Clive Barker - The Damnation Game

"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."

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.

"Fully grown? Nine. Five males, four females. This is Saul," she said, speaking of the dog she was still stroking. "He's the oldest, and the biggest. The male over in the corner is Job. He's one of Saul's sons. He's not too well at the moment."

Job had half-lain down in the corner of the enclosure and was licking his testicles with some enthusiasm. He seemed to know he had become the center of conversation, because he looked up from his toilet for a moment. In the look he gave them there was everything Marty hated about the species: the threat, the shiftiness, the barely subdued resentment of its masters.

"The bitches are over there-"

There were two dogs trotting up and down the length of the enclosure.

"-the lighter one's Dido, and the darker's Zoe."

It was odd to hear these brutes called by such names; it seemed wholly inappropriate. And surely they resented the woman's christenings; mocked her, probably, behind her back.

"Come over here," Lillian said, summoning Marty as she might one of her pack. Like them, he came.

"Said," she said to the animal behind the wire, "this is a friend. Come closer," she told Marty, "he can't smell you from over there."

The dog had dropped down onto all fours. Marty approached the wire cautiously.

"Don't be afraid. Go right up to him. Let him get a good sniff of you."