rty hadn't rung back。 Toy wondered if Pearl had failed to pass the message along； or if Whitehead had somehow intercepted it； and prevented a return call being made。 Whatever the reason； he hadn't spoken to Marty； and he felt guilty about it。 He'd promised to warn Strauss if events started to go badly awry。 Now they were。 Nothing observable perhaps； the anxieties Toy was experiencing were born out of instinct rather than fact。 But Yvonne had taught him to trust his heart； not his head。 Things were going to fall down after all； and he hadn't warned Marty。 Perhaps that was why he was having such bad dreams； and waking with memories of ugliness flitting in his head。
Not everyone survived being young。 Some died early； victims of their own hunger for life。 Toy hadn't been such a victim； though he'd e perilously close。 Not that he'd known it at the time。 He'd been too dazzled by the new pools he was introduced into by Whitehead to see how lethal those waters could be。 And he'd obeyed the great man's wishes with such unquestioning zeal； hadn't he？ Never once had he balked at his duty； however criminal it might have seemed。 Why should he be surprised then if； after all these years these same crimes； so casually mitted； were in silent pursuit of him？ That was why he lay now in a clammy sweat； with Yvonne sleeping beside him； and one phrase circling his skull： Mamoulian will e。
That was the only clear notion he had。 The rest…thoughts of Marty； and Whitehead…was a potpourri of shames and accusations。 But that plain phrase…Mamoulian will e…stood out in the dross of uncertainty as a fixed point to which all his terrors adhered。
No apology would suffice。 No humiliation would curb the Last European's anger。 Because Toy had been young； and a brute； and he'd had a wicked way with him。 Once upon a time； when he'd been too young to know better； he'd made Mamoulian suffer； and the remorse he felt now came too late…twenty； thirty years too late…and after all； hadn't he lived on the profits of his brutality all these years？ Oh； Jesus； he said in the unsteady rhythm of his breath； Jesus help me。
Afraid； and ready to admit to being afraid if it meant she'd fort hull； he turned over and reached for Yvonne。 She wasn't there。 Her side of the bed was cold。
He sat up； momentarily disorientated。
〃Yvonne？〃 The bedroom door was ajar； and the dimmest of lights from downstairs described the room。 It was chaos。 They had been packing all evening； and the task had still not been finished when； at one in the morning； they'd retired。 Clothes were heaped on the chest； of drawers； an open case yawned in the corner； his ties hung over the back of a chair like parched snakes； tongues to the floor。
He heard a noise on the landing。 He knew Yvonne's padding step well。 She'd gone for a glass of apple juice； or a biscuit； the way she so often did。 She appeared at the door； in silhouette。
〃Are you all right？〃 he asked her。
She murmured something like yes。 He put his head back on the pillow。
〃Hungry again；〃 he said； letting his eyes close。 〃Always hungry。〃 Cold air seeped into the bed as she raised the sheet to slip in beside him。
〃You left the light on downstairs；〃 he chided； as sleep started to slide over him again。 She didn't reply。 Asleep already； probably： she was blessed with a facility for instant unconsciousness。 He turned to look at her in the semidarkness。 She wasn't snoring yet； but nor was she entirely silent。 He listened more carefully； his coiled innards jittery。 It was a liquid sound she was making： as though breathing through mud。
〃Yvonne 。 。 。 are you all right？〃 She didn't answer。
From her face； which was inches from his； the slushing sound went on。 He reached for the switch of the lamp above the bed； keeping his eyes on the black mass of Yvonne's head as he did so。 Best to do this fast； he reasoned； before my imagination gets the better of me。 His fingers located the switch； fumbled with it； then pressed the light on。
What was facing him on the pillow was not recognizably Yvonne。
He jabbered her name as he scrambled backward out of bed； eyes fixed on the abomination beside him。 How was it possible that she was alive enough to climb the stairs and get into bed； to murmur yes to him as she had？ The profundity of her wounding had killed her； surely。 Nobody could live skinned and boned like that。
She half…turned in the bed； eyes closed； as if rolling over in her sleep。 Then…horribly…she said his name。 Her mouth didn't work as it had； blood greased the word on its way。 He couldn't bear to look anymore； or he'd scream； and that would bring them…whoever did this…bring them howling at him with their scalpels already wet。 They were probably outside the door already； but nothing could induce him to stay in the same room。 Not with her performing slow gyrations on the bed； still saying his name as she pulled up her nightdress。
He staggered out of the bedroom and onto the landing。 To his surprise they were not waiting for him there。
At the top of the stairs he hesitated。 He was not a brave man； nor was he foolish。 Tomorrow he could mourn her： but for tonight she was simply gone from him； and there was nothing to be done but preserve himself from whoever'd done this。 Whoever！ Why didn't he admit the name to himself？ Mamoulian was responsible： it had his signature。 And he was not alone。 The European would never have laid his purged hands on human flesh the way someone had on Yvonne； his squeamishness was legendary。 But it was he who'd given her that half…life to live after the murder was done。 Only Mamoulian was capable of that service。
And he would be waiting below now； wouldn't he； in the undersea world at the bottom of the stairs？ Waiting； as he'd waited so long； for Toy to traipse down to join him。
〃Go to Hell；〃 Toy whispered to the dark below； and walked （the urge was to run； but mon sense counseled otherwise） along the landing toward the spare bedroom。 With every step he anticipated some move from the enemy； but none came。 Not until he reached the door of the bedroom anyway。
Then； as he turned the handle； he heard Yvonne's voice behind him： 〃Willy 。 。 。〃 The word was better formed than before。
For the briefest moment he felt his sanity in doubt。 Was it possible that if he turned now she would be standing at the bedroom door as disfigured as memory suggested； or was that all a fever…dream？
〃Where are you going？〃 she demanded to know。
Downstairs； somebody moved。
〃e back to bed。〃 Without turning to refuse her invitation； Toy pushed the door of the spare bedroom open； and as he did so he heard somebody start up the stairs behind him。 The footsteps were heavy； their owner eager。
There was no key in the lock to delay his pursuer； and no time to drag furniture in front of the door。 Toy crossed the lightless bedroom in three strides； threw open the French windows； and stepped onto the small wrought…iron balcony。 It grunted beneath his weight。 He suspected it would not hold for long。
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 plained 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。