Клайв Баркер – Imajica (страница 30)
‘And must I continue to be humiliated?’ he said. ‘Can I not at least have something to wear?’
‘Your suit’s stained.’
‘It’s better than nothing,’ Dowd replied.
The garments lay on the floor a few feet from where Dowd sat, but he made no move to pick them up. Aware that Dowd was testing the limits of his master’s remorse, but willing to play the game for a while at least, Oscar picked up the clothes and lay them within Dowd’s reach.
‘I knew a knife wasn’t going to kill you,’ he said.
‘It’s more than I did,’ Dowd replied. ‘But that’s not the point. I would have entered the game with you if that’s what you’d wanted. Happily;
‘I couldn’t afford for it to look like a charade. If they’d suspected it was stage-managed - ‘
‘Oh I see,’ Dowd replied. Unwittingly Oscar had caused even greater offence with this justification. ‘You didn’t trust my actorly instincts. I’ve played every lead Quexos wrote. Comedy, tragedy, farce. And you didn’t trust me to carry off a petty little death-scene!’
‘All right, I was mistaken.’
‘I thought the knife stung badly enough. But
‘Please, accept my apologies. It was crude and hurtful. What can I do to heal the harm, eh? Name it, Dowdy. I feel I’ve violated the trust between us and I have to make good. Whatever you want, just name it.’
Dowd shook his head. ‘It’s not as easy as that.’
‘I know. But it’s a start. Name it.’
Dowd considered the offer for a full minute, staring not at Oscar but the blank wall. Finally, he said:
‘I’ll start with the assassin, Pie’oh’pah.’
‘What do you want with a mystif?’
‘I want to torment it. I want to humiliate it. And finally, I want to kill it.’
‘Why?’
‘You offered me whatever I wanted. Name it, you said. I’ve named it.’
‘Then you have
‘For now,’ Dowd said. ‘I’m sure something more will occur. Death’s put some strange ideas in my head. But I’ll name them, as time goes by.’
1
While it was to prove difficult for Gentle to prise from Estabrook the details of the night-journey that had taken him to Pie’oh’pah, it was not as difficult as getting in to see the man in the first place. He went to the house around noon, to find the curtains at all the windows meticulously drawn. He knocked and rang the bell for several minutes, but there was no reply. Assuming Estabrook had gone out for a constitutional, he left off his attempt and went to find something to put into his stomach, which after being so thoroughly scorned the night before was echoing with its own emptiness. It was Boxing Day, of course, and there was no café or restaurant open, but he located a small supermarket managed by a family of Pakistanis, who were doing a fine trade supplying Christians with stale bread to break. Though the stock had disappeared from many of the shelves the store still had a tempting parade of toothdecayers, and Gentle left with chocolate, biscuits and cake to satisfy his sweet tooth. He found a bench, and sat down to subdue his hunger. The cake was too moist and heavy for his taste, so he broke it up into pieces and threw it to the pigeons his meal had attracted. The news soon spread that there was sustenance to be had, and what had been an intimate picnic quickly turned into a squabbling match. In lieu of loaves and fishes to subdue the mob, Gentle tossed the rest of his biscuits into the midst of the feasters, and returned to Estabrook’s house content with his chocolate. As he approached he saw a motion at one of the upper windows. He didn’t bother to ring and knock this time, but simply called up at the window.
‘I want a word, Charlie! I know you’re in there. Open up!’
When there was no sign of Estabrook obliging, he let his voice ring out a little louder. There was very little competition from traffic, this being a holiday. His call was a clarion.
‘Come on, Charlie, open up, unless you want me to tell the neighbours about our little deal.’
The curtain was drawn aside this time, and Gentle had his first sight of Estabrook. A glimpse only, for the curtain was dropped back into place a moment later. Gentle waited, and just as he was about to start his haranguing afresh heard the front door being unbolted. Estabrook appeared, barefoot and bald. The latter was a shock. Gentle hadn’t known the man wore a toupée. Without it his face was as round and as white as a plate, his features set upon it like a child’s breakfast. Eggs for eyes, a tomato nose, sausage lips; all swimming in a grease of fear.
