Players at the Game of People (13 page)

He felt, and knew, that he was damned.
It was very much worse than the pangs of punishment. It divorced him
from his body, from his essence, from any semblance of anything he might
believe in as reality.
It went on and on, as though he had been flung aside and then forgotten.
He came to himself feeling that he had rather been possessed than
rewarded. He ached dreadfully; he was very cold; his belly was sour and
his head throbbed and he had clenched his hands into suffering fists
for so long, his nails felt as though they had begun to grow into his
palms. He fought with all his feeble force to avoid thinking of it, but
he was inexorably reminded of the days -- so far in the past, it was
like trying to remember with someone else's brain, yet simultaneously
it was as real as yesterday -- when this was his ordinary state on waking.
He wanted to weep, but his eyes were obstinately dry. Instead he undertook
the terrible effort first of unfolding his fingers, then of turning into
a sitting position on the edge of the bed to look about him.
Beyond the window he saw bright sunlight and blue sky with a few scudding
clouds. But the room, inactive, looked gray and dingy and neglected. One
of the taps over the cracked sink was dripping for want of a new washer,
and had left an iron-brown stain on the china. The mirror above was
fly-specked with age. A spider had woven a complex web from the towel
rail to the corner of the shower cabinet.
It would have taken only a slight effort to turn the room on again,
but he was either too weak or too full of self-loathing to make the
necessary decision. He hoped it was only the former. He had been lying
still for a long, long while. His face and hands felt positively dusty,
paralleling the foulness in his memory.
Eventually he was able to do something about his predicament. Regardless
of complaints from all his muscles, he forced himself to his feet,
stripped off his clothes, and stepped into the shower. The water was cold
and the soap had turned to a jellied mess in its dish, but he found
paradoxical relief in inflicting punishment on himself. He rubbed down
with a greasy and overused towel and scrubbed his teeth until his gums
bled, but felt he had made some sort of expiation when he turned at last
to the wardrobe, planning to dress, get out of here, and find something to
eat. He never kept provisions at home, and if he had had any, they would
be spoiled by this time, and besides -- perhaps for the same indefinable
reason he didn't care to switch on the room -- he wanted something plain
and dull and crude, like sandwiches of greasy bacon between doorsteps
of bread washed down with hot, sweet tea.
The wardrobe, naturally, was empty. He had nothing to put on except what
he had taken off: stylish, lightweight, uncomfortable, designed for a
single wearing. In particular the shoes hurt his feet.
But he had to dress.
Reluctantly he did so, and slipped out of his room like a cautious burglar.
TV noise came from below, but there was nobody in sight. He made it to the
street, though afraid the nausea churning in his belly might provoke a fit
of vomiting . . . if there was anything to vomit.
Just as he was drawing the front door shut behind him, he noticed the
Urraco and remembered with a shock that he had been compelled to park it
here instead of at his usual garage. But he had no time to worry about
it at present. It looked all right -- hadn't been splashed with paint
or acid, or broken into, or had its tires slashed -- and that would have
to do for the time being. He turned the other way.
At precisely that moment another car which he had not spotted, or at
any rate not paid attention to, pulled to a halt a couple of yards ahead
of him and a man with a brown mustache, wearing an old-fashioned khaki
raincoat, emerged from it and confronted him. Simultaneously another
man, younger, in a blue sweater and jeans, got out by the rear door and
warily approached, while the driver muttered something into a hand-held
microphone.
"Chief Inspector Roadstone," the man in the raincoat said, flashing
a warrant card. "I have reason to believe your name is Godfrey Harper
and that car there, the Lamborghini, belongs to you. I want to ask you
a few questions."
For a moment Godwin was at a total loss. His head swam. Of all the times
for something like this to happen . . . ! And it had been so long since
the last occasion, too, that he had half forgotten the knack of dealing
with such problems.
Except he hadn't. Seconds later the flex came back to him, the technique
which he had learned from Ambrose Farr longer ago than he could recall.
