The Damnation Game (4 page)

“Strauss. This is Mr. Toy …”

“Hello,” Marty said.

The tanned face returned his gaze; it was a look of frank appraisal.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” Toy said.

His scrutiny was more than casual curiosity, though what—thought Marty—was there to see? A man with time on his hands, and on his face; a body grown sluggish with too much bad food and too little exercise; an ineptly trimmed mustache; a pair of eyes glazed with boredom. Marty knew every dull detail of his own appearance. He wasn’t worth a second glance any longer. And yet the bright blue eyes stared on, apparently fascinated.

“I think we should get down to business,” Toy said to Somervale. He put his hands palm down on the tabletop. “How much have you told Mr. Strauss?”

Mr. Strauss. The prefix was an almost forgotten courtesy.

“I’ve told him nothing,” Somervale replied.

“Then we should begin at the beginning,” Toy said. He leaned back in his chair, hands still on the table.

“As you like,” said Somervale, clearly gearing himself up for a substantial speech. “Mr. Toy—” he began.

But he got no further before his guest broke in.

“If I may?” said Toy, “perhaps I can best summarize the situation.”

“Whatever suits,” said Somervale. He fumbled in his jacket pocket for a cigarette, barely masking his chagrin. Toy ignored him. The off-center face continued to look across at Marty.

“My employer—” Toy began “—is a man by the name of Joseph Whitehead. I don’t know if that means anything to you?” He didn’t wait for a reply, but went on. “If you haven’t heard of him, you’re doubtless familiar with the Whitehead Corporation, which he founded. It’s one of the largest pharmaceutical empires in Europe—”

The name rang a faint bell in Marty’s head, and it had some scandalous association. But it was tantalizingly vague, and he had no time to puzzle it through, because Toy was in full flight.

“—Although Mr. Whitehead is now in his late sixties, he still keeps control of the corporation. He’s a self-made man, you understand, and he’s dedicated his life to its creation. He chooses, however, not to be as visible as he once was—”

A front-page photograph suddenly developed in Strauss’ head. A man with his hand up against the glare of a flashbulb; a private moment snatched by some lurking paparazzo for public consumption.

“—He shuns publicity almost completely, and since his wife’s death he has little taste for the social arena—”

Sharing the unwelcome attention Strauss remembered a woman whose beauty astonished, even by the unflattering light. The wife of whom Toy spoke, perhaps.

“—Instead he chooses to mastermind his corporation out of the spotlight, concerning himself in his leisure hours with social issues. Among them, overcrowding in prisons, and the deterioration of the prison service generally.”

The last remark was undoubtedly barbed, and found Somervale with deadly accuracy. He ground out his half-smoked cigarette in the tinfoil ashtray, throwing the other man a sour glance.

“When the time came to engage a new personal bodyguard—” Toy continued, “—it was Mr. Whitehead’s decision to seek a suitable candidate amongst men coming up for parole rather than going through the usual agencies. “

He can’t mean me
, Strauss thought. The idea was too fine to tease himself with, and too ludicrous. And yet if that wasn’t it, why was Toy here, why all the palaver?

“He’s looking for a man who is nearing the end of his sentence. One who deserves, in both his and my own estimation, to have an opportunity to be reintroduced into society with a job behind him, and some self-esteem to go with it. Your case was drawn to my attention, Martin. I may call you Martin?”

“Usually it’s Marty.”

“Fine. Marty it is. Frankly, I don’t want to raise your hopes. I’m interviewing several other candidates in addition to yourself, and of course at the end of the day I may find that none are suitable. At this juncture I simply want to ascertain whether you would be interested in such an option were it to be made available to you.”

Marty began to smile. Not outwardly, but inside, where Somervale couldn’t get at it.

“Do you understand what I’m asking?”

“Yes. I understand.”

“Joe … Mr. Whitehead … needs somebody who will be completely devoted to his well-being; who would indeed be prepared to put his life at risk rather than have harm come to his employer. Now I realize that’s a lot to ask.”

Marty’s brow furrowed. It was a lot, especially after the six-and-a- half year lesson in self-reliance he’d had at Wandsworth. Toy was swift to sense Marty’s hesitation.

“That bothers you,” he said.

Marty shrugged gently. “Yes and no. I mean, I’ve never been asked to do that before. I don’t want to give you some shit about me being really keen to get killed for somebody, because I’m not. I’d be lying through my teeth if I said I was.”

