He kicked over a sizeable chunk of rubble: dust rose.
‘Flavinus lived and died. That’s all there is to tell. Knowing his name means nothing, or next to nothing. It doesn’t make Flavinus real again: he’s dead and happy.’
‘The statue in the bath?’
Reynolds stopped breathing for a moment, his inner eye meeting the painted face.
‘You I thought I was it, didn’t you? When I came to the door.’
‘Yes. I thought it had .finished its business.’
‘It imitates.’
Reynolds nodded. ‘As far as I understand its nature,’ he said, ‘yes, it imitates.’
‘Where did you find it?’
‘Near Carlisle. I was in charge of the excavation there. We found it lying in the bathhouse, a statue curled up into a ball beside the remains of an adult male. It was a riddle. A dead man and a statue, lying together in a bathhouse. Don’t ask me what drew me to the thing, I don’t know. Perhaps it works its will through the mind as well as the physique. I stole it, brought it back here.’
‘And you fed it?’
Reynolds stiffened.
‘Don’t ask.’
‘I am asking. You fed it?’
‘Yes.’
‘You intended to bleed me, didn’t you? That’s why you brought me here: to kill me, and let it wash itself- ‘
Gavin remembered the noise of the creature’s fists on the sides of the bath, that angry demand for food, like a child beating on its cot. He’d been so close to being taken by it, lamb-like.
‘Why didn’t it attack me the way it did you? Why didn’t it just jump out of the bath and feed on me?’
Reynolds wiped his mouth with the palm of his hand.
‘It saw your face, of course.’
Of course: it saw my face, and wanted it for itself, and it couldn’t steal the face of a dead man, so it let me be. The rationale for its behaviour was fascinating, now it was revealed: Gavin felt a taste of Reynolds’ passion, unveiling mysteries.
‘The man in the bathhouse. The one you uncovered – ‘
‘Yes . . .?’
‘He stopped it doing the same thing to him, is that right?’
That’s probably why his body was never moved, just sealed up. No-one understood that he’d died fighting a creature that was stealing his life.’
The picture was near as damn it complete; just anger remaining to be answered.
This man had come close to murdering him to feed the effigy. Gavin’s fury broke surface. He took hold of Reynolds by shirt and skin, and shook him. Was it his bones or teeth that rattled?
‘It’s almost got my face.’ He stared into Reynolds’ bloodshot eyes. ‘What happens when it finally has the trick off pat?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You tell me the worst – Tell me!’
‘It’s all guesswork,’ Reynolds replied.
‘Guess then!’
‘When it’s perfected its physical imitation, I think it’ll steal the one thing it can’t imitate: your soul.’
Reynolds was past fearing Gavin. His voice had sweetened, as though he was talking to a condemned man. He even smiled.
‘Fucker!’
Gavin hauled Reynolds’ face yet closer to his. White spittle dotted the old man’s cheek.
‘You don’t care! You don’t give a shit, do you?’
He hit Reynolds across the face, once, twice, then again and again, until he was breathless.
The old man took the beating in absolute silence, turning his face up from one blow to receive another, brushing the blood out of his swelling eyes only to have them fill again. Finally, the punches faltered.
Reynolds, on his knees, picked pieces of tooth off his tongue.
‘I deserved that,’ he murmured.
‘How do I stop it?’ said Gavin.
Reynolds shook his head.
‘Impossible,’ he whispered, plucking at Gavin’s hand. ‘Please,’ he said, and taking the fist, opened it and kissed the lines.
Gavin left Reynolds in the ruins of Rome, and went into the street. The interview with Reynolds had told him little he hadn’t
guessed. The only thing he could do now was find this beast that had his beauty, and best it. If he failed, he failed attempting to secure his only certain attribute: a face that was wonderful. Talk of souls and humanity was for him so much wasted air. He wanted his face.