cb.booksofblood2-第6部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　'I'll　go　too！　I'll　go　too！'
　
　He　couldn't　bear　waiting　to　fall；　in　the　dark；　in　the　whining　silence；　he　just　wanted　to　follow　his　shoe　down；　down；　down　the　dark　shaft　to　extinction；　and　have　the　whole　game　finished　once　and　for　all。
　'I'll　go！　I'll　go！　I'll　go！'　he　shrieked。　He　pleaded　with　gravity。
　Beneath　him；　the　grid　moved。
　Something　had　broken。　A　pin；　a　chain；　a　rope　that　held　the　grid　in　position　had　snapped。　He　was　no'　longer　horizontal；　already　he　was　sliding　across　the　bars　as　they　tipped　him　off　into　the　dark。
　With　shock　he　realized　his　limbs　were　no　longer　chained。
　He　would　fall。
　The　man　wanted　him　to　fall。　The　bad　man　…　what　was　his　name？　Quake？　Quail？　Quarrel　…Automatically　he　seized　the　grid　with　both　hands　as　it　tipped　even　further　over。　Maybe　he　didn't　want　to　fall　after　his　shoe；　after　all？　Maybe　life；　a　little　moment　more　of　life；　was　worth　holding　on　to　…The　dark　beyond　the　edge　of　the　grid　was　so　deep；　and　who　could　guess　what　lurked　in　it？
　In　his　head　the　noises　of　his　panic　multiplied。　The　thumping　of　his　bloody　heart；　the　stutter　of　his　mucus；　the　dry　rasp　of　his　palate。　His　palms；　slick　with　sweat；　were　losing　their　grip。　Gravity　wanted　him。　It　demanded　its　rights　of　his　body's　bulk：　demanded　that　he　fall。　For　a　moment；　glancing　over　his　shoulder　at　the　mouth　that　opened　under　him；　he　thought　he　saw　monsters　stirring　below　him。　Ridiculous；　loony　things；　crudely　drawn；　dark　on　dark。　Vile　graffiti　leered　up　from　his　childhood　and　uncurled　their　claws　to　snatch　at　his　legs。
　'Mama；'　he　said；　as　his　hands　failed　him；　and　he　was　delivered　into　dread。
　'Mama。'
　That　was　the　word。　Quaid　heard　it　plainly；　in　all　its　banality。
　'Mama！'
　By　the　time　Steve　hit　the　bottom　of　the　shaft；　he　was　past　judging　how　far　he'd　fallen。　The　moment　his　hands　let　go　of　the　grid；　and　he　knew　the　dark　would　have　him；　his　mind　snapped。　The　animal　self　survived　to　relax　his　body；　saving　him　all　but　minor　injury　on　impact。　The　rest　of　his　life；　all　but　the　simplest　responses；　were　shattered；　the　pieces　flung　into　the　recesses　of　his　memory。
　When　the　light　came；　at　last；　he　looked　up　at　the　person　in　the　Mickey　Mouse　mask　at　the　door；　and　smiled　at　him。　It　was　a　child's　smile；　one　of　thankfulness　for　his　ical　rescuer。　He　let　the　man　take　him　by　the　ankles　and　haul　him　out　of　the　big　round　room　in　which　he　was　lying。　His　pants　were　wet；　and　he　knew　he'd　dirtied　himself　in　his　sleep。　Still；　the　Funny　Mouse　would　kiss　him　better。
　His　head　lolled　on　his　shoulders　as　he　was　dragged　out　of　the　torture…chamber。　On　the　floor　beside　his　head　was　a　shoe。　And　seven　or　eight　feet　above　him　was　the　grid　from　which　he　had　fallen。
　It　meant　nothing　at　all。
　He　let　the　Mouse　sit　him　down　in　a　bright　room。　He　let　the　Mouse　give　him　his　ears　back；　though　he　didn't　really　want　them。　It　was　funny　watching　the　world　without　sound；　it　made　him　laugh。
　He　drank　some　water；　and　ate　some　sweet　cake。
　He　was　tired。　He　wanted　to　sleep。　He　wanted　his　Mama。　But　the　Mouse　didn't　seem　to　understand；　so　he　cried；　and　kicked　the　table　and　threw　the　plates　and　cups　on　the　floor。　Then　he　ran　into　the　next　room；　and　threw　all　the　papers　he　could　find　in　the　air。　It　was　nice　watching　them　flutter　up　and　flutter　down。　Some　of　them　fell　face　down；　some　face　up。　Some　were　covered　with　writing。　Some　were　pictures。　Horrid　pictures。　Pictures　that　made　him　feel　very　strange。
