cb.damnationgame-第11节

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　　〃It's　a　bit　bare　at　the　moment；〃　said　Toy。　〃So　do　whatever　you　want　with　it。　If　you've　got　photographs…〃　〃Not　really。〃　〃Well；　we　ought　to　get　something　on　the　walls。　There　are　some　books〃…he　nodded　to　the　far　end　of　the　room；　where　several　shelves　groaned　under　a　weight　of　volumes…〃but　the　library　downstairs　is　at　your　disposal。　I'll　show　you　the　layout　sometime　next　week；　when　you've　settled　in。　There's　a　video　up　here；　too；　and　another　downstairs。　Again；　Joe　doesn't　really　have　much　interest　in　it；　so　help　yourself。〃　〃Sounds　good。〃　〃There's　a　small　dressing　room　through　to　the　left。　As　Joe　said；　you'll　find　some　fresh　clothes　in　there。　Your　bathroom　is　through　the　other　door。　Shower　and　so　on。　And　I　think　that's　it。　I　hope　it's　adequate。〃　〃It's　fine；〃　Marty　said。　Toy　glanced　at　his　watch　and　turned　to　leave。
　　〃Just　before　you　go　。　。　。〃　〃Problem？〃　〃No　problem；〃　Marty　said。　〃Jesus；　no　problem　at　all。　I　just　want　you　to　know　I'm　grateful…〃　〃No　need。〃　〃But　I　am；〃　Marty　insisted；　he'd　been　trying　to　find　a　cue　for　this　speech　since　Trinity　Road。　〃I'm　very　grateful。　I　don't　know　how　or　why　you　chose　me…but　I　appreciate　it。〃　Toy　was　mildly　disforted　by　this　show　of　feeling；　but　Marty　was　glad　to　have　it　said。
　　〃Believe　me；　Marty。　I　wouldn't　have　chosen　you　if　I　didn't　think　you　could　do　the　job。　You're　here　now。　It's　up　to　you　to　make　the　best　of　it。　I'm　going　to　be　around；　of　course；　but　after　this　you're　more　or　less　your　own　man。〃　〃Yes。　I　realize　that。〃　〃I'll　leave　you　then。　See　you　at　the　beginning　of　the　week。　Pearl's　left　food　out　for　you　in　the　kitchen；　by　the　way。　Goodnight。〃　〃Goodnight。〃　Toy　left　him　alone。　He　sat　down　on　the　bed　and　opened　his　suitcase。　The　badly　packed　clothes　smelled　of　prison　detergent；　and　he　didn't　want　to　take　them　out。　Instead　he　dug　down　to　the　bottom　of　the　case　until　his　hands　found　his　razor　and　shaving　foam。　Then　he　undressed；　slung　his　stale　clothes　on　the　floor；　and　went　into　the　bathroom。
　　It　was　spacious；　mirrored；　and　seductively　lit。　Freshly　laundered　towels　hung　on　a　heated　rack。　There　was　a　shower　as　well　as　a　bath　and　a　bidet：　an　embarrassment　of　waterworks。　Whatever　else　happened　to　him　here；　he'd　be　clean。　He　switched　on　the　mirror　light　and　set　the　shaving　implements　down　on　the　glass　shelf　above　the　sink。　He　needn't　have　bothered　with　his　search。　Toy；　or　perhaps　Luther；　had　laid　a　plete　shaving　kit　out　for　him；　razor；　preshave；　foam；　cologne。　All　unopened；　pristine：　waiting　for　him。　He　looked　at　himself　in　the　mirror…that　intimate　self…scrutiny　which　was　expected　of　women　but　which　men　seldom　practiced　except　in　locked　bathrooms。　The　anxieties　of　the　day　showed　on　his　face：　his　skin　was　anemic；　and　the　bags　under　his　eyes　full。　Like　a　man　searching　for　some　treasure；　he　plundered　his　face　for　clues。　Was　his　past　written　here；　he　wondered；　in　all　its　grubby　detail；　etched；　perhaps；　too　deeply　to　be　erased？
