cb.damnationgame-第27部分

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een　broken；　and　it　was　impossible　to　establish　a　fresh　one。　The　only　way　Marty　could　preserve　his　sanity　was　by　keeping　out　of　the　house　as　much　as　he　could。　He　ran　a　great　deal　that　week；　often　chasing　his　tail　around　and　around　the　perimeter　of　the　estate　until　an　exhaustion　fugue　set　in；　and　he　could　go　back　to　his　room；　threading　his　way　through　the　well…dressed　dummies　who　loitered　in　every　corridor。　Upstairs；　behind　a　door　that　he　happily　locked　（to　keep　them　out；　not　to　keep　himself　in）　he　would　shower　and　sleep　for　long　hours　the　deep；　dreamless　sleep　he　enjoyed。
　　
　　Carys　had　no　such　liberty。　Since　the　night　the　dogs　had　found　Mamoulian　she　had　taken　it　into　her　head；　on　occasion；　to　play　the　spy。　Why　this　was；　she　wasn't　certain。　She'd　never　been　much　interested　in　goings…on　at　the　Sanctuary。　Indeed　she'd　actively　avoided　contact　with　Luther；　and　Curtsinger；　and　all　the　rest　of　her　father's　cohorts。　Now；　however；　strange　imperatives　stirred　her　without　warning：　to　go　into　the　library；　or　into　the　kitchen　or　the　garden；　and　simply　watch。　She　got　no　pleasure　out　of　this　activity。　Much　that　she　heard　she　found　impossible　to　understand；　much　more　was　simply　the　vacuous　gossip　of　financial　fishwives。　Nevertheless　she　would　sit　for　hours；　until　some　vague　appetite　was　satisfied；　and　then　she'd　move　on；　perhaps　to　listen　in　on　another　debate。　Some　of　the　conversationalists　knew　who　she　was；　to　those　who　didn't　she　offered　the　plainest　of　introductions。　Once　her　credentials　had　been　established　nobody　questioned　her　presence。
　　She　also　went　to　see　Lillian　and　the　dogs　at　that　dispiriting　pound　behind　the　house。　It　wasn't　because　she　liked　the　animals；　she　simply　felt　impelled　to　see　them；　for　the　sake　of　seeing；　to　look　at　the　locks　and　the　cages　and　at　the　pups　playing　around　their　mother。　In　her　mind　she　charted　the　position　of　the　kennels　relative　to　the　fence　and　to　the　house；　pacing　it　out　in　case　she　needed　to　find　them　in　the　dark。　Why　she　would　ever　need　that　facility　escaped　her。
　　In　these　trips　she　was　careful　not　to　be　seen　by　Martin；　or　Toy；　or　worst　of　all；　her　father。　It　was　a　game　she　was　playing；　though　its　precise　purpose　was　a　mystery。　Maybe　she　was　making　a　map　of　the　place。　Was　that　why　she　walked　from　one　end　of　the　house　to　the　other　several　times；　checking　and　rechecking　its　geography；　working　out　the　length　of　the　corridors；　memorizing　the　way　the　rooms　let　on　to　each　other？　Whatever　the　reason；　this　foolish　business　answered　some　unspoken　need　in　her；　and　when　it　was　done；　and　only　then；　would　that　need　pronounce　itself　satisfied；　and　let　her　be　for　a　while。　By　the　end　of　the　week　she　knew　the　house　as　she　never　had　before；　she'd　been　in　every　room　except　that　one　room　of　her　father's；　which　was　forbidden　even　to　her。　She　had　checked　all　the　entrances　and　exits；　stairways　and　passages；　with　the　thoroughness　of　a　thief。
　　Strange　days；　strange　nights。　Was　this　insanity；　she　began　to　wonder？
　　
　　On　the　second　Sunday…eleven　days　into　the　crisis…Marty　was　summoned　to　the　library。　Whitehead　was　there；　looking　somewhat　tired　perhaps；　but　not　substantially　cowed　by　the　enormous　pressure　he　was　under。　He　was　dressed　for　the　outdoors；　the　fur…collared　coat　he'd　worn　the　first　day；　on　that　symbolic　visit　to　the　kennels。
