cb.damnationgame-第32部分

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　　An　earlier　self　would　have　rejected　these　subtleties　out　of　hand。　But　Marty　had　changed。　Being　in　the　Sanctuary　had　changed　him；　Carys〃　ellipses　had　changed　him。　In　a　hundred　ways　he　was　more　plex　than　he'd　been；　and　part　of　him　longed　for　a　return　to　the　clarity　of　black　and　white。　But　he　knew　damn　well　that　such　simplicity　was　a　lie。　Experience　was　made　up。　of　endless　ambiguities…of　motive；　of　feeling；　of　cause　and　effect…and　if　he　was　to　win　under　such　circumstances；　he　had　to　understand　how　those　ambiguities　worked。
　　No；　not　win。　There　was　no　winning　and　losing　here：　not　in　the　way　that　he'd　understood　before。　The　fox　had　run　to　the　left；　and　he　had　a　thousand　pounds　folded　in　his　pocket；　but　he　felt　none　of　the　exhilaration　he　had　when　he'd　won　on　the　horses；　or　at　the　casino。　Just　black　bleeding　into　white；　and　vice　versa；　until　he　scarcely　knew　right　from　wrong。
　　
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　　Toy　had　rung　the　estate　in　the　middle　of　the　afternoon；　spoken　to　an　irate　Pearl；　who　was　just　about　to　make　her　exit；　and　left　a　message　for　Marty　to　call　him　at　the　Pimlico　number。　But　Marty　hadn't　rung　back。　Toy　wondered　if　Pearl　had　failed　to　pass　the　message　along；　or　if　Whitehead　had　somehow　intercepted　it；　and　prevented　a　return　call　being　made。　Whatever　the　reason；　he　hadn't　spoken　to　Marty；　and　he　felt　guilty　about　it。　He'd　promised　to　warn　Strauss　if　events　started　to　go　badly　awry。　Now　they　were。　Nothing　observable　perhaps；　the　anxieties　Toy　was　experiencing　were　born　out　of　instinct　rather　than　fact。　But　Yvonne　had　taught　him　to　trust　his　heart；　not　his　head。　Things　were　going　to　fall　down　after　all；　and　he　hadn't　warned　Marty。　Perhaps　that　was　why　he　was　having　such　bad　dreams；　and　waking　with　memories　of　ugliness　flitting　in　his　head。
　　Not　everyone　survived　being　young。　Some　died　early；　victims　of　their　own　hunger　for　life。　Toy　hadn't　been　such　a　victim；　though　he'd　e　perilously　close。　Not　that　he'd　known　it　at　the　time。　He'd　been　too　dazzled　by　the　new　pools　he　was　introduced　into　by　Whitehead　to　see　how　lethal　those　waters　could　be。　And　he'd　obeyed　the　great　man's　wishes　with　such　unquestioning　zeal；　hadn't　he？　Never　once　had　he　balked　at　his　duty；　however　criminal　it　might　have　seemed。　Why　should　he　be　surprised　then　if；　after　all　these　years　these　same　crimes；　so　casually　mitted；　were　in　silent　pursuit　of　him？　That　was　why　he　lay　now　in　a　clammy　sweat；　with　Yvonne　sleeping　beside　him；　and　one　phrase　circling　his　skull：　Mamoulian　will　e。
　　That　was　the　only　clear　notion　he　had。　The　rest…thoughts　of　Marty；　and　Whitehead…was　a　potpourri　of　shames　and　accusations。　But　that　plain　phrase…Mamoulian　will　e…stood　out　in　the　dross　of　uncertainty　as　a　fixed　point　to　which　all　his　terrors　adhered。
　　No　apology　would　suffice。　No　humiliation　would　curb　the　Last　European's　anger。　Because　Toy　had　been　young；　and　a　brute；　and　he'd　had　a　wicked　way　with　him。　Once　upon　a　time；　when　he'd　been　too　young　to　know　better；　he'd　made　Mamoulian　suffer；　and　the　remorse　he　felt　now　came　too　late…twenty；　thirty　years　too　late…and　after　all；　hadn't　he　lived　on　the　profits　of　his　brutality　all　these　years？　Oh；　Jesus；　he　said　in　the　unsteady　rhythm　of　his　breath；　Jesus　help　me。
