by Clive Barker
"Thank you," he said. "Thank you. You've been very kind."
He bent to untie the ropes at his feet, his breath, or what passed for it, a gritty rattle in his chest.
"I'll go now," she said.
"Not yet, Sharon," he replied; speaking was drudgery now. "Please don't go yet."
"But I have to be home."
The Razor-Eater looked at her creamy face: she looked so fragile, standing under the light. She had withdrawn from his immediate vicinity once the knots were untied, as though the initial trepidation had begun again. He tried to smile, to reassure her that all was well, but his face wouldn't obey. The fat and muscle just drooped on his skull; his lips felt inept. Words, he knew, were close to failing him. It would have to be signs from now on. He was moving into a purer world-one of symbols, of ritual-a world where Razor-Eaters truly belonged.
His feet were free. In a matter of moments he could be across the room to where she stood. Even -if she turned and ran he could catch her. No one to see or hear; and even if there were what could they punish him with? He was a dead man.
He crossed the room toward her. The little living thing stood in his shadow and made not the least effort to escape him. Had she too calculated her chances and seen the futility of a chase? No; she was simply trusting.
He put out a sordid hand to stroke her head. She blinked, and held her breath at his proximity, but made no attempt to evade the contact. He longed for touch in his fingers, so as to feel her gloss. She was so perfect: what a blessing it would be to put a piece of her in him, to show as proof of love at the gates of paradise.
But her look was enough. He would take that with him, and count himself content; just the somber sweetness of her as a token, like coins in his eyes to pay his passage with.
"Goodbye," he said, and walked, his gait uneven, to the door. She went ahead of him and opened the door, then led him down the stairs. A child was crying in one of the adjacent rooms, the whooping wail of a baby that knows no one will come. On the front step Breer thanked Sharon again, and they parted. He watched her run off home.
For his part, he was not certain-at least not consciously-of where he was going to go now, or why. But once down the steps and onto the pavement his legs took him in a direction he had never been before, and he didn't become lost, though he soon made his way into unfamiliar territory. Somebody called him. Him, and his machete and his blurred, gray face. He went as quickly as anatomy allowed like a man summoned by history.
70
Whitehead was not afraid to die; he was only afraid that in dying he might discover that he had not lived enough. That had been his concern as he faced Mamoulian in the hallway of the penthouse suite, and it still tormented him as they sat in the lounge, with the buzz of the highway at their backs.
"No more running, Joe," Mamoulian said.
Whitehead said nothing. He collected a large bowl of Halifax's prime strawberries from the corner of the room, then returned to his chair. Running his expert fingers across the fruit in the bowl, he selected a particularly appetizing strawberry and began to nibble at it.
The European watched him, betraying no clue to his thoughts. The chase was done with; now, before the end, he hoped they'd be able to talk over old times for a while. But he didn't know where to begin.
"Tell me," Whitehead said, seeking the meat of the fruit right up to the hull, "did you bring a pack with you?" Mamoulian stared at him. "Cards, not dogs," the old man quipped.
"Of course," the European answered, "always."
"And do these fine boys play?" He gestured to Chad and Tom, who stood by the window.
"We came for the Deluge," Chad said.
A frown nicked the old man's brow. "What have you been telling them?" he asked the European.
"It's all their own doing," Mamoulian replied.
"The world's coming to an end," Chad said, combing his hair with obsessive care and staring out at the highway, his back to the two old men. "Didn't you know?"
"Is that so?" said Whitehead.
"The unrighteous will be swept away."
The old man put down his bowl of strawberries. "And who will judge?" he asked.
Chad let his coiffure be. "God in heaven," he said.
"Can't we play for it?" Whitehead responded. Chad turned to look at the questioner, puzzled; but the inquiry was not for him, but for the European.
"No," Mamoulian replied.
"For old times' sake," Whitehead pressed. "Just a game."
"Your gamesmanship would impress me, Pilgrim, if it weren't so obviously a delaying tactic."
"You won't play, then?"
