Part Four
THE THIEF’S TALE
Civilisations do not degenerate through fear, but because they forget that fear exists.
-FREYA STARK, Perseus in the Wind
48
Marty stood in the hallway and listened for footsteps or voices. There were neither. The women had obviously gone, as had Ottaway, Curtsinger and the Troll-King. Perhaps the old man too.
Few lights burned in the house. Those that did rendered the place almost two-dimensional. Power had been unleashed here. Its remnants skittered in the metalwork; the air had a bluish tinge. He made his way upstairs. The second floor was in darkness, but he found his way along it by instinct, his feet kicking the porcelain shards-some smashed treasure or other-as he went. There was more than porcelain underfoot. Things damp, things torn. He didn’t look down, but made his way toward the white room, anticipation mounting with every step.
The door was ajar, and a light, not electric but candle, burned inside. He stepped over the threshold. The single flame offered a panicky illumination-his very presence had it jumping-but he could see that every bottle in the room had been smashed. He stepped into a swamp of broken glass and spilled wine: the room was pungent with the dregs. The table had been overturned and several of the chairs reduced to match-wood.
Old Man Whitehead was standing in the corner of the room. There were spatters of blood on his face, but it was difficult to be certain if it was his. He looked like a man pictured in the aftermath of an earthquake: shock had bled his features white.
“He came early,” he said, disbelief in every hushed syllable. “Imagine that. I thought he believed in covenants. But he came early to catch me out.”
“Who is he?”
He wiped tears from his cheeks with the heel of his hand, smearing the blood. “The bastard lied to me,” he said.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.” Whitehead said, as if the question were utterly ridiculous. “He wouldn’t lay a hand on me. ‘He knows better than that. He wants me to go willingly, you see?”
Marty didn’t.
“There’s a body in the hallway,” Whitehead observed matter-of-factly. “I moved her off the stairs.”
“Who?”
“Stephanie.”
“He killed her?”
“Him? No. His hands are clean. You could drink milk from them.”
“I’ll call the police.”
“No!”
Whitehead took several ill-advised steps through the glass to catch Marty’s arm.
“No! No police.”
“But somebody’s dead.”
“Forget her. You can hide her away later, eh?” His tone was almost ingratiating, his breath, now he was close, toxic. “You’ll do that, won’t you?”
“After all you’ve done?”
“A little joke,” Whitehead said. He tried a smile; his grip on Marty’s arm was blood-stopping. “Come on; a joke, that’s all.” It was like being buttonholed by an alcoholic on a street corner.
Marty loosed his arm. “I’ve done all I’m going to do for you,” he said.
“You want to go back home, is that it?” Whitehead’s tone soured on an instant. “Want to go back behind bars where you can hide your head?”
“You’ve tried that trick.”
“Am I getting repetitive? Oh, dear. Oh, Christ in Heaven.” He waved Marty away. “Go on then. Piss off; you’re not in my class.” He staggered back to the crutch of the wall and leaned there. “What the fuck am I doing, expecting you to take a stand?”
“You set me up,” Marty snarled in reply, “all along!”
“I told you . . . a joke.”
“Not just tonight. All along. Lying to me . . . bribing me. You said you needed someone to trust, and then you treat me like shit. No wonder they all run out on you in the end!”
Whitehead wheeled on him. “All right,” he shouted back, “what do you want?”
“The truth.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, damn you, yes!”
The old man sucked at his lip, debating with himself. When he spoke again, the voice had quietened. “All right, boy. All right.” The old glitter flared in his eyes, and momentarily the defeat was burned away by a new enthusiasm. “If you’re so eager to hear, I’ll tell you.” He pointed a shaky finger at Marty. “Close the door.”