The Damnation Game by Clive Barker

there was something of the street-corner gossip in her slightly lowered voice; whatever came next was to be a secret between them.
    “He used to come down here at all times of the day and make telephone calls. He told me he was calling people in the business—he was a stuntman, you see, or had been—but I soon cottoned on that he was making bets. It’s my guess that’s where the debts came from. Gambling.”
    Somehow Marty had known the answer before it came. It begged, of course, another question: was it just coincidence that Whitehead had employed two bodyguards, both, at some point in their lives, gamblers?
    Both—it now appeared—thieves for their hobby? Toy had never shown much interest in that aspect of Marty’s life. But then maybe all the salient facts were in the file that Somervale had always carried: the psychologist’s reports, the trial transcripts, everything Toy would ever need to know about the compulsion that had driven Marty to theft. He tried to shrug off the discomfort he felt about all this. What the hell did it matter? It was old news; he was healthy now.
    “You finished with your plate?”
    “Yes, thanks.”
    “More coffee?”
    “I’ll get it.”
    Pearl took the plate from in front of Marty, scraped the uneaten food onto a second plate—“For the birds,” she said-and started to load plates, cutlery and pans alike into the dishwasher. Marty refilled his mug and watched her at work. She was an attractive woman; middle-age suited her.
    “How many staff does Whitehead have altogether?”
    “Mr. Whitehead,” she said, gently correcting him. “Staff? Well, there’s me. I come and go like I said. And there’s Mr. Toy, of course.”
    “He doesn’t live here either, right?”
    “He stays overnight when they have conferences here.”
    “Is that regular?”
    “Oh, yes. There’s a lot of meetings go on in the house. People in and out all the time. That’s why Mr. Whitehead’s so security conscious.”
    “Does he ever go down to London?”
    “Not now,” she said. “He used to jet around quite a bit. Off to New York or Hamburg or some such place. But not now. Now he just stays here all year round and makes the rest of the world come to him. Where was I?”
    “Staff.”
    “Oh, yes. The place used to swarm with people. Security staff; servants; upstairs maids. But then he went through a very suspicious patch. Thought one of them might poison him or murder him in his bath. So he sacked them all: just like that. Said he was happier with just a few of us: the ones he trusted. That way he wasn’t surrounded by people he didn’t know.”
    “He doesn’t know me.”
    “Maybe not yet. But he’s canny: like nobody I’ve ever met.”
    The telephone rang. She picked it up. He knew it must be Whitehead on the other end. Pearl looked caught in the act.
    “Oh … yes. It’s my fault. I kept him talking. Right away.” The receiver was quickly replaced. “Mr. Whitehead’s waiting for you. You’d better hurry. He’s with the dogs.”
     

Chapter 14
     
    T he kennels were located behind a group of outhouses—once stables, perhaps— two hundred yards to the back of the main house. A sprawling collection of breeze-block sheds and wire-mesh enclosures, they had been built simply to fulfill their function, with no thought for architectural felicities; they were an eyesore.
    It was chilly out in the open air, and crossing the crusty grass toward the kennels Marty had rapidly regretted his shirtsleeves. But there’d been an urgency in Pearl’s voice as she sent him on his way, and he didn’t want to leave Whitehead—no, he must learn to think of the man as Mr. Whitehead—waiting longer than he already had. As it was, the great man seemed unruffled by his late arrival.
    “I thought we’d take a look at the dogs this morning. Then maybe we’ll make a tour of the grounds, yes?”
    “Yes, Sir.”
    He was dressed in a heavy black coat, the thick fur collar of which cradled his