For three days after her arrival at the new house she had refused even to speak to her host or captor, whichever he was. She couldn’t recall why she’d come, but she knew he’d conned her into it-his mind breathing at her neck-and she’d resented his manipulations. Breer, the fat one, had brought her food, and, on the second day, dope too, but she wouldn’t eat or say a word. The room they’d locked her in was quite comfortable. She had books, and a television too, but the atmosphere was too unstable for her to be at ease. She couldn’t read, nor could she watch the inanities on the box. Sometimes she found it difficult to remember her own name; it was as if his constant proximity was wiping her clean. Perhaps he could do that. After all, he’d got into her head, hadn’t he? Surreptitiously wormed his way into her psyche God knows how many times. He’d been in her, in her for Christ’s sake, and she’d never known.
“Don’t be frightened.”
It was three A.M. on the fourth day, and another sleepless night. He had come into her room so silently she’d looked down to see if his feet were making contact with the floor.
“I hate this place,” she informed him.
“Would you like to explore, rather than being locked up in here?”
“It’s haunted,” she said, expecting him to laugh at her. He didn’t, however. So she went on. “Are you the ghost?”
“What I am is a mystery,” he replied, “even to myself.” His voice was softened by introspection. “But I’m no ghost. You may be certain of that. Don’t fear me, Carys. Anything you feel, I share, in some measure.”
She remembered acutely this man’s revulsion at the sex act. What a pale, sickly thing he was, for all his powers. She couldn’t bring herself to hate him, though she had reason enough.
“I don’t like to be used,” she said.
“I did you no harm. I do you no harm now, do I?”
“I want to see Marty.”
Mamoulian had started to try to clench his mutilated hand. “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he said. The scar tissue of his hand, pulled tight, shone, but the mishealed anatomy wouldn’t give.
“Why not? Why won’t you let me see him?”
“You’ll have everything you need. Ample supplies of food; of heroin.”
It suddenly crossed her mind that Marty might be on the European’s execution list. Might, in fact, already be dead.
“Please don’t harm him,” she said.
“Thieves come and thieves go,” he replied. “I can’t be responsible for what happens to him.”
“I’ll never forgive you,” she said.
“Yes you will,” he replied, his voice so soft now it was practically illusory. “I’m your protector now, Carys. Had I been allowed, I would have nurtured you from childhood, and you would have been spared the humiliations he’s made you suffer. But it’s too late. All I can do is shelter you from further corruption.”
He gave up trying to make a fist. She saw how the wounded hand disgusted him. He would cut it off if he could, she thought; it’s not just sex he loathes, it’s flesh.
“No more,” he said, apropos of the hand, or debate, or nothing at all.
When he left her to sleep, he didn’t lock the door behind him.
The next day, she began her exploration of the house. There was nothing very remarkable about the place; it was simply a large, empty, three-story house. In the street beyond the dirty windows ordinary people passed by, too locked in their heads even to glance around. Though her first instinct was to knock on the glass, to mouth some appeal to them, the urge was easily conquered by reason. If she slipped away what would she be escaping from, or to? She had safety here, of a kind, and drugs. Though at first she resisted them, they were too attractive to flush away down the toilet. And after a few days of the pills, she gave in to the heroin too. It came in steady supply: never too much, never too little, and always good stuff.
Only Breer, the fat one, upset her. He would come, some days, and watch her, his eyes sloppy in his head like partially poached eggs. She told Mamoulian about him, and the next day he didn’t linger; just brought the pills and hurried away. And the days flowed into one another; and sometimes she didn’t remember where she was or how she’d got here; sometimes she remembered her name, sometimes not. Once, maybe twice, she tried to think her way to Marty, but he was too far from her. Either that, or the house subdued her powers. Whichever, her thoughts lost their way a few miles from Caliban Street, and she returned there sweating and afraid.