Mamoulian's eyes flickered. He almost smiled as he said: "Yes. Of course I'll play."
"There's a table next door, in the bedroom. Do you want to send one of your bum-boys through to fetch it?"
"Not bum-boys."
"Too old for that, are you?"
"God-fearing men, both of them. Which is more than can be said of you."
"That was always my problem," Whitehead said, conceding the barb with a grin. This was like the old days: the exchange of ironies, the sweet-sour repartee, the knowledge, shared every moment they were together, that the words disguised a depth of feeling that would shame a poet.
"Would you fetch the table?" Mamoulian asked Chad. He didn't move. He had become too interested in the struggle of wills between these two men. Much of its significance was lost on him, but the tension in the room was unmistakable. Something awesome was on the horizon. Maybe a wave; maybe not.
"You go," he told Tom; he was unwilling to take his eyes off the combatants for a single instant. Tom, happy to have something to take his mind off his doubts, obliged.
Chad loosened the knot of his tie, which was for him tantamount to nakedness. He grinned flawlessly at Mamoulian.
"You're going to kill him, right?" he said.
"What do you think?" the European replied.
"What is he? The Antichrist?"
Whitehead gurgled with pleasure at the absurdity of this idea. "You've been telling..." he chided the European.
"Is that what he is?" Chad urged, "Tell me. I can take the truth."
"I'm worse than that, boy," Whitehead said.
"Worse?"
"Want a strawberry?" Whitehead picked up the bowl and proffered the fruit. Chad cast a sideways glance at Mamoulian.
"He hasn't poisoned them," the European reassured him.
"They're fresh. Take them. Go next door and leave us in peace."
Tom had returned with a small bedside table. He set it down in the middle of the room.
"If you go into the bathroom," Whitehead said, "you'll find a plentiful supply of spirits. Mostly vodka. A little cognac too, I think."
"We don't drink," Tom said.
"Make an exception," Whitehead replied.
"Why not?" said Chad, his mouth bulging with strawberries; there was juice on his chin. "Why the fuck not? It's the end of the world, right?"
"Right," said Whitehead, nodding. "Now you go away and eat and drink and play with each other."
Tom stared at Whitehead, who returned a mock-contrite look. "I'm sorry, aren't you allowed to masturbate either?"
Tom made a noise of disgust and left the room.
"Your colleague's unhappy," Whitehead said to Chad. "Go on, take the rest of the fruit. Tempt him."
Chad wasn't certain if he was being mocked or not, but he took the bowl and followed Tom to the door. "You're going to die," he said to Whitehead as a parting shot. Then he closed the door on the two men.
Mamoulian had laid a pack of cards on the table. This wasn't the pornographic pack: he'd had that destroyed at Caliban Street, along with his few books. The cards on the table were older than the other pack by many centuries. Their faces were hand-colored, the illustrations for the court cards crudely rendered.
"Must I?" Whitehead asked, picking up on Chad's closing remark.
"Must you what?"
"Die."
"Please,
Pilgrim-"
"Joseph. Call me Joseph, the way you used to."
"-spare us both."
"I want to live."
"Of course you do."
"What happened between us-it didn't harm you, did it?"
Mamoulian offered the cards for Whitehead to shuffle and cut: when the offer was ignored he did the job himself, manipulating the cards with his one good hand.
"Well. Did it?"
"No," the European replied. "No; not really."
"Well then. Why harm me?"
"You misunderstand my motives, Pilgrim. I haven't come here for revenge."
"Why then?"
Mamoulian started to deal the cards for chemin de fer.
"To finish our bargain, of course. Is that so difficult to grasp?"
"I made no bargain."
"You cheated me, Joseph, of a lot of living. You threw me away when I was no longer of any use to you, and let me rot. I forgive you all that. It's in the past. But death, Joseph"-he finished the shuffling-"that's in the future. The near future. And I will not be alone when I go into it."
"I've made my apologies. If you want acts of contrition, name them."
"Nothing."
