cb.damnationgame-第22部分

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　　〃I　don't　ask　so　much　of　you；　do　I？〃　he　appealed。　Her　eyes　flickered　in　his　direction。　〃Well；　do　I？〃　Eventually；　she　deigned　to　reply。　When　she　did　her　voice　was　so　quiet　Marty　could　barely　catch　the　words。　〃Aren't　you　ashamed？〃　she　asked　him。
　　〃There　are　worse　things；　Carys；　than　having　somebody　need　you；　believe　me。〃　〃I　know；〃　she　replied；　taking　her　eyes　off　him。　There　was　such　pain；　and　such　submission　in　the　face　of　that　pain；　in　those　two　words：　I　know。　It　made　Marty　suddenly　sick　with　longing　for　her；　to　touch　her；　to　try　to　heal　the　anonymous　hurt。　Whitehead　crossed　the　room　and　came　to　sit　beside　her　on　the　edge　of　the　bed。　Marty　stepped　back　from　the　door；　fearful　of　being　spotted；　but　Whitehead's　attention　was　concentrated　on　the　enigma　in　front　of　him。
　　〃What　do　you　know？〃　he　asked　her。　The　former　gentility　had　suddenly　evaporated。　〃Are　you　keeping　something　from　me？〃　〃Just　dreams；〃　she　replied。　〃More　and　more。〃　〃Of　what？〃　〃You　know。　The　same。〃　〃Your　mother？〃　Carys　nodded；　almost　invisibly。　〃And　others；〃　she　said。　Who？〃　〃They　never　show　themselves。〃　The　old　man　sighed；　and　looked　away　from　her。　〃And　in　the　dreams？〃　he　asked。　〃What　happens？〃　〃She　tries　to　speak　to　me。　She　tries　to　tell　me　something。〃　Whitehead　didn't　inquire　further：　he　seemed　to　be　out　of　questions。　His　shoulders　had　slumped。　Carys　looked　at　him；　sensing　his　defeat。
　　〃Where　is　she；　Papa？〃　she　asked　him；　leaning　forward　for　the　first　time　and　putting　an　arm　around　his　neck。　It　was　a　blatantly　manipulative　gesture；　she　offered　this　intimacy　only　to　get　what　she　wanted　from　him。　How　much　had　she　offered；　or　he　taken；　in　their　time　together？　Her　face　came　close　to　his；　the　late…afternoon　light　enchanted　it。　〃Tell　me；　Papa；〃　she　asked　again；　〃where　do　you　think　she　is？〃　and　this　time　Marty　grasped　the　taunt　that　lay　beneath　the　apparently　innocent　question。　What　it　signified；　he　didn't　know。　What　this　whole　scene；　with　its　talk　of　coldness　and　shame；　meant；　was　far　from　clear。　He　was　glad；　in　a　way；　not　to　know。　But　this　question；　that　she　asked　him　so　mock…lovingly；　had　been　asked…and　he　had　to　wait　a　moment　longer；　until　the　old　man　had　answered　it。　〃Where　is　she；　Papa？〃　〃In　dreams；〃　he　replied；　his　face　averted　from　her。　〃Just　in　dreams。〃　She　dropped　her　arm　from　his　shoulder。
　　〃Never　lie　to　me；〃　she　charged　him　icily。
　　〃It's　all　I　can　tell　you；〃　he　replied；　his　tone　was　almost　pitiable。　〃If　you　know　more　than　I　do…〃　He　turned　and　looked　at　her；　his　voice　urgent。　〃Do　you　know　something？〃　〃Oh；　Papa；〃　she　murmured　reproachfully；　〃more　conspiracies？〃　How　many　feints　and　counterfeints　were　there　in　this　exchange？　Marty　puzzled。　〃You　don't　suspect　me　now；　surely？〃　Whitehead　frowned。　〃No；　never　you；　darling；〃　he　said。　〃Never　you。〃　He　raised　his　hand　to　her　face　and　leaned　forward　to　put　his　dry　lips　to　hers。　Before　they　touched；　Marty　left　the　door　and　slipped　away。
　　There　were　some　things　he　couldn't　bring　himself　to　watch。
　　
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　　Cars　began　to　arrive　at　the　house　in　the　early　evening。　There　were　voices　Marty　recognized　in　the　hallway。　It　would　be　the　usual　crowd；　he　guessed；　among　them　the　Fan…Dancer　and　his　rades；　Ottaway；　Curtsinger　and　Dwoskin。　He　heard　women's　voices　too。　They'd　brought　their　wives；　or　their　mistresses。　He　wondered　what　kind　of　women　they　were。　Once　beautiful；　now　sour　and　lovelorn。　Bored　with　their　husbands；　no　doubt；　who　thought　more　of　money…making　than　of　them。　He　caught　whiffs　of　their　laughter；　and　later；　of　their　perfume；　in　the　hallway。　He'd　always　had　a　good　sense　of　smell。　Saul　would　be　proud　of　him。
