The Damnation Game

by Clive Barker

  "You tried to harm me," he reminded her. "So many times. I never harmed you once."

  "You wanted to."

  "Him; never me. I want you to be with all my other friends; where nothing can hurt you."

  The hand, which had returned to his side, suddenly darted up and took her by the neck.

  "You'll never leave me," he said.

  "You're hurting me, Anthony."

  He drew her closer, and bent his head toward her as best he could, given the condition of his neck. In a patch of skin beneath his right eye she could see movement. The closer he came the more she saw the fat, white grubs that had been laid as eggs in his face, and were maturing there, awaiting wings. Did he know he was a home for maggots? Was it, perhaps, a point of pride to be flyblown? He was going to kiss her: she had no doubt of that. If he puts his tongue in my mouth, she half-thought, I'll bite it off. I won't let him do this. Gentle God, I'd rather die.

  He put his lips on hers.

  "You are unforgivable," said a thin voice.

  The door was open.

  "Let her go."

  The Razor-Eater unhanded Carys, and drew away from her face. She spat to rinse the kiss off and looked up.

  Mamoulian was in the doorway. Behind him stood two well-dressed young men, one with golden hair, both with winning smiles.

  "Unforgivable," the European said again, and turned his vacant gaze to Carys. "You see what happens if you desert my custody?" he said. "What horrors come?"

  She didn't respond.

  "You're alone, Carys. Your erstwhile protector is dead."

  "Marty? Dead?"

  "At his house: going out for your heroin."

  She was seconds ahead of him, realizing his error. Maybe it gave Marty an edge on them, if they thought him dead. But it wouldn't be wise to fake tears. She was no tragic actress. Best to feign disbelief; doubt, at least.

  "No," she said. "I don't believe you."

  "My own fair hands," said the blond Adonis at the European's back.

  "No," she insisted.

  "Take it from me," the European said, "he won't be coming back. Trust me in this at least."

  "Trust you?" she murmured. It was almost funny.

  "Haven't I just prevented your rape?"

  "He's your creature."

  "Yes; and he will be punished, depend upon it. Now I trust you will return my kindness in coming here, by finding your father for me. I will not brook delay of any kind, Carys. We will go back to Caliban Street and you will find him, or by God, I will turn you inside out. That is a promise. Saint Thomas will escort you down to the car."

  The brown-haired smile stepped past his blond companion and offered a hand to Carys.

  "I have very little time to waste, girl," Mamoulian said, and the changed tone of his voice confirmed that claim. "So please: let's be done with this wretched business."

  Tom led Carys down the stairs. When she'd gone the European turned his attention to the Razor-Eater.

  Breer was not afraid of him; he was afraid of no one any longer. The poky room they faced each other in was hot; he could tell it was hot by the sweat on Mamoulian's cheeks and upper lip. He, on the other hand, was cool; he was the coolest man in creation. Nothing would bring fear to him. Mamoulian surely saw that.

  "Close the door," the European told the blond boy. "And find something to bind this man with."

  Breer grinned.

  "You disobeyed me," the European said. "I left you to finish the work at Caliban Street."

  "I wanted to see her."

  "She's not yours to see. I made a bargain with you, and like all the others, you break my trust."

  "A little game," Breer said.

  "No game is little, Anthony."

  Have you been with me all this time and not understood that? Every act carries some weight of significance. Especially play."

  "I don't care what you say. All words; just words."

  "You are despicable," the European said. Breer's smudged face looked back at him without a trace of anxiety or contrition. Though the European knew he had supremacy here, something about Breer's look made him uneasy. In his time Mamoulian had been served by far viler creatures. Poor Konstantin, for example, whose postmortem appetites had run to more than kisses. Why then did Breer distress him?

  Saint Chad had torn up a selection of clothes; these, with a belt and a tie, were sufficient for Mamoulian's purposes.

  "Tie him to the bed."

  Chad could barely bring himself to touch Breer, though at least the man didn't struggle. He acceded to this punishment game with the same idiot grin still creasing his face. His skin-beneath Chad's hand-felt insolid, as though under its taut, glossy surface the muscle had turned to jelly and pus. The saint worked as efficiently as he could to get the duty done while the prisoner amused himself watching the flies orbiting his head.

