sk.misery-第23部分

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　bit　as　necessary。　Because　when　you　were　writing　a　novel　you　almost　always　got　roadblocked　somewhere；　and　there　was　no　sense　in　trying　to　go　on　until　you'd　HAD　AN　IDEA。
　His　usual　procedure　when　it　was　necessary　to　HAVE　AN　IDEA　was　to　put　on　his　coat　and　go　for　a　walk。　If　he　didn't　need　to　HAVE　AN　IDEA；　he　took　a　book　when　he　went　for　a　walk。　He　recognized　walking　as　good　exercise；　but　it　was　boring。　If　you　didn't　have　someone　to　talk　to　while　you　walked；　a　book　was　a　necessity。　But　if　you　needed　to　HAVE　AN　IDEA；　boredom　could　be　to　a　roadblocked　novel　what　chemotherapy　was　to　a　cancer　patient。
　Halfway　through　Fast　Cars；　Tony　had　killed　Lieutenant　Gray　when　the　lieutenant　tried　to　slap　the　cuffs　on　him　in　a　Times　Square　movie　theater。　Paul　wanted　Tony　to　get　away　with　the　murder　…　for　awhile；　anyway　…　because　there　could　be　no　third　act　with　Tony　sitting　in　the　cooler。　Yet　Tony　could　not　simply　leave　Gray　sitting　in　the　movie　theater　with　the　haft　of　a　knife　sticking　out　of　his　left　armpit；　because　there　were　at　least　three　people　who　knew　Gray　had　gone　to　meet　Tony。
　Body　disposal　was　the　problem；　and　Paul　didn't　know　how　to　solve　it。　It　was　a　roadblock。　It　was　the　game。　It　was　Careless　just　killed　this　guy　in　a　Times　Square　movie　theater　and　now　he's　got　to　get　the　body　back　to　his　car　without　anyone　saying　〃Hey　mister；　is　that　guy　as　dead　as　he　looks　or　did　he　just　pitch　a　fit　or　something？〃　If　he　gets　Gray's　corpse　back　to　the　car；　he　can　drive　it　to　Queens　and　dump　it　in　this　abandoned　building　project　he　knows　about。　Paulie？　Can　You？
　There　was　no　ten…second　deadline；　of　course　…　he'd　had　no　contract　for　the　book；　had　written　it　on　spec；　and　hence　there　was　no　delivery　date　to　think　about。　Yet　there　was　always　a　deadline；　a　time　after　which　you　had　to　leave　the　circle；　and　most　writers　knew　it。　If　a　book　remained　roadblocked　long　enough；　it　began　to　decay；　to　fall　apart；　all　the　little　tricks　and　illusions　started　to　show。
　He　had　gone　for　a　walk；　thinking　of　nothing　on　top　of　his　mind；　the　way　he　was　thinking　of　nothing　on　top　right　now。　He　had　walked　three　miles　before　someone　sent　up　a　flare　from　the　sweatshops　down　below：　Suppose　he　starts　a　fire　in　the　theater？
　That　looked　like　it　might　work。　There　was　no　sense　of　giddiness；　no　true　feeling　of　inspiration；　he　felt　like　a　carpenter　looking　at　a　piece　of　lumber　that　might　do　the　job。
　He　could　set　afire　in　the　stuffing　of　the　seat　next　to　him；　how's　that？　Goddam　seats　in　those　theaters　are　always　tom　up。　And　there'd　be　smoke。　Lots　of　it。　He　could　hold　off　leaving　as　long　as　possible；　then　drag　Gray　out　with　him。　He　can　pass　Gray　off　as　a　smoke…inhalation　victim。　What　do　you　think？
　He　had　thought　it　was　okay。　Not　great；　and　there　were　plenty　of　details　still　to　be　worked　out；　but　it　looked　okay。　He'd　HAD　AN　IDEA。　The　work　could　proceed。
　He'd　never　needed　to　HAVE　AN　IDEA　to　start　a　book；　but　he　understood　instinctively　that　it　could　be　done。
　He　sat　quietly　in　the　chair；　chin　on　hand；　looking　out　at　the　barn。　If　he'd　been　able　to　walk；　he　would　have　been　out　there　in　the　field。　He　sat　quietly；　almost　dozing；　waiting　for　something　to　happen；　really　aware　of　nothing　at　all　except　that　things　were　happening　down　below；　that　whole　edifices　of　make…believe　were　being　erected；　judged；　found　wanting；　and　torn　down　again　in　the　wink　of　an　eye。　Ten　minutes　passed。　Fifteen。　Now　she　was　running　the　vacuum　cleaner　in　the　parlor　（but　still　not　singing）。　He　heard　it　but　did　nothing　with　the　hearing　of　it；　it　was　unconnected　sound　which　ran　into　his　head　and　then　out　again　like　water　running　through　a　flume。
