Bad Dreams (15 page)

Then, he came into the room. The Monster. But he could not be the Monster. He could not…

‘…HEAD!’

The Monster parted the circle of people, and took Nina from Jeane Russell. No, not the Monster. Just a man. He held Nina. Everyone shut up, except the girl. The man stroked her face and hair, soothed her whimpering, kissed her bruises, shushed in her ear. No one interfered.

‘Mr Skinner…’ Amelia’s sentence trailed off into empty air. The man had looked at her, and shut her up.

Skinner. Anne had heard of him, and not just from Nina. One of the guests had been talking about him. He was supposed to be someone you were afraid of. She could understand that.

Of course, he was not the Monster. He was not Hugh Farnham.

Actually, the resemblance was minimal. He was a big man too, and his face had that same patched-together lizardy look. But that didn’t make him Hugh Farnham. He was conservatively dressed, in a dark, three-piece business suit. He wore a tarnished gold watch chain across his waistcoat. He had a dark, fur-collared coat draped like a cloak over his shoulders.

He included Nina in his coat, an angel wrapping a child in its wings. He looked at Anne, smiling slightly, then at everyone else. He spoke, in accentless English.

‘A specimen, I suppose. Of what, though? Vice unrewarded?’

‘Mr Skinner,’ said Clive, ‘we…’

‘Yes. I know. You were playing. Just playing. You know I don’t like you to play games without me, but you went ahead regardless. You know you need your Games Master. Without me, you do crude, unimaginative things like this…’

He showed them Nina’s face, lowering his fur collar away from it. She was empty, used up.

‘You don’t understand pain. You can’t appreciate it. You let nasty little personal grudges creep in, and you taint the experience. You have to go beyond that, transcend revenge and pique and cruelty and cowardice. Pain is of and for itself alone. I’ve told you this before, but you are a small-minded lot, really. I despair of you.’

Anne looked around her. The guests were completely cowed, like golden calf worshippers contemplating shards of Moses’ broken tablets. This was astonishing. Skinner released Nina from his protection and set her down in an armchair. She allowed herself to be posed like a mannequin, but drew in on herself when he let her go.

Anne had met presidents without a tenth of what Skinner was using. And she knew that he was barely stretching himself. These were just make-believe decadents.

‘She was bothering us,’ said Clive, almost whining. ‘She wanted…’

‘Yes.’ Skinner paused. ‘What did she want? What did she want that you have but wouldn’t give her?’

Clive did not want to answer.

‘The drug?’

Clive swallowed. ‘Yes, she never paid…’

‘Never. I think not, Clive, but let that pass. Heroin is interesting stuff. You supply only the finest, don’t you…’

Someone made a joke Anne did not get, ‘…only the best, because graded grains make finer flour…’

And Daeve said, ‘Heroin, it’s what your right arm’s for.’

There was only one sceptic in the crowd. Toby Farrar. It was his first ‘entertainment’, Anne remembered. He had not learned the applicable procedures yet. He stepped forward.

‘Who the fuck are you, fruitbat?’

He pulled at Skinner’s empty coat sleeve. The expensive item slithered off his back like a shed snakeskin. It fell to the floor. Skinner’s shoulders expanded. He grew taller.

The circle reformed, around Skinner and Farrar. Anne was part of it now, with Derek Douane on one side, and Jeane Russell on the other. Should they join hands?

Farrar knew what he had got into now, and stood to attention. He was still holding the coat sleeve. Skinner prowled around the man, his head in close like a drill sergeant chewing out a quivering private.

‘Who the fuck am I, friend? I’m just another fruitbat, Major Farrar.’ His head bobbed independent of his body. ‘No one at all really.’

Skinner raised his hand to Farrar’s face, and put his thumb in the officer’s left eye. He pressed, just hard enough, and drew back from the falling man.

Farrar swore, and got up, holding his hand over his face like an eyepatch. Red tears stained his cheek. The hand came away bloody. He had not lost the eye, but the upper lid was neatly sliced. Toby Farrar’s wife would think he had been in the wars.

‘Clive, what is your complaint against this girl?’

‘Credit… she wanted credit…’

‘And?’

‘…and that’s not the way… not the way I do business.’

‘Of course not. You all know Clive Broome, don’t you? He’s an honest businessman. His terms are hard, but equitable. Cash for drugs.’ Clive winced. ‘Or cash for sex. Cash for pain. Cash for anything, really. Anything you want. He provides quite a service.’

