Part 46 (1/2)
They played on. The cards were shuffled and dealt again, shuffled and dealt. The breeze of their motions made the candle flame flicker. The game went one way, then the other. The conversation faltered, and began again: chatty, almost ba.n.a.l. It was as though in these last minutes together-when they had so much to say-they could say nothing of the least significance, for fear it open the floodgates. Only once did the chat show its true colors-escalating from a simple remark to metaphysics in mere seconds: ”I think you're cheating,” the European observed lightly. ”You'd know if I was. All the tricks I use are yours.”
”Oh, come now.”
”It's true. Everything I learned about cheating, I learned from you.” The European looked almost flattered.
”Even now,” Whitehead said.
”Even now what?”
”You're still cheating, aren't you? You shouldn't be alive, not at your age.”
”It's true.”
”You look the way you did in Warsaw, give or take a scar. What age are you? A hundred? Hundred and fifty?”
”Older.”
”And what's it done for you? You're more afraid than I am. You need someone to hold your hand while you die, and you chose me.”
”Together, we might never have died.”
”Oh?”
”We might have founded worlds.”
”I doubt it.”
Mamoulian sighed. ”It was all appet.i.te then? From the beginning.”
”Most of it.”
”You never cared to make sense of it all?”
”Sense? There's no sense to be made. You told me that: the first lesson.
It's all chance.”
The European threw down his cards, having lost the hand. ”. . . Yes,” he said.
”Another game?” Whitehead offered.
”Just one more. Then we really must be going.”At the head of the stairs Marty halted. The door of Whitehead's suite was slightly ajar. He had no idea of the geography of the rooms beyond-the two suites he'd investigated on this floor had been totally different, and he could not predict the layout of this one from theirs. He thought back to his earlier conversation with Whitehead. When it was over he'd had the distinct impression that the old man had walked quite a distance before an interior door had closed to bring an end to the exchange. A long hallway then, possibly offering some hiding places.
It was no use hesitating; standing there juggling his odds only worsened the nervous antic.i.p.ation he felt. He must act.
At the door itself he halted again. There was a murmur of voices from inside, but m.u.f.fled, as if the speakers were beyond closed doors. He put his fingers on the door of the suite and pushed gently. It swung open a few more inches and he peered inside. There was, as he'd guessed, an empty corridor leading into the suite itself; off it, four doors. Three were closed, one ajar. From behind one of the closed doors came the voices he'd heard. He concentrated, trying to pick some sense from the murmur, but he failed to catch more than an odd word. He recognized the speakers, however: one was Whitehead, the other Mamoulian. And the tone of the exchange was apparent too; gentlemanly, civilized.
Not for the first time he longed to possess the ability to go to Carys the way that she had come to him; to seek out her location with mind alone, and to debate the best means of escape. As it was, all-as ever-was chance.
He advanced along the hallway to the first closed door, and surrept.i.tiously opened it. Though the lock made some noise the voices in the far room murmured on, unalerted to his presence. The room he peered into was a cloakroom, no more. He closed the door and advanced a few more yards down the carpeted corridor. Through the open door he could hear movement, then the clink of gla.s.s. A candle shadow, thrown by someone inside, flitted across the wall. He stood absolutely still, reluctant to retreat a foot now that he'd got so far. Voices drifted from the adjacent room.
”s.h.i.+t, Chad,” the speaker sounded almost fearful. ”What the f.u.c.k are we doing here? I can't think properly.”
The objection was met with laughter. ”You don't need to think. We're on G.o.d's work here, Tommy. Drink up.”
”Something terrible's going to happen,” Tom said.
”Sure as s.h.i.+t,” Chad replied. ”Why'd you think we're here. Now drink.”
Marty had rapidly worked out the ident.i.ty of this pair. They were here on G.o.d's work: including murder. He had seen them buying ice creams in the afternoon sun, with their b.l.o.o.d.y knives safely pocketed. Fear overrode the urge to revenge, however. He had little enough chance of getting out of here alive as it was.
There was one last door to be investigated, directly opposite the room occupied by the young Americans. In order to check it, he would have to cross in front of the open door.
The lazy voice began again.
”You look like you want to puke.”
”Why don't you let me alone?” the other replied. He seemed, or was this just wishful thinking? to be moving away. Then came the unmistakable sound of retching. Marty held his breath. Would the other youth go to his companion's aid? He prayed so.
”You OK, Tommy?” The voice changed timbre as the speaker moved. Yes, he was walking away from the door. Taking chance by the throat, Marty stepped smartly off from the wall, opened the final door, closing it behind him.
The room he had entered was not large, but it was dark. By the little light there was he could see a figure lying curled up on the floor. It was Carys. She was sleeping; her even exhalations marked a gentle rhythm.