　Finally　the　guys　down　below　shot　up　a　flare；　as　they　always　eventually　did。　Poor　buggers　down　there　never　stopped　busting　their　balls；　and　…he　didn't　envy　them　one　little　bit。
　Paul　sat　quietly；　beginning　to　HAVE　AN　IDEA　His　conscious　mind　returned　…　THE　DOCTOR　IS　IN　…　and　picked　the　idea　up　like　a　letter　pushed　through　the　mail…slot　in　a　door。　He　began　to　examine　it。　He　almost　rejected　it　（was　that　a　faint　groan　from　down　there　in　the　sweatshops？）；　reconsidered；　decided　half　of　it　could　be　saved。
　A　second　flare；　this　one　brighter　than　the　first。
　Paul　began　to　drum　his　fingers　restlessly　on　the　windowsill。
　Around　eleven　o'clock　he　began　to　type。　This　went　very　slowly　at　first　…　individual　clacks　followed　by　spaces　of　silence；　some　as　long　as　fifteen　seconds。　It　was　the　aural　equivalent　of　an　island　archipelago　seen　from　the　air　…　a　chain　of　low　humps　broken　by　broad　swaths　of　blue。
　Little　by　little　the　spaces　of　silence　began　to　shorten；　and　now　there　were　occasional　bursts　of　typing　…　it　would　have　sounded　fine　on　Paul's　electric　typewriter；　but　the　clacking　sound　of　the　Royal　was　thick；　actively　unpleasant。
　But　after　a　while　Paul　did　not　notice　the　Ducky　Daddles　voice　of　the　typewriter。　He　was　warming　up　by　the　bottom　of　the　first　page。　By　the　bottom　of　the　second　he　was　in　high　gear。
　After　awhile　Annie　turned　off　the　vacuum　cleaner　and　stood　in　the　doorway；　watching　him。　Paul　had　no　idea　she　was　there　…　had　no　idea；　in　fact；　that　he　was。　He　had　finally　escaped。　He　was　in　Little　Dunthorpe's　churchyard；　breathing　damp　night　air；　smelling　moss　and　earth　and　mist；　he　heard　the　clock　in　the　tower　of　the　Presbyterian　church　strike　two　and　dumped　it　into　the　story　without　missing　a　beat。　When　it　was　very　good；　he　could　see　through　the　paper。　He　could　see　through　it　now。
　Annie　watched　him　for　a　long　time；　her　heavy　face　unsmiling；　moveless；　but　somehow　satisfied。　After　awhile　she　went　away。　Her　tread　was　heavy；　but　Paul　didn't　hear　that；　either。
　He　worked　until　three　o'clock　that　afternoon；　and　at　eight　that　night　he　asked　her　to　help　him　back　into　the　wheelchair　again。　He　wrote　another　three　hours；　although　by　ten　o'clock　the　pain　had　begun　to　be　quite　bad。　Annie　came　in　at　eleven。　He　asked　for　another　fifteen　minutes。
　〃No；　Paul；　it's　enough。　You're　white　as　salt。〃　She　got　him　into　bed　and　he　was　asleep　in　three　minutes。　He　slept　the　whole　night　through　for　the　first　time　since　ing　out　of　the　gray　cloud；　and　his　sleep　was　for　the　first　time　utterly　without　dreams。
　He　had　been　dreaming　awake。
　
　
　6
　
　MISERY'S　RETURN
　
　By　Paul　Sheldon
　
　
　For　Annie　Wilkes
　
　
　CHAPTER　1
　
　For　a　moment　Geoffrey　Alliburton　was　not　sure　who　the　old　man　at　the　door　was；　and　this　was　not　entirely　because　the　bell　had　awakened　him　from　a　deepening　doze。　The　irritating　thing　about　village　life；　he　thought；　was　that　there　weren't　enough　people　for　there　to　be　any　perfect　strangers　instead　there　were　just　enough　to　keep　one　from　knowing　immediately　who　many　of　the　villagers　were。　Sometimes　all　one　really　had　to　go　on　was　a　family　resemblance　…　and　such　resemblances；　of　course；　never　precluded　the　unlikely　but　hardly　impossible　coincidence　of　bastardy。　One　could　usually　handle　such　moments　…　no　matter　how　much　one　might　feel　one　was　entering　one's　dotage　while　trying　to　maintain　an　ordinary　conversation　with　a　person　whose　name　one　should　be　able　to　recall　but　could　not；　things　only　reached　the　more　cosmic　realms　of　embarrassment　when　two　such　familiar　faces　arrived　at　the　same　time；　and　one　felt　called　upon　to　make　introductions。
