by Clive Barker
"Just before you go..."
"Problem?"
"No problem," Marty said. "Jesus, no problem at all. I just want you to know I'm grateful-"
"No need."
"But I am," Marty insisted; he'd been trying to find a cue for this speech since Trinity Road. "I'm very grateful. I don't know how or why you chose me-but I appreciate it."
Toy was mildly discomforted by this show of feeling, but Marty was glad to have it said.
"Believe me, Marty. I wouldn't have chosen you if I didn't think you could do the job. You're here now. It's up to you to make the best of it. I'm going to be around, of course, but after this you're more or less your own man."
"Yes. I realize that."
"I'll leave you then. See you at the beginning of the week. Pearl's left food out for you in the kitchen, by the way. Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
Toy left him alone. He sat down on the bed and opened his suitcase. The badly packed clothes smelled of prison detergent, and he didn't want to take them out. Instead he dug down to the bottom of the case until his hands found his razor and shaving foam. Then he undressed, slung his stale clothes on the floor, and went into the bathroom.
It was spacious, mirrored, and seductively lit. Freshly laundered towels hung on a heated rack. There was a shower as well as a bath and a bidet: an embarrassment of waterworks. Whatever else happened to him here, he'd be clean. He switched on the mirror light and set the shaving implements down on the glass shelf above the sink. He needn't have bothered with his search. Toy, or perhaps Luther, had laid a complete shaving kit out for him; razor, preshave, foam, cologne. All unopened, pristine: waiting for him. He looked at himself in the mirror-that intimate self-scrutiny which was expected of women but which men seldom practiced except in locked bathrooms. The anxieties of the day showed on his face: his skin was anemic, and the bags under his eyes full. Like a man searching for some treasure, he plundered his face for clues. Was his past written here, he wondered, in all its grubby detail; etched, perhaps, too deeply to be erased?
He needed some sun, no doubt of that, and decent exercise out in the open air. From tomorrow, he thought, a new regime. He'd run every day till he was so fit he was unrecognizable. Get himself to a proper dentist too. His gums bled worryingly often, and in one or two places they were receding from the tooth. He was proud of his teeth: they were even and strong, like his mother's. He tried his smile on the mirror, but it had lost some of its former sparkle. He'd have to exercise that too. He was in the big wide world again; and maybe in time there'd be women to woo with that smile.
His surveillance shifted from face to body. A wedge of fat was sitting on the muscle of his abdomen: he was easily a stone overweight. He'd have to work at that. Watch his diet, and keep the exercise up until he was back to the twelve stone three he'd been when he first went to Wandsworth. The extra weight apart, he felt quite good about himself. Maybe the warm light flattered him, but prison didn't seem to have changed him radically. He still had all his hair; he wasn't scarred-except for the tattoos, and a small crescent to the left of his mouth; he wasn't doped up to the eyeballs. Maybe he was a survivor after all.
His hand had crept to his groin as he perused himself, and he'd idly teased himself semierect. He hadn't been thinking of Charmaine. If there was any lust in his arousal it was narcissistic. Many of the cons he'd lived with had found it easy to slake their sexual thirst with their cellmates, but Marty had never been comfortable with the idea. Not simply out of distaste for the acts-though he felt that acutely-but because that unnaturalness was forced upon him. It was just another way that prison humiliated a man. Instead, he'd locked his sexuality away, and used his cock for pissing and little else. Now, toying with it like a vain adolescent, he wondered if he could still use the damn thing.
He ran the shower lukewarm and stepped in, slicking himself down from head to foot with lemon-scented soap. In a day of pleasures this was perhaps the best. The water was stimulating, like standing in a spring rain. His body began to wake. Yes, that was it, he thought: I've been dead, and I'm coming back to life. He'd been buried in the asshole of the world, a hole so deep he thought he'd never scramble out of it, but he had, damn it. He was out. He rinsed, and then indulged himself with a repeat of the ritual, this time running the water considerably hotter and harder. The bathroom filled with steam and the slap of the water on the shower tiles.
When he stepped out and turned the flow off, his head buzzed with heat, whisky and fatigue. He moved to the mirror and cleared an oval in the condensation with the ball of his fist. The water had brought new color to his cheeks. His hair was plastered to his head like a brown-blond skullcap. He'd let it grow, he thought, as long as Whitehead didn't object; get it styled perhaps. But there was more pressing business now; the removal of the condemned mustache. He wasn't particularly hirsute. The mustache had taken him several weeks to grow, and he'd had to tolerate the usual run of witless remarks while he was doing it. But if the boss man wanted him barefaced, who was he to argue? Whitehead's opinion on the matter had sounded more like an order than a suggestion.
Despite the well-supplied cabinet in the bathroom (everything from aspirin to crab-killing preparations), there were no scissors, and he had to soap the hairs thoroughly to soften them and then go at them directly with the razor. The blade protested, and so did his skin, but stroke by stroke his upper lip came back into view, the hard-earned mustache hitting the sink in a slop of suds, only to be sucked away down the drain. It took him half an hour to do the job to his satisfaction. He nicked himself in two or three places, and sealed the cuts as best he could with spit.
By the time he'd finished the steam had cleared from the bathroom, and only patches of mist marred his reflection. He looked at his face in the mirror. His naked upper lip was pink and vulnerable, and the groove at its center curiously overperfect in its formation, but his sudden nudity wasn't such a bad sight.
