　not　even　in　theirs：　in　his。　And　though　she　never　saw　his　face；　it　was　as　though　Titus　was　on　her　heels　personally。
　My　God；　she　thought；　I'm　in　danger　of　my　life　and　I　don't　care。
　It　was　useless；　this　power　over　flesh；　if　it　had　no　direction　behind　it。　She　had　used　it　for　her　own　petty　reasons；　for　the　gratification　of　nervous　pleasure　and　sheer　anger。　But　these　displays　hadn't　brought　her　any　closer　to　other　people：　they　just　made　her　a　freak　in　their　eyes。
　Sometimes　she　thought　of　Vassi；　and　wondered　where　he　was；　what　he　was　doing。　He　hadn't　been　a　strong　man；　but　he'd　had　a　little　passion　in　his　soul。　More　than　Ben；　more　than　Pettifer；　certainly　more　than　Lyndon。　And；　she　remembered；　fondly；　he　was　the　only　man　she'd　ever　known　who　had　called　her　Jacqueline。　All　the　rest　had　manufactured　unendearing　corruptions　of　her　name：
　Jackie；　or　J。；　or；　in　Ben's　more　irritating　moods；　Ju…ju。　Only　Vassi　had　called　her　Jacqueline；　plain　and　simple；　accepting；　in　his　formal　way；　the　pleteness　of　her；　the　totality　of　her。　And　when　she　thought　of　him；　tried　to　picture　how　he　might　return　to　her；　she　feared　for　him。
　
　Vassi's　Testimony　（part　two）
　
　'Of　course　I　searched　for　her。　It's　only　when　you've　lost　someone　that　you　realize　the　nonsense　of　that　phrase　'it's　a　small　world'。　It　isn't。　It's　a　vast；　devouring　world；　especially　if　you're　alone。
　When　I　was　a　lawyer；　locked　in　that　incestuous　coterie；　I　used　to　see　the　same　faces　day　after　day。　Some　I'd　exchange　words　with；　some　smiles；　some　nods。　We　belonged；　even　if
　
　we　were　enemies　at　the　Bar；　to　the　same　placent　circle。　We　ate　at　the　same　tables；　we　drank　elbow　to　elbow。　We　even　shared　mistresses；　though　we　didn't　always　know　it　at　the　time。　In　such　circumstances；　it's　easy　to　believe　the　world　means　you　no　harm。　Certainly　you　grow　older；　but　then　so　does　everyone　else。　You　even　believe；　in　your　self…satisfied　way；　that　the　passage　of　years　makes　you　a　little　wiser。　Life　is　bearable；　even　the　3　a。m。　sweats　e　more　infrequently　as　the　bank…balance　swells。
　But　to　think　that　the　world　is　harmless　is　to　lie　to　yourself；　to　believe　in　so…called　certainties　that　are；　in　fact；　simply　shared　delusions。
　When　she　left；　all　the　delusions　fell　away；　and　all　the　lies　I　had　assiduously　lived　by　became　strikingly　apparent。
　It's　not　a　small　world；　when　there's　only　one　face　in　it　you　can　bear　to　look　upon；　and　that　face　is　lost　somewhere　in　a　maelstrom。　It's　not　a　small　world　when　the　few；　vital　memories　of　your　object　of　affection　are　in　danger　of　being　trampled　out　by　the　thousands　of　moments　that　assail　you　every　day；　like　children　tugging　at　you；　demanding　your　sole　attention。
　I　was　a　broken　man。
　I　would　find　myself　（there's　an　apt　phrase）　sleeping　in　tiny　bedrooms　in　forlorn　hotels；　drinking　more　often　than　eating；　and　writing　her　name；　like　a　classic　obsessive；　over　and　over　again。　On　the　walls；　on　the　pillow；　on　the　palm　of　my　hand。　I　broke　the　skin　of　my　palm　with　my　pen；　and　the　ink　infected　it。　The　mark's　still　there；　I'm　looking　at　it　now。　Jacqueline　it　says。　Jacqueline。
　Then　one　day；　entirely　by　chance；　I　saw　her。　It　sounds　melodramatic；　but　I　thought　I　was　going　to　die　at　that　moment。　I'd　imagined　her　for　so　long；　keyed　myself　up　for　seeing　her　again；　that　when　it　happened　I　felt　my　limbs　weaken；　and　I　was　sick　in　the　middle　of　the　street。　Not　a　classic　reunion。　The　lover；　on　seeing　his　beloved；　throws　up　down　his　shirt。　But　then；　nothing　that　happened　between　Jacqueline　and　myself　was　ever　quite　normal。　Or　natural。
