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and rebrewed he guessed； not like the insipid stuff he was used to。
It was twenty…five minutes before Toy came back in； apologized for the delay； and told him that Mr。 Whitehead would see him now。
〃Leave your bags；〃 he said。 〃Luther will see to them。〃 Toy led the way from the kitchen； which was part of the extension； into the main house。 The corridors were gloomy； but everywhere Marty's eye was amazed。 The building was a museum。 Paintings covered the walls from floor to ceiling； on the tables and shelves were vases and ceramic figurines whose enamels gleamed。 There was no time to linger； however。 They wove through the maze of halls； Marty's sense of direction more confounded with every turn； until they reached the study。 Toy knocked； opened the door； and ushered Marty in。
With little but a badly remembered photograph of Whitehead to build upon； Marty's portrait of his new employer had been chiefly invention…and totally wrong。 Where he'd imagined frailty； he found robustness。 Where he'd expected the eccentricity of a recluse he found a furrowed； subtle face that scanned him； even as he entered the study； with efficiency and humor。
〃Mr。 Strauss；〃 said Whitehead； 〃wele。〃 Behind Whitehead； the curtains were still open； and through the window the floodlights suddenly came on； illuminating the piercing green of the lawns for a good two hundred yards。 It was like a conjurer's trick； the sudden appearance of this sward； but Whitehead ignored it。 He walked toward Marty。 Though he was a large man； and much of his bulk had turned to fat； the weight sat on his frame quite easily。 There was no sense of awkwardness。 The grace of his gait； the almost oiled smoothness of his arm as he extended it to Marty； the suppleness of the proffered fingers； all suggested a man at peace with his physique。
They shook hands。 Either Marty was hot； or the other man cold： Marty immediately took the error to be his。 A man like Whitehead was surely never too hot or too cold； he controlled his temperature with the same ease he controlled his finances。 Hadn't Toy dropped into their few exchanges in the car the fact that Whitehead had never been seriously ill in his life？ Now Marty was face…to…face with the paragon he could believe it。 Not a whisper of flatulence would dare this man's bowels。
〃I'm Joseph Whitehead；〃 he said。 〃Wele to the Sanctuary。〃 〃Thank you。〃 〃You'll have a drink？ Celebrate。〃 〃Yes； please。〃 〃What will it be？〃 Marty's mind suddenly went blank； and he found himself gaping like a stranded fish。 It was Toy； God save him； who suggested： 〃Scotch？〃 〃That'd be fine。〃 〃The usual for me；〃 said Whitehead。 〃e and sit down； Mr。 Strauss。〃 They sat。 The chairs were fortable； not antiques； like the tables in the corridors； but functional； modern pieces。 The entire room shared this style： it was a working environment； not a museum。 The few pictures on the dark blue walls looked； to Marty's uneducated eye； as recent as the furniture they were large and slapdash。 The most prominently placed； and the most representational； was signed Matisse； and pictured a bilious pink Woman sprawled on a bilious yellow chaise tongue。
〃Your whisky。〃 Marty accepted the glass Toy was offering。
〃We had Luther buy you a selection of new clothes； they're up in your room；〃 Whitehead was telling Marty。 〃Just a couple of suits； shirts and so on； to start with。 Later on； we'll maybe send you out shopping for yourself。〃 He drained his glass of neat vodka before continuing。 〃Do they still issue suits to prisoners； or did they discontinue that？ Smacks of the poorhouse； I suppose。 Wouldn't be too tactful in these enlightened times。 People might begin to think you were criminals by necessity…〃 Marty wasn't at all sure about this line of chat： was Whitehead making fun of him？ The monologue went on； its tenor quite friendly； while Marty tried to sort out irony from straightforward opinion。 It was difficult。 He was reminded； in the space of a few minutes listening to Whitehead talk； of how much subtler things were on the outside。 By parison with this man's shifting； richly inflected talk the cleverest conversationalist in Wandsworth was an amateur。 Toy slipped a second large whisky into Marty's hand； but he scarcely noticed。 Whitehead's voice was hypnotic； and strangely soothing。
〃Toy has explained your duties to you； has he？〃 〃Yes； I think so。〃 〃I want you to make this house your home； Strauss。 Bee familiar with it。 There are one or two places that will be out…of…bounds to you； Toy will tell you where。 Please observe those constraints。 The rest of the place is at your disposal。〃 Marty nodded； and downed his whisky； it ran down his gullet like quicksilver。
〃Tomorrow 。 。 。〃 Whitehead stood up； the thought unfinished； and returned to the window。 The grass shone as though freshly painted。
〃。 。 。 we'll take a walk around the place； you and I。〃 〃Fine。〃 〃See what's to be seen。 Introduce you to Bella； and the others。〃 There was more staff？ Toy hadn't mentioned them； but inevitably there would be others here： guards； cooks； gardeners。 The place probably swarmed with functionaries。
〃e talk to me tomorrow； eh？〃 Marty drained the rest of his scotch and Toy gestured that he should stand up。 Whitehead seemed suddenly to have lost interest in them both。 His assessment was over； at least for today； his thoughts were already elsewhere； his stare directed out of the window at the gleaming lawn。
〃Yes； sir。 Tomorrow。〃 〃But before you e…〃 Whitehead said； glancing around at Marty。
〃Yes； sir。〃 〃Shave off your mustache。 Anybody would think you'd got something to hide。〃
12
Toy gave Marty a perfunctory tour of the house before taking him upstairs； promising a more thorough walkabout when time wasn't so pressing。 Then he delivered Marty to a long； airy room on the top story； and at the side of the house。
〃This is yours；〃 he said。 Luther had left the suitcase and the plastic bag on the bed； their tattiness looked out of place in the sleek utility of the room。 It had； like the study； contemporary fittings。
