by Clive Barker
Whitehead had taken refuge across the room. His face was as gray as Bella’s body.
“How did he do this?” Marty said. “How is it possible?”
“He has power,” Whitehead stated. It was as simple as that apparently. “He can steal life, and he can give it.”
Marty dug in his pocket for the linen handkerchief he’d bought specially for this night of dining and conversation. Shaking it out, its edges pristine, he wiped his face. The handkerchief came away dirtied with specks of rot. He felt as empty as the sac in the hall outside.
“You asked me once if I believed in Hell,” he said. “Do you remember?”
“Yes.”
“Is that what you think Mamoulian is? Something—” he wanted to laugh, “something from Hell?”
“I’ve considered the possibility. But I’m not by nature a supernaturalist. Heaven and Hell. All that paraphernalia. My system revolts at it.”
“If not devils: what?”
“Is it so important?”
Marty wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. He felt contaminated by this obscenity. It would take a long time to wash the horror out, if he ever could. He’d made the error of digging too deep, and the story he’d heard — that and the dog at the door—were the consequence.
“You look sick,” Whitehead said.
“I never thought …”
“What? That the dead can get up and walk? Oh Marty, I took you for a Christian, despite your protestations.”
“I’m getting out,” Marty said. “Both of us.”
“Both?”
“Carys and me. We’ll go away. From him. From you.”
“Poor Marty. You’re more bovine than I thought you were. You won’t see her again.”
“Why not?”
“She’s with him, damn you! Didn’t it occur to you? She went with him!” So that had been the unthinkable solution to her abrupt vanishing trick. “Willingly, of course.”
“No.”
“Oh yes, Marty. He had a claim on her from the beginning. He rocked her in his arms when she was barely born. Who knows what kind of influence he has. I won her back of course, for a while.” He sighed. “I made her love me.”
“She wanted to be away from you.”
“Never. She’s my daughter, Strauss. She’s as manipulative as I am. Anything between you and she was purely a marriage of her convenience.”
“You’re a fucking bastard.”
“That’s a given, Marty. I’m a monster; I concede the point.” He threw up his hands, palms out, innocent of everything but guilt.
“I thought you said she loved you. Still she went.”
“I told you: she’s my daughter. She thinks the way I do. She went with him to learn how to use her powers. I did the same, remember?”
This line of argument, even from vermin like Whitehead, made a kind of sense. Beneath her strange conversation hadn’t there always lurked a contempt for Marty and the old man alike, contempt earned by their inability to sum her up? Given the opportunity, wouldn’t Carys go dance with the Devil if she felt she’d understand more of herself by doing so?
“Don’t concern yourself with her,” Whitehead said. “Forget her; she’s gone.”
Marty tried to hold on to the image of her face, but it was deteriorating. He was suddenly very tired, exhausted to his bones.
“Get some rest, Marty. Tomorrow we can bury the whore together.”
“I’m not getting involved in this.”
“I told you once, didn’t I, if you stayed with me, there was nowhere I couldn’t take you. It’s more true now than ever. You know Toy’s dead.”
“When? How?”
“I didn’t ask the details. The point is, he’s gone. There’s only you and I now.”
“You made a fool out of me.”
Whitehead’s face was a portrait of persuasion. “An error of taste,” he said. “Forgive me.”
“Too late.”
“I don’t want you to leave me, Marty. I won’t let you leave me! You hear?” his finger jabbed the air. “You came here to help me! What have you done? Nothing! Nothing!”
Blandishment had turned into accusations of betrayal in mere seconds. One moment tears, the next curses, and behind it all, the same terror of being left alone. Marty watched the old man’s trembling hands fist and unfist.
“Please …,” he appealed, “don’t leave me.”
“I want you to finish the story.”
“Good boy.”
“Everything, you understand me. Everything.”