  Within three or four minutes Breer was secured hand and foot. Mamoulian nodded his satisfaction. "That's fine. You may go and join Tom in the car. I'll be down in a few moments."

  Respectfully, Chad withdrew, wiping his hands on his handkerchief as he went. Breer still watched the flies.

  "I have to leave you now," said the European.

  "When will you come back?" the Razor-Eater asked.

  "Never."

  Breer smiled. "I'm free, then," he said.

  "You are dead, Anthony," Mamoulian replied.

  "What?" Breer's smile began to decay.

  "You've been dead since the day I found you hanging from the ceiling. I think perhaps somehow you knew I was coming, and you killed yourself to escape me. But I needed you. So I gave you a little of my life, to keep you in my employ."

  Breer's smile had disappeared altogether.

  "That's why you're so impervious to pain; you are a walking corpse. The deterioration your body should have suffered in these hot months has been held at bay. Not entirely prevented, I'm afraid, but slowed considerably."

  Breer shook his head. Was this the miracle of redemption?

  "Now I no longer need you. So I withdraw my gift..."

  "No!"

  He tried to make a small pleading gesture, but his wrists were bound together, and the bindings bit into the muscle, causing it to buckle and furrow like soft clay.

  "Tell me how to make amends," he offered. "Anything."

  "There is no way."

  "Anything you ask. Please."

  "I ask you to suffer," the European replied.

  "Why?"

  "For treachery. For being, in the end, like the others."

  "... no... just a little game..."

  "Then let this be a game too, if it amuses you. Six months of deterioration pressed into as many hours."

  Mamoulian crossed to the bed, and put his hand on Breer's sobbing mouth, making something very like a snatching gesture.

  "It's over, Anthony," he said.

  Breer felt a motion in his lower belly, as though some jittering thing had suddenly twitched and perished in there. He followed the European's exit with upturned eyes. Matter, not tears, gathered at their rims.

  "Forgive me," he begged his savior. "Please forgive me." But the European had gone, quietly, closing the door behind him.

  There was a brawling on the windowsill. Breer looked from door to window. Two pigeons had squabbled over some morsel, and were now flying off. Small white feathers settled on the sill, like midsummer snow.

  66

  "It is Mr. Halifax, isn't it?"

  The man inspecting the boxes of fruit in the breezeless, wasp-woven yard at the back of the shop turned to Marty.

  "Yes. What can I do for you?"

  Mr. Halifax had been out sunbathing, and injudiciously. His face was peeling in places, and looked tender. He was hot and uncomfortable and, Marty guessed, thin of temper. Tact was the order of the day, if he hoped to win the man's confidence.

  "Business OK?" Marty asked.

  Halifax shrugged. "It'll do," he said, unwilling to be drawn on the subject. "Lot of my r
egular customers are on holiday at this time of year." He peered at Marty. "Do I know you?"

  "Yes. I've been here several times," Marty lied. "For Mr. Whitehead's strawberries. That's what I came for. The usual order."

  Halifax registered nothing; he put down the tray of peaches he was holding. "I'm sorry. I don't supply any Mr. Whitehead."

  "Strawberries," Marty prompted.

  "I heard what you said," Halifax replied testily, "but I don't know anyone of that name. You must be mistaken."

  "You do remember me?"

  "No, I don't. Now if you'd like to make a purchase, Theresa will serve you." He nodded back in the direction of the shop itself. "I'd like to finish here before I cook in this bloody heat."

  "But I'm supposed to be picking up strawberries."

  "You can have as many as you like," Halifax said, spreading his arms. "There's a glut. Just ask Theresa."

  Marty could see failure looming. The man wasn't about to give an inch. He tried one final tack. "You don't have any fruit set aside for Mr. Whitehead? You normally have them packed, ready for him."

  This significant detail seemed to mellow the dismissal on Halifax's face. Doubt dawned.