Experience had taught him to avoid it, for it was invariably tiring,
but now it seemed he had no alternative. He was out on the open street,
and -- the message about the intrusion of police having spread like magic
-- being stared at by half a hundred people, some on the pavement, some
leaning out of windows. Besides, insofar as such a person existed at all,
he was indeed Godfrey Harper; it was convenient to have an alias when
it came to such things as registering a car on which no taxes had ever
been paid.
The question stood, though: was he strong enough in his present state
to work the flex?
Sweating, trembling, he concluded he must find out the hard way.
Summoning all his remaining resources, fighting the nausea which
threatened to overwhelm him at any moment, focusing his attention on
all three of the policemen but unable to cope with the bystanders
and obliged to leave them to chance, he said in a peculiarly soft,
wheedling tone, "There is no such person as Godfrey Harper. I am not
Godfrey Harper. Nobody is Godfrey Harper. That car is mine. It belongs
to me. It is legitimately mine. You have come here on a wild-goose
chase. There was no point in coming here. When you get back to your
police station you will enter these facts in your official report. You
will go back to the police station right away and report that it was a
false alarm that brought you here and it was all a waste of time. You
will make an entry in PNC to ensure that in future nobody will waste
time checking Godfrey Harper because Godfrey Harper does not exist."
His voice was on the edge of breaking, so intense was his concentration,
but he recognized the working of the flex: the three men were relaxing,
nodding to one another, beginning to smile.
Eventually Roadstone said with a shrug, "Sorry to have wasted your time,
sir. But I'm sure you realize we get these malicious calls occasionally,
and we have to investigate. We'll head straight back to the Yard and
make sure no one else bothers you unnecessarily."
"That's quite all right -- I understand."
"Good morning!"
"Good morning to
you
."
He forced an affable smile and stood watching while they returned to
the car and drove away. Then, and only then, he let go a colossal gasp
of relief. His nausea had vanished with the successful deployment of
the flex, but now he was so hungry he felt afraid of fainting; also he
craved great mugfuls of that sweet and scalding tea he had previously
only thought wistfully about. Now it had become like an obsession, and
the nearest place he could be sure of finding it was a squalid little
caff, stinking of burned fat, within two or three minutes' fast walk of
here. He was poised to take the first step . . .
When he realized that watching him from shadow beside what had been
the handsome front porch of a house on the far side of the street and
was now boarded in to make more or less weatherproof accommodation for
stray children the landlord had taken pity on, stood the blond woman he
had seen talking to the commissionaire outside the Global Hotel.
The one he thought he recognized against all odds.
The one he was certain had recognized him.
For a frozen second they stared at one another. But this encounter made
no more sense than the other. She remained as still as though he had
exercised the flex on her. But he had not, and very definitely he now
could not; he had squandered all his energy on the three policemen.
Godwin realized with sick horror that he must do something he had not
done for ages.
Trust to luck.
Though the sky was bright and the sun was shining, the air today was chill.
With violent abruptness he turned up his jacket collar and strode off toward
the sanctuary of the caff, not looking back to see what the woman did.
As he went he found he was shivering more fiercely than the edge on the
wind could explain.
In the entrance of the caff a one-legged man in a greasy black overcoat
was standing guard. He had two crutches: with one he kept his balance;
with the other -- and a volley of curses -- he kept at bay the usual
horde of lousy and shivering urchins. Now and then he also drove away
an adult, if he or she looked particularly dirty, shabby, or sick.
He seemed for a moment minded to challenge Godwin, but by the standards
of this area he was finely dressed, and despite his unshaven face with
dark rings under the eyes he looked in exceptionally good health. Such a
one was certain to have enough money to pay for what he ordered, though
naturally it was a mystery what he was doing here.
Relieved, Godwin stepped over the threshold into relative warmth,
only to realize with a wrenching shock as he took his place in line at
the counter that in fact he did not have any money, or at any rate no
cash. He had grown accustomed to tossing change at beggars to disperse
them, and his pockets were empty except for his wallet.
