“Kill him!” Boyle said quietly as the man grinned-grinned!-through the blows. “Break every bone in his body!”
Even if Dooley, hobbled as he was, had been in any fit state to obey the imperative, he had no chance to do so. His berating was interrupted by a voice from down the hallway. A woman had emerged from the flat Boyle had come through. She too had been a victim of this marauder, to judge by her state. But Dooley’s entry into the house had clearly distracted her molester before he could do serious damage.
“Arrest him!” she said, pointing at the leering man. “He tried to rape me!”
Dooley closed in to take possession of the prisoner, but Jerome had other intentions. He put his hand in Dooley’s face and pushed him back against the front door. The coconut mat slid from under him; he all but fell. By the time he’d regained his balance Jerome was up and away. Boyle made a wretched attempt to stop him, but the tatters of his trousers were wrapped about his lower legs and Jerome, fleet-footed, was soon halfway up the stairs.
“Call for help,” Boyle ordered Dooley. “And make it quick.”
Dooley nodded and opened the front door.
“Is there any way out from upstairs?” Boyle demanded of Mrs. Morrisey. She shook her head. “Then we’ve got the bastard trapped, haven’t we?” he said. “Go on, Dooley!” Dooley hobbled away down the path. “And you,” he said to the woman, “fetch something in the way of weaponry. Anything solid.” The woman nodded and returned the way she’d come, leaving Boyle slumped beside the open door. A soft breeze cooled the sweat on his face. At the car outside Dooley was calling up reinforcements.
All too soon, Boyle thought, the cars would be here, and the man upstairs would be hauled away to give his testimony. There would be no opportunity for revenge once he was in custody. The law would take its placid course, and he, the victim, would be only a bystander. If he was ever to salvage the ruins of his manhood, now was the time. If he didn’t-if he languished here, his bowels on fire-he would never shrug off the horror he felt at his body’s betrayal. He must act now-must beat the grin off his ravisher’s face once and for all-or else live in self-disgust until memory failed him.
The choice was no choice at all. Without further debate, he got up from his squatting position and began up the stairs. As he reached the half-landing he realized he hadn’t brought a weapon with him. He knew, however, that if he descended again he’d lose all momentum. Prepared, in that moment, to die if necessary, he headed on up.
There was only one door open on the top landing. Through it came the sound of a radio. Downstairs, in the safety of the hall, he heard Dooley come in to tell him that the call had been made, only to break off in mid-announcement. Ignoring the distraction, Boyle stepped into the flat.
There was nobody there. It took Boyle a few moments only to check the kitchen, the tiny bathroom and the living room. All were deserted. He returned to the bathroom, the window of which was open, and put his head out. The drop to the grass of the garden below was quite manageable. There was an imprint in the ground of the man’s body. He had leaped. And gone.
Boyle cursed his tardiness and hung his head. A trickle of heat ran down the inside of his leg. In the next room, the love songs played on.
FOR Jerome, there was no forgetfulness, not this time. The encounter with Mrs. Morrisey, which had been interrupted by Dooley, and the episode with Boyle that had followed, had all merely served to fan the fire in him. Now, by the light of those flames, he saw clearly what crimes he had committed. He remembered with horrible clarity the laboratory, the injection, the monkeys, the blood. The acts he recalled, however (and there were many), woke no sense of sinfulness in him. All moral consequence, all shame or remorse, was burned out by the fire that was even now licking his flesh to new enthusiasms.