Content, he sluiced the remains of his mustache from the sides of the sink, wrapped a towel about his middle and sauntered back into the bedroom. In the centrally heated warmth of the house, he was practically dry: no need for toweling. Weariness and hunger fought in him as he sat on the edge of the bed. There was food downstairs for him, or so Toy had said. Well, maybe he'd just lie back on this virginal sheet, head on the scented pillow, and close his eyes for half an hour, then get up and wander down to eat supper. He slung off the towel and lay on the bed, half-pulling the duvet over him, and in the act of doing so, fell asleep. There were no dreams; or if there were he slept too securely to remember them.
It was morning in moments.
13
If he had forgotten the geography of the house from his brief tour the previous night, it took only a sense of smell to lead him back to the kitchen. Bacon was frying, fresh coffee was being perked. At the stove stood a redhaired woman. She turned from her work and nodded.
"You must be Martin," she said; her voice carried a faint Irish inflection. "You're up late."
He looked at the clock on the wall. It was a few minutes past seven.
"You've got a fine morning to start."
The back door was open; he crossed the expanse of the kitchen to survey the day. It was fine; another clear sky. Frost sugared the lawn. In the misted distance he could see what looked like tennis courts, and beyond them, a stand of trees.
"I'm Pearl, by the way," the woman announced. "I cook for Mr. Whitehead. Hungry, are you?"
"I am now I'm down here."
"We believe in breakfast here. Something to set you up for the day." She was busy transferring bacon from the frying pan on the stove to the oven. The work surface beside the hob was littered with food: tomatoes, sausages, slices of black pudding. "There's coffee on the side there. Help yourself."
The percolator burped and fizzed as he poured himself a mug of coffee, the same dark but fragrant roast he'd tasted the night before.
"You'll have to get used to using the kitchen when I'm not h
ere. I don't live in. I just come and go."
"Who cooks for Mr. Whitehead when you're away?"
"He likes to do it himself on occasion. But you'll have to put in a hand."
"I can scarcely boil water."
"You'll learn."
She turned to look at him, egg in hand. She was older than he'd at first thought: maybe fifty.
"Don't fret yourself about it," she said. "How hungry?"
"Ravenous."
"I left a cold spread out last night."
"I fell asleep."
She broke one egg into the frying pan, and then a second, as she said, "Mr. Whitehead doesn't have fancy tastes, except for his strawberries. He won't be expecting soufflés, don't worry. Most of the stuff's in the freezer next door: all you have to do is unwrap it and put it in the microwave."
Marty scanned the kitchen, taking in all the equipment: food processor, microwave oven, electric carving knife. Behind him, mounted on the wall, was a row of television screens. He hadn't noticed them last night. Before he could inquire about them, however, Pearl was offering further gastronomic details. "He often gets hungry in the middle of the night, or so Nick used to say. He keeps such funny hours, you see."
"Who's Nick?"
"Your predecessor. He left just before Christmas. I quite liked him; but Bill said he got a little light-fingered."
"I see."
She shrugged. "Still, you can't tell, can you? I mean, he-" She halted in midsentence, quietly cursing her tongue, and covered her embarrassment by coaxing the eggs out of the pan and onto the plate to join the food she'd already assembled there. Marty finished her thought out loud for her.
"He didn't look like a thief; is that what you were going to say?"
"I didn't mean it like that," she insisted, transferring the plate from stove to table. "Careful, the plate's hot." Her face had gone the color of her hair.
"It's all right," Marty told her.
"I liked Nick," she reiterated. "Really I did. I've broken one of the eggs. I'm sorry."
Marty looked down at the full plate. One of the yolks had indeed broken and was pooling around a fried tomato.
"Looks fine to me," he said with genuine appetite, and set to eating. Pearl refilled his mug, found a cup for herself, filled that, and sat down with him.
"Bill speaks very highly of you," she said.
"I wasn't sure he'd taken to me at first."
"Oh, yes," she said, "very much. Partly because of your boxing, of course. He used to be a professional boxer himself."
"Really?"
"I thought he'd have told you. This is thirty years ago. Before he worked for Mr. Whitehead. You want some toast?"
"If there's some going."
She got up and cut two slices of white bread, then slipped them into the toaster. She hesitated a moment before returning to the table. "I really am sorry," she said.
"About the egg?"
"About mentioning Nick and thieving-"
"I asked," Marty replied. "Besides, you've every right to be cautious. I'm an ex-con. Not even ex, really. I could go back if I put a foot wrong"-he loathed saying this, as if the mere speaking of the words made the possibility more real-"but I'm not going to let Mr. Toy down. Or myself. OK?"
She nodded, clearly relieved that nothing had been soured between them, and sat down again to finish her coffee. "You're not like Nick," she said, "I can tell that already."
"Was he odd?" Marty said. "Glass eye or something?"
"Well, he wasn't-" She seemed to regret this fresh line of conversation before it was begun. "It's no matter," she said, dismissing it.
"No. Go on."
"Well, for what it's worth, I think he had debts."
Marty tried not to register anything but the mildest interest. But something must have showed in his eyes, a flicker of panic perhaps. Pearl frowned.
"What sort of debts?" he asked, lightly.
The toast popped up, claiming Pearl's attention. She crossed to fetch the slices and brought them back to the table. "Excuse fingers," she said.
"Thanks."
"I don't know how much he owed."
"No, I don't mean how big, I meant... where did they come from?"
Was he making this sound like an idle inquiry, he wondered, or was she able to see from the way he clutched his fork, or his sudden loss of appetite, that this was a significant question? He had to ask it, however it might seem to her. She thought for a moment before answering. When she did, there was something of the street-corner gossip in her slightly lowered voice; whatever came next was to be a secret between them.
'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."
14
The 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.