〃It's a bit bare at the moment；〃 said Toy。 〃So do whatever you want with it。 If you've got photographs…〃 〃Not really。〃 〃Well； we ought to get something on the walls。 There are some books〃…he nodded to the far end of the room； where several shelves groaned under a weight of volumes…〃but the library downstairs is at your disposal。 I'll show you the layout sometime next week； when you've settled in。 There's a video up here； too； and another downstairs。 Again； Joe doesn't really have much interest in it； so help yourself。〃 〃Sounds good。〃 〃There's a small dressing room through to the left。 As Joe said； you'll find some fresh clothes in there。 Your bathroom is through the other door。 Shower and so on。 And I think that's it。 I hope it's adequate。〃 〃It's fine；〃 Marty said。 Toy glanced at his watch and turned to leave。
〃Just before you go 。 。 。〃 〃Problem？〃 〃No problem；〃 Marty said。 〃Jesus； no problem at all。 I just want you to know I'm grateful…〃 〃No need。〃 〃But I am；〃 Marty insisted； he'd been trying to find a cue for this speech since Trinity Road。 〃I'm very grateful。 I don't know how or why you chose me…but I appreciate it。〃 Toy was mildly disforted by this show of feeling； but Marty was glad to have it said。
〃Believe me； Marty。 I wouldn't have chosen you if I didn't think you could do the job。 You're here now。 It's up to you to make the best of it。 I'm going to be around； of course； but after this you're more or less your own man。〃 〃Yes。 I realize that。〃 〃I'll leave you then。 See you at the beginning of the week。 Pearl's left food out for you in the kitchen； by the way。 Goodnight。〃 〃Goodnight。〃 Toy left him alone。 He sat down on the bed and opened his suitcase。 The badly packed clothes smelled of prison detergent； and he didn't want to take them out。 Instead he dug down to the bottom of the case until his hands found his razor and shaving foam。 Then he undressed； slung his stale clothes on the floor； and went into the bathroom。
It was spacious； mirrored； and seductively lit。 Freshly laundered towels hung on a heated rack。 There was a shower as well as a bath and a bidet： an embarrassment of waterworks。 Whatever else happened to him here； he'd be clean。 He switched on the mirror light and set the shaving implements down on the glass shelf above the sink。 He needn't have bothered with his search。 Toy； or perhaps Luther； had laid a plete shaving kit out for him； razor； preshave； foam； cologne。 All unopened； pristine： waiting for him。 He looked at himself in the mirror…that intimate self…scrutiny which was expected of women but which men seldom practiced except in locked bathrooms。 The anxieties of the day showed on his face： his skin was anemic； and the bags under his eyes full。 Like a man searching for some treasure； he plundered his face for clues。 Was his past written here； he wondered； in all its grubby detail； etched； perhaps； too deeply to be erased？
He needed some sun； no doubt of that； and decent exercise out in the open air。 From tomorrow； he thought； a new regime。 He'd run every day till he was so fit he was unrecognizable。 Get himself to a proper dentist too。 His gums bled worryingly often； and in one or two places they were receding from the tooth。 He was proud of his teeth： they were even and strong； like his mother's。 He tried his smile on the mirror； but it had lost some of its former sparkle。 He'd have to exercise that too。 He was in the big wide world again； and maybe in time there'd be women to woo with that smile。
His surveillance shifted from face to body。 A wedge of fat was sitting on the muscle of his abdomen： he was easily a stone overweight。 He'd have to work at that。 Watch his diet； and keep the exercise up until he was back to the twelve stone three he'd been when he first went to Wandsworth。 The extra weight apart； he felt quite good about himself。 Maybe the warm light flattered him； but prison didn't seem to have changed him radically。 He still had all his hair； he wasn't scarred…except for the tattoos； and a small crescent to the left of his mouth； he wasn't doped up to the eyeballs。 Maybe he was a survivor after all。
His hand had crept to his groin as he perused himself； and he'd idly teased himself semierect。 He hadn't been thinking of Charmaine。 If there was any lust in his arousal it was narcissistic。 Many of the cons he'd lived with had found it easy to slake their sexual thirst with their cellmates； but Marty had never been fortable with the idea。 Not simply out of distaste for the acts…though he felt that acutely…but because that unnaturalness was forced upon him。 It was just another way that prison humiliated a man。 Instead； he'd locked his sexuality away； and used his cock for pissing and little else。 Now； toying with it like a vain adolescent； he wondered if he could still use the damn thing。
He ran the shower lukewarm and stepped in； slicking himself down from head to foot with lemon…scented soap。 In a day of pleasures this was perhaps the best。 The water was stimulating； like standing in a spring rain。 His body began to wake。 Yes； that was it； he thought： I've been dead； and I'm ing back to life。 He'd been buried in the asshole of the world； a hole so deep he thought he'd never scramble out of it； but he had； damn it。 He was out。 He rinsed； and then indulged himself with a repeat of the ritual； this time running the water considerably hotter and harder。 The bathroom filled with steam and the slap of the water on the shower tiles。
When he stepped out and turned the flow off； his head buzzed with heat； whisky and fatigue。 He moved to the mirror and cleared an oval in the condensation with the ball of his fist。 The water had brought new color to his cheeks。 His hair was plastered to his head like a brown…blond skullcap。 He'd let it grow； he thought； as long as Whitehead didn't object； get it styled perhaps。 But there was more pressing business now； the removal of the condemned mustache。 He wasn't particularly hirsute。 The mustache had taken him several weeks to grow； and he'd had to tolerate the usual run of witless remarks while he was doing it。 But if the boss man wanted him barefaced； who was he to argue？ Whitehead's opinion on the matter had sounded more like an order than a sug