　　About　eight…fifteen　he　went　into　the　kitchen　and　heated　up　the　plate　of　ravioli　Pearl　had　left　for　him；　then　retired　into　the　library　to　watch　a　few　boxing　videos。　The　events　of　the　afternoon　still　niggled　him。　Try　as　he　might　he　couldn't　remove　Carys　from　his　head；　and　his　emotional　state；　over　which　he　had　so　little　control；　irritated　him。　Why　couldn't　he　be　like　Flynn；　who　bought　a　woman　for　the　night；　then　walked　away　the　next　morning？　Why　did　his　feelings　always　bee　blurred；　so　that　he　couldn't　sort　one　from　the　other？　On　the　television　set　the　match　was　getting　bloodier；　but　he　scarcely　registered　the　punishment　or　the　victory。　His　mind　was　conjuring　Carys〃　sealed　face　as　she　lay　on　the　bed；　probing　it；　looking　for　explanations。
　　Leaving　the　fight　mentator　to　babble　on；　he　went　through　to　the　kitchen　to　fetch　another　couple　of　beers　from　the　refrigerator。　At　this　end　of　the　house　there　was　not　even　a　hint　of　noise　from　the　party…goers。　Besides；　such　a　civilized　gathering　would　be　hushed；　wouldn't　it？　Just　the　clink　of　cut　glass；　and　talk　of　rich　men's　pleasures。
　　Well；　fuck　them　all；　he　thought。　Whitehead　and　Carys　and　all　of　them。　It　wasn't　his　world　and　he　wanted　no　part　of　it；　or　them；　or　her。　He　could　get　all　the　women　he　wanted　anytime…just　pick　up　the　phone　and　call　Flynn。　No　trouble。　Let　them　play　their　damn…fool　games：　he　wasn't　interested。　He　drained　the　first　can　of　beer　standing　in　the　kitchen；　then　got　out　two　more　cans　and　took　them　through　to　the　lounge。　He　was　going　to　get　really　blind　tonight。　Oh；　yes。　He　was　going　to　get　so　drunk　nothing　would　matter。　Especially　not　her。　Because　he　didn't　care。　He　didn't　care。
　　The　tape　had　finished；　and　the　screen　had　gone　blank。　It　buzzed　with　a　squirming　pattern　of　dots。　White　noise。　Wasn't　that　what　they　called　it？　It　was　a　portrait　of　chaos；　that　hissing；　those　writhing　dots；　the　universe　humming　to　itself。　Empty　airwaves　were　never　really　empty。
　　He　turned　the　set　off。　He　didn't　want　to　watch　any　more　matches。　His　head　buzzed　like　the　box；　white　noise　in　there　too。
　　He　slumped　down　in　the　chair　and　downed　the　second　can　of　beer　in　two　throatfuls。　The　image　of　Carys　with　Whitehead　swam　into　focus　again。　〃Go　away；〃　he　told　it；　aloud；　but　it　lingered。　Did　he　want　her；　was　that　it？　Would　this　unease　be　pacified　if　he　took　her　to　the　dovecote　one　of　these　afternoons　and　humped　her　till　she　begged　him　never　to　stop？　The　wretched　thought　only　disgusted　him；　he　couldn't　defuse　these　ambiguities　with　pornography。
　　As　he　opened　the　third　beer　he　found　his　hands　were　sweating；　a　clammy　sweat　he　associated　with　sickness；　like　the　first　signs　of　flu。　He　wiped　his　palms　on　his　jeans　and　put　the　beer　down。　There　was　more　than　infatuation　fueling　his　nervousness。　Something　was　wrong。　He　got　up　and　went　to　the　lounge　window。　He　was　staring　into　the　pitch　darkness　beyond　the　glass；　when　it　struck　him　what　the　wrongness　might　be。　The　lights　on　the　lawn　and　perimeter　fence　had　not　been　put　on　tonight。　He　would　have　to　do　it。　For　the　first　time　since　he'd　arrived　at　the　house　it　was　real　night　outside；　a　night　more　black　than　any　he'd　experienced　in　many　years。　In　Wandsworth　there　was　always　light；　floods　on　the　walls　burned　from　twilight　to　dawn。　But　here；　without　streetlamps；　there　was　just　night　outside。
