The Damnation Game

Description

THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER

“ONE OF THE BEST HORROR NOVELS IN A VERY LONG TIME…do not miss it!”—USA Today

There are things worse than death. There are games so seductively evil, so wondrously vile, no gambler can resist. Amid the shadow-scarred rubble of World War II, Joseph Whitehead dared to challenge the dark champion of life’s ultimate game. Now a millionaire, locked in a terror-shrouded fortress of his own design, Joseph Whitehead has hell to pay. And no soul is safe from this ravaging fear, the resurrected fury, the unspeakable desire of…
 
THE DAMNATION GAMEPraise for The Damnation Game

“A deliciously scary tale…Barker’s brilliantly literary work has raised horror to a level of excellence it has rarely reached before.”—Whitley Streiber

“Original and memorable…engrossing…disturbing…Horror mavens who enjoy violence and harrowing imagery will find plenty of both here. But there is more to The Damnation Game than gore. This story of a supernaturally powerful man who can resurrect the dead probes the many varieties of corruption.”—Publishers Weekly

“Remarkably powerful…Barker has created a truly legendary monster. In pure descriptive power there is no one writing horror fiction now who can match him.”—The Washington Post

“Wonderful, moving and apocalyptic. Death and damnation hang at the end of every chapter. Barker makes us squirm.”—Seattle Post-Intelligencer

“Will fry your eyes off! Keep the lights on.”—Larry King

“A masterly novel…a thrill a minute.”—Chicago Sun-Times

“A tour de force of gruesome supernatural horror…startling, hard-hitting, graphic…brilliantly executed.”—Fantasy Review

“A horrifying thriller.”—The Wall Street Journal

“A gripping tale of hideous evil.”—New York Daily News

“A writer of stunning imagination…With his artist’s eye for detail, Barker instills a mythic quality into his vision of hell.”—The Atlanta Journal & Constitution

“The most literate and disturbing horror novel I have ever read. This is the place that nightmares are spawned—read it at your own peril, but read it you must!”—Imagine

“A powerful, thrilling novel that provokes the imagination and raises the blood pressure.”—The Orlando Sentinel

“Frightening…Scalpel-clean prose and wild inventiveness.”—Kirkus Reviews

“Powerful…original…Barker’s horror is elegant enough that one can admire it as a kind of hellish choreography, with the characters all dancing to his phantasmagorical tune.”—New York NewsdayBorn in Liverpool in 1952, Clive Barker has written and produced a number of plays, including The History of the Devil and Frankenstein in Love, which are as diverse in style and subject as the fiction he has written since. His volumes of short fiction, Books of Blood, earned him immediate praise from horror fans and literary critics alike. He won both the British and World Fantasy awards, and was nominated for the coveted Booker Prize, Britain’s highest literary award. His bestselling novels include The Damnation Game, Imajica, Coldheart Canyon, The Thief of Always, The Great and Secret Show, Everville, the Abarat series, and The Scarlet Gospels. He is also the creator of the now-classic Hellraiser films as well as Nightbreed and Lord of Illusions.

1

 

The air was electric the day the thief crossed the city, certain that tonight, after so many weeks of frustration, he would finally locate the card-player. It was not an easy journey. Eighty-five percent of Warsaw had been leveled, either by the months of mortar bombardment that had preceded the Russian liberation of the city, or by the program of demolition the Nazis had undertaken before their retreat. Several sectors were virtually impassable by vehicle. Mountains of rubble-still nurturing the dead like bulbs ready to sprout as the spring weather warmed-clogged the streets. Even in the more accessible districts the once-elegant faades swooned dangerously, their foundations growling.