　　Afraid；　and　ready　to　admit　to　being　afraid　if　it　meant　she'd　fort　hull；　he　turned　over　and　reached　for　Yvonne。　She　wasn't　there。　Her　side　of　the　bed　was　cold。
　　He　sat　up；　momentarily　disorientated。
　　〃Yvonne？〃　The　bedroom　door　was　ajar；　and　the　dimmest　of　lights　from　downstairs　described　the　room。　It　was　chaos。　They　had　been　packing　all　evening；　and　the　task　had　still　not　been　finished　when；　at　one　in　the　morning；　they'd　retired。　Clothes　were　heaped　on　the　chest；　of　drawers；　an　open　case　yawned　in　the　corner；　his　ties　hung　over　the　back　of　a　chair　like　parched　snakes；　tongues　to　the　floor。
　　He　heard　a　noise　on　the　landing。　He　knew　Yvonne's　padding　step　well。　She'd　gone　for　a　glass　of　apple　juice；　or　a　biscuit；　the　way　she　so　often　did。　She　appeared　at　the　door；　in　silhouette。
　　〃Are　you　all　right？〃　he　asked　her。
　　She　murmured　something　like　yes。　He　put　his　head　back　on　the　pillow。
　　〃Hungry　again；〃　he　said；　letting　his　eyes　close。　〃Always　hungry。〃　Cold　air　seeped　into　the　bed　as　she　raised　the　sheet　to　slip　in　beside　him。
　　〃You　left　the　light　on　downstairs；〃　he　chided；　as　sleep　started　to　slide　over　him　again。　She　didn't　reply。　Asleep　already；　probably：　she　was　blessed　with　a　facility　for　instant　unconsciousness。　He　turned　to　look　at　her　in　the　semidarkness。　She　wasn't　snoring　yet；　but　nor　was　she　entirely　silent。　He　listened　more　carefully；　his　coiled　innards　jittery。　It　was　a　liquid　sound　she　was　making：　as　though　breathing　through　mud。
　　〃Yvonne　。　。　。　are　you　all　right？〃　She　didn't　answer。
　　From　her　face；　which　was　inches　from　his；　the　slushing　sound　went　on。　He　reached　for　the　switch　of　the　lamp　above　the　bed；　keeping　his　eyes　on　the　black　mass　of　Yvonne's　head　as　he　did　so。　Best　to　do　this　fast；　he　reasoned；　before　my　imagination　gets　the　better　of　me。　His　fingers　located　the　switch；　fumbled　with　it；　then　pressed　the　light　on。
　　What　was　facing　him　on　the　pillow　was　not　recognizably　Yvonne。
　　He　jabbered　her　name　as　he　scrambled　backward　out　of　bed；　eyes　fixed　on　the　abomination　beside　him。　How　was　it　possible　that　she　was　alive　enough　to　climb　the　stairs　and　get　into　bed；　to　murmur　yes　to　him　as　she　had？　The　profundity　of　her　wounding　had　killed　her；　surely。　Nobody　could　live　skinned　and　boned　like　that。
　　She　half…turned　in　the　bed；　eyes　closed；　as　if　rolling　over　in　her　sleep。　Then…horribly…she　said　his　name。　Her　mouth　didn't　work　as　it　had；　blood　greased　the　word　on　its　way。　He　couldn't　bear　to　look　anymore；　or　he'd　scream；　and　that　would　bring　them…whoever　did　this…bring　them　howling　at　him　with　their　scalpels　already　wet。　They　were　probably　outside　the　door　already；　but　nothing　could　induce　him　to　stay　in　the　same　room。　Not　with　her　performing　slow　gyrations　on　the　bed；　still　saying　his　name　as　she　pulled　up　her　nightdress。
　　He　staggered　out　of　the　bedroom　and　onto　the　landing。　To　his　surprise　they　were　not　waiting　for　him　there。
