The Damnation Game (52 page)

“Time to go,” he said as he locked the door. “The Deluge is almost upon us.”

N
ow, as they drove, Carys was beginning to find some strength. Balmy air through the front window caressed her face. She opened her eyes fractionally, and cast them in the direction of the European. He was not looking her way; he was staring out of the window, that aristocratic profile of his made blander than ever by fatigue.

She wondered how her father would fare in the approaching endgame. He was old, but Mamoulian was vastly older; was age, in this confrontation, an advantage or a disadvantage? Suppose—the thought occurred to her for the first time—they were equally matched? Suppose the game they were playing ended without defeat or victory on either side? Just a twentieth-century conclusion—all ambiguities. She didn’t want that: she wanted finality.

Whichever way it went she knew there was small chance of her survival in the coming Deluge. Only Marty could tip the balance in her favor, and where was he now? If he returned to Kilburn and found it deserted, mightn’t he assume she’d left him of her own accord? She couldn’t predict the way he’d jump; that he was capable of the blackmail with the heroin had come as a shock. One desperate maneuver remained a possibility: to think her way to him and tell him where she was, and why. There were risks in such a gambit. Catching stray thoughts from him was one thing—it was no more than a parlor trick—but attempting to push her way into his head and communicate with him consciously, mind to mind, would require more mental muscle. Even assuming she had the strength to do it, what would the consequences of such an intrusion be for Marty? She pondered the dilemma in a daze of anxiety, knowing the minutes were ticking by, and soon it would be too late for any escape attempt, however desperate.

M
arty was driving south toward Cricklewood when a pain began at the nape of his neck. It spread rapidly up and over his skull, escalating within two minutes to a headache of unparalleled proportions. His instinct was to pick up speed and get back to Kilburn as quickly as possible, but the Finchley Road was heavily trafficked, and all he could do was edge along with the flow, the pain worsening every ten yards. His consciousness—increasingly preoccupied with the upward spiral of pain—focused on smaller and yet smaller bits of information, his perception narrowing to a pinprick. Ahead of the Citroen the road was a blur. He was almost blinded, and a collision with a refrigerated meat truck was only prevented by the skill of the other driver. He realized that driving any further could be fatal, so he edged out of the traffic as best he could—horns blaring front and behind—and parked, inelegantly, at the side of the road, then stumbled out of the car to get some air. Completely disoriented, he stepped straight into the middle of the traffic. The lights of the oncoming vehicles were a wall of strobing colors. He felt his knees about to buckle and only prevented himself from collapsing in front of the traffic by hanging on to the open car door and hauling himself around the front of the Citroen to the comparative safety of the pavement.

A single drop of rain fell on his hand. He peered at it, concentrating to bring it into focus. It was bright red. Blood, he thought dimly. Not rain, blood. He put his hand up to his face. His nose was bleeding copiously. The heat ran down his arm and into the rolled sleeve of his shirt. Digging into his pocket he pulled out a handkerchief and clamped it under his nose, then staggered across the pavement to a shop front. In the window, he caught his reflection. Fish swam behind his eyes. He fought the illusion, but it persisted: brilliantly colored exotica, blowing bubbles inside his skull. He stood away from the glass, and took in the words painted on it: Cricklewood Aquarium Supplies. He turned his back on the guppies and the ornamental carp and sat on the narrow sill. He had begun to shake. This was Mamoulian’s doing, was all he could think.
If I give into it, I’ll die. I must fight. At all costs, fight
.

C
arys spoke, the word escaping her lips before she could prevent it.

“Marty.”

The European looked at her. Was she dreaming? There was sweat on her swollen lips; yes, she was. Of congress with Strauss, no doubt. That was why she spoke his name with such demand in her tone.

“Marty.”

Yes, for certain, she was dreaming the arrow and the wound. Look how she trembled. Look how her hands ran between her legs: a shameful display.

“How far now?” he asked Saint Tom, who was consulting the map.

“Five minutes,” the youth replied.

“Fine night for it,” Chad said.

M
arty?