He went to where she lay. How to wake her: that was the problem. Next door, one wall away, was the European. If she made the slightest sound as he roused her, he would surely hear. And if he didn't, the Americans would.
He went down on his haunches and gently laid his hand over her mouth, then shook her shoulder. She seemed resistant to waking. She frowned in her sleep and muttered some complaint. He bent closer to her and risked hissing her name urgently into her ear. That did the trick. Her eyes sprang open, wide as an astonished child's; her mouth formed a cry against his palm. Recognition came the instant before she gave voice.
He removed his hand. There was no welcoming smile; her face was pallid and grim, but she touched his lips with her fingertips in welcome. He stood up, offering her a hand.
Next door, a row had suddenly erupted. The mellow voices were raised in mutual accusation; furniture was being overturned. Mamoulian shouted for Chad. In answer there came the thud of feet from the bathroom.
”d.a.m.n.” There was no time for tactical thinking. They'd have to make a break for it and take what the moment offered, good or bad. He pulled Carys to her feet and crossed to the door. As he turned the handle he glanced over his shoulder to check that Carys was still following him, but disaster had registered on her face. He turned back to the door and the reason-Saint Thomas, his chin s.h.i.+ny with vomit-was standing directly outside the door. He was apparently as startled to see Marty as the other way around. Using his hesitation, Marty stepped into the hallway and pushed Tom in the chest. The American fell back, the word ”Chad!” escaping his lips as he stumbled through the open door opposite, knocking over a bowl of strawberries as he did so. The fruit rolled underfoot.
Marty ducked around the dressing-room door and out into the hall, but the American recovered his balance with speed, and reached out to s.n.a.t.c.h the back of his s.h.i.+rt. The attempt was sufficient to slow Marty down, and as he turned to beat the arresting hand away he saw the second American emerging from the room the old men were in. There was a frightening serenity in the youth's eyes as he closed in on Marty.
”Run!” was all he could shout to Carys, but the blond G.o.d stopped her as she slipped out into the corridor, pus.h.i.+ng her back the way she'd come with a breathed ”No,” before continuing on his way toward Marty. ”Hold her,” he told his companion as he took over the hold on Marty. Tom stepped out of sight after Carys, and there was a noise of struggle, but Marty had little time to a.n.a.lyze it, as Chad doubled him up with a blow to the stomach. Marty, too confused by the sudden rush of action to prepare for the pain, groaned and fell back against the front door of the suite, slamming it. The blond boy followed him down the corridor, and through tear-bleared eyes Marty just caught sight of the next blow before it landed. He didn't see the third or fourth. There was no time between the punches and kicks to stand upright or catch a breath. The corn-fed body pummeling him was lithe and strong, more than Marty's equal. Vainly, he flailed against the tattoo. He was so d.a.m.n tired and sick. His nose began to bleed again, and still the serene eyes fixed him as the fists beat his body black. So calm, those eyes, they could have been at prayer. But it was Marty who was falling to his knees; Marty whose head was dragged back in enforced adulation as the blond boy spat on him; Marty who said, ”Help me”-or some bruised corruption of those words-as he collapsed.
Mamoulian stepped out of the gaming room, leaving the pilgrim to his tears. He'd done as the old man had asked-they'd played a game or two for old times' sake. But now the indulgence was over. And what was this chaos in the hall; the tangle of limbs at the front door, blood spattered on the wall? Ah, it was Strauss. Somehow the European had expected a late arrival at the celebrations; who it was to be, he hadn't foreseen. He stalked the corridor to see what damage had been done, looking down at the disfigured, spittle-laced face with a sigh. Saint Chad, his fists b.l.o.o.d.y, was sweating a little: the scent off the young lion was sweet.
”He was almost away,” the Saint said.
”Indeed,” the European replied, gesturing for the youth to give him room.
From his collapsed position on the hall floor Marty gazed up at the Last European. The air between them seemed to be itching. Marty waited. Surely the killing stroke would follow quickly. But there was nothing, except the gaze from those noncommittal eyes. Even in his broken state Marty could see the tragedy written in the mask of Mamoulian's face. It no longer terrified him: simply fascinated. This man was the source of the nullity he had barely survived in Caliban Street. Was there not a ghost of that gray air lurking in his sockets now, seeping from his nostrils and mouth as though a fire smoldered in his cranium?
In the room where he and the European had played cards Whitehead moved stealthily across to the pillow of his makes.h.i.+ft bed. Events in the hall had s.h.i.+fted the focus for a useful moment. He slipped his hand beneath the pillow and drew out the gun hidden there, then crept through into the adjoining dressing room, and slipped out of sight behind the wardrobe.
From that position he could see Saint Tom and Carys standing in the hallway, watching events at the front door. Both were too intent on the gladiators to notice in the darkened room.
”Is he dead . . .?” Tom asked, from a distance.