‘It’s time we talked,’ Gentle said, and without waiting for an invitation, stepped inside.
He pulled no punches in his interrogation, making it plain from the outset that this was no social call. He needed to know where to find Pie’oh’pah, and he wasn’t going to be fobbed off with excuses. To aid Estabrook’s memory he’d brought a battered street map of London. He set it down on the table between them.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘We sit here until you’ve told where you went that night. And if you lie to me I swear I’m going to come back and break your neck.’
Estabrook didn’t attempt any obfuscation. His manner was that of a man who had passed many days in terror of a sound upon his step, and was relieved now that it had come, that his caller was merely human. His egg eyes were perpetually on the verge of breaking, and his hands trembled as he flipped the pages of the gazetteer, murmuring as he did so that he was sure of nothing, but he would try to remember. Gentle didn’t press too hard, but let the man make the journey again in memory, running his finger back and forth over the map as he did so.
They’d driven through Lambeth, he said, then Kennington and Stockwell. He didn’t remember grazing Clap-ham Common, so he assumed they’d driven to the east of it, towards Streatham Hill. He remembered a church, and sought out a cross on the map that would mark the place. There were several, but only one close to the other landmark he remembered, the railway line. At this point, he said he could offer nothing more by way of directions, only a description of the place itself: the corrugated iron perimeter, the trailers, the fires.
‘You’ll find it,’ he said.
‘I’d better,’ Gentle replied.
He’d so far told Estabrook nothing about the circumstances that had brought him back here, though the man had several times asked if Judith was alive and well. Now he asked again.
‘Please tell me,’ he said. ‘I’ve been straight with you, I swear I have. Won’t you please tell me how she is?’
‘She’s alive and kicking,’ Gentle said.
‘Has she mentioned me at all? She must have done. What did she say? Did you tell her I still love her?’
‘I’m not your pimp,’ Gentle said. ‘Tell her yourself. If you can get her to talk to you.’
‘What am I going to do?’ Estabrook said. He took hold of Gentle’s arm. ‘You’re an expert with women, aren’t you? Everybody says so. What can I do to make amends?’
‘She’d probably be satisfied if you sent her your balls,’ Gentle said. ‘Anything less wouldn’t be appropriate.’
‘You think it’s funny.’
Trying to have your wife killed? No, I don’t think that’s very amusing. Changing your mind, and wanting everything lovey-dovey again:
‘You wait till you love somebody the way I love Judith. If you’re capable of that, which I doubt. You wait until you want somebody so badly your sanity hangs on it. You’ll learn.’
Gentle didn’t rise to the remark. It was too close to his present state to be fully confessed, even to himself. But once out of the house, map in hand, he couldn’t suppress a smile of pleasure that he had a way forward. It was already getting gloomy, as the midwinter afternoon closed its fist on the city. But darkness loved lovers, even if the world no longer did.
2
At midday, with his unease of the previous night allayed not one jot, Pie’oh’pah had suggested to Theresa that they should leave the encampment. The suggestion wasn’t met with enthusiasm. The baby was sick with sniffles, and had not stopped wailing since she’d woken; the other child was feverish too. This was no time to be going away, Theresa said, even if they had somewhere to go, which they didn’t. We’ll take the trailer with us, Pie replied; we’ll just drive out of the city. To the coast, maybe, where the children would benefit from the cleaner air. Theresa liked that idea. Tomorrow, she said, or the day after, but not now.
Pie pressed the case, however, until she asked him what he was so nervous about. He had no answer to give; at least none that she’d care to hear. She understood nothing of his nature, nor questioned him about his past. He was simply a provider. Someone who put food in the mouths of her children, and his arms around her at night. But her question still hung in the air, so he answered it as best he could.
‘I’m afraid for us,’ he said.
‘It’s that old man, isn’t it?’ Theresa replied. ‘The one who came to see you? Who was he?’