“What more is there to tell?” Whitehead said. “1 became rich. I had entered one of the fastest growing postwar markets: pharmaceuticals. Within half a decade I was up there with the world leaders.” He smiled to himself. “What’s more, there was very little illegality in the way I made my fortune. Unlike many, I played by the rules.”
“And Mamoulian? Did he help you?”
“He taught me not to agonize over the moral issues.”
“And what did he want in return?”
Whitehead narrowed his eyes. “You’re not so stupid, are you?” he said appreciatively. “You manage to get right to the hurt when it suits you.”
“It’s an obvious question. You’d made a deal with him.”
“No!” Whitehead interrupted, face set. “I made no deal, not in the way you mean it anyway. There was, perhaps, a gentleman’s agreement, but that’s long past. He’s had all he’s getting from me.”
“Which was?”
“To live through me,” Whitehead replied. “Explain,” Marty said, “I don’t understand.”
“He wanted life, like any other man. He had appetites. And he satisfied them through me. Don’t ask me how. I don’t understand myself. But sometimes I could feel him at the back of my eves …”
“And you let him?”
“At first I didn’t even know what he was doing: I had other calls on my attention. I was getting richer by the hour, it seemed. I had houses, land, art, women. It was easy to forget that he was always there, watching; living by proxy.
“Then in 1959 I married Evangeline. We had a wedding that would have shamed royalty: it was written up in newspapers from here to Hong Kong. Wealth and Influence marries Intelligence and Beauty: it was the ideal match. It crowned my happiness, it really did.”
“You were in love.”
“It was impossible not to love Evangeline. I think—” he sounded surprised as he spoke, “I think she even loved me.”
“What did she make of Mamoulian?”
“Ah, there’s the rub,” he said. “She loathed him from the start. She said he was too puritanical; that his presence made her feel perpetually guilty. And she was right. He loathed the body; its functions disgusted him. But he couldn’t be free of it, or its appetites. That was a torment to him. And as time went by that streak of self-hatred worsened.”
“Because of her?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps. Now I think back, he probably wanted her, the way he’d wanted beauties in the past. And of course she despised him, right from the beginning. Once she was mistress of the house this war of nerves just escalated. Eventually she told me to get rid of him. This was just after Carys was born. She said she didn’t like him handling the baby—which he seemed to like to do. She just didn’t want him in the house. I’d known him two decades by now—he’d lived in my house, he’d shared my life—and I realized I knew nothing about him. He was still the mythical card player I’d met in Warsaw.”
“Did you ever ask him?”
“Ask him what?”
“Who he was? Where he came from? How he got his skills?”
“Oh yes, I asked him. On each occasion the answer was a little different from the time before.”
“So he was lying to you?”
“Quite blatantly. It was a sort of joke, I think: his idea of a party piece, never to be the same person twice. As if he didn’t quite exist. As if this man called Mamoulian was a construction, covering som
ething else altogether.”
“What?”
Whitehead shrugged. “I don’t know. Evangeline used to say: he’s empty. That was what she found foul about him. It wasn’t his presence in the house that distressed her, it was his absence, the nullity of him. And I began to think maybe I’d be better getting rid of him, for Evangeline’s sake. All the lessons he had to teach me I’d learned. I didn’t need him anymore.
“Besides, he’d become a social embarrassment. God, when I think back I wonder—I really wonder—how we let him rule us for so long. He’d sit at the dinner table and you could feel the spell of depression he’d cast on the guests. And the older he got the more his talk was all futility.
“Not that he visibly aged; he didn’t. He doesn’t look a year older now than when I first met him.”
“No change at all?”
“Not physically. There’s something altered maybe. He’s got an air of defeat about him now.”
“He didn’t seem defeated to me.”
“You should have seen him in his prime. He was terrifying then, believe me. People would fall silent when he stepped through the door: he seemed to soak up the joy in anyone; kill it on the spot. It got to the point where Evangeline couldn’t bear to be in the same room with him. She got paranoid about him plotting to kill her and the child. She had somebody sit with Carys every night, to make certain that he didn’t touch her. Come to think of it, it was Evangeline who first coaxed me into buying the dogs. She knew he had an abhorrence of them.”