 

But after almost three months of plying his trade here, the thief had become used to navigating this urban wilderness. Indeed, he took pleasure in its desolate splendor: its perspectives tinged lilac by the dust that still settled from the stratosphere, its squares and parkways so unnaturally silent; the sense he had, trespassing here, that this was what the end of the world would be like. By day there were even a few landmarks remaining-forlorn signposts that would be dismantled in time-by which the traveler could chart his route. The gas works beside the Poniatowski Bridge was still recognizable, as was the zoo on the other side of the river; the clock-tower of Central Station showed its head, though the clock had long since disappeared; these and a handful of other pockmarked tributes to Warsaw’s civic beauty survived, their trembling presence poignant, even to the thief.

 

This wasn’t his home. He had no home, nor had for a decade. He was a nomad and a scavenger, and for a short space Warsaw offered sufficient pickings to keep him here. Soon, when he’d recovered energies depleted in his recent wanderings, it would be time to move on. But while the first signs of spring murmured in the air he lingered here, enjoying the freedom of the city.

 

There were hazards certainly, but then where were there not for a man of his profession? And the war years had polished his powers of self-preservation to such brilliance that little intimidated him. He was safer here than the true citizens of Warsaw, the few bewildered survivors of the holocaust who were gradually beginning to filter back into the city, looking for lost homes, lost faces. They scrabbled in the wreckage or stood on street corners listening to the dirge of the river, and waited for the Russians to round them up in the name of Karl Marx. New barricades were being established every day. The military were slowly but systematically reclaiming some order from the confusion, dividing and subdividing the city as they would, in time, the entire country. The curfews and the checkpoints did little to hobble the thief, however. In the lining of his well-cut coat he kept identification papers of every kind-some forged, most stolen-one of which would be suitable for whatever situation arose. What they lacked in credibility he made up for with repartee and cigarettes, both of which he possessed in abundance. They were all a man needed-in that city, in that year-to feel like the lord of creation.

 

And such creation! No need here for either appetite or curiosity to go unsatisfied. The profoundest secrets of body and spirit were available to anyone with the itch to see. Games were made of them. Only the previous week the thief had heard tell of a young man who played the ancient game of cups and ball (now you see it, now you don’t) but substituted, with insanity’s wit, three buckets and a baby’s head.

 

That was the least of it; the infant was dead, and the dead don’t suffer. There were, however, other pastimes available for hire in the city, delights that used the living as their raw material. For those with the craving and the price of entry, a traffic in human flesh had begun. The occupying army, no longer distracted by battle, had discovered sex again, and there was profit in it. Half a loaf of bread could purchase one of the refugee girls-many so young they scarcely had breasts to knead-to be used and re-used in the covering darkness, their complaints unheard or silenced by a bayonet when they lost their charm. Such casual homicide was overlooked in a city where tens of thousands had died. For a few weeks-between one regime and the next-anything was possible: no act found culpable, no depravity taboo.

 

A boys’ brothel had been opened in the Zoliborz District. Here, in an underground salon hung with salvaged paintings, one could choose from chicks of six or seven up, all fetchingly slimmed by malnutrition and tight as any connoisseur could wish. It was very popular with the officer class, but too expensive, the thief had heard it muttered, for the noncommissioned ranks. Lenin’s tenets of equal choice for all did not stretch, it seemed, to pederasty.

 

Sport, of a kind, was more cheaply available. Dogfights were a particularly popular attraction that season. Homeless curs, returning to the city to pick at the meat of their masters, were trapped, fed to fighting strength and then pitted against each other to the death. It was an appalling spectacle, but a love of betting took the thief to the fights again and again. He’d made a tidy profit one night by putting his money on a runty but cunning terrier who’d bested a dog three times its size by chewing off its opponent’s testicles.

 

And if, after a time, your taste for dogs or boys or women palled, there were more esoteric entertainments available.

 

In a crude amphitheater dug from the debris of the Bastion of Holy Mary the thief had seen an anonymous actor singlehandedly perform Goethe’s Faust, Parts One and Two. Though the thief’s German was far from perfect, the performance had made a lasting impression. The story was familiar enough for him to follow the action-the pact with Mephisto, the debates, the conjuring tricks, and then, as the promised damnation approached, despair and terrors. Much of the argument was indecipherable, but the actor’s possession by his twin roles-one moment Tempter, the next Tempted-was so impressive the thief left with his belly churning.