Toy’s nods encouraged Marty to go on.

“That’s it really,” he said.

“Are you married?” Toy asked.

“Separated.”

“May I ask; are there divorce proceedings in the offing?”

Marty grimaced. He loathed talking about this. It was his wound; his to tend and fret over. No fellow prisoner had ever wrung the story out of him, even in those three-in-the-morning confessionals that he’d endured with his previous cellmate, before Feaver, who never talked of anything but food and paper women, had arrived. But he would have to say something now.

They surely had the details filed away somehow anyway. Toy probably knew more about what Charmaine was doing, and with whom, than he did.

“Charmaine and me …” He tried to summon words for this knot of feelings, but nothing emerged but a blunt statement. “I don’t think there’s much chance of us getting back together, if that’s what you’re after.”

Toy sensed the raw edge in Marty’s voice; so did Somervale. For the first time since Toy had entered the arena the officer began to show some interest in the exchange.
He wants to watch me talk my way out of a job,
Marty thought; he could see the anticipation written all over Somervale’s face. Well, damn him, he wasn’t going to have the satisfaction.

“It’s not a problem—” Marty said flatly. “Or if it is, it’s mine.

I’m still getting used to the fact that she won’t be there when I get out. That’s all it is, really.”

Toy was smiling now, an amiable smile.

“Really, Marty—” he said, “—I don’t want to pry. I’m only concerned that we understand the full facts of the situation. Were you to be employed by Mr. Whitehead, you would be required to live on his estate with him, and it would be a necessary condition of your employment that you could not leave without the express permission of either Mr. Whitehead or myself. In other words you would not be stepping into unconditional freedom. Far from it. You might wish to consider the estate as a sort of open prison. It’s important for me to know of any ties you have that might make such constraints temptingly easy to break.”

“Yes, I see.”

“Furthermore, if for any reason your relationship with Mr. Whitehead was not satisfactory; if you or he felt that the job was not suitable, then I’m afraid—”

“—I’d be back here to finish my sentence.”

“Yes.”

There was an awkward pause, in which Toy sighed quietly. It took him only a moment to recover his equilibrium, then he took off in a new direction.

“There’s just a few more questions I’d like to ask. You’ve done some boxing, am I right?”

“Some. A while back—”

Toy looked disappointed. “You gave it up?”

“Yes,” Marty replied. “I kept on with the weight training for a while.”

“Do you have any self-defense training of any kind? Judo? Karate?”

Marty contemplated lying, but what would be the use of that? All Toy had to do was consult the screws at Wandsworth. “No,” he said.

“Pity.”

Marty’s belly shrank. “I’m healthy though,” he said. “And strong. I can learn.” He was aware that an unwelcome tremor had slipped into his voice from somewhere.

“We don’t want a learner, I’m afraid,” Somervale pointed out, barely able to suppress the triumph in his tone.

Marty leaned forward across the table, trying to blot out Somervale’s leechlike presence.

“I can do this job, Mr. Toy,” he insisted, “I know I can do this job. Just give me a chance—”

The tremor was growing; his belly was an acrobat. Better stop now, before he said or did something he regretted. But the words and the feelings just kept on coming.

“Give me an opportunity to prove I can do it. That’s not much to ask, is it? And if I fuck it up it’s my fault, see? Just a chance, that’s all I’m asking.”

Toy looked up at him with something like condolence in his face.

Was it all over then? Had he made up his mind already—one wrong answer and the whole thing goes sour—was he already mentally packing up his briefcase and returning the Strauss, M. file into Somervale’s clammy hands to be slotted back between one forgotten con and another?

Marty bit his tongue, and sat back in the uncomfortable chair, fixing his gaze on his trembling hands. He couldn’t bear to look at the bruised elegance of Toy’s face, not now that he’d opened himself up so wide. Toy would see in oh yes, to all the hurt and the wanting, and he couldn’t bear that.

“At your trial …” Toy said.

What now? Why was he prolonging the agony? All Marty wanted was to go to his cell, where Feaver would be sitting on the bunk and playing with his dolls, where there was a familiar dullness that he could take refuge in. But Toy wasn’t finished; he wanted the truth, the whole truth and nothing but.

“At your trial you testified that your prime motivation for involvement in the robbery was to pay off substantial gambling debts. Am I correct?”