"You want my balls? My eyes? Take them!"
"Play the game, Pilgrim."
Whitehead stood up. "I don't want to play!"
"But you asked."
Whitehead stared down at the cards laid out on the inlaid table.
"That's how you got me here," he said quietly. "That fucking game."
"Sit down, Pilgrim."
"Made me suffer the torments of the damned."
"Have I?" Mamoulian said, concern lacing his voice. "Have you really suffered? If you have, I'm truly sorry. The point of temptation is surely that some of the goods be worth the price."
"Are you the Devil?"
"You know I'm not," Mamoulian said, pained by this new melodrama. "Every man is his own Mephistopheles, don't you think? If I hadn't come along you'd have made a bargain with some other power. And you would have had your fortune, and your women, and your strawberries. All those torments I've made you suffer."
Whitehead listened to the fluting voice lay these ironies out. Of course, he hadn't suffered: he'd lived a life of delights. Mamoulian read the thought off his face.
"If I'd really wanted you to suffer," he said, snail-slow, "I could have had that dubious satisfaction many years ago. And you know it."
Whitehead nodded. The candle, which the European now lifted onto the table beside the dealt cards, guttered.
"What I want from you is something far more permanent than suffering," Mamoulian said. "Now play. My fingers are itching."
71
Marty got out of the car and stood for several seconds looking up at the looming bulk of the Hotel Pandemonium. It was not completely in darkness. A light, albeit frail, glimmered in one of the penthouse windows. He began, for a second time today, across the wasteland, his body shaking. Carys had made no contact with him since he had started on his journey here. He didn't question her silence: there were too many plausible reasons for it, none of them pleasant.
As he approached he could see that the front door of the hotel had been forced. At least he'd be able to enter by a direct route instead of clambering up the fire escape. He stepped over the litter of planks, and through the grandiose doorway into the foyer, halting to accustom his eyes to the darkness before he began a cautious ascent of the burned stairs. In the gloom every sound he made was like gunfire at a funeral, shockingly loud. Try as he might to hush his tread, the stairway hid too many obstacles for complete silence; every step he took he was certain the European was hearing, was readying himself to breathe a killing emptiness onto him.
Once he reached the spot he'd entered from the fire escape, the going got easier. It was only as he advanced into the carpeted regions he realized-the thought brought a smile to his lips-that he'd come without either a weapon or a plan, however primitive, of how he was to snatch Carys. All he could hope was that she was no longer an important item on the European's agenda: that she might be overlooked for a few vital moments. As he stepped onto the final staircase he caught sight of himself in one of the hall mirrors: thin, unshaven, his face still bearing traces of bloodstains, his shirt dark with blood-he looked like a lunatic. The image, reflecting so accurately the way he'd pictured himself-desperate, barbarous-gave him courage. He and his reflection agreed: he was out of his mind.
For only the second time in their long association they sat facing each other over the tiny table, and played chemin de fer. The game was uneventful; they were, it seemed, more evenly matched than they'd been in Muranowski Square, forty odd years before. And as they played, they talked. The talk too was calm and undramatic: of Evangeline, of how the market had fallen of late, of America, even, as the game progressed, of Warsaw.
"Have you ever been back?" Whitehead asked.
The European shook his head.
"It's terrible, what they did."
"The Germans?"
"The city planners."
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 banal. 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 appetite 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 anticipation he felt. He must act.
At the door itself he halted again. There was a murmur of voices from inside, but muffled, 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 surreptitiously 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 glass. 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.
"Shit, Chad," the speaker sounded almost fearful. "What the fuck are we doing here? I can't think properly."
The objection was met with laughter. "You don't need to think. We're on God's work here, Tommy. Drink up."
"Something terrible's going to happen," Tom said.
"Sure as shit," Chad replied. "Why'd you think we're here. Now drink."
Marty had rapidly worked out the identity of this pair. They were here on God's work: including murder. He had seen them buying ice creams in the afternoon sun, with their bloody 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.