  "Look..." he said, "... I don't think you quite understand..." His voice dropped in volume, though there was nobody else in the yard to hear. "Joe Whitehead is dead. Don't you read the newspapers?"

  A large wasp alighted on Halifax's arm, navigating the ginger hairs with difficulty. He let it crawl there, undisturbed.

  "I don't believe everything I read in the newspapers," Marty replied, quietly. "Do you?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about," the other man returned.

  "His strawberries," Marty said. "That's all I'm after."

  "Mr. Whitehead is dead."

  "No, Mr. Halifax; Joe is not dead. You and I both know that."

  The wasp rose from Halifax's arm and careered in the air between them. Marty swatted it away; it came back, its buzz louder.

  "Who are you?" Halifax said.

  "Mr. Whitehead's bodyguard. I've told you, I've been here before."

  Halifax bent back to the tray of peaches; more wasps congregated at a bruise on one of them. "I'm sorry, I can't help you," he said.

  "You took them already, did you?" Marty laid a hand on Halifax's shoulder. "Did you?"

  "I'm not at liberty to tell you anything."

  "I'm a friend."

  Halifax glanced round at Marty. "I've sworn," he said, with the finality of a practiced bargainer. Marty had thought the scenario through as far as this impasse: Halifax confessing that he knew something, but refusing to provide the details. What now? Did he lay hands on the man; beat it out of him?

  "Joe is in great danger."

  "Oh, yes," Halifax murmured. "You think I don't realize that?"

  "I can help him."

  Halifax shook his head. "Mr. Whitehead has been a valued customer for a good many years," he explained. "He's always had his strawberries from me. I never knew a man love strawberries the way he does."

  "Present tense," Marty commented.

  Halifax went on as though he hadn't been interrupted. "He used to come in here personally, before his lady wife died. Then he stopped coming. He still bought the fruit. Had somebody come and pick it up for him. And at Christmas, there was always a check for the kiddies. There still is, come to that. Still sends money for them."

  The wasp had alighted on the back of his hand, where the sweet juice of one fruit or another had dried. Halifax let it have its fill. Marty liked him. If Halifax wasn't willing to volunteer the information Marty wouldn't be able to bully it out of the man.

  "Now you come here and tell me you're a friend of his," Halifax said. "How do I know you're telling the truth? People have friends who'd cut their throats."

  "His more than most."

  "True. So much money, so few people who care about him." Halifax had a sad look. "Seems to me I should keep his hideaway secret, don't you? Or else who can he trust in all the world?"

  "Yes," Marty conceded. What Halifax said made perfect and compassionate sense, and there was nothing he was prepared to do to make him rescind it.

  "Thank you," he said, cowed by the lesson. "I'm sorry to have kept you from your work." He made his way back toward the shop. He'd gone a few paces when Halifax said: "You were the one."

  Marty pivoted on his heel.

  "What?"

  "You were the one who came for the strawberries. I remember you. Only you looked different then."

  Marty ran his hand across several days' growth of beard; shaving was a forgotten craft these mornings.

  "Not the hair," Halifax said. "You were harder. I didn't take to you."

  Marty waited somewhat impatiently for Halifax to finish this farewell homily. His mind was already turning over other possibilities. It was only when he turned back into Halifax's words that he realized the man had changed his mind. He was going to tell. He beckoned Marty back across the yard.

  "You think you can help him?"

  "Maybe."

  "I hope somebody can."

  "You've seen him?"

  "I'll tell you. He rang the shop, asked for me. Funny, I recognized the voice immediately, even after all these years. He asked me to bring him some strawberries. He said he couldn't come himself. It was terrible."

  "Why?"

  "He's so frightened." Halifax hesitated, looking for the right words. "I remember him as being big, you know? Impressive. He'd come in the shop and everyone would part for him. Now? Shrunk to nothing. Fear did that to him. I've seen it happen. My sister-in-law, same thing happened to her. She had cancer. Fear killed her months before the tumor."

  "Where is he?"

  "I tell you, I went back home and I didn't say a word to anyone. I just drank half a bottle of Scotch, straight off. Never done that in my life. I just wanted to get the way he'd looked out of my head. It really turned my stomach, hearing him and seeing him that way. I mean-if the likes of him's scared, what chance have the rest of us got?"

