cb.booksofblood-第1部分

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　　THE　BOOK　OF　BLOOD
　　
　　THE　MIDNIGHT　MEAT　TRAIN
　　
　　THE　YATTERING　AND　JACK
　　
　　PIG　BLOOD　AND　STARSHINE
　　
　　IN　THE　HILLS；　THE　CITIES
　　
　　
　　　
　　　THE　BOOK　OF　BLOOD
　　
　　
　　THE　DEAD　HAVE　highways。
　　They　run；　unerring　lines　of　ghost…trains；　of　dream…carriages；　across　the　wasteland　behind　our　lives；　bearing　an　endless　traffic　of　departed　souls。　Their　thrum　and　throb　can　be　heard　in　the　broken　places　of　the　world；　through　cracks　made　by　acts　of　cruelty；　violence　and　depravity。　Their　freight；　the　wandering　dead；　can　be　glimpsed　when　the　heart　is　close　to　bursting；　and　sights　that　should　be　hidden　e　plainly　into　view。
　　They　have　sign…posts；　these　highways；　and　bridges　and　lay…bys。　They　have　turnpikes　and　intersections。
　　It　is　at　these　intersections；　where　the　crowds　of　dead　mingle　and　cross；　that　this　forbidden　highway　is　most　likely　to　spill　through　into　our　world。　The　traffic　is　heavy　at　the　cross…roads；　and　the　voices　of　the　dead　are　at　their　most　shrill。　Here　the　barriers　that　separate　one　reality　from　the　next　are　worn　thin　with　the　passage　of　innumerable　feet。
　　Such　an　intersection　on　the　highway　of　the　dead　was　located　at　Number　65；　Tollington　Place。　Just　a　brick…fronted；　mock…Georgian　detached　house；　Number　65　was　unremarkable　in　every　other　way。　An　old；　forgettable　house；　stripped　of　the　cheap　grandeur　it　had　once　laid　claim　to；　it　had　stood　empty　for　a　decade　or　more。
　　It　was　not　rising　damp　that　drove　tenants　from　Number　65。　It　was　not　the　rot　in　the　cellars；　or　the　subsidence　that　had　opened　a　crack　in　the　front　of　the　house　that　ran　from　doorstep　to　eaves；　it　was　the　noise　of　passage。　In　the　upper　storey　the　din　of　that　traffic　never　ceased。　It　cracked　the　plaster　on　the　walls　and　it　warped　the　beams。　It　rattled　the　windows。　It　rattled　the　mind　too。　Number　65；　Tollington　Place　was　a　haunted　house；　and　no…one　could　possess　it　for　long　without　insanity　setting　in。
　　At　some　time　in　its　history　a　horror　had　been　mitted　in　that　house。　No…one　knew　when；　or　what。　But　even　to　the　untrained　observer　the　oppressive　atmosphere　of　the　house；　particularly　the　top　storey；　was　unmistakable。　There　was　a　memory　and　a　promise　of　blood　in　the　air　of　Number　65；　a　scent　that　lingered　in　the　sinuses；　and　turned　the　strongest　stomach。　The　building　and　its　environs　were　shunned　by　vermin；　by　birds；　even　by　flies。　No　woodlice　crawled　in　its　kitchen；　no　starling　had　nested　in　its　attic。　Whatever　violence　had　been　done　there；　it　had　opened　the　house　up；　as　surely　as　a　knife　slits　a　fish's　belly；　and　through　that　cut；　that　wound　in　the　world；　the　dead　peered　out；　and　had　their　say。
　　That　was　the　rumour　anyway。
　　
　　It　was　the　third　week　of　the　investigation　at　65；　Tollington　Place。　Three　weeks　of　unprecedented　success　in　the　realm　of　the　paranormal。　Using　a　newer　to　the　business；　a　twenty…year…old　called　Simon　McNeal；　as　a　medium；　the　Essex　University　Parapsychology　Unit　had　recorded　all　but　incontrovertible　evidence　of　life　after　death。
