Trask shuffled notes he'd made earlier, and said, 'Well, there is one more thing. In Xanadu, the pleasure dome or casino has a smaller, uppermost dome like a blister on top of the main structure. It sits on a spindle and revolves like certain fancy restaurants on their high towers. But in the nine months since Mr Milan moved in half of its windows have been painted black, both inside and out. Oh, and incidentally, the dome's rotation was originally designed to track the sun, letting in the light that the higher solar-panelled surfaces necessarily exclude. So it would appear that our Mr Milan has an aversion to strong sunlight…' Pausing, Trask looked at Goodly.
The precog was quiet now, saying nothing, but his alleged 'concerns' hadn't fooled Trask one bit. For in its way Goodly's subterfuge had been a lie, a diversion to take Trask's mind off his lost Zek and get it back on track, and of course Trask knew it. A lie, yes, but a white one. And:
'So thanks, anyway,' he finally continued, looking directly into the precog's eyes, 'but I think we can safely conclude that here…' he pointed a steady, resolute finger at the locations displayed on the wall screen, '… that here be vampires!'
When no one had anything further to say, Trask finished up with: 'Very well, and now we have plans to make…'
Later that evening, Jake was sitting on a bench in the cool of the garden, lost in his own strange, meditative thoughts, when Lardis found him and sat down beside him. After he had sniffed at the air for a while, the old man said, 'Carypsu?'
Oddly enough, Jake understood. 'Eucalyptus?' he answered. 'It's a tree, growing outside the wall.'
'Yes,' Lardis nodded. 'Carypsu. We have them on Sunside.' And, after a moment or two's thought: 'May I ask a question?'
'What's on your mind?' said Jake.
At which Lardis smiled. 'But I might ask you the selfsame thing! What's on, or what's in, your mind?'
Jake frowned. 'Some kind of word game?'
'No,' Lardis shook his head. 'No word game. But I have to admit, I'm curious.'
'About what?'
'About you. About how you knew that in Starside in the old days a Lord of the Wamphyri might occasionally add 'ari' to his father's name, denoting that he was his father's son.'
'You mean like Lord Malin was Malinari's father?'
'Indeed. And now that you mention it… how you knew that, too?'
Jake frowned again, deeper this time. But then he relaxed, and shrugged. 'You must have told me,' he said. 'Or maybe I've read of it somewhere. In Ben Trask's files, perhaps?' But:
'No,' Lardis shook his head, smiling in that knowing way of his. 'No, I haven't told you. I've had no reason to mention it to anyone. And as far as I know it isn't written anywhere.'
Then, creaking to his feet, the old man yawned and said, 'Well, goodnight, Jake. And pleasant dreams…'
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE A Dream And A Word-Game
But in fact Jake's dreams were anything but pleasant…
It wasn't so much what had happened, though that was bad enough, but that he had been made to watch it happening. More than anything else, that was what had preyed on his mind… until he'd made it up to put things right. Perhaps he'd hoped that by killing the cause he might kill the memories, too.
But such a lot of memories, burning,like acid in his head, until he'd thought they would burn his brain out.
Memories, yes.
That fat, pallid, slimy-looking bastard — the second one of those pigs that Jake had got back at — the way he had taken Natasha in the classical or orthodox position, but scarcely an act of love. Rape, yes, and his long, slender grey dick in her rectum according to his taste.
Memories, those Godawful memories…
They'd piled pillows under her, raising her hips, and two of the others had held her legs under her knees, to allow this fat slug standing at the side of the bed to get into her. That had made it easy for him, because unconscious as she was — or between bouts of consciousness and unconsciousness — she'd been likely to flop and eject him. But holding her like that, Natasha had been a lot more accessible; accessible to viewing, too, for Jake had been tied to a chair where he could see all of the action. Of course, he could have closed his eyes, and from time to time he did just that, but he could still hear it even if he couldn't see it.
That grunting pig! His dick like a long finger poking into her, in and out with the heaving and clenching of his fat backside. And this sweaty, grunting, slug-like slob — this giggling queer — oh, it was obvious why he liked it like this. With any normal woman in any natural act of intercourse he'd be lucky if that pencil penis of his touched the sides. But this way… at least he would get some satisfaction, however minimal At least he would know he'd had it into something.
And Jake had to watch, he had to, because long before that too-long night was over he'd known that if it was the very last thing he did he would avenge her.
But the worst thing was when it was over, and the fat bastard zipped his fly and waddled over to Jake, saying, 'A shame she wasn't awake, eh, English? It would have been so sweet to know she'd felt that last big bang, and to feel her guts spasm as I greased her dirt chute! Ah well, there's time yet. Oh, ha, ha, ha?
He had a strong German accent. And when he laughed he put his face close enough to Jake's to cause him to recoil from the stench of cigar smoke and senf, hot German mustard…
But Jake didn't even know the pig's name — didn't know any of their names — except Castellano's and Jean Daniel's.
Well, Jean Daniel was dead now, of an unequal argument between his soft guts and the alloy core of a plastique-propelled steering column.
And the fat faggot had been number two…
Jake knew the route the fat man took from Castellano's place on the northern outskirts of Marseille to a gay bar on the Rue de Carpiagne which he visited regularly on Friday nights. He knew, too, that the fat swine was a little shy to admit openly of his predilections (that it didn't sit too well with him that he was both a hoodlum and a pervert), which was why he invariably approached Le Jockey Club down a narrow side street.
It was raining on the night in question, and Jake had parked his car so as to block off one side of the rain- slick cobbled alley on the fat man's approach route. The other side was liberally sprinkled with inch-and-a-half spikes which Jake had laid down with malice aforethought and in great deliberation.
Jake was waiting in a recessed doorway when the fat man's fat tyres blew, and he was quickly into the alley as the expensive Fiat slewed to a halt and its cursing driver slammed open his door, got out, and creased his belly as he bent to hear the front nearside's last gasp. A moment more and Jake was standing over him.
The fat man was suddenly aware of him; he had time to say, 'Uh? Bitte? Was istP' before Jake sapped him behind the ear…
In a deserted copse on a wooded hillside over the motorway near St Antoine, Jake wafted a small bottle of smelling salts under his victim's nose until he twitched, moaned, and came out of it with a series of useless, spastic jerks. Useless because he was tied up — literally tied up — and spastic because he was tied by his ankles and wrists, so that all he could do was shake and shiver like a great, globular white spider in its web.
Jake had woken him up because in his position, upside down, the fat Kraut might easily die without ever regaining consciousness of his own accord. And that was the last thing Jake wanted… that he should die easily.
The man's legs were spread wide; at a height of about seven feet, his ankles were roped to a pair of springy saplings which were just strong enough to hold him in position. His wrists were likewise tied to the bases of the twin trees, which formed his body into a fat, totally naked 'X'. He was gagged with his own underpants, tied off at the back of his neck, and the rest of his clothing lay in a neat pile close by.
