The Damnation Game (9 page)

“He used to come down here at all times of the day and make telephone calls. He told me he was calling people in the business—he was a stuntman, you see, or had been—but I soon cottoned on that he was making bets. It’s my guess that’s where the debts came from. Gambling.”

Somehow Marty had known the answer before it came. It begged, of course, another question: was it just coincidence that Whitehead had employed two bodyguards, both, at some point in their lives, gamblers?

Both—it now appeared—thieves for their hobby? Toy had never shown much interest in that aspect of Marty’s life. But then maybe all the salient facts were in the file that Somervale had always carried: the psychologist’s reports, the trial transcripts, everything Toy would ever need to know about the compulsion that had driven Marty to theft. He tried to shrug off the discomfort he felt about all this. What the hell did it matter? It was old news; he was healthy now.

“You finished with your plate?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“More coffee?”

“I’ll get it.”

Pearl took the plate from in front of Marty, scraped the uneaten food onto a second plate—“For the birds,” she said-and started to load plates, cutlery and pans alike into the dishwasher. Marty refilled his mug and watched her at work. She was an attractive woman; middle-age suited her.

“How many staff does Whitehead have altogether?”

“Mr. Whitehead,” she said, gently correcting him. “Staff? Well, there’s me. I come and go like I said. And there’s Mr. Toy, of course.”

“He doesn’t live here either, right?”

“He stays overnight when they have conferences here.”

“Is that regular?”

“Oh, yes. There’s a lot of meetings go on in the house. People in and out all the time. That’s why Mr. Whitehead’s so security conscious.”

“Does he ever go down to London?”

“Not now,” she said. “He used to jet around quite a bit. Off to New York or Hamburg or some such place. But not now. Now he just stays here all year round and makes the rest of the world come to him. Where was I?”

“Staff.”

“Oh, yes. The place used to swarm with people. Security staff; servants; upstairs maids. But then he went through a very suspicious patch. Thought one of them might poison him or murder him in his bath. So he sacked them all: just like that. Said he was happier with just a few of us: the ones he trusted. That way he wasn’t surrounded by people he didn’t know.”

“He doesn’t know me.”

“Maybe not yet. But he’s canny: like nobody I’ve ever met.”

The telephone rang. She picked it up. He knew it must be Whitehead on the other end. Pearl looked caught in the act.

“Oh … yes. It’s my fault. I kept him talking. Right away.” The receiver was quickly replaced. “Mr. Whitehead’s waiting for you. You’d better hurry. He’s with the dogs.”

Chapter 14

T
he kennels were located behind a group of outhouses—once stables, perhaps— two hundred yards to the back of the main house. A sprawling collection of breeze-block sheds and wire-mesh enclosures, they had been built simply to fulfill their function, with no thought for architectural felicities; they were an eyesore.

It was chilly out in the open air, and crossing the crusty grass toward the kennels Marty had rapidly regretted his shirtsleeves. But there’d been an urgency in Pearl’s voice as she sent him on his way, and he didn’t want to leave Whitehead—no, he must learn to think of the man as Mr. Whitehead—waiting longer than he already had. As it was, the great man seemed unruffled by his late arrival.

“I thought we’d take a look at the dogs this morning. Then maybe we’ll make a tour of the grounds, yes?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He was dressed in a heavy black coat, the thick fur collar of which cradled his head.

“You like dogs?”

“You asking me honestly, sir?”

“Of course.”

“Not much.”

“Was your mother bitten, or were you?” There was a twitch of a smile in the bloodshot eyes.

“Neither of us that I can remember, sir.”

Whitehead grunted. “Well you’re about to meet the tribe, Strauss, whether you like them or not. It’s important they get to recognize you. They’re trained to tear intruders apart. We don’t want them making any mistakes.”

A figure had emerged from one of the larger sheds, carrying a choke chain. It took two glances for Marty to work out whether the newcomer was male or female. The cropped hair, the shabby anorak and the boots all suggested masculinity; but there was something in the molding of the face that betrayed the illusion.

“This is Lillian. She looks after the dogs.”

The woman nodded a greeting without even glancing at Marty.

