The Damnation Game (44 page)

But Chad was adamant. “There’s sin here,” he assured Tom, “and where there’s sin there’s guilt. And where there’s guilt there’s money for the Lord’s Work.” It was a simple equation: and if Tom had some doubts about its ethics he kept them to himself. Better his silence than Chad’s disapprobation; all they had was each other in this foreign city, and Tom wasn’t about to lose his guiding light.

Sometimes, though, it was difficult to keep your faith intact. Especially on blistering days like this, when your polyester suit was itching at the back of your neck and the Lord, if He was in His Heaven, was keeping well out of sight. Not a hint of a breeze to cool your face; not a rain cloud in sight.

“Isn’t this from something?” Tom asked Chad.

“What’s that?” Chad was counting the pamphlets they still had left to distribute today.

“The name of the street,” Tom said. “Caliban. It’s from something.”

“That so?” Chad had finished counting. “We only got rid of five pamphlets.”

He handed the armful of literature to Tom and fished for a comb in the inside pocket of his jacket. Despite the heat, he looked cool and unruffled. By comparison, Tom felt shabby, overheated and, he feared, easily tempted from the path of righteousness. By what, he wasn’t certain, but he was open to suggestions. Chad put the comb through his hair, restoring in one elegant sweep the perfect sheen of his halo. It was important, the Reverend taught, to look your best. “You’re agents of the Lord,” he’d said. “He wants you to be clean and tidy; to shine through every nook and cranny.”

“Here,” Chad said, exchanging the comb for the pamphlets. “Your hair’s a mess.”

Tom took the comb; its teeth had gold in them. He made a desultory attempt to control his coxcomb, while Chad looked on. Tom’s hair wouldn’t lie flat the way Chad’s did. The Lord probably tutted at that: He wouldn’t like it at all. But then what did the Lord like? He disapproved of smoking, drinking, fornication, tea, coffee, Pepsi, roller coasters, masturbation.

And for those weak creatures who indulged in any or, God help them, all of the above the Deluge hovered.

Tom just prayed that the waters, when they came, would be cool.

The guy in the dark suit who answered the door of Number Eighty-two Caliban Street reminded both Tom and Chad of the Reverend. Not physically, of course. Bliss was a tanned, glutinous man, while this dude was thin and sallow. But there was the same implicit authority about them both; the same seriousness of purpose. He was drawn to the pamphlets too, the first real interest they’d had all morning. He even quoted Deuteronomy at them—a text they were unfamiliar with—and then, offering them both a drink, invited them into the house.

It was like home from home. The bare walls and floors; the smell of disinfectant and incense, as though something had just been cleaned up. Truth to tell, Tom thought this guy had taken the asceticism to extremes. The back room he led them into boasted two chairs, no more.

“My name is Mamoulian.”

“How do you do? I’m Chad Schuckman, this is Thomas Loomis.”

“Both saints, eh?” The young men looked mystified. “Your names. Both names of saints.”

“Saint Chad?” the blond one ventured.

“Oh, certainly. He was an English bishop; we’re speaking of the seventh century now. Thomas, of course, the great Doubter.”

He left them awhile to fetch water. Tom squirmed in his chair.

“What’s your problem?” Chad snapped. “He’s the first sniff of a convert we’ve had over here.”

“He’s weird.”

“You think the Lord cares if he’s weird?” Chad said. It was a good question, and one for which Tom was shaping a reply when their host came back in.

“Your water.”

“Do you live alone?” Chad asked. “It’s such a big house for one person.”

“Of late I’ve been alone,” Mamoulian said, proffering the glasses of water. “And I must say, I’m in serious need of help.”

I bet you are
, Tom thought. The man looked at him as the idea flashed through his head, almost as though he’d said it aloud. Tom flushed, and drank his water to cover his embarrassment. It was warm. Had the English never heard of refrigerators? Mamoulian turned his attention back to Saint Chad.

“What are you two doing in the next few days?”

“The Lord’s work,” Chad returned patly.

Mamoulian nodded. “Good,” he said.

“Spreading the word.”

“ ‘I will make you fishers of men.’ ”

“Matthew. Chapter Four,” Chad returned.

“Perhaps,” said Mamoulian, “if I allowed you to save my immortal soul, you might help me?”