He looked up, narrowing his eyes to improve his vision of the street, but he could not see his interrogator. The voice was in his head.

Marty?

It was Carys’ voice, horribly distorted. When it spoke his skull seemed to creak, his brain blowing up to the size of a melon. The pain was unbearable.

Marty?

Shut up, he wanted to say, but she wasn’t there to tell. Besides, it wasn’t her, it was him, it, the European. The voice was now replaced by the sound of somebody’s breath, not his own. His was a sickening pant, this was a sleepy rhythm. The blur of the street was darkening; the ache in his head had become heaven and earth. He knew if he didn’t get help, he’d die.

He stood up, blind. A hissing had filled his ears now, which all but blocked the din of traffic mere yards from him. He stumbled forward.

More blood streamed from his nose.

“Somebody help me…”

An anonymous voice filtered through the chaos in his head. The words it spoke were incomprehensible to him, but at least he was not alone. A hand was touching his chest; another was holding his arm. The voice he’d heard was raised in panic. He wasn’t sure if he made any reply to it. He wasn’t even sure if he was standing up or falling down. What did it matter anyway?

Blind and deaf, he waited for some kind person to tell him he could die.

T
hey drew up in the street a short way from the Orpheus Hotel. Mamoulian got out and left the evangelists to bring Carys. She’d begun to smell, he’d noted; that ripe smell he associated with menstruation. He strode on ahead, stepping through the rent fence and onto the no-man’s-land that surrounded the hotel. Desolation pleased him. The heaps of rubble, the piles of abandoned furniture: by the sickly light of the highway the place had a glamor about it. If last rites were to be performed, what better place than here? The pilgrim had chosen well.

“This is it?” said Saint Chad, following on.

“It is. Will you find a point of access for us?”

“My pleasure.”

“Only do it quietly, if you will.”

The young man skipped off across the pit-fraught ground, stopping only to select a piece of twisted metal from among the rubble to force an entry. So resourceful, these Americans, Mamoulian mused as he picked his way after Chad: no wonder they ruled the world. Resourceful, but not subtle. At the front door Chad was tearing the planks away without much regard for surprise attacks.
Can you hear?
he thought to the pilgrim.
Do you know I’m down here, so close to you at last?

He turned his cold eyes up to the top of the hotel. His belly was acid with anticipation; a film of sweat glossed his forehead and palms.
I’m like a nervous lover
, he thought. So strange, that the romance should end this way, without a sane observer to witness the final acts. Who would know, once it was all over; who would tell? Not the Americans. They would not survive the next few hours with the tatters of their sanity intact. Not Carys; she would not survive at all. There would be nobody to report the story, which—for some buried reason—he regretted. Was that what made him a European? To want to have his story told once more, passed down the line to another eager listener who would, in his time, disregard its lesson and repeat his own suffering? Ah, how he loved tradition.

The front door had been beaten open. Saint Chad stood, grinning at his achievement, sweating in his tie and suit.

“Lead the way,” Mamoulian invited him.

The eager youth went inside; the European followed. Carys and Saint Tom brought up the rear.

Within, the smell was tantalizing. Associations were one of the curses of age. In this case the perfume of carbonized wood, and the sprawl of wreckage underfoot, evoked a dozen cities he’d wandered in; but one of course, in particular. Was that why Joseph had come to this spot: because the scent of smoke and the climb up the creaking stairs woke memories of that room off Muranowski Square? The thief’s skills had been the equal of his own that night, hadn’t they? There’d been something blessed about the young man with the glittering eyes; the fox who’d shown so little awe; just sat down at the table willing to risk his life in order to play. Mamoulian believed the pilgrim had forgotten Warsaw as he’d grown from fortune to fortune; but this ascent up burned stairs was proof positive that he had not.

They climbed in the dark, Saint Chad going ahead to scout the way, and calling behind him that the banister was gone in this place and a stair in that. Between the fourth and fifth stories, where the fire stopped, Mamoulian called a halt, and waited until Carys and Tom caught up. When they had he instructed that the girl be brought to him. It was lighter up here. Mamoulian could see a look of loss on the girl’s tender face. He touched her, not liking the contact but feeling it appropriate.