　　He　needed　some　sun；　no　doubt　of　that；　and　decent　exercise　out　in　the　open　air。　From　tomorrow；　he　thought；　a　new　regime。　He'd　run　every　day　till　he　was　so　fit　he　was　unrecognizable。　Get　himself　to　a　proper　dentist　too。　His　gums　bled　worryingly　often；　and　in　one　or　two　places　they　were　receding　from　the　tooth。　He　was　proud　of　his　teeth：　they　were　even　and　strong；　like　his　mother's。　He　tried　his　smile　on　the　mirror；　but　it　had　lost　some　of　its　former　sparkle。　He'd　have　to　exercise　that　too。　He　was　in　the　big　wide　world　again；　and　maybe　in　time　there'd　be　women　to　woo　with　that　smile。
　　His　surveillance　shifted　from　face　to　body。　A　wedge　of　fat　was　sitting　on　the　muscle　of　his　abdomen：　he　was　easily　a　stone　overweight。　He'd　have　to　work　at　that。　Watch　his　diet；　and　keep　the　exercise　up　until　he　was　back　to　the　twelve　stone　three　he'd　been　when　he　first　went　to　Wandsworth。　The　extra　weight　apart；　he　felt　quite　good　about　himself。　Maybe　the　warm　light　flattered　him；　but　prison　didn't　seem　to　have　changed　him　radically。　He　still　had　all　his　hair；　he　wasn't　scarred…except　for　the　tattoos；　and　a　small　crescent　to　the　left　of　his　mouth；　he　wasn't　doped　up　to　the　eyeballs。　Maybe　he　was　a　survivor　after　all。
　　His　hand　had　crept　to　his　groin　as　he　perused　himself；　and　he'd　idly　teased　himself　semierect。　He　hadn't　been　thinking　of　Charmaine。　If　there　was　any　lust　in　his　arousal　it　was　narcissistic。　Many　of　the　cons　he'd　lived　with　had　found　it　easy　to　slake　their　sexual　thirst　with　their　cellmates；　but　Marty　had　never　been　fortable　with　the　idea。　Not　simply　out　of　distaste　for　the　acts…though　he　felt　that　acutely…but　because　that　unnaturalness　was　forced　upon　him。　It　was　just　another　way　that　prison　humiliated　a　man。　Instead；　he'd　locked　his　sexuality　away；　and　used　his　cock　for　pissing　and　little　else。　Now；　toying　with　it　like　a　vain　adolescent；　he　wondered　if　he　could　still　use　the　damn　thing。
　　He　ran　the　shower　lukewarm　and　stepped　in；　slicking　himself　down　from　head　to　foot　with　lemon…scented　soap。　In　a　day　of　pleasures　this　was　perhaps　the　best。　The　water　was　stimulating；　like　standing　in　a　spring　rain。　His　body　began　to　wake。　Yes；　that　was　it；　he　thought：　I've　been　dead；　and　I'm　ing　back　to　life。　He'd　been　buried　in　the　asshole　of　the　world；　a　hole　so　deep　he　thought　he'd　never　scramble　out　of　it；　but　he　had；　damn　it。　He　was　out。　He　rinsed；　and　then　indulged　himself　with　a　repeat　of　the　ritual；　this　time　running　the　water　considerably　hotter　and　harder。　The　bathroom　filled　with　steam　and　the　slap　of　the　water　on　the　shower　tiles。
　　When　he　stepped　out　and　turned　the　flow　off；　his　head　buzzed　with　heat；　whisky　and　fatigue。　He　moved　to　the　mirror　and　cleared　an　oval　in　the　condensation　with　the　ball　of　his　fist。　The　water　had　brought　new　color　to　his　cheeks。　His　hair　was　plastered　to　his　head　like　a　brown…blond　skullcap。　He'd　let　it　grow；　he　thought；　as　long　as　Whitehead　didn't　object；　get　it　styled　perhaps。　But　there　was　more　pressing　business　now；　the　removal　of　the　condemned　mustache。　He　wasn't　particularly　hirsute。　The　mustache　had　taken　him　several　weeks　to　grow；　and　he'd　had　to　tolerate　the　usual　run　of　witless　remarks　while　he　was　doing　it。　But　if　the　boss　man　wanted　him　barefaced；　who　was　he　to　argue？　Whitehead's　opinion　on　the　matter　had　sounded　more　like　an　order　than　a　suggestion。