　　Night；　and　white　noise。
　　
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　　Though　Marty　had　imagined　otherwise；　Carys　wasn't　at　the　dinner　party。　There　were　very　few　freedoms　left　to　her；　refusing　her　father's　invitations　to　dinner　was　one　of　them。　She　had　endured　an　afternoon　of　his　sudden　tears；　his　just　as　sudden　accusations。　She　was　weary　of　his　kisses　and　his　doubts。　So　tonight　she'd　given　herself　a　larger　fix　than　usual；　greedy　for　forgetfulness。　Now　all　she　wanted　to　do　was　lie　down　and　bask　in　not　being。
　　Even　as　she　lay　her　head　on　the　pillow；　something；　or　someone；　touched　her。　She　came　around　again；　startled。　The　bedroom　was　empty。　The　lamps　were　on　and　the　curtains　drawn。　There　was　nobody　there：　it　was　a　trick　of　the　senses；　no　more。　Yet　she　could　still　feel　the　nerve　endings　at　the　nape　of　her　neck　tingle　where　the　touch　had　seemed　to　e；　responding；　anemone…like；　to　the　intrusion。　She　put　her　fingers　there　and　massaged　the　place。　The　jolt　had　snatched　lethargy　away　for　a　while。　There　was　no　chance　of　putting　her　head　back　down　until　her　heart　had　stopped　hammering。
　　Sitting　up；　she　wondered　where　her　runner　was。　Probably　at　the　dinner　party　with　the　rest　of　Papa's　court。　They'd　like　that：　to　have　him　among　them　to　condescend　to。　She　didn't　think　of　him　as　an　angel　any　longer。　After　all　he　had　a　name　now；　and　a　history　（Toy　had　told　her　everything　he　knew）。　He'd　long　lost　his　divinity。　He　was　who　he　was…Martin　Francis　Strauss…a　man　with　green…gray　eyes；　with　a　scar　on　his　cheek　and　hands　that　were　eloquent；　like　an　actor's　hands；　except　that　she　didn't　think　he'd　be　very　good　at　professional　deceit：　his　eyes　betrayed　him　too　easily。
　　Then　the　touch　came　again；　and　this　time　she　distinctly　felt　fingers　catching　her　nape；　as　though　the　bone　of　her　spine　had　been　pinched；　so；　so　lightly；　between　somebody's　forefinger　and　thumb。　It　was　absurd　illusion；　but　too　persuasive　to　be　dismissed。
　　She　sat　down　at　her　dressing　table　and　felt　tremors　moving　out　through　her　body　from　her　jittering　stomach。　Was　this　just　the　result　of　a　bad　fix？　She'd　never　had　any　problems　before：　the　H　that　Luther　bought　from　his　Stratford　suppliers　was　always　of　the　highest　quality：　Papa　could　afford　it。
　　Go　back　and　lie　down；　she　told　herself。　Even　if　you　can't　sleep；　lie　down。　But　the　bed；　as　she　stood　and　turned　to　walk　back　to　it；　receded　from　her；　all　the　contents　of　the　room　withdrawing　into　a　corner　as　though　they　were　painted　on　linen　and　had　been　plucked　away　from　her　by　some　hidden　hand。
　　Then　the　fingers　seemed　to　be　back　on　her　neck　again；　more　insistent　this　time；　as　if　working　their　way　into　her。　She　reached　around　and　rubbed　the　back　of　her　neck　vigorously；　cursing　Luther　loudly　for　bringing　her　bad　stuff。　He　was　probably　buying　cut　heroin　instead　of　the　pure；　and　pocketing　the　difference。　Her　anger　cleansed　her　head　for　a　few　moments；　or　so　it　seemed；　for　nothing　else　happened。　She　walked　steadily　across　to　the　bed；　orientating　herself　by　putting　her　hand　on　the　flower…patterned　wall　as　she　went。　Things　began　to　right　themselves；　the　room　found　its　proper　perspective　again。　Sighing　with　relief　she　lay　down　without　pulling　back　the　covers；　and　closed　her　eyes。　Something　danced　on　the　inside　of　her　lids。　Shapes　formed；　dispersed　and　reformed。　None　of　them　made　the　least　sense：　they　were　splashes　and　sprawls；　a　lunatic's　graffiti。　She　watche