　〃I　hope　I'll　not　be　disturber〃　ye；　sair；〃　this　visitor　said。　He　was　twisting　a　cheap　cloth　cap　restlessly　in　his　hands；　and　in　the　light　cast　by　the　lamp　Geoffrey　held　up；　his　face　looked　lined　and　yellow　and　terribly　worried　…　frightened；　even。　〃It's　just　that　I　didn't　want　to　go　to　Dr。　Bookings；　nor　did　I　want　to　disturb　His　Lordship。　Not；　at　least；　until　I'd　spoken　to　you；　if　ye　take　my　meaning；　sair。〃　Geoffrey　didn't；　but　quite　suddenly　he　did　know　one　thing　…　who　this　late…ing　visitor　was。　The　mention　of　Dr。　Bookings；　the　C　of　E　Minister；　had　done　it。　Three　days　ago　Dr。　Bookings　had　performed　Misery's　few　last　rites　in　the　churchyard　which　lay　behind　the　rectory；　and　this　fellow　had　been　there　…　but　lurking　considerately　in　the　background；　where　he　was　less　apt　to　be　noticed。
　His　name　was　Colter。　He　was　one　of　the　church　sextons。　To　be　brutally　frank；　the　man　was　a　gravedigger。
　〃Colter；〃　he　said。　〃What　can　I　do　for　you？〃　Colter　spoke　hesitantly。　〃It's　the　noises；　sair。　The　noises　in　the　churchyard。　Her　Ladyship　rests　not　easy；　sair；　so　she　doesn't；　and　I'm　afeard。　I　…　〃　Geoffrey　felt　as　if　someone　had　punched　him　in　the　midsection。　He　pulled　in　a　gasp　of　air　and　hot　pain　needled　his　side；　where　his　ribs　had　beers　tightly　taped　by　Dr。　Shinebone。　Shinebone's　gloomy　assessment　had　been　that　Geoffrey　would　almost　certainly　take　pneumonia　after　lying　in　that　ditch　all　night　in　the　chilly　rain；　but　three　days　had　passed　and　there　had　been　no　onset　of　fever　and　coughing。　He　had　known　there　would　not　be；　God　did　not　let　off　the　guilty　so　easily。　He　believed　that　God　would　let　him　live　to　perpetuate　his　poor　lost　darling's　memory　for　a　long；　long　time。
　〃Are　ye　all　〃right；　sair？〃　Colter　asked。　〃I　heard　ye　were　turrible　bunged　up　t'other　night。〃〃　He　paused。　〃The　night　herself　died。〃
　〃I'm　fine；〃　Geoffrey　said　slowly。　〃Colter；　these　sounds　you　say　you　hear　。　。　。　you　know　they　are　just　imaginings；　don't　you？〃　Colter　looked　shocked。
　〃Imaginings？〃　he　asked。　〃Sair！　Next　ye'll　be　tellin　me　ye　have　no　belief　in　Jesus　and　the　life　everlastin'！　Why；　didn't　Duncan　Fromsley　see　old　man　Patterson　not　two　days　after　his　funeral；　glowin〃　just　as　white　as　marsh…fire　（which　was　just　what　it　probably　was；　Geoffrey　thought；　marsh…fire　plus　whatever　came　out　of　old　Fromsley's　last　bottle）？　And　ain't　half　the　bleedin〃　town　seen　that　old　Papist　monk　that　walks　the　battlements　of　Ridgeheath　Manor？　They　even　sent　down　a　coupler　ladies　from　the　bleedin〃　London　Psychic　Society　to　look　inter　that　〃un！〃　Geoffrey　knew　the　ladies　Colter　meant；　a　Couple　of　hysterical　beldames　probably　suffering　from　the　alternate　calms　and　monsoons　of　midlife；　both　as　dotty　as　a　child's　Draw…It…Name…It　puzzle。
　〃Ghosts　are　just　as　real　as　you　or　me；　sair；〃　Colter　was　saying　earnestly。　〃I　don't　mind　the　idea　of　them　…　but　these　noises　are　fearsome　spooky；　so　they　are；　and　I　hardly　even　like　to　go　near　the　churchyard　…　and　I　have　to　dig　a　grave　for　the　little　Roydman　babe　tomorrow；　so　I　do。〃　Geoffrey　said　an　inward　prayer　for　patience。　The　urge