[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
Valentin said, 'anything.'
Harry tried to think his way through the adjacent
offices, his mind's eye peeled for some tool that would
make an impression on either the fire door or the
substantial chains which kept it closed. But there was
nothing useful: only typewriters and filing cabinets.
'Think, man,' said Valentin.
He ransacked his memory. Some heavy-duty instru-
ment was required. A crowbar; a hammer. An axe!
There was an agent called Shapiro on the floor below,
who exclusively represented porno performers, one of
whom had attempted to blow his balls off the month
62
before. She'd failed, but he'd boasted one day on the
stairs that he had now purchased the biggest axe he could
find, and would happily take the head off any client who
attempted an attack upon his person.
The commotion from below was simmering down.
The hush was, in its way, more distressing than the din
that had preceded it.
'We haven't got much time,' the demon said.
Harry left him at the chained door. 'Can you get
Swann?' he said as he ran.
Til do my best.'
By the time Harry reached the top of the stairs the
last chatterings were dying away; as he began down
the flight they ceased altogether. There was no way
now to judge how close the enemy were. On the next
floor? Round the next corner? He tried not to think of
them, but his feverish imagination populated every dirty
shadow.
He reached the bottom of the flight without incident,
however, and slunk along the darkened second-floor
corridor to Shapiro's office. Halfway to his destination,
he heard a low hiss behind him. He looked over his
shoulder, his body itching to run. One of the radiators,
heated beyond its limits, had sprung a leak. Steam was
escaping from its pipes, and hissing as it went. He let
his heart climb down out of his mouth, and then hurried
on to the door of Shapiro's office, praying that the man
hadn't simply been shooting the breeze with his talk of
axes. If so, they were done for. The office was locked,
of course, but he elbowed the frosted glass out, and
reached through to let himself in, fumbling for the light
switch. The walls were plastered with photographs of
sex-goddesses. They scarcely claimed Harry's attention;
his panic fed upon itself with every heartbeat he spent
here. Clumsily he scoured the office, turning furniture
63
over in his impatience. But there was no sign of Shapiro's
axe.
Now, another noise from below. It crept up the
staircase and along the corridor in search of him - an
unearthly cacophony like the one he'd heard on 83rd
Street. It set his teeth on edge; the nerve of his rotting
molar began to throb afresh. What did the music signal?
Their advance?
In desperation he crossed to Shapiro's desk to see if
the man had any other item that might be pressed into
service, and there tucked out of sight between desk and
wall, he found the axe. He pulled it from hiding. As
Shapiro had boasted, it was hefty, its weight the first
reassurance Harry had felt in too long. He returned to
the corridor. The steam from the fractured pipe had
thickened. Through its veils it was apparent that the
concert had taken on new fervour. The doleful wailing
rose and fell, punctuated by some flaccid percussion.
He braved the cloud of steam and hurried to the stairs.
As he put his foot on the bottom step the music seemed to
catch him by the back of the neck, and whisper: 'Listen'
in his ear. He had no desire to listen; the music was vile.
But somehow - while he was distracted by finding the
axe - it had wormed its way into his skull. It drained his
limbs of strength. In moments the axe began to seem an
impossible burden.
'Come on down,' the music coaxed him, 'come on down
and join the band.'
Though he tried to form the simple word 'No', the
music was gaining influence upon him with every note
played. He began to hear melodies in the caterwauling;
long circuitous themes that made his blood sluggish and
his thoughts idiot. He knew there was no pleasure to
be had at the music's source - that it tempted him
only to pain and desolation - yet he could not shake
64
its delirium off. His feet began to move to the call of
the pipers. He forgot Valentin, Swann and all ambition
for escape, and instead began to descend the stairs.
The melody became more intricate. He could hear
voices now, singing some charmless accompaniment
in a language he didn't comprehend. From somewhere
above, he heard his name called, but he ignored the
summons. The music clutched him close, and now -
as he descended the next flight of stairs - the musicians
came into view.
They were brighter than he had anticipated, and
more various. More baroque in their configurations
(the manes, the multiple heads); more particular in their
decoration (the suit of flayed faces; the rouged anus);
and, his drugged eyes now stung to see, more atrocious
in their choice of instruments. Such instruments! Byron
was there, his bones sucked clean and drilled with
stops, his bladder and lungs teased through slashes
in his body as reservoirs for the piper's breath. He
was draped, inverted, across the musician's lap, and
even now was played upon - the sacs ballooning, the
tongueless head giving out a wheezing note. Dorothea
was slumped beside him, no less transformed, the strings
of her gut made taut between her splinted legs like an
obscene lyre; her breasts drummed upon. There were
other instruments too, men who had come off the street
and fallen prey to the band. Even Chaplin was there,
much of his flesh burned away, his rib-cage played upon
indifferently well.
'I didn't take you for a music lover,' Butterfield said,
drawing upon a cigarette, and smiling in welcome. 'Put
down your axe and join us.'
The word axe reminded Harry of the weight in his
hands, though he couldn't find his way through the bars
of music to remember what it signified.
65
'Don't be afraid,' Butterfield said, 'you're an innocent
in this. We hold no grudge against you.'
'Dorothea . . .' he said.
'She was an innocent too,' said the lawyer, 'until we
showed her some sights.'
Harry looked at the woman's body; at the terrible
changes that they had wrought upon her. Seeing them,
a tremor began in him, and something came between
him and the music; the imminence of tears blotted it
out.
'Put down the axe,' Butterfield told him.
But the sound of the concert could not compete with
the grief that was mounting in him. Butterfield seemed
to see the change in his eyes; the disgust and anger
growing there. He dropped his half-smoked cigarette
and signalled for the music-making to stop.
'Must it be death, then?' Butterfield said, but the
enquiry was scarcely voiced before Harry started down
the last few stairs towards him. He raised the axe and
swung it at the lawyer but the blow was misplaced. The
blade ploughed the plaster of the wall, missing its target
by a foot.
At this eruption of violence the musicians threw down
their instruments and began across the lobby, trailing
their coats and tails in blood and grease. Harry caught
their advance from the corner of his eye. Behind the
horde, still rooted in the shadows, was another form,
larger than the largest of the mustered demons, from
which there now came a thump that might have been
that of a vast jack-hammer. He tried to make sense
of sound or sight, but could do neither. There was
no time for curiosity; the demons were almost upon
him.
Butterfield glanced round to encourage their advance,
and Harry - catching the moment - swung the axe a
66
second time. The blow caught Butterfield's shoulder;
the arm was instantly severed. The lawyer shrieked;
blood sprayed the wall. There was no time for a third
blow, however. The demons were reaching for him,
smiles lethal.
He turned on the stairs, and began up them, taking
the steps two, three and four at a time. Butterfield
was still shrieking below; from the flight above he
heard Valentin calling his name. He had neither time
nor breath to answer.
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]