　　In　the　top　room　of　the　house；　a　claustrophobic　corridor　of　a　room；　the　McNeal　boy　had　apparently　summoned　the　dead；　and　at　his　request　they　had　left　copious　evidence　of　their　visits；　writing　in　a　hundred　different　hands　on　the　pale　ochre　walls。　They　wrote；　it　seemed；　whatever　came　into　their　heads。　Their　names；　of　course；　and　their　birth　and　death　dates。　Fragments　of　memories；　and　well…wishes　to　their　living　descendants；　strange　elliptical　phrases　that　hinted　at　their　present　torments　and　mourned　their　lost　joys。　Some　of　the　hands　were　square　and　ugly；　some　delicate　and　feminine。　There　were　obscene　drawings　and　half…finished　jokes　alongside　lines　of　romantic　poetry。　A　badly　drawn　rose。　A　game　of　noughts　and　crosses。　A　shopping　list。
　　The　famous　had　e　to　this　wailing　wall…Mussolini　was　there；　Lennon　and　Janis　Joplin…and　nobodies　too；　forgotten　people；　had　signed　themselves　beside　the　greats。　It　was　a　roll…call　of　the　dead；　and　it　was　growing　day　by　day；　as　though　word　of　mouth　was　spreading　amongst　the　lost　tribes；　and　seducing　them　out　of　silence　to　sign　this　barren　room　with　their　sacred　presence。
　　
　　After　a　lifetime's　work　in　the　field　of　psychic　research；　Doctor　Florescu　was　well　accustomed　to　the　hard　facts　of　failure。　It　had　been　almost　fortable；　settling　back　into　a　certainty　that　the　evidence　would　never　manifest　itself。　Now；　faced　with　a　sudden　and　spectacular　success；　she　felt　both　elated　and　confused。
　　She　sat；　as　she　had　sat　for　three　incredible　weeks；　in　the　main　room　on　the　middle　floor；　one　flight　of　stairs　down　from　the　writing　room；　and　listened　to　the　clamour　of　noises　from　upstairs　with　a　sort　of　awe；　scarcely　daring　to　believe　that　she　was　allowed　to　be　present　at　this　miracle。　There　had　been　nibbles　before；　tantalizing　hints　of　voices　from　another　world；　but　this　was　the　first　time　that　province　had　insisted　on　being　heard。
　　Upstairs；　the　noises　stopped。
　　Mary　looked　at　her　watch：　it　was　six…seventeen　p。m。
　　For　some　reason　best　known　to　the　visitors；　the　contact　never　lasted　much　after　six。　She'd　wait　〃til　half…past　then　go　up。　What　would　it　have　been　today？　Who　would　have　e　to　that　sordid　little　room；　and　left　their　mark？
　　〃Shall　I　set　up　the　cameras？〃　Reg　Fuller；　her　assistant；　asked。
　　〃Please；〃　she　murmured；　distracted　by　expectation。
　　〃Wonder　what　we'll　get　today？〃
　　〃We'll　leave　him　ten　minutes。〃
　　〃Sure。〃　Upstairs；　McNeal　slumped　in　the　corner　of　the　room；　and　watched　the　October　sun　through　the　tiny　window。　He　felt　a　little　shut　in；　all　alone　in　that　damn　place；　but　he　still　smiled　to　himself；　that　warm；　beatific　smile　that　melted　even　the　most　academic　heart。　Especially　Doctor　Florescu's：　oh　yes；　the　woman　was　infatuated　with　his　smile；　his　eyes；　the　lost　look　he　put　on　for　her。
　　It　was　a　fine　game。
　　Indeed；　at　first　that　was　all　it　had　been…a　game。　Now　Simon　knew　they　were　playing　for　bigger　stakes；　what　had　begun　as　a　sort　of　lie…detection　test　had　turned　into　a　very　serious　contest：　McNeal　versus　the　Truth。　The　truth　was　simple：　he　was　a　cheat。　He　penned　all　his　〃ghost…writings〃　on　the　wall　with　tiny　shards　of　lead　he　secreted　under　his　tongue：　he　banged　and　thrashed　and　shouted　without　any　provocation　other　than　the　sheer　mischief　of　it：　and　the　unknown　names　he　wrote；　ha；　he　laughed　to　think　of　it；　the　names　he　found　in　telephone　directories。
　　Yes；　it　was　indeed　a　fine　game。
　　She　promised　him　so　much；　she　tempted　him　with　fame；　encouraging　every　lie　that　he　invented。　Promises　of　wealth；　of　applauded　appearances　on　the　television；　of　an　adulation　he'd　never　known　before。　As　long　as　he　produced　the　ghosts。
　　He　smiled　the　smile　again。　She　called　him　her　Go…Between：　an　innocent　carrier　of　messages。　She'd　be　up　the　stairs　soon…her　eyes　on　his　body；　his　voice　close　to　tears　with　her　pathetic　excitement　at　another　series　of　scrawled　names　and　nonsense。