But there were credit-card stickers on the electronic cash register
which was the only new and smart thing about the place, and his heart
ceased to pound. He ordered the sausage-and-bacon sandwich which he had
been craving, and the mug of tea, and proffered his cards like a poker
hand, noticing with vague interest that the indicated limit on each had
risen to a thousand pounds. He scrawled a signature that more or less
matched the one on the card which the weary-faced proprietress selected,
and turned away with his laden tray in search of somewhere to sit down.
The clientele of the caff was divided into four recognizably separate
groups. Nearest the door, where they were most easily got rid of if
occasion arose, there were ill-clad elderly men and women with greasy
lank gray hair, doing their utmost to make one mug of tea last all
day, not speaking among themselves but occasionally passing a precious
cigarette. Behind them, sharing a mound of steak-and-kidney pies, sat
six or seven flash young street people doubtless blowing the proceeds of
a successful dip or mugging, since they could not possibly have afforded
so much meat otherwise. Beyond them again were a cluster of respectable
clerkly men and women, mostly in early middle age, with the dull look of
disillusionment on their faces which characterized out-of-work computer
programmers and the like, pretending that it was no more than sensible
economy which persuaded them to lunch here off a wedge of cheese, a bread
roll, and a glass of water. Two or three had, on cheekbones or wrists,
the long-lasting subcutaneous hemorrhages indicative of scurvy.
The atmosphere of the place, quite apart from the stench of overused
frying oil which pervaded it, came close to making Godwin turn back to
the counter and ask for his food and drink to be transferred into takeaway
packs. But there was a kind of buffer zone at the rear of the caff, beyond
the clerkly ones, where a whole rank of vacant seats divided the mere
customers from the permanent occupants: all men, all prosperous-looking,
one of them presumably the husband of the tired and snappish woman at
the counter, smoking cigars and passing an illegal bottle of whisky
-- this place hadd no liquor license. They exuded the calm security
of people in control. One of them, recognizing the expensive cut of
Godwin's clothes, deigned to give a curt nod toward the vacant row,
according him permission to sit there, as though because from him at
least it was improbable he and his companions would contract fleas.
Grateful, though at a loss, Godwin complied and wolfed down his meal.
The men nearby said nothing he could hear, yet it was plain there was
communication going on. They appeared to be waiting for something to
happen, but in no hurry for it.
After a while, as the food made a hot mass in his belly, his sluggish
mind revived. Little by little he realized with dismay that he had
inadvertently done something he had long guarded against. To the best
of his belief, now that the flex had taken care of the three policemen,
the blond woman across the street was the only person in the world,
apart from such as Gorse -- about whom, naturally, he had no need to
worry -- who had reason to connect him with the place where he lived. The
neighbors and transients who infested his home street did not count,
for that or anything.
But . . .
It was absolutely and completely impossible, he was sure, that he could
have recognized her. Yet the congruence between her mature, adult face
and the face he so clearly recalled from the setting of the Blitz
(the crump of explosions, the rumble of collapsing buildings, the hiss
and crackle of flames, the dust so thick in the nostrils of memory it
threatened to make him sneeze) was incredibly perfect! Had he seen her
somewhere, long ago, and stored up an image which the reward drew from
his subconscious to make the experience seem that much more real?
That explanation was plausible, but it did not
feel
true.
Was his remembered experience real in some halfway sense? It could not be
objectively so -- Bill Harvey had demolished all hope of him being able
to pretend that it was, but in any case he had always been content to
enjoy the benefit of his rewards without inquiring too deeply into the
way they were created -- yet perhaps it had taken place at some kind of
skew-wiff angle between the main line of reality and the diffuse worlds
of simple fantasy.
He trembled. He was unused to thinking in these terms. He had done so
when he first began to live the life he had chosen, but gradually the
habit of enjoying what he had offered himself took over. He had endured
unquestioningly for . . .