“He was almost away,” the Saint said.
“Indeed,” the European replied, gesturing for the youth to give him room.
From his collapsed position on the hall floor Marty gazed up at the Last European. The air between them seemed to be itching. Marty waited. Surely the killing stroke would follow quickly. But there was nothing, except the gaze from those noncommittal eyes. Even in his broken state Marty could see the tragedy written in the mask of Mamoulian’s face. It no longer terrified him: simply fascinated. This man was the source of the nullity he had barely survived in Caliban Street. Was there not a ghost of that gray air lurking in his sockets now, seeping from his nostrils and mouth as though a fire smoldered in his cranium?
In the room where he and the European had played cards Whitehead moved stealthily across to the pillow of his makeshift bed. Events in the hall had shifted the focus for a useful moment. He slipped his hand beneath the pillow and drew out the gun hidden there, then crept through into the adjoining dressing room, and slipped out of sight behind the wardrobe.
From that position he could see Saint Tom and Carys standing in the hallway, watching events at the front door. Both were too intent on the gladiators to notice in the darkened room.
“Is he dead . . .?” Tom asked, from a distance.
“Who knows?” Whitehead heard Mamoulian reply. “Put him in the bathroom, out of the way.”
Whitehead watched as Strauss’ inert bulk was hauled past the door and into the room opposite, to be dumped in the bathroom. Mamoulian approached Carys.
“You brought him here,” he said simply.
She didn’t reply. Whitehead’s gun hand itched. From where he was standing Mamoulian made an easy target, except that Carys stood in the way. Would a bullet, fired at her back, pass through her and into the European? The thought, though appalling, had to be contemplated: survival was at issue here. But the moment’s hesitation had snatched his chance. The European was escorting Carys toward the gaming room, and out of shot. No matter; it left the coast clear.
He slipped out of hiding and darted to the dressing-room door. As he stepped into the corridor he heard Mamoulian say: “Joseph?” Whitehead ran the few yards to the front door, knowing the chance of escape without violence was gossamer-thin. He grabbed the handle and turned it.
“Joseph,” said the voice behind him.
Whitehead’s hand froze as he felt invisible fingers plucking at the nape of his neck. He ignored the pressure and forced the handle around. It slid in his sweaty palm. The thought that breathed at his neck pressed around his axis vertebra, the threat unmistakable. Well then, he thought, the choice is out of my hands. He released the door handle and turned fully around to face the card-player. He was standing at the end of the corridor, which seemed to be darkening, becoming a tunnel extruded from Mamoulian’s eyes. Such potent illusions. But simply that: illusions. He could resist them long enough to bring their forger down. Whitehead raised the gun and pointed it at the European. Without giving the card-player another moment to confound him, he fired. The first shot hit Mamoulian’s chest; the second his stomach. Perplexity crossed the European’s face. Blood spread from the wounds across his shirt. He did not fall, however. Instead, in a voice so even it was as if the shots had not been fired, he said: “Do you want to go outside, Pilgrim?”
Behind Whitehead, the door handle had started to rattle.
“Is that what you want?” Mamoulian demanded. “To go outside?”
“Yes.”
“Then go.”
Whitehead stepped away from the door as it was flung open with such venom the handle impaled itself in the corridor wall. The old man turned away from Mamoulian to make good his escape, but before he could take a step the light in the corridor was sucked away into the pitch darkness beyond the door, and to his horror Whitehead realized that the hotel had disappeared from beyond the threshold. There were no carpets and mirrors out there; no stairs winding down to the outside world. Only a wilderness he’d walked in half a life ago: a square, a sky shot with trembling stars.