　They　were　all　pictures　of　dead　people；　every　one　of　them。　Some　of　the　pictures　were　of　little　children；　others　were　of　grown…up　children。　They　were　lying　down；　or　half…sitting；　and　there　were　big　cuts　in　their　faces　and　their　bodies；　cuts　that　showed　a　mess　underneath；　a　mish…mash　of　shiny　bits　and　oozy　bits。　And　all　around　the　dead　people：　black　paint。　Not　in　neat　puddles；　but　splashed　all　around；　and　finger…marked；　and　hand…printed　and　very　messy。
　In　three　or　four　of　the　pictures　the　thing　that　made　the　cuts　was　still　there。　He　knew　the　word　for　it。
　Axe。
　There　was　an　axe　in　a　lady's　face　buried　almost　to　the　handle。　There　was　an　axe　in　a　man's　leg；　and　another　lying　on　the　floor　of　a　kitchen　beside　a　dead　baby。
　This　man　collected　pictures　of　dead　people　and　axes；　which　Steve　thought　was　strange。
　That　was　his　last　thought　before　the　too…familiar　scent　of　chloroform　filled　his　head　and　he　lost　consciousness。
　
　The　sordid　doorway　smelt　of　old　urine　and　fresh　vomit。　It　was　his　own　vomit；　it　was　all　over　the　front　of　his　shirt。　He　tried　to　stand　up；　but　his　legs　felt　wobbly。　It　was　very　cold。　His　throat　hurt。
　Then　he　heard　footsteps。　It　sounded　like　the　Mouse　was　ing　back。　Maybe　he'd　take　him　home。
　'Get　up；　son。'
　It　wasn't　the　Mouse。　It　was　a　policeman。
　'What　are　you　doing　down　there？　I　said　get　up。'
　
　Bracing　himself　against　the　crumbling　brick　of　the　doorway　Steve　got　to　his　feet。　The　policeman　shone　his　torch　at　him。
　'Jesus　Christ；'　said　the　policeman；　disgust　written　over　his　face。　'You're　in　a　right　fucking　state。　Where　do　you　live？'
　Steve　shook　his　head；　staring　down　at　his　vomit…soaked　shirt　like　a　shamed　schoolboy。
　'What's　your　name？'
　He　couldn't　quite　remember。
　'Name；　lad？'
　He　was　trying。　If　only　the　policeman　wouldn't　shout。
　'e　on；　take　a　hold　of　yourself。'
　The　words　didn't　make　much　sense。　Steve　could　feel　tears　pricking　the　backs　of　his　eyes。
　'Home。'
　Now　he　was　blubbering；　sniffing　snot；　feeling　utterly　forsaken。　He　wanted　to　die：　he　wanted　to　lie　down　and　die。
　The　policeman　shook　him。
　'You　high　on　something？'　he　demanded；　pulling　Steve　into　the　glare　of　the　streetlights　and　staring　at　his　tear…stained　face。
　'You'd　better　move　on。'
　'Mama；'　said　Steve；　'I　want　my　Mama。'
　The　words　changed　the　encounter　entirely。
　Suddenly　the　policeman　found　the　spectacle　more　than　disgusting；　more　than　pitiful。　This　little　bastard；　with　his　bloodshot　eyes　and　his　dinner　down　his　shirt　was　really　getting　on　his　nerves。　Too　much　money；　too　much　dirt　in　his　veins；　too　little　discipline。
　'Mama'　was　the　last　straw。　He　punched　Steve　in　the　stomach；　a　neat；　sharp；　functional　blow。　Steve　doubled　up；　whimpering。
　
　'Shut　up；　son。'
　Another　blow　finished　the　job　of　crippling　the　child；　and　then　he　took　a　fistful　of　Steve's　hair　and　pulled　the　little　druggy's　face　up　to　meet　his。
　'You　want　to　be　a　derelict；　is　that　it？'
　'No。　No。'
　Steve　didn't　know　what　a　derelict　was；　he　just　wanted　to　make　the　policeman　like　him。
　'Please；'　he　said；　tears　ing　again；　'take　me　home。'　The　policeman　seemed　confused。　The　kid　hadn't　started　fighting　back　and　calling　for　civil　rights；　the　way　most　of　them　did。　That　was　the　way　they　usually　ended　up：　on　the　ground；　bloody…nosed；　calling　for　a　social　worker。　This　one　just　wept。　The　policeman　began　to　get　a　bad　feeling　about　the　kid。　Like　he　was　mental　or　something。　And　he'd　beaten　the　shit　out　of　the　little　snot。　Fuck　it。　Now　he　felt　responsible。　He　took　hold　of　Steve　by　the　arm　and　bundled　him　across　the　road　to　his　car。