　　At　the　top　of　the　stairs　he　hesitated。　He　was　not　a　brave　man；　nor　was　he　foolish。　Tomorrow　he　could　mourn　her：　but　for　tonight　she　was　simply　gone　from　him；　and　there　was　nothing　to　be　done　but　preserve　himself　from　whoever'd　done　this。　Whoever！　Why　didn't　he　admit　the　name　to　himself？　Mamoulian　was　responsible：　it　had　his　signature。　And　he　was　not　alone。　The　European　would　never　have　laid　his　purged　hands　on　human　flesh　the　way　someone　had　on　Yvonne；　his　squeamishness　was　legendary。　But　it　was　he　who'd　given　her　that　half…life　to　live　after　the　murder　was　done。　Only　Mamoulian　was　capable　of　that　service。
　　And　he　would　be　waiting　below　now；　wouldn't　he；　in　the　undersea　world　at　the　bottom　of　the　stairs？　Waiting；　as　he'd　waited　so　long；　for　Toy　to　traipse　down　to　join　him。
　　〃Go　to　Hell；〃　Toy　whispered　to　the　dark　below；　and　walked　（the　urge　was　to　run；　but　mon　sense　counseled　otherwise）　along　the　landing　toward　the　spare　bedroom。　With　every　step　he　anticipated　some　move　from　the　enemy；　but　none　came。　Not　until　he　reached　the　door　of　the　bedroom　anyway。
　　Then；　as　he　turned　the　handle；　he　heard　Yvonne's　voice　behind　him：　〃Willy　。　。　。〃　The　word　was　better　formed　than　before。
　　For　the　briefest　moment　he　felt　his　sanity　in　doubt。　Was　it　possible　that　if　he　turned　now　she　would　be　standing　at　the　bedroom　door　as　disfigured　as　memory　suggested；　or　was　that　all　a　fever…dream？
　　〃Where　are　you　going？〃　she　demanded　to　know。
　　Downstairs；　somebody　moved。
　　〃e　back　to　bed。〃　Without　turning　to　refuse　her　invitation；　Toy　pushed　the　door　of　the　spare　bedroom　open；　and　as　he　did　so　he　heard　somebody　start　up　the　stairs　behind　him。　The　footsteps　were　heavy；　their　owner　eager。
　　There　was　no　key　in　the　lock　to　delay　his　pursuer；　and　no　time　to　drag　furniture　in　front　of　the　door。　Toy　crossed　the　lightless　bedroom　in　three　strides；　threw　open　the　French　windows；　and　stepped　onto　the　small　wrought…iron　balcony。　It　grunted　beneath　his　weight。　He　suspected　it　would　not　hold　for　long。
　　Below　him；　the　garden　was　in　darkness；　but　he　had　a　fair　idea　of　where　the　flower　beds　lay；　and　where　the　paving　stones。　Without　hesitation…the　footsteps　loud　at　his　back…he　clambered　over　the　balcony。　His　joints　plained　at　this　exertion；　and　more　so　when　he　lowered　himself　over　the　other　side　until　he　was　hanging　by　his　hands；　suspended　by　a　grip　that　was　every　second　in　danger　of　giving　out。
　　A　din　in　the　room　he'd　left　drew　his　glance；　his　pursuer；　a　bloated　thug　with　bloody　hands　and　the　eyes　of　something　rabid；　was　in　the　room…was　crossing　now　toward　the　windows；　growling　his　displeasure。　Toy　rocked　his　body　as　best　he　could；　praying　to　miss　the　paving　he　knew　was　directly　beneath　his　bare　feet　and　land　in　the　soft　earth　of　the　herbaceous　border。　There　was　little　chance　to　fine…tune　the　maneuver。　He　let　go　of　the　balustrade　as　the　obesity　reached　the　balcony；　and　for　what　seemed　a　long　time　fell　backward　through　space；　the　window　diminishing　above　him；　until　he　landed；　with　no　more　injury　than　a　bruising；　among　the　geraniums　Yvonne　had　planted　only　the　week　before。
　　He　got　to　his　feet