Below him, the garden was in darkness, but he had a fair idea of where the flower beds lay, and where the paving stones. Without hesitation-the footsteps loud at his back-he clambered over the balcony. His joints complained at this exertion, and more so when he lowered himself over the other side until he was hanging by his hands, suspended by a grip that was every second in danger of giving out.
A din in the room he’d left drew his glance; his pursuer, a bloated thug with bloody hands and the eyes of something rabid, was in the room-was crossing now toward the windows, growling his displeasure. Toy rocked his body as best he could, praying to miss the paving he knew was directly beneath his bare feet and land in the soft earth of the herbaceous border. There was little chance to fine-tune the maneuver. He let go of the balustrade as the obesity reached the balcony, and for what seemed a long time fell backward through space, the window diminishing above him, until he landed, with no more injury than a bruising, among the geraniums Yvonne had planted only the week before.
He got to his feet badly winded but intact, and ran down the moonlit garden to the back gate. It was padlocked, but he managed to climb over it with ease-adrenaline firing his muscles. There was no sound of further pursuit, and when he glanced back he could see the fat man was still at the French windows, watching his escape as though lacking the initiative to follow. Sick with a sudden excitement, he sprinted away down the narrow passage that led along the backs of all the gardens, caring only to put distance between himself and the house.
It was only when he reached the street, its lamps starting to go out now as dawn edged up-over the city, that he realized he was stark naked.
31
Marty had gone to bed a happy man. Though there was still much here he didn’t understand, much which the old man-despite his promises of explanations-seemed pleased to keep obscured, finally none of that was his business. If Papa chose to have secrets, so be it. Marty had been hired to look after him, and it appeared that he was fulfilling that obligation to his employer’s satisfaction. The results were there in the intimacies the old man had shared with him, and in the thousand pounds beneath his pillow.
Euphoria prevented sleep: Marty’s heart seemed to be beating at twice its usual rate. He got up, slipped on his bathrobe, and tried a selection of videos to take his mind off the day’s events, but the boxing tapes depressed him; the, pornography too. He wandered downstairs to the library, found a dog-eared space opera, then slipped back to his room, making a detour to the kitchen for a beer.
Carys was in his room when he got back, dressed in jeans and a sweater, barefoot. She looked frayed, older than her nineteen years. The smile she offered him was too stage-managed to convince.
“You don’t mind?” she said. “Only I heard you walking about.”
“Don’t you ever sleep?”
“Not often.”
“Want some beer?”
“No thanks.”
“Sit down,” he said, throwing a pile of clothes off the single chair for her. She deposited herself on the bed, however, leaving the chair for Marty.
“I have to talk to you,” she said.
Marty laid down the book he’d chosen. On the cover a naked woman, her skin a fluorescent green, emerged from an egg on a twin-sunned planet. Carys said:
“Do you know what’s going on?”
“Going on? What do you mean?”
“Haven’t you felt anything odd in the house?”
“Like what?”
Her mouth had found its favorite shape; corners turned down in exasperation.
“I don’t know . . . it’s difficult to describe.”
“Try.”
She hesitated, like a diver at the edge of a high board, then took the plunge.
“Do you know what a sensitive is?”
He shook his head.
“It’s someone who can pick up waves. Thought waves.”
“Mind reading.”
“In a way.”
He gave her a noncommittal look. “Is it something you can do?” he said.