　'Get　in。'
　'Take　me　…'
　'I'll　take　you　home；　son。　I'll　take　you　home。'
　
　At　the　Night　Hostel　they　searched　Steve's　clothes　for　some　kind　of　identification；　found　none；　then　scoured　his　body　for　fleas；　his　hair　for　nits。　The　policeman　left　him　then；　which　Steve　was　relieved　about。　He　hadn't　liked　the　man。　The　people　at　the　Hostel　talked　about　him　as　though　he　wasn't　in　the　room。　Talked　about　how　young　he　was；　discussed　his　mental…age；　his　clothes；　his　appearance。　Then　they　gave　him　a　bar　of　soap　and　showed　him　the　showers。　He　stood　under　the　cold　water　for　ten　minutes　and　dried　himself　with　a　stained　towel。　He　didn't　shave；　though　they'd　lent　him　a　razor。　He'd　forgotten　how　to　do　it。
　
　Then　they　gave　him　some　old　clothes；　which　he　liked。　They　weren't　such　bad　people；　even　if　they　did　talk　about　him　as　though　he　wasn't　there。　One　of　them　even　smiled　at　him；　a　burly　man　with　a　grizzled　beard。　Smiled　as　he　would　at　a　dog。
　They　were　odd　clothes　he　was　given。　Either　too　big　or　too　small。　All　colours：　yellow　socks；　dirty　white　shirt；　pin…stripe　trousers　that　had　been　made　for　a　glutton；　a　thread…bare　sweater；　heavy　boots。　He　liked　dressing　up；　putting　on　two　vests　and　two　pairs　of　socks　when　they　weren't　looking。　He　felt　reassured　with　several　thicknesses　of　cotton　and　wool　wrapped　around　him。
　Then　they　left　him　with　a　ticket　for　his　bed　in　his　hand；　to　wait　for　the　dormitories　to　be　unlocked。　He　was　not　impatient；　like　some　of　the　men　in　the　corridors　with　him。　They　yelled　incoherently；　many　of　them；　their　accusations　laced　with　obscenities；　and　they　spat　at　each　other。　It　frightened　him。　All　he　wanted　was　to　sleep。　To　lie　down　and　sleep。
　At　eleven　o'clock　one　of　the　warders　unlocked　the　gate　to　the　dormitory；　and　all　the　lost　men　filed　through　to　find　themselves　an　iron　bed　for　the　night。　The　dormitory；　which　was　large　and　badly…lit；　stank　of　disinfectant　and　old　people。
　Avoiding　the　eyes　and　the　flailing　arms　of　the　other　derelicts；　Steve　found　himself　an　ill…made　bed；　with　one　thin　blanket　tossed　across　it；　and　lay　down　to　sleep。　All　around　him　men　were　coughing　and　muttering　and　weeping。　One　was　saying　his　prayers　as　he　lay；　staring　at　the　ceiling；　on　his　grey　pillow。　Steve　thought　that　was　a　good　idea。　So　he　said　his　own　child's　prayer。
　'Gentle　Jesus；　meek　and　mild；
　Look　upon　this　little　child；
　Pity　my。。。　…What　was　the　word？
　Pity　my　…　simplicity；
　Suffer　me　to　e　to　thee。'
　That　made　him　feel　better；　and　the　sleep；　a　balm；　was　blue　and　deep。
　
　Quaid　sat　in　darkness。　The　terror　was　on　him　again；　worse　than　ever。　His　body　was　rigid　with　fear；　so　much　so　that　he　couldn't　even　get　out　of　bed　and　snap　on　the　light。　Besides；　what　if　this　time；　this　time　of　all　times；　the　tenor　was　true？　What　if　the　axe…man　was　at　the　door　in　flesh　and　blood？　Grinning　like　a　loon　at　him；　dancing　like　the　devil　at　the　top　of　the　stairs；　as　Quaid　had　seen　him；　in　dreams；　dancing　and　grinning；　grinning　and　dancing。
　Nothing　moved。　No　creak　of　the　stair；　no　giggle　in　the　shadows。　It　wasn't　him；　after　all。　Quaid　would　live　'til　morning。
　His　body　had　relaxed　a　little　now。　He　swung　his　legs　out　of　bed　and　switched　on　the　light。　The　room　was　indeed　empty。　The　house　was　silent。　Through　the　open　door　he　could　see　the　top　of