 

Two days later he had gone back to see the play again, or at least to speak to the actor. But there were to be no encores. The performer’s enthusiasm for Goethe had been interpreted as pro-Nazi propaganda; the thief found him hanging, joy decayed, from a telegraph pole. He was naked. His bare feet had been eaten at and his eyes taken out by birds; his torso was riddled with bullet holes. The sight pacified the thief. He saw it as proof that the confused feelings the actor had aroused were iniquitous; if this was the state to which his art had brought him the man had clearly been a scoundrel and a sham. His mouth gaped, but the birds had taken his tongue as well as his eyes. No loss.

 

Besides, there were far more rewarding diversions. The women the thief could take or leave, and the boys were not to his taste, but the gambling he loved, and always had. So it was back to the dogfights to chance his fortunes on a mongrel. If not there, then to some barrack-room dice game, or-in desperation-betting with a bored sentry on the speed of a passing cloud. The method and the circumstance scarcely concerned him: he cared only to gamble. Since his adolescence it had been his one true vice; it was the indulgence he had become a thief to fund. Before the war he’d played in casinos across Europe; chemin de fer was his game, though he was not averse to roulette. Now he looked back at those years through the veil war had drawn across them, and remembered the contests as he remembered dreams on waking: as something irretrievable, and slipping further away with every breath.

 

That sense of loss changed, however, when he heard about the card-player-Mamoulian, they called him-who, it was said, never lost a game, and who came and went in this deceitful city like a creature who was not, perhaps, even real.

 

But then, after Mamoulian, everything changed.

 

2

 

So much was rumor; and so much of that rumor not even rooted in truth. Simply lies told by bored soldiers. The military mind, the thief had discovered, was capable of inventions more baroque than a poet’s, and more lethal.

 

So when he heard tell of a master cardsharp who appeared out of nowhere, and challenged every would-be gambler to a game and unfailingly won, he suspected the story to be just that: a story. But something about the way this apocryphal tale lingered confounded expectation. It didn’t fade away to be replaced by some yet more ludicrous romance. It appeared repeatedly-in the conversation of the men at the dogfights; in gossip, in graffiti. What was more, though the names changed the salient facts were the same from one account to the next. The thief began to suspect there was truth in the story after all. Perhaps there was a brilliant gambler operating somewhere in the city. Not perfectly invulnerable, of course; no one was that. But the man, if he existed, was certainly something special. Talk of him was always conducted with a caution that was like reverence; soldiers who claimed to have seen him play spoke of his elegance, his almost hypnotic calm. When they talked of Mamoulian they were peasants speaking of nobility, and the thief-never one to concede the superiority of any man-added a zeal to unseat this king to his reasons for seeking the card-player out.

 

But beyond the general picture he garnered from the grapevine, there were few specifics. He knew that he would have to find and interrogate a man who had actually faced this paragon across a gaming table before he could really begin to separate truth from speculation.

 

It took two weeks to find such a man. His name was Konstantin Vasiliev, a second lieutenant, who, it was said, had lost everything he had playing against Mamoulian. The Russian was broad as a bull; the thief felt dwarfed by him. But while some big men nurture spirits expansive enough to fill their anatomies, Vasiliev seemed almost empty. If he had ever possessed such virility, it was now gone. Left in the husk was a frail and fidgety child.

 

It took an hour of coaxing, the best part of a bottle of black-market vodka and half a pack of cigarettes to get Vasiliev to answer with more than a monosyllable, but when the disclosures came they came gushingly, the confessions of a man on the verge of total breakdown. There was self-pity in his talk, and anger too; but mostly there was the stench of dread. Vasiliev was a man in mortal terror. The thief was mightily impressed: not by the tears or the desperation, but by the fact that Mamoulian, this faceless card-player, had broken the giant sitting across the floor from him. Under the guise of consolation and friendly advice he proceeded to pump the Russian for every sliver of information he could provide, looking all the time for some significant detail to make flesh and blood of the chimera he was investigating.