　　Despite　the　well…supplied　cabinet　in　the　bathroom　（everything　from　aspirin　to　crab…killing　preparations）；　there　were　no　scissors；　and　he　had　to　soap　the　hairs　thoroughly　to　soften　them　and　then　go　at　them　directly　with　the　razor。　The　blade　protested；　and　so　did　his　skin；　but　stroke　by　stroke　his　upper　lip　came　back　into　view；　the　hard…earned　mustache　hitting　the　sink　in　a　slop　of　suds；　only　to　be　sucked　away　down　the　drain。　It　took　him　half　an　hour　to　do　the　job　to　his　satisfaction。　He　nicked　himself　in　two　or　three　places；　and　sealed　the　cuts　as　best　he　could　with　spit。
　　By　the　time　he'd　finished　the　steam　had　cleared　from　the　bathroom；　and　only　patches　of　mist　marred　his　reflection。　He　looked　at　his　face　in　the　mirror。　His　naked　upper　lip　was　pink　and　vulnerable；　and　the　groove　at　its　center　curiously　overperfect　in　its　formation；　but　his　sudden　nudity　wasn't　such　a　bad　sight。
　　Content；　he　sluiced　the　remains　of　his　mustache　from　the　sides　of　the　sink；　wrapped　a　towel　about　his　middle　and　sauntered　back　into　the　bedroom。　In　the　centrally　heated　warmth　of　the　house；　he　was　practically　dry：　no　need　for　toweling。　Weariness　and　hunger　fought　in　him　as　he　sat　on　the　edge　of　the　bed。　There　was　food　downstairs　for　him；　or　so　Toy　had　said。　Well；　maybe　he'd　just　lie　back　on　this　virginal　sheet；　head　on　the　scented　pillow；　and　close　his　eyes　for　half　an　hour；　then　get　up　and　wander　down　to　eat　supper。　He　slung　off　the　towel　and　lay　on　the　bed；　half…pulling　the　duvet　over　him；　and　in　the　act　of　doing　so；　fell　asleep。　There　were　no　dreams；　or　if　there　were　he　slept　too　securely　to　remember　them。
　　It　was　morning　in　moments。
　　
　　13
　　If　he　had　forgotten　the　geography　of　the　house　from　his　brief　tour　the　previous　night；　it　took　only　a　sense　of　smell　to　lead　him　back　to　the　kitchen。　Bacon　was　frying；　fresh　coffee　was　being　perked。　At　the　stove　stood　a　redhaired　woman。　She　turned　from　her　work　and　nodded。
　　〃You　must　be　Martin；〃　she　said；　her　voice　carried　a　faint　Irish　inflection。　〃You're　up　late。〃　He　looked　at　the　clock　on　the　wall。　It　was　a　few　minutes　past　seven。
　　〃You've　got　a　fine　morning　to　start。〃　The　back　door　was　open；　he　crossed　the　expanse　of　the　kitchen　to　survey　the　day。　It　was　fine；　another　clear　sky。　Frost　sugared　the　lawn。　In　the　misted　distance　he　could　see　what　looked　like　tennis　courts；　and　beyond　them；　a　stand　of　trees。
　　〃I'm　Pearl；　by　the　way；〃　the　woman　announced。　〃I　cook　for　Mr。　Whitehead。　Hungry；　are　you？〃　〃I　am　now　I'm　down　here。〃　〃We　believe　in　breakfast　here。　Something　to　set　you　up　for　the　day。〃　She　was　busy　transferring　bacon　from　the　frying　pan　on　the　stove　to　the　oven。　The　work　surface　beside　the　hob　was　littered　with　food：　tomatoes；　sausages；　slices　of　black　pudding。　〃There's　coffee　on　the　side　there。　Help　yourself。〃　The　percolator　burped　and　fizzed　as　he　poured　himself　a　mug　of　coffee；　the　same　dark　but　fragrant　roast　he'd　tasted　the　night　before。
　　〃You'll　have　to　get　used　to　using　the　kitchen　when　I'm　not　here。　I　don't