Clive Barker - The Damnation Game

The room smelled of her; was hot with her. Other than her presence and her heat, however, it was practically empty. Just a bucket in the corner, and a selection of empty dishes; a scattering of books, a blanket, a small table on which lay her gear: needles, hypodermic, dishes, matches. She was lying, curled up on herself, in a corner of the room. A lamp, with a low-voltage bulb in it, stood in another corner, its shade partially draped with a cloth to keep the light level lower yet. She was wearing only a T-shirt and a pair of panties. Other articles of clothing, jeans, sweaters, shirts, lay strewn around. When she looked up at him he could see how the sweat on her brow made her hair cling.

"Carys."

At first she didn't seem to recognize him.

"It's me. It's Marty."

A tick of a frown creased her shiny forehead. "Marty?" she said, her voice in miniature. The frown deepened: he wasn't sure she even saw him; her eyes swam. "Marty," she repeated, and this time the name seemed to mean something to her.

"Yes, it's me."

He crossed the room to her, and she seemed almost shocked by the suddenness of his approach. Her eyes sprang open, recognition flooding into them, with fear in attendance. She half-sat up, the T-shirt clinging to her sweaty torso. The crook of her arm was punctured and bruised.

"Don't come near me."

"What's wrong?"

"Don't come near me."

He took a step back at the ferocity of her order. What the hell had they done to her?

She sat up fully, and put her head between her legs, elbows on her knees.

"Wait..." she said, still whispering.

Her breath became very regular. He waited, aware for the first time that the room seemed to buzz. Perhaps not just the room: perhaps this whine-as if a generator were humming away to itself somewhere in the building-had been in the air since he'd first come in. If so, he hadn't noticed it. Now, waiting for her to finish whatever ritual she was engaged upon, it irritated him. Subtle, yet so pervasive it was impossible, after a few seconds of hearing it, to know if it were more than a whine in the inner ear. He swallowed hard: his sinuses clicked. The sound went on, a monotone. At last, Carys looked up.

"It's all right," she said. "He isn't here."

"I could have told you that. He left the house two hours ago. I watched him go."

"He doesn't need to be here physically," she said, rubbing the back of her neck.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." From the tone of her voice they might have seen each other only the day before. He felt foolish, as though his relief, his desire to pick her up and run, was inappropriate, even redundant.

"We have to go," he said. "They may come back."

She shook her head. "No use," she told him.

"What do you mean, no use?"

"If you knew what he can do."

"Believe me, I've seen."

He thought of Bella, poor dead Bella, with her pups suckling rot. He'd seen enough, and more.

"There's no use trying to escape," she insisted. "He's got access to my head. I'm an open book to him." This was an overstatement. He was less and less able to control her. But she was tired of the fight: almost as tired as the European. She wondered sometimes if he hadn't infected her with his world-weariness; if a trace of him in her cortex hadn't tainted every possibility with the knowledge of its dissolution. She saw that now, in Marty, whose face she'd dreamed, whose body she'd wanted. Saw how he would age, would wind down and die, as everything wound down and died. Why stand up at all, the disease in her system asked, if it's only a matter of time before you fall down again?

"Can't you block him out?" Marty demanded.

"I'm too weak to resist him. With you I'll be weaker still."

"Why?" The remark appalled him.

"As soon as I relax, he'll get through. Do you see? The moment I surrender to anything, anyone, he can break in."

Marty thought about Carys' face on the pillow, and the way, for an insane moment, another face had seemed to peer down between her fingers. The Last European had been watching, even then; sharing the experience. A ménage à trois for male, female and occupying spirit. Its obscenity touched deeper chords of anger in him: not the superficial rage of a righteous man, but a profound rejection of the European in all his decadence. Whatever happened as a consequence, he would not be talked into leaving Carys to Mamoulian's devices. If need be he'd take her against her will. When she was out of this buzzing house, with the despair peeling the wallpaper, she'd remember how good life could be; he'd make her remember. He stepped toward her again, and went down on his haunches to touch her. She flinched.

"He's occupied-" he reassured her, "-he's at the casino."

"He'll kill you," she said simply, "if he finds you've been here."

"He'll kill me whatever happens now. I've interfered. I've seen his hidey-hole, and I'm going to do damage to it before we go, just so he remembers me."

"Do whatever you want to do." She shrugged. "It's up to you. But leave me be."

"So Papa was right," Marty said bitterly.

"Papa? What did he tell you?"

"That you wanted to be with Mamoulian all along."

"No."

"You want to be like him!"

"No, Marty, no!"

"I suppose he supplies the best-quality dope, eh? And I can't, can I?" She didn't deny this; just looked sullen. "What the fuck am I doing here?" he said. "You're happy, aren't you? Christ; you're happy."

It was laughable to think how he'd misunderstood the politics of this rescue. She was content in this hovel, as long as she was supplied. Her talk of Mamoulian's invasions were window dressing. In her heart she could forgive him every crime he perpetrated as long as the dope kept coming.

He stood up. "Where's his room?"

"No, Marty."

"I want to see where he sleeps. Where is it?"

She pulled herself up on his arm. Her hands were hot and damp.

"Please leave, Marty. This isn't a game. It's not all going to be forgiven when we come to the end, you know? It doesn't even stop when you die. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Oh, yes," he said, "I understand." He put his palm on her face. Her breath smelled sour. His too, he thought, but for the whisky.

"I'm not an innocent any longer. I know what's going on. Not all of it, but enough. I've seen things I pray I never see again; I've heard stories... Christ, I understand." How could he impress it upon her forcibly enough? "I'm shit-scared. I've never been so scared in my life."

"You've got reason," she said coldly.

"Don't you care what happens to you?"

"Not much."

"I'll find you dope," he said. "If that's all that's keeping you here; I'll get it for you."

Did a doubt cross her face? He pressed the point home. "I saw you looking for me at the funeral."

"You were there?"

"Why were you looking if you didn't want me to come?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I thought maybe you'd gone with Papa."

"Dead, you mean?"

She frowned at him. "No. Gone away. Wherever he's gone."

It took a moment for her words to sink in. At last, he said: "You mean he's not dead?"

She shook her head. "I thought you knew. I thought you'd be involved with his getaway."

Of course the old bastard wasn't dead. Great men didn't just lie down and die offstage. They bided their time through the middle acts-revered, mourned and vilified-before appearing to play some final scene or other. A death scene; a marriage.

"Where is he?" Marty asked.

"I don't know, and neither does Mamoulian. He tried to get me to find him, the way I found Toy; but I can't do it. I've lost focus. I even tried to find you once. It was useless. I could scarcely think my way beyond the front door."

"But you found Toy?"

"That was at the beginning. Now... I'm used up. I tell him it hurts. Like something's going to break inside me." Pain, remembered and actual, registered on her face.