At her appearance several dogs—large, shaggy Alsatians—had emerged from the kennels into the concrete run, and were sniffing at her through the wire, whining a welcome. She shushed them unsuccessfully; the welcome escalated into barks, and now one or two were standing on their hind legs, man-height against the mesh, their tails wagging furiously. The din worsened.

“Be quiet,” she snapped across to them, and almost all were chastened into silence. One male, however, larger than the rest, still stood against the wire, demanding attention, until Lillian drew off her leather glove and put her fingers through the mesh to scratch his deep-furred throat.

“Martin here has taken over in Nick’s stead,” said Whitehead. “He’ll be here all the time from now on. I thought he should meet the dogs, and have the dogs meet him.”

“Makes sense,” Lillian replied, without enthusiasm.

“How many are there?” Marty inquired.

“Fully grown? Nine. Five males, four females. This is Saul,” she said, speaking of the dog she was still stroking. “He’s the oldest, and the biggest. The male over in the corner is Job. He’s one of Saul’s sons. He’s not too well at the moment.”

Job had half-lain down in the corner of the enclosure and was licking his testicles with some enthusiasm. He seemed to know he had become the center of conversation, because he looked up from his toilet for a moment. In the look he gave them there was everything Marty hated about the species: the threat, the shiftiness, the barely subdued resentment of its masters.

“The bitches are over there—”

There were two dogs trotting up and down the length of the enclosure.

“—the lighter one’s Dido, and the darker’s Zoe.”

It was odd to hear these brutes called by such names; it seemed wholly inappropriate. And surely they resented the woman’s christenings; mocked her, probably, behind her back.

“Come over here,” Lillian said, summoning Marty as she might one of her pack. Like them, he came.

“Saul,” she said to the animal behind the wire, “this is a friend. Come closer,” she told Marty, “he can’t smell you from over there.”

The dog had dropped down onto all fours. Marty approached the wire cautiously.

“Don’t be afraid. Go right up to him. Let him get a good sniff of you.”

“They don’t like fear,” said Whitehead. “Isn’t that right, Lillian?”

“That’s right. If they smell it on you, they know they’ve got you. Then they’re merciless. You have to stand up to them.”

Marty approached the dog. It looked up at him testily: he stared back.

“Don’t try and outstare him,” Lillian advised. “It makes the dog aggressive. Just let him get your scent, so he knows you.”

Saul sniffed at Marty’s legs and crotch through the mesh, much to Marty’s discomfort. Then, apparently satisfied, he wandered away.

“Good enough,” said Lillian. “Next time, no wire. And in a while, you’ll be handling him.” She was taking some pleasure in Marty’s unease, he was sure of it. But he said nothing; just let her lead the way into the largest of the sheds.

“Now you must meet Bella,” she said.

Inside the kennels the smell of disinfectant, stale urine and dogs was overpowering. Lillian’s entrance was greeted with another sustained round of barking and wire-pawing. The shed had a walkway down the center, with cages off to the right and left. Two of these held a single dog, both bitches, one considerably smaller than the other. Lillian rolled off the details as they passed each cage—the dogs’ names, and their place on the incestuous family tree. Marty attended to all she was saying, and immediately forgot it again. His mind was otherwise occupied. It wasn’t just the intimate presence of the dogs that unnerved him, but the suffocating familiarity of this interior. The walkway; the cells with their concrete floors, their blankets, their bare bulbs: it was like home from home. And now he began to see the dogs in a new light; saw another meaning in Job’s baleful glance as he looked up from his ablutions; understood, better than Lillian or Whitehead ever could, how these prisoners must view him and his species.

He stopped to look into one of the cages: not out of any particular interest, but to focus on something other than the anxiety he felt in this claustrophobic hut.

“What’s this one called?” he asked.

The, dog in the cage was at the door; another sizable male, though not on the scale of Saul.

“That’s Laurousse,” Lillian replied.

The dog looked friendlier than the others, and Marty overcame his nerves and went down on his haunches in the narrow corridor, extending a tentative hand toward the cage.

“He’ll be fine with you,” she said.

Marty put his fingers to the mesh. Laurousse sniffed them inquisitively; his nose was damp and cold.

“Good dog,” Marty said. “Laurousse.”