  "You're safe," Marty said, hoping to God the European's revenge wouldn't stretch as far as the old man's strawberry supplier. Halifax was a good man. Marty found himself holding on to this realization while staring at the round, red face. Here is goodness. Flaws too, no doubt: sins by the armful perhaps. But the good was worth celebrating, however many stains the man had. Marty wanted to tattoo the date of this recognition on the palm of his hand.

  "There's a hotel," Halifax was saying. "It used to be called the Orpheus, apparently. It's up the Edgware Road; Staple Corner. Terrible, rundown place. Waiting for the demolition squad, I shouldn't be surprised."

  "He's there alone?"

  "Yes." Halifax sighed, thinking of how the mighty had fallen. "Perhaps," he suggested after a moment, "you might take him some peaches too?"

  He went into the shop and came back with a tattered copy of the London A to Z Street Atlas. He flicked through the age-creamed pages looking for the appropriate map, all the while sounding his dismay at this turn of events, and his hope that things might still turn out well. "Lot of streets been leveled around the hotel," he explained. "These maps are well out of date, I'm afraid."

  Marty peered at the page Halifax had selected. A cloud, bearing the rain that had already dampened Kilburn and points northwest, covered the sun as Halifax's stained index finger traced a route across the map from the thoroughfares of Holborn to the Hotel Pandemonium.

  XIII At the Hotel Pandemonium

  67

  Hell is reimagined by each generation. Its terrain is surveyed for absurdities and remade in a fresher mold; its terrors are scrutinized and, if necessary, reinvented to suit the current climate of atrocity; its architecture is redesigned to appall the eye of the modern damned. In an earlier age Pandemonium-the first city of Hell-stood on a lava mountain while lightning tore the clouds above it and beacons burned on its walls to summon the fallen angels. Now, such spectacle belongs to Hollywood. Hell stands transposed. No lightn
ing, no pits of fire.

  In a wasteland a few hundred yards from a highway overpass it finds a new incarnation: shabby, degenerate, forsaken. But here, where fumes thicken the atmosphere, minor terrors take on a new brutality. Heaven, by night, would have all the configurations of Hell. No less the Orpheus-hereafter called Pandemonium-Hotel.

  It had once been an impressive building, and could have been again if its owners had been willing to invest in it. But the task of rebuilding and refurbishing such a large and old-fashioned hotel was probably financially unsound. Sometime in its past a fire had raged through the place, gutting the first, second and third floors before being extinguished. The fourth floor, and those above, were smoke-spoiled, leaving only the vaguest signs of the hotel's former glamor intact.

  The vagaries of the city planning department had taken a further toll on the building's chances of restoration. As Halifax had described, the land to either side of the hotel had been cleared for some projected redevelopment. None had been undertaken, however. The hotel stood in splendid isolation, mated about with feed roads to and from the Ml, no more than three hundred yards from one of the busiest stretches of concrete and tarmac in the south of England. Thousands of drivers glanced its way every day, but its shabby grandeur was by now so familiar they probably scarcely registered its existence. Clever, Marty thought, to hide in such plain sight.

  He parked the car as close to the hotel as he could, then slipped in through a hole in the corrugated iron fencing around the plot, and picked his way across the wasteland. The instructions on the fence-"No Trespassing" and "No Dumping"-had been conspicuously ignored. Black plastic bags, bulging with rubbish, were piled in heaps among the rubble and the old bonfires. Many of the bags had been torn open by children or dogs. Domestic and manufacturing trash spilled out: hundreds of scraps of cloth-sweatshop offcuts-were scattered underfoot; rotting food, the ubiquitous tin can, cushions, lampshades and car engines-all abandoned on a bed of rubble dust and gray grass.

  Some of the dogs-wild, Marty guessed-looked up from their scavenging as he advanced, their pale flanks dirty, their eyes yellow in the twilight. He thought of Bella and her gleaming family: these curs hardly seemed of the same species. When he looked their way they hung their heads and watched him indirectly, like inept spies.