　I　followed　her；　which　was　difficult。　There　were　crowds；　and　she　was　walking　fast。　I　didn't　know　whether　to　call　out　her　name　or　not。　I　decided　not。　What　would　she　have　done　anyway；　seeing　this　unshaven　lunatic　shambling　towards　her；　calling　her　name？　She　would　have　run　probably。　Or　worse；　she　would　have　reached　into　my　chest；　seizing　my　heart　in　her　will；　and　put　me　out　of　my　misery　before　I　could　reveal　her　to　the　world。
　So　I　was　silent；　and　simply　followed　her；　doggedly；　to　what　I　assumed　was　her　apartment。　And　I　stayed　there；　or　in　the　vicinity；　for　the　next　two　and　a　half　days；　not　quite　knowing　what　to　do。　It　was　a　ridiculous　dilemma。　After　all　this　time　of　watching　for　her；　now　that　she　was　within　speaking　distance；　touching　distance；　I　didn't　dare　approach。
　Maybe　I　feared　death。　But　then；　here　I　am；　in　this　stinking　room　in　Amsterdam；　setting　my　testimony　down　and　waiting　for　Koos　to　bring　me　her　key；　and　I　don't　fear　death　now。　Probably　it　was　my　vanity　that　prevented　me　from　approaching　her。　I　didn't　want　her　to　see　me　cracked　and　desolate；　I　wanted　to　e　to　her　clean；　her　dream…lover。
　While　I　waited；　they　came　for　her。
　I　don't　know　who　they　were。　Two　men；　plainly　dressed。　I　don't　think　policemen：　too　smooth。　Cultured　even。　And　she　didn't　resist。　She　went　smilingly；　as　if　to　the　opera。
　At　the　first　opportunity　I　returned　to　the　building　a　little　better　dressed；　located　her　apartment　from　the　porter；　and　broke　in。　She　had　been　living　plainly。　In　one　corner　of　the　room　she　had　set　up　a　table；　and　had　been　writing　her　memoirs。　I　sat　down　and　read；　and　eventually　took　the　pages　away　with　me。　She　had　got　no　further　than　the　first　seven　years　of　her　life。　I　wondered；　again　in　my　vanity；　if　I　would　have　been　chronicled　in　the　book。　Probably　not。
　I　took　some　of　her　clothes　too；　only　items　she　had　worn　when　I　had　known　her。　And　nothing　intimate：　I'm　not　a　fetishist。　I　wasn't　going　to　go　home　and　bury　my　face　in　the　smell　of　her　underwear。　But　I　wanted　something　to　remember　her　by；　to　picture　her　in。　Though　on　reflection　I　never　met　a　human　being　more　fitted　to　dress　purely　in　her　skin。
　So　I　lost　her　a　second　time；　more　the　fault　of　my　own　cowardice　than　circumstance。'
　
　Pettifer　didn't　e　near　the　house　they　were　keeping　Mrs　Ess　in　for　four　weeks。　She　was　given　more　or　less　everything　she　asked　for；　except　her　freedom；　and　she　only　asked　for　that　in　the　most　abstracted　fashion。　She　wasn't　interested　in　escape：　though　it　would　have　been　easy　to　achieve。　Once　or　twice　she　wondered　if　Titus　had　told　the　two　men　and　the　woman　who　were　keeping　her　a　prisoner　in　the　house　exactly　what　she　was　capable　of：　she　guessed　not。　They　treated　her　as　though　she　were　simply　a　woman　Titus　had　set　eyes　on　and　desired。　They　had　procured　her　for　his　bed；　simple　as　that。
　With　a　room　to　herself；　and　an　endless　supply　of　paper；　she　began　to　write　her　memoirs　again；　from　the　beginning。
　It　was　late　summer；　and　the　nights　were　getting　chilly。　Sometimes；　to　warm　herself；　she　would　lie　on　the　floor；　（she'd　asked　them　to　remove　the　bed）　and　will　her　body　to　ripple　like　the　surface　of　a　lake。　Her　body；　without　sex；　became　a　mystery　to　her