“But you didn’t do as she asked? I mean, you didn’t throw him out.”
“Oh I knew I’d have to act sooner or later; I just lacked the balls to do it. Then he started petty power games, just to prove I still needed him. It was a tactical error. The novelty value of an inhouse puritan had worn very thin. I told him so. Told him he’d have to change his whole demeanor or go. He refused, of course. I knew he would. All I wanted was an excuse to break our association off, and he gave it to me on a plate. Looking back, of course, he knew damn well what I was doing. Anyway, the upshot was—I threw him out. Well, not me personally. Toy did the deed.”
“Toy worked for you personally?”
“Oh yes. Again, it was Evangeline’s idea: she was always so protective of me. She suggested I hire a bodyguard. I chose Toy. He’d been a boxer, and he was as honest as the day’s long. He was always unimpressed by Mamoulian. Never had the least qualm about speaking his mind. So when I told him to get rid of the man, he did just that. I came home one day and the card player had gone.
“I breathed easy that day. It was as though I’d been wearing a stone around my neck and not known it. Suddenly it was gone: I was light-headed.
“Any fears I’d had about the consequences proved utterly groundless. My fortune didn’t evaporate. I was as successful as ever without him. More so perhaps. I found new confidence.”
“And you didn’t see him again?”
“Oh no, I saw him. He came back to the house twice, each time unannounced. Things hadn’t gone well for him, it seemed. I don’t know what it was, but he’d lost the magic touch somehow. The first time he came back he was so decrepit I scarcely recognized him. He looked ill, he smelled foul. If you’d seen him in the street you’d have crossed over the road to avoid him. I could scarcely credit the transformation. He didn’t want even to step into the house—not that I would have let him—all he wanted was money, which I gave him, and then he went away.”
“And it was genuine?”
“What do you mean, genuine?”
“The beggar performance: it was real, was it? I mean, it wasn’t another story …?”
Whitehead raised his eyebrows. “All these years … I never thought of that. Always assumed …,” he stopped, and began again on a different tack. “You know, I’m not a sophisticated man, despite appearances to the contrary. I’m a thief. My father was a thief, and probably his father too. All this culture I surround myself with, it’s a façade. Things I’ve picked up from other people. Received good taste, if you like.
“But after a few years you begin to believe your own publicity; you begin to think you actually are a sophisticate, a man of the world. You start to be ashamed of the instincts that got you where you are, because they’re part of an embarrassing history. That’s what happened to me. I lost any sense of what I was.
“Well, I think it’s time the thief had his say again: time I started to use his eyes, his instinct. You taught me that, though Christ knows you weren’t aware of it.”
“Me?”
“We’re the same. Don’t you see? Both thieves. Both victims.”
The self-pity in Whitehead’s pronouncement was too much. “You can’t tell me you’re a victim,” Marty said, “the way you’ve lived.”
“What do you know about my feelings?” Whitehead snapped back. “Don’t presume, you hear me? Don’t think you understand because you don’t! He took everything away from me; everything! First Evangeline, then Toy, now Cans. Don’t tell me whether I’ve suffered or not!”
“What do you mean, he took Evangeline? I thought she died in an accident?”
Whitehead shook his head. “There’s a limit to what I can tell you,” he said. “Some things I can’t express. Never will.” The voice was ashen. Marty let the point go, and moved on.
“You said he came back twice.”
“That’s right. He came again, a year or two after his first visit. Evangeline wasn’t at home that night. It was November. Toy answered the door, I remember, and though I hadn’t heard Mamoulian’s voice I knew it was him. I went into the hallway. He was standing on the step, in the porch light. It was drizzling. I can see him now, the way his eyes found me. ‘Am I welcome?’ he said. Just stood there and said ‘Am I welcome?’