Marty had moved his attention from his hands to his shoes. The laces were undone, and though they were long enough to be double-knotted he never had the patience to work at complicated knots. He liked a simple bow. When you needed to untie a bow you pulled and behold-like magic-it was gone.

“Is that right?” Toy asked again.

“Yes; that’s right,” Marty told him. He’d got so far; why not finish the story? “There were four of us. And two guns. We tried to take a security van. Things got out of hand.” He glanced up from his shoes; Toy was watching intently. “The driver was shot in the stomach. He died later. It’s all in the file, isn’t it?” Toy nodded. “And about the van? Is that in the file too?” Toy didn’t reply. “It was empty,” Marty said. “We had it wrong from the beginning. The fucking thing was empty.”

“And the debts?”

“Huh?”

“Your debts to McNamara. They’re still outstanding?”

The man was really beginning to get on Marty’s nerves. What did Toy care if he owed a few grand here and there? This was just sympathetic camouflage, so that he could make a dignified exit.

“Answer Mr. Toy, Strauss,” Somervale said.

“What’s it to you?”

“Interest,” said Toy, frankly.

“I see.”

Sod his interest, Marty thought, he could choke on it. They’d had as much of a confessional as they were going to get.

“Can I go now?” he said.

He looked up. Not at Toy but at Somervale, who was smirking behind his cigarette smoke, well satisfied that the interview had been a disaster.

“I think so, Strauss,” he said. “As long as Mr. Toy doesn’t have any more questions.”

“No,” said Toy, the voice dead. “No; I’m well satisfied.”

Marty stood up, still avoiding Toy’s eyes. The small room was full of ugly sounds. The chair’s heels scraping on the floor, the rasp of Somervale’s smoker’s cough. Toy was shunting away his notes. It was all over.

Somervale said: “You can go.”

“I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Mr. Strauss,” Toy said to Marty’s back as he reached the door, and Marty turned around without thinking to see the other man smiling at him, his hand extended to be shaken. I’ve enjoyed meeting you, Mr. Strauss.

Marty nodded and shook hands.

“Thank you for your time,” Toy said.

Marty closed the door behind him and made his way back to his cell, escorted by Priestley, the landing officer. They said nothing.

Marty watched the birds swooping in the roof of the building, alighting on the landing rails for tidbits. They came and they went when it suited them, finding niches to nest in, taking their sovereignty for granted. He envied them nothing. Or if he did, now wasn’t the time to admit to it.

Chapter 6

T
hirteen days passed, and there was no further word from either Toy or Somervale. Not that Marty was truly expecting any. The chance had been lost; he’d almost stage-managed its final moments with his refusal to talk about McNamara. That way he had expected to nip any trial by hope in the bud. In that, he’d failed. No matter how he tried to forget the interview with Toy, he couldn’t. The encounter had thrown him badly off-balance, and his instability was as distressing as its cause. He thought he had learned the art of indifference by now, the same way that children learned that hot water scalds: by painful experience.

He’d had plenty of that. During the first twelve months of his sentence he’d fought against everything and everyone he’d encountered. He’d made no friends that year, nor the least impression on the system; all he’d earned for his troubles were bruises and bad times. In the second year, chastened by defeat, he’d gone underground with his private war; he’d taken up weight training and boxing, and concentrated on the challenge of building and maintaining a body that would serve him when the time for retribution came round. But in the middle of the third year, loneliness had intervened: an ache that no amount of self-inflicted punishment (muscles driven to the pain threshold and beyond, day after day) could disguise. He made a truce that year, with himself and his incarceration. It was an uneasy peace, but things began to improve from then on. He even began to feel at home in the echoing corridors, and in his cell, and in the shrinking enclave of his head, where most pleasurable experience was now a distant memory.

The fourth year had brought new terrors. He was twenty-nine that year; thirty loomed, and he remembered all too accurately how his younger self, with time to burn had dismissed men his age as spent. It was a painful realization, and the old claustrophobia (trapped not behind bars, but behind his life) returned more forcibly than ever, and with it a new foolhardiness. He’d gained his tattoos that year: a scarlet and blue lightning bolt on his upper left arm, and “USA” on his right forearm. Just before Christmas Charmaine had written to him to suggest that a divorce might be best, and he’d thought nothing of it. What was the use?