“Your father is here,” he told her. She didn’t reply; nor did her features relinquish the look of grief. “Carys … are you listening?”

She blinked. He assumed he was making some contact with her, if primitive.

“I want you to speak to Papa. Do you understand? I want you to tell him to open the door for me.”

Gently, she shook her head.

“Carys,” he chided. “You know better than to refuse me.”

“He’s dead,” she said.

“No,” the European replied flatly, “He’s up there; a few flights above us.”

“I killed him.”

What delusion was this? “Who?” he asked sharply. “Killed who?”

“Marty. He doesn’t answer. I killed him.”

“Shush … shush …” The cold fingers stroked her cheek. “Is he dead, then? So: he’s dead. That’s all that can be said.”

“… I did it …”

“No, Carys. It wasn’t you. It was something that had to be done; don’t concern yourself.”

He took her wan face in both hands. Often he had cradled her head when she was a child, proud that she was the pilgrim’s fruit. In those embraces he had nurtured the powers she had grown up with, sensing that a time might come when he would need her.

“Just open the door, Carys. Tell him you’re here, and he’ll open it for you.”

“I don’t want … to see him.”

“But I do. You’ll be doing me a great service. And once it’s over, there’ll be nothing to be afraid of ever again. I promise you that.”

She seemed to see some sense in this.

“The door …” he prompted.

“Yes.”

He loosed her face, and she turned away from him to climb the stairs.

I
n the deep-pile comfort of his suite, his jazz playing on the portable hi-fi he had personally lugged up six flights, Whitehead had heard nothing. He had all that he needed. Drink, books, records, strawberries. A man might sit out the Apocalypse up here and be none the worse for it. He had even brought some pictures: the early Matisse from the study,
Reclining Nude, Quai St. Michel
; a Miro and a Francis Bacon. The last was a mistake. It was too morbidly suggestive, with its hints of flayed flesh; he’d turned it to the wall. But the Matisse was a joy, even by candlelight. He was staring at it, never less than enchanted by its casual facility, when the knocking came.

He stood up. It was many hours—he’d lost track of time—since Strauss had been here; had he come again? Somewhat groggy with vodka, Whitehead lurched along the hall of the suite, and listened at the door.

“Papa …”

It was Carys. He didn’t answer her. It was suspicious, her being here.

“It’s me, Papa, it’s me. Are you there?”

Her voice was so tentative; she sounded like a child again. Was it possible Strauss had taken him at his word, and sent the girl to him, or had she simply come back of her own accord, the way Evangeline had after cross words? Yes, that was it. She’d come because, like her mother, she couldn’t help but come. He began to unlock the door, fingers awkward in anticipation.

“Papa …”

At last he got the best of the key and the handle and opened the door. She wasn’t there. Nobody was there: or so he thought at first. But even as he stepped back into the hall of the suite the door was thrown wide and he was flung against the wall by a youth whose hands seized him at neck and groin and pinned him flat. He dropped the vodka bottle he was carrying and threw up his hands to signify his surrender. When he’d shaken the assault from his head he looked over the youth’s shoulder and his bleary eyes came to rest on the man who had followed the youth in.

Quietly, and quite without warning, he began to cry.

T
hey left Carys in the dressing room beside the master bedroom of the suite. It was empty but for a fitted wardrobe and a pile of curtains, which had been removed from the windows and then forgotten. She made a nest in their musty folds and lay down. A single thought circled in her head:
I killed him
. She had felt his resistance to her investigation; felt the tension building in him. And then, nothing.

The suite, which occupied a quarter of the top story, boasted two views. One was of the highway: a garish ribbon of headlights. The other, that let on to the east side of the hotel, was gloomier. The small dressing-room window faced this second view: a stretch of wasteland, then the fence and the city beyond it. But from her position lying on the floor, all of that was out of sight. All she could see was a sky field, across which the blinking lights of a jet crept.