　　〃I　haven't　left　the　house　in　several　days；　Marty；〃　he　announced；　〃and　my　head's　getting　stale。　I　think　we　should　take　a　walk；　you　and　I。〃　〃I'll　fetch　a　jacket。〃　〃Yes。　And　the　gun。〃　They　headed　out　the　back　way；　avoiding　the　newly　arrived　delegations　who　still　thronged　the　stairs　and　hallway；　waiting　for　access　to　the　holy　of　holies。
　　It　was　a　balmy　day；　the　nineteenth　of　April。　The　shadows　of　light…headed　clouds　passed　across　the　lawn　in　dissolute　troupes。　〃We'll　go　to　the　woods；〃　the；　old　man　said；　leading　off。　Marty　walked　a　respectful　couple　of　yards　behind；　acutely　aware　that　Whitehead　had　e　out　here　to　clear　his　mind；　not　to　talk。
　　The　woods　were　buzzing　with　activity。　New　growth　poking　through　the　rot　of　last　year's　fall；　daredevil　birds　plummeting　and　rising　between　the　trees；　courtship　voices　on　every　other　branch。　They　walked　for　several　minutes；　following　no　particular　path；　without　Whitehead　so　much　as　looking　up　from　his　boots。　Out　of　sight　of　the　house　and　his　disciples；　he　wore。　the　burden　of　siege　more　nakedly。　Head　bowed；　he　trudged　between　the　trees；　indifferent　to　birdsong　and　leaf…burst　alike。
　　Marty　was　enjoying　himself。　Whenever　he'd　crossed　this　territory　before　it　had　been　at　a　run。　Now　his　pace　was　forcibly　slowed；　and　details　of　the　woods　became　apparent。　The　confusion　of　flowers　underfoot；　the　fungi　sprouting　in　the　damp　places　between　the　roots：　all　delighted　him。　He　picked　up　a　selection　of　pebbles　as　he　went。　One　bore　the　fossilized　imprint　of　a　fern。　He　thought　of　Carys　and　of　the　dovecote；　and　an　unexpected　longing　for　her　lapped　at　the　edges　of　his　consciousness。　Having　no　reason　to　prevent　its　access；　he　let　it　e。
　　Once　admitted；　the　weight　of　his　feeling　for　her　shocked　him。　He　felt　conspired　against；　as　though　in　the　last　few　days　his　emotions　had　worked　in　some　secret　place　in　him；　transforming　mild　interest　in　Carys　into　something　deeper。　He　had　little　chance　to　sort　the　phenomena　out；　however。　When　he　glanced　up　from　the　stone　fern　Whitehead　had　got　a　good　way　ahead　of　him。　Putting　thoughts　of　Carys　aside；　he　picked　up　his　pace。　Passages　of　sun　and　shadow　moved　through　the　trees　as　the　light　clouds　that　had　sat　on　the　wind　earlier　gave　way　to　heavier　formations。　The　wind　had　begun　to　chill；　there　was　an　occasional　speckle　of　rain　in　it。
　　Whitehead　had　pulled　his　collar　up。　His　hands　were　plunged　into　his　pockets。　When　Marty　reached　him；　he　was　greeted　with　a　question。
　　〃Do　you　believe　in　God；　Martin？〃　The　inquiry　came　out　of　nowhere。　Unprepared　for　it；　Marty　could　only　answer；　〃I　don't　know；〃　which　was；　as　answers　to　that　question　went；　honest　enough。
　　But　Whitehead　wanted　more。　His　eyes　glittered。
　　〃I　don't　pray；　if　that's　what　you　mean；〃　Marty　offered。
　　〃Not　even　before　your　trial？　A　quick　word　with　the　Almighty？〃　There　was　no　humor；　malicious　or　otherwise；　in　this　interrogation。　Again；　Marty　answered　as　honestly　as　he　could。
　　〃I　don't　remember；　exactly　。　。　。　I　suppose　I　must　have　said　something；　then；　yes。〃　He　paused　Above　them；　the　clouds　passed　over　the　sun。　〃Much　good　it　did　me。〃　〃And；　in　prison？〃　〃No；　I　never　prayed。〃　He　was　sure　of　that。　〃Never　once。〃　〃But　there　were　God…fearing　men　in　Wandsworth；　surely？〃　Marty　remembered　Heseltine；　with　whom　he'd　shared　a　cell　for　a　few　weeks　at　the　beginning　of　his　stretch。　An　old　hand　at　prison；　Tiny　had　spent　more　years　behind　bars　than　out。　Every　night　he'd　murmur　a　bastardized　version　of　the　Lord's　Prayer　into　his　pillow　before　he　went　to　sleep…〃Our　Father；　who　are　in　Heaven；　hello　be　thy　name〃…not　understanding　the　words　or　their　significance；　simply　saying　the　prayer　by　rote；　as　he　had　every　night　of　his　life；　most　probably；　until　the　sense　was　corrupted　beyond　salvation…　〃thine　by　the　King　Dome；　thine　by　the　Glory；　fever　and　fever；　Amen。〃　Was　that　what　Whitehead　meant？　Was　there　respect　for　a　Maker；　thanks　for　Creation；　or　even　some　anticipation　of　Judgment　in　Heseltine's　prayer？