“Doing what?”

Mamoulian shrugged: “I need the assistance of two healthy young animals like yourself.”

Animals? That didn’t sound too fundamentalist. Had this poor sinner never heard of Eden? No, Tom thought, looking at the man’s eyes; no, he probably never has.

“I’m afraid we’ve got other commitments,” Chad replied politely.

“But we’ll be very happy to have you come along when the Reverend arrives, and have you baptized.”

“I’d like to meet the Reverend,” the man returned. Tom wasn’t certain if this wasn’t all a charade. “We have so little time before the Maker’s wrath descends,” Mamoulian was saying. Chad nodded fervently. “Then we shall be as flotsam-shall we not? —as flotsam in the flood.”

The words were the Reverend’s almost precisely. Tom heard them falling from this man’s narrow lips, and that accusation of being a Doubter came home to roost. But Chad was entranced. His face had that evangelical look that came over it during sermons; the look that Tom had always envied, but now thought positively rabid.

“Chad …” he began.

“Flotsam in the flood,” Chad repeated, “Hallelujah.”

Tom put his glass down beside his chair. “I think we should be going,” he said, and got up. For some reason the bare boards he stood on seemed far more than six feet away from his eyes: more like sixty. As though he was a tower about to topple, his foundations dug away. “We’ve got so many streets to cover,” he said, trying to focus on the problem at hand, which was, in a nutshell, how to get out of this house before something terrible happened.

“The Deluge,” Mamoulian announced, “is almost upon us.”

Tom reached toward Chad to wake him from his trance. The fingers at the end of his outstretched arm seemed a thousand miles from his eyes.

“Chad,” he said. Saint Chad; he of the halo, pissing rainbows.

“Are you all right, boy?” the stranger asked, swiveling his fish eyes in Tom’s direction.

“I … feel …”

“What do you feel?” Mamoulian asked.

Chad was looking at him too, face innocent of concern; innocent, in fact, of all feeling. Perhaps—this thought dawned on Tom for the first time—that was why Chad’s face was so perfect. White, symmetrical and completely empty.

“Sit down,” the stranger said. “Before you fall down.”

“It’s all right,” Chad reassured him.

“No,” Tom said. His knees felt disobedient. He suspected they’d give out very soon.

“Trust me,” Chad said. Tom wanted to. Chad had usually been right in the past. “Believe me, we’re on to a good thing here. Sit down, like the gentleman said.”

“Is it the heat?”

“Yes,” Chad told the man on Tom’s behalf. “It’s the heat. It gets hot in Memphis; but we’ve got air-conditioning.” He turned to Tom and put his hand on his companion’s shoulder. Tom let himself give in to weakness, and sat down. He felt a fluttering at the back of his neck, as though a hummingbird was hovering there, but he didn’t have the willpower to flick it away.

“You call yourselves agents?” the man said, almost under his breath. “I don’t think you know the meaning of the word.”

Chad was quick to their defense.

“The Reverend says—”

“The Reverend?” the man interrupted contemptuously. “Do you think he had the slightest idea of your value?”

This flummoxed Chad. Tom tried to tell his friend not to be flattered, but the words wouldn’t come. His tongue lay in his mouth like a dead fish.
Whatever happens now
, he thought,
at least it’ll happen to us together
. They’d been friends since first grade; they’d tasted pubescence and metaphysics together; Tom thought of them as inseparable. He hoped the man understood that where Chad went, Tom went too. The fluttering at his neck had stopped; a warm reassurance was creeping over his head. Things didn’t seem so bad after all.

“I need help from you young men.”

“To do what?” Chad asked.

“To begin the Deluge,” Mamoulian replied. A smile, uncertain at first but broadening as the idea caught his imagination, appeared on Chad’s face. His features, too often sober with zeal, ignited.

“Oh, yes,” he said. He glanced across at Tom. “Hear what this man’s telling us?”

Tom nodded.

“You hear, man?”

“I hear. I hear.”