“I don’t know why, but I let him in. He didn’t look in bad shape. Maybe I thought he’d come to apologize, I can’t remember. Even then I would have been friends with him, if he’d offered. Not on the old basis. As business acquaintances, perhaps. I let my defenses down. We started talking about the past together—” Whitehead chewed the memory over, trying to get a better taste of it, “and then he started to tell me how lonely he was, how he needed my companionship. I told him Warsaw was a long time gone. I was a married man, a pillar of the community, and I had no intention of changing my ways. He started to get abusive: accused me of ingratitude. Said I’d cheated him. Broken the covenant between us. I told him there’d never been a covenant, I’d just won a game of cards once, in a distant city, and as a result, he’d chosen to help me, for his own reasons. I said I felt I’d acceded to his demands sufficiently to feel that any debt to him had been paid. He’d shared my house, my friends, my life for a decade: everything that I had, had been his to share. ‘It’s not enough,’ he said, and he began again: the same pleas as before, the same demands that I give up this pretense to respectability and go off somewhere with him, be a wanderer, be his pupil, learn new, terrible lessons about the way of the world. And I have to say he made it sound almost attractive. There were times when I tired of the masquerade; when I smelled war, dirt; when I saw the clouds over Warsaw, and I was homesick for the thief I used to be. But I wasn’t going to throw everything away for nostalgia’s sake. I told him so. I think he must have known I was immovable, because he became desperate. He started to ramble, started to tell me he was frightened without me, lost. I was the one he’d given years of his life and his energies to, and how could I be so callous and unloving? He laid hands on me, wept, tried to paw my face. I was horrified by the whole thing. He disgusted me with his melodrama; I wanted no part of it, or him. But he wouldn’t leave. His demands turned into threats, and I suppose I lost my temper. No suppose about it. I’ve never been so angry. I wanted an end to him and all he stood for: my grubby past. I hit him. Not hard at first, but when he wouldn’t stop staring at me I lost control. He didn’t make any attempt to defend himself, and his passivity only inflamed me more. I hit him and hit him, and he just took it. Kept
offering up his face to be beaten—” He took a trembling breath. “God knows I’ve done worse things. But nothing I feel so ashamed of. I didn’t stop ‘til my knuckles began to split. Then I gave him to Toy, who really worked him over. And all the time not a peep out of him. I go cold to think about it. I can still see him against the wall, with Bill at his throat and his eyes not looking at where the next blow was coming from but at me. Just at me.
“I remember he said: ‘Do you know what you’ve done?’ Just like that. Very quietly, blood coming out with the words.
“Then something happened. The air got thick. The blood on his face started to crawl around like it was alive. Toy let him go. He slid down the wall; left a smear down it. I thought we’d killed him. It was the worst moment of my life, standing here with Toy, both of us staring down at this bag of bones we’d beaten up. That was our mistake of course. We should never have backed down. We should have finished it then and there, and killed him.”
“Jesus.”
“Yes! Stupid, not to have finished it. Bill was loyal: there would have been no comeback. But we didn’t have the courage. I didn’t have the courage. I just made Toy clean Mamoulian up, then drive him to the middle of the city and dump him.”
“You wouldn’t have killed him,” Marty said.
“Still you insist on reading my mind,” Whitehead replied, wearily. “Don’t you see that’s what he wanted. What he’d come for? He would have let me be his executioner then, if I’d only had the nerve to follow through. He was sick of life. I could have put him out of his misery, and that would have been the end of it.”
“You think he’s mortal?”
“Everything has its season. His is past. He knows it.”
“So all you need do is wait, right? He’ll die, given time.” Marty was suddenly sick of the story now; of thieves, of chance. The whole sorry tale, true or untrue, repulsed him. “You don’t need me anymore,” he said. He stood, and crossed to the door. The sound of his feet in the glass was too loud in the small room.
“Where are you going?” the old man wanted to know.