　　〃No；〃　was　Marty's　reply。　〃Not　really　God…fearing。　I　mean；　what's　the　use。。。？〃　There　was　more　where　that　thought　came　from；　and　Whitehead　waited　for　it　with　a　vulture's　patience。　But　the　words　sat　on　Marty's　tongue；　refusing　to　be　spoken。　The　old　man　prompted　them。
　　〃Why　no　use；　Marty？〃　〃Because　it's　all　down　to　accident；　isn't　it？　I　mean；　everything's　chance。〃　Whitehead　nodded；　almost　imperceptibly。　There　was　a　long　silence　between　them；　until　the　old　man　said：　〃Do　you　know　why　I　chose　you；　Martin？〃　〃Not　really。〃　〃Toy　never　said　anything　to　you？〃　〃He　told　me　he　thought　I　could　do　the　job。〃　〃Well；　a　lot　of　people　advised　against　me　taking　you。　They　thought　you　were　unsuitable；　for　a　number　of　reasons　we　needn't　go　into。　Even　Toy　wasn't　certain。　He　liked　you；　but　he　wasn't　certain。〃　〃But　you　employed　me　anyway？〃　〃Indeed　we　did。〃　Marty　was　beginning　to　find　the　cat…and…mouse　game　insufferable。　He　said：　〃Now　you're　going　to　tell　me　why；　right？〃　〃You're　a　gambler；〃　Whitehead　replied。　Marty　felt　he'd　known　the　answer　long　before　it　was　spoken。　〃You　wouldn't　have　been　in　trouble　at　all；　if　you　hadn't　been　obliged　to　pay　off　large　gaming　debts。　Am　I　right？〃　〃More　or　less。〃　〃You　spent　every　penny　you　earned。　Or　so　your　friends　testified　at　the　trial。　Frittered　it　away。〃　〃Not　always。　I　had　some　big　wins。　Really　big　wins。〃　The　look　Whitehead　gave　Marty　was　scalpel…sharp。
　　〃After　all　you've　been　through…all　your　disease　has　made　you　suffer…you　still　talk　about　your　big　wins。〃　〃I　remember　the　best　times；　like　anyone　would；〃　Marty　replied　defensively。
　　〃Flukes。　〃　〃No！　I　was　good；　damn　it。〃　〃Flukes；　Martin。　You　said　so　yourself　a　moment　ago。　You　said　it　was　all　chance。　How　can　you　be　good　at　anything　that's　accidental？　That　doesn't　make　sense；　does　it？〃　The　man　was　right；　at　least　superficially。　But　it　wasn't　as　simple　as　he　made　it　out　to　be；　was　it？　It　was　all　chance；　he　couldn't　argue　with　that　basic　condition。　But　a　sliver　of　Marty　believed　something　else。　What　it　was　he　believed；　he　couldn't　describe。
　　〃Isn't　that　what　you　said？〃　Whitehead　pressed。　〃That　it　was　accident。〃　〃It's　not　always　like　that。〃　〃Some　of　us　have　chance　on　our　side。　Is　that　what　you're　saying？　Some　of　us　have　our　fingers〃…Whitehead's　forefinger　described　a　spinning　circle〃…on　the　wheel。〃　The　circling　finger　stopped。　In　his　mind's　eye；　Marty　pleted　the　image：　the　ball　jumped　from　hole　to　hole　and　found　a　niche；　a　number。　Some　winner　yelped　his　triumph。
　　〃Not　always；〃　he　said。　〃Just　sometimes。〃　〃Describe　it。　Describe　how　it　feels。〃　Why　not？　Where　was　the　harm？
　　〃Sometimes　it　was　just　easy；　you　know；　like　taking　sweets　from　a　baby。　I'd　go　to　a　club　and　the　chips　would　tingle；　and　I'd　know；　Jesus　I'd　know；　I　couldn't　fail　to　win。〃　Whitehead　smiled。
　　〃But　you　did　fail；〃　he　reminded　Marty；　with　courteous　brutality。　〃You　often　failed。　You　failed　till　you　owed　everything　you　had；　and　more　besides。〃　〃I　was　stupid。　I　played　even　when　the　chips　didn't　tingle；　when　I　knew　I　was　on　a　losing　streak