 

“You say he wins without fail?”

 

“Always.”

 

“So what’s his method? How does he cheat?”

 

Vasiliev looked up from his contemplation of the bare boards of the floor.

 

“Cheat?” he said, incredulously. “He doesn’t cheat. I’ve played cards all my life, with the best and the worst. I’ve seen every trick a man can pull. And I tell you now, he was clean.”

 

“The luckiest player gets defeated once in a while. The laws of chance-“

 

A look of innocent amusement crossed Vasiliev’s face, and for a moment the thief glimpsed the man who’d occupied this fortress before his fall from sanity.

 

“The laws of chance are nothing to him. Don’t you see? He isn’t like you or me. How could a man always win without having some power over the cards?”

 

“You believe that?”

 

Vasiliev shrugged, and slumped again. “To him,” he said, almost contemplative in his utter dismay, “winning is beauty. It is like life itself.”

 

The vacant eyes returned to tracing the rough grain of the floorboards as the thief somersaulted the words over in his head: “Winning is beauty. It is like life itself.” It was strange talk, and made him uneasy. Before he could work his way into its meaning, however, Vasiliev was leaning closer to him, his breath fearful, his vast hand catching hold of the thief’s sleeve as he spoke.

 

“I’ve put in for a transfer, did they tell you that? I’ll be away from here in a few days, and nobody’ll be any the wiser. I’m getting medals when I get home. That’s why they’re transferring me: because I’m a hero, and heroes get what they ask for. Then I’ll be gone, and he’ll never find me.”

 

“Why would he want to?”

 

The hand on the sleeve fisted; Vasiliev pulled the thief in toward him. “I owe him the shirt off my back,” he said. “If I stay, he’ll have me killed. He’s killed others, him and his comrades.”

 

“He’s not alone?” said the thief. He had pictured the card-player as being a man without associates; made him, in fact, in his own image.

 

Vasiliev blew his nose into his hand, and leaned back in the chair. It creaked under his bulk.

 

“Who knows what’s true or false in this place, eh?” he said, eyes swimming. “I mean, if I told you he had dead men with him, would you believe me?” He answered his own question with a shake of his head. “No. You’d think I was mad . . .”

 

Once, the thief thought, this man had been capable of certainty; of action; perhaps even of heroism. Now all that noble stuff had been siphoned off: the champion was reduced to a sniveling rag, blabbering nonsense. He inwardly applauded the brilliance of Mamoulian’s victory. He had always hated heroes.

 

“One last question-” he began.

 

“You want to know where you can find him.”

 

“Yes.”

 

The Russian stared at the ball of his thumb, sighing deeply. This was all so wearisome.

 

“What do you gain if you play him?” he asked, and again returned his own answer. “Only humiliation. Perhaps death.”

 

The thief stood up. “Then you don’t know where he is?” he said, making to pocket the half-empty packet of cigarettes that lay on the table between them.

US

Additional information

Weight	7.8 oz
Dimensions	0.9300 × 4.1200 × 6.8100 in
Imprint	Berkley
Format	General Trade
ISBN-13	09780425188934
ISBN-10	0425188930
Author	Clive Barker
Audience	General / adult
BISAC	FIC030000, FIC031070
Subjects	paranormal books, mystery thriller suspense, fiction books, mysteries and thrillers, books fiction, mystery and thriller, paranormal mystery, horror stories, horror fiction, horror novels, horror books, paranormal fiction, supernatural books, supernatural horror, horror novel, clive barker books, clive barker, hellraiser, books of blood, thrillers, thriller, fiction, FIC030000, suspense, paranormal, supernatural, fantasy, novels, horror, scary books, FIC031070, evil, betrayal, suspense fiction, thriller books, suspense books, suspense thriller books