Someone muttered, ‘…the swindling bastard!’ It was the man who had first joined in when Clive started on Nina. Obviously, he wanted to see blood, and didn’t much care whose it was.

Now Clive was in the circle with Skinner. Farrar was back with the rest, holding a handkerchief to his eye. He had been converted.

Anne did not like Clive, did not care what happened to him. If he had had anything to do with the way Judi died, then she wanted him to suffer as much as possible. Did that make her the same as Amelia as the others?

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I told you, Clive. I’m disappointed. You are promising. But you don’t have a philosophy. You don’t have purity.’

Skinner put a hand on Clive’s shoulder. Anne knew he was not disappointed or annoyed or anything. He was just playing. He was just hurting people for his own amusement.

Or maybe there was more to it?

‘What do you want from me?’ Skinner asked everyone. ‘What do you want from your Games Master?’

There was quiet.

‘Do you want to be entertained? Do you want to be hurt? Or do you want to learn? Do you even know what you want? You must want something, or else you are nothing. Nothing at all.’

He stood by Nina. She was curled up in her chair, head down, coughing a little.

‘This girl, Nina. You want to see this girl suffer? You want to see this girl hurt? To see this girl hurt herself? You want to see… to feel… what?’

It was Amelia who came forward. She was the representative.

‘Yes, Mr Skinner,’ she said, ‘take her. Then show us something. Show us something we will never forget. Help us know ourselves.’

‘Very well. Clive?’

‘Yes.’

‘Give me some heroin please.’

‘What?’

‘Heroin.’

‘But…’

‘I think you can trust everyone here. They all know what you do for a living.’

Clive searched his pockets, as if looking for a train ticket. Someone laughed. It was obvious he did not have pockets full of drugs.

‘You have some, of course?’

‘My car…’

‘Yes. The compartment under the passenger seat in the front, right? Very clever. The keys please.’

Clive fished them out of a pocket, and handed them over. Skinner looked around, and picked his man.

‘Major Farrar?’

Farrar came forward. He was not in pain now, but he still had a red tear of blood on one cheek. He looked like a lopsided clown.

‘It’s the BMW. You’ll have to peel back the carpet. It should be easy. Clive?’

‘It’s in a Malteser box.’

‘Good. You understand, Major? Bring the heroin here.’

Farrar knew how to obey an order. Skinner crouched in front of Nina.

‘Now you’ll get what you want. I’ll look after you.’

She shrank in her seat. Again, Anne felt she ought to do something but could not think of anything.

They all stood around in silence. The computer salesman suggested they play ‘Twenty Questions’ or ‘I Spy’, but a glance from Skinner shut him up.

Farrar came back with a small boxful of heroin. Skinner picked out three sachets.

‘That’s too much,’ said Clive, ‘she might…’

‘So?’

The dealer almost smiled, and visibly relaxed. He was out of the circle. Nina was in it again.

Skinner gave Nina’s handbag to Amelia. She emptied it on the floor, and picked out the junkie kit. Bent sugar spoon, a length of rubber tubing, and hypodermic needle. She dumped them on the arm of Nina’s chair. The syringe was a proper hospital model, not a disposable pipette.

Skinner laid out the sachets in a row next to the kit. Nina was too far gone, too traumatized, to pay any attention. Even heroin could not reach her.

‘Clive,’ said Skinner, ‘do the honours.’

‘I’m not very good at this. I just sell it, I don’t use it.’

‘Very wise, I’m sure. But you must be familiar with the business end.’

‘Yes. I’ll need a bigger spoon.’

Amelia handed him something from a silver service. He examined it. It was unusual, a dinner-size replica of a teaspoon, with a carved apostle at the end of the handle.

Clive spilled some of the powder as he heaped it in the spoon, and could not hold it steady over his lighter flame, but finally he got it liquefied. The spoon would be ruined.

‘It’s a good idea to mix it with citric acid,’ he said. Nobody offered him a lemon slice from their Perrier.

Amelia rolled up Nina’s torn sleeve and tied the tourniquet tight around her upper arm. Veins stood out bluish against pale skin. Anne saw the beginnings of tracks. Nina was still pliable, uninterested in her situation. Clive drew the heroin into the syringe, filling it to capacity.

‘She’ll overdose,’ he warned.