The dog began to wag its tail, happy to be named by this sweating stranger.

“Good dog.”

Down here, closer to the blankets and the straw, the smell of excrement and fur was even stronger. But the dog was delighted that Marty had come down to its level, and was attempting to lick his fingers through the wire. Marty felt the fear in him dispelled by the dog’s enthusiasm: far from meaning him harm, it showed unalloyed pleasure.

Only now did he become aware of Whitehead’s scrutiny. The old man was standing a few feet off to his left, his bulk entirely blocking the narrow passage between the cages, watching intently. Marty stood up self-consciously, leaving the dog to whine and wag below him, and followed Lillian further down the line of cages. The dog-keeper was singing the praises of another member of the tribe. Marty tuned in to her conversation:

“—and this is Bella,” she announced. Her voice had softened; there was a dreamy quality in it that he hadn’t caught before. When Marty reached the cage into which she was pointing, he saw why.

Bella half-lay and half-sat in the mesh shadows at the end of her cage, arranged like a black-snouted Madonna on a bed of blankets and straw, with blind pups suckling at her teats. Setting eyes on her, Marty’s reservations about the dogs evaporated.

“Six pups,” Lillian announced as proudly as if they were her own, “all strong and healthy.”

More than strong and healthy, they were beautiful; fat balls of contentment nestling against each other in the luxury of their mother’s lap. It seemed inconceivable that creatures so vulnerable could grow into iron-gray lords like Saul, or suspicious rebels like Job.

Bella, sensing a newcomer among her congregation, pricked up her ears. Her head was superbly proportioned, tones of sable and gold mingling in her coat to glamorous effect, her brown eyes vigilant but soft in the half-light. She was so
finished
; so completely herself. The only response to her presence—and one that Marty willingly granted—was awe.

Lillian peered though the wire, introducing Marty to this mother of mothers.

“This is Mr. Strauss, Bella,” she said. “You’ll see him now and again; he’s a friend.”

There was no baby-talk condescension in Lillian’s voice. She spoke to the dog as to an equal, and despite Marty’s initial uncertainty about the woman, he found himself warming to her. Love wasn’t an easy thing to come by, he knew that to his cost. Whatever shape it came in, it made sense to respect it. Lillian loved this dog-her grace, her dignity. It was a love he could approve of, if not entirely understand.

Bella sniffed the air, and seemed satisfied that she had the measure of Marty. Lillian reluctantly turned from the cage to Strauss.

“She might even take to you, given time. She’s a great seductress, you know. A great seductress.”

Behind them, Whitehead grunted at this sentimental nonsense.

“Shall we look over the grounds?” he suggested impatiently. “I think we’re done here.”

“Come back when you’ve settled in,” Lillian said; her manner had defrosted noticeably since Marty had shown some appreciation of her charges, “and I’ll put them through their paces for you.”

“Thanks. I will.”

“I wanted you to see the dogs,” Whitehead said as they left the enclosures behind, and started at a brisk pace across the lawn to the perimeter fence. That was only part of the reason for the visit, though; Marty knew that damn well. Whitehead had intended the experience as a salutary reminder of what Marty had left behind him. There, but for the grace of Joseph Whitehead, he would go again. Well, the lesson was learned.

He’d jump through hoops of fire for the old man rather than go back into the custody of corridors and cells. There wasn’t even a Bella there; no sublime and secret mother locked away in the heart of Wandsworth. Just lost men like himself.

The day was warming: the sun was up, a pale lemon balloon drifting above the rookery, and the frost was melting from the lawns. For the first time Marty began to get some sense of the scale of the estate. Distances opened up to either side of them: he could see water, a lake, or river perhaps, shining beyond a bank of trees. On the west side of the house there were rows of cypresses, suggesting walkways, fountains perhaps; to the other side, a banked garden surrounded by a low stone wall. It would take him weeks to get the layout of the place.

They had reached the double fence that ran right around the estate.

A good ten feet high, both fences were topped by sharpened steel struts that curved out toward the would-be intruder. These were in turn crowned with spirals of barbed wire. The whole construction hummed, almost imperceptibly, with an electric charge. Whitehead regarded it with evident satisfaction.