All his blissful life Chad had waited for this invitation. For the first time he could picture the literal reality behind the destruction he’d threatened on a hundred doorsteps. In his mind waters—red, raging waters—mounted into foam-crested waves and bore down on this pagan city. We are as flotsam in the flood, he said, and the words brought images with them. Men and women-but mostly women-running naked before these curling tides. The water was hot; rains of it fell on their screaming faces, their gleaming, jiggling breasts. This was what the Reverend had promised all along; and here was this man asking them to help make it all possible, to bring this thrashing, foamy Day of Days to consummation. How could they refuse? He felt the urge to thank the man for considering them worthy. The thought fathered the action. His knees bent, and he fell to the floor at Mamoulian’s feet.

“Thank you,” he said to the man with the dark suit.

“You’ll help me, then?”

“Yes …” Chad replied; wasn’t this homage sign enough? “Of course.” Behind him, Tom murmured his own concession.

“Thank you,” Chad said. “Thank you.”

But when he looked up the man, apparently convinced by their devotion, had already left the room.

Chapter 57

M
arty and Carys slept together in his single bed: long, rewarding sleep. If the baby in the room below them cried in the night, they didn’t hear it. Nor did they hear the sirens on Kilburn High Road, police and fire engines going to a conflagration in Maida Vale. Dawn through the dirty window didn’t wake them either, though the curtains had not been drawn. But once, in the early hours, Marty turned in his sleep and his eyes flickered open to see the first light of day at the glass. Rather than turning away from it, he let it fall on his lids as they flickered down again.

T
hey had half a day together in the flat before the need began; bathing themselves, drinking coffee, saying very little. Carys washed and bound the wound on Marty’s leg; they changed their clothes, ditching those they’d worn the previous night.

It wasn’t until the middle of the afternoon that they started to talk. The dialogue began quite calmly, but Carys’ nervousness escalated as she felt hungrier for a fix, and the talk rapidly became a desperate diversion from her jittering belly. She told Marty what life with the European had been like: the humiliations, the deceptions, the sense she had that he knew her father, and her too, better than she guessed. Marty in his turn attempted to paraphrase the story Whitehead had told him on that last night, but she was too distracted to concentrate properly. Her conversation became increasingly agitated.

“I have to have a fix, Marty.”

“Now?”

“Pretty soon.”

He’d been waiting for this moment and dreading it. Not because he couldn’t find her a supply; he knew he could. But because he’d hoped somehow she’d be able to resist the need when she was with him.

“I feel really bad,” she said.

“You’re all right. You’re with me.”

“He’ll come, you know.”

“Not now, he won’t.”

“He’ll be angry, and he’ll come.”

Marty’s mind went back and back again to his experience in the upstairs room of Caliban Street. What he had seen there, or rather not seen there, had terrified him more profoundly than the dogs or Breer. Those were merely physical dangers. But what had gone on in the room was a danger of another order altogether. He had felt, perhaps for the first time in his life, that his soul—a notion he had hitherto rejected as Christian flimflam—had been threatened. What he meant by the word he wasn’t certain; not, he suspected, what the pope meant. But some part of him more essential than limb or life had been almost eclipsed, and Mamoulian had been responsible.

What more could the creature unleash, if pressed? His curiosity was more now than an idle desire to know what was behind the veil: it had become a necessity. How could they hope to arm themselves against this demagogue without some clue to his nature?

“I don’t want to know,” Carys said, reading his thoughts. “If he comes, he comes. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Last night—” he began, about to remind her of how they had won the skirmish. She waved the thought away before it was finished. The strain on her face was unbearable; her need was flaying her.

“Marty …”

He looked across at her.

“… you promised,” she said accusingly.

“I haven’t forgotten.”

He’d done the mental arithmetic in his head: not the cost of the drug itself, but of lost pride. He would have to go to Flynn for the heroin; he knew no one else he could trust. They were both fugitives now, from Mamoulian and from the law.

“I’ll have to make a phone call,” he said.

“Make it,” she replied.

She seemed to have physically altered in the last half-hour. Her skin was waxy; her eyes had a desperate gleam in them; the shaking was worsening by the minute.

“Don’t make it easy for him,” she said.

He frowned: “Easy?”

“He can make me do things I don’t want to,” she said. Tears had started to run. There was no accompanying sob, just a free-fall from the eyes. “Maybe make me hurt you.”

“It’s all right. I’ll go now. There’s a guy lives with Charmaine, he’ll be able to get me stuff, don’t worry. You want to come?”