‘Not if she’s strong enough,’ said Skinner. ‘Give it to her. She doesn’t have to use it. The decision is hers.’ Nina bent and unbent her bare arm. She looked around. She was coming back.

‘Clive…’

‘I’m here, Nina. Here’s your smack. It’s all right now, all right.’

‘Uh?’

‘You don’t have to pay. It’s all been taken care of. Now, be a good girl and take your medicine.’

He put the syringe in her hand. It rolled in her fingers, but she quickly got a hold on it. She smiled.

‘Nina, it’s up to you,’ said Skinner.

‘Nina,’ said Anne, ‘don’t…’

Skinner swivelled to look at her. His eyes were nothing special, but he was fearsome. Perhaps he was the Monster?

‘Don’t what?’ he said, smiling.

‘…don’t…’ Anne tried to say.

‘Don’t
die
?’

‘…no… yes…’

‘It’s up to her, isn’t it?’

Anne could not say anything. Skinner was looking at her, and she felt a caress of terror. Was she to be next in the circle? The Games Master was taking an elaborately casual interest in her. After a long moment, he turned away, and paid attention to the current victim.

Nina held the syringe properly now. A drop appeared at the tip of the needle. No air bubbles. She looked at the others, she looked at the syringe, she looked at Anne.

‘Don’t… please.’

Nina broke. She erupted out of her chair, yelling, and charged for the door. She shouldered her way between Anne and Derek. The child, laughing, fell over. Anne was jolted, but Jeane Russell held her up with a painful grip.

Nina was out of the door, and the syringe gone with her. The cry receded, and her clattering footsteps became distant. She had gone upstairs. Nobody moved.

It was a big house. Anne knew Nina could easily find a place to kill herself in private. Poor thing.

‘Clive,’ said Skinner, ‘you, and this girl – Anne, isn’t it? – you go and bring Nina back. Stop her from wasting herself if you can. It’s important. We’ll keep the party going while you’re gone.’

Clive knew enough to do what he was told. He took Anne’s arm and dragged her out into the hallway, towards the stairs. She did not fight.

Inside, she was cold.

The Games Master knew her name. Skinner knew who she was.

H
e did not know why but, upstairs, Amelia’s house reminded him of a jungle. It was remarkably clean and well-maintained, and all the lights worked but Clive felt as if he ought to be wearing a pith helmet, and carrying a hunting rifle that could bring down a charging rhino at fifty paces. With the American girl as a bearer, and that dopey cunt Nina as rogue quarry, this was a skew-whiff safari.

Every time he had been led through the house previously, it had been different. The mix of the original architect’s unusual commitment to the concept of asymmetry, the previous inhabitants’ rabid fetish for amassing ridiculous quantities of Victorian bric-à-brac and ’30s kitsch, and Amelia’s own declared desire to keep her environment in a state of constant flux had turned the place into a confused and confusing labyrinth.

‘We’ll never find her,’ he told the girl, Anne. ‘Let’s just hang about out of earshot for a few minutes and go back.’

She looked at him in a queer, incisive way he did not like at all. He wondered who the fuck she was.

‘I don’t think that guy Skinner would like that.’

‘So?’

‘So you’re scared of him. All of you are.’

‘That’s not true.’

It was not true. Was it? Mr Skinner was weird, unpredictably dangerous, even, but he was just…

Just what?

If anything, Mr Skinner should be scared of him. After what Clive had done for him, he would be forever in his debt. In his power.

‘I can handle Mr Skinner.’

‘Yeah,’ she said, unconvinced, ‘right.’

‘Let’s try and find the second floor. The lights are on up there.’

‘This is the second floor.’

‘Not in England.’

‘Oh yes, you people have to have a nothingth floor.’

There was something about the girl. She was not a loser, like Nina, or a sickie, like Amelia. She was sharp. Clive had got so used to being able to fool everyone in this circle that he was unnerved by her obvious clear-sightedness. The rest were wrapped up in a fog, from drugs or cracked minds, but Anne knew exactly what was going on.

Of course, there were some things she could not know about.

She had got him on Mr Skinner, though. Really, he had to admit that the man scared him. Clive liked to hurt people as much as the next person, felt the need to confirm his power over others, but Mr Skinner was a specialist, an expert. He could hurt capriciously, pointlessly, even against his own interests…

Like now. Mr Skinner needed Clive, and yet he was punishing him, making a great show of his obsolescence. This search party was crazy.