　　He　liked　it　when　she　looked　at　his　nakedness；　or　all　but　nakedness。　All　his　sessions　were　carried　out　with　him　only　dressed　in　a　pair　of　briefs；　to　preclude　any　hidden　aids。　A　ridiculous　precaution。　All　he　needed　were　the　leads　under　his　tongue；　and　enough　energy　to　fling　himself　around　for　half　an　hour；　bellowing　his　head　off。
　　He　was　sweating。　The　groove　of　his　breast…bone　was　slick　with　it；　his　hair　plastered　to　his　pale　forehead。　Today　had　been　hard　work：　he　was　looking　forward　to　getting　out　of　the　room；　sluicing　himself　down；　and　basking　in　admiration　awhile。　The　Go…Between　put　his　hand　down　his　briefs　and　played　with　himself；　idly。　Somewhere　in　the　room　a　fly；　or　flies　maybe；　were　trapped。　It　was　late　in　the　season　for　flies；　but　he　could　hear　them　somewhere　close。　They　buzzed　and　fretted　against　the　window；　or　around　the　light　bulb。　He　heard　their　tiny　fly　voices；　but　didn't　question　them；　too　engrossed　in　his　thoughts　of　the　game；　and　in　the　simple　delight　of　stroking　himself。
　　How　they　buzzed；　these　harmless　insect　voices；　buzzed　and　sang　and　plained。　How　they　plained。
　　Mary　Florescu　drummed　the　table　with　her　fingers。　Her　wedding　ring　was　loose　today；　she　felt　it　moving　with　the　rhythm　of　her　tapping。　Sometimes　it　was　tight　and　sometimes　loose：　one　of　those　small　mysteries　that　she'd　never　analysed　properly　but　simply　accepted。　In　fact　today　it　was　very　loose：　almost　ready　to　fall　off。　She　thought　of　Alan's　face。　Alan's　dear　face。　She　thought　of　it　through　a　hole　made　of　her　wedding　ring；　as　if　down　a　tunnel。　Was　that　what　his　death　had　been　like：　being　carried　away　and　yet　further　away　down　a　tunnel　to　the　dark？　She　thrust　the　ring　deeper　on　to　her　hand。　Through　the　tips　of　her　index…finger　and　thumb　she　seemed　almost　to　taste　the　sour　metal　as　she　touched　it。　It　was　a　curious　sensation；　an　illusion　of　some　kind。
　　To　wash　the　bitterness　away　she　thought　of　the　boy。　His　face　came　easily；　so　very　easily；　splashing　into　her　consciousness　with　his　smile　and　his　unremarkable　physique；　still　unmanly。　Like　a　girl　really…the　roundness　of　him；　the　sweet　clarity　of　his　skin…the　innocence。
　　Her　fingers　were　still　on　the　ring；　and　the　sourness　she　had　tasted　grew。　She　looked　up。　Fuller　was　organizing　the　equipment。　Around　his　balding　head　a　nimbus　of　pale　green　light　shimmered　and　wove…She　suddenly　felt　giddy。
　　Fuller　saw　nothing　and　heard　nothing。　His　head　was　bowed　to　his　business；　engrossed。　Mary　stared　at　him　still；　seeing　the　halo　on　him；　feeling　new　sensations　waking　in　her；　coursing　through　her。　The　air　seemed　suddenly　alive：　the　very　molecules　of　oxygen；　hydrogen；　nitrogen　jostled　against　her　in　an　intimate　embrace。　The　nimbus　around　Fuller's　head　was　spreading；　finding　fellow　radiance　in　every　object　in　the　room。　The　unnatural　sense　in　her　fingertips　was　spreading　too。　She　could　see　the　colour　of　her　breath　as　she　exhaled　it：　a　pinky　orange　glamour　in　the　bubbling　air。　She　could　hear；　quite　clearly；　the　voice　of　the　desk　she　sat　at：　the　low　whine　of　its　solid　presence。
　　The　world　was　opening　up：　throwing　her　senses　into　an　ecstasy；　coaxing　them　into　a　wild　confusion　of　functions。　She　was　capable；　suddenly；　of　knowing　the　world　as　a　system；　not　of　politics　or　religions；　but　as　a　system　of　senses；　a　system　that　spread　out　from　the　living　flesh　to　the　inert　wood　o