cb.booksofblood-第3部分

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　　First　step。　Second　step。　Third　step。
　　Though　she　was　torn　at　from　every　side；　she　was　winning　against　the　crowd。　Ahead　she　could　see　through　the　door　of　the　room　to　where　her　little　liar　was　sprawled；　surrounded　by　his　attackers。　His　briefs　were　around　his　ankles：　the　scene　looked　like　a　kind　of　rape。　He　screamed　no　longer；　but　his　eyes　were　wild　with　terror　and　pain。　At　least　he　was　still　alive。　The　natural　resilience　of　his　young　mind　had　half　accepted　the　spectacle　that　had　opened　in　front　of　him。
　　Suddenly　his　head　jerked　around　and　he　looked　straight　through　the　door　at　her。　In　this　extremity　he　had　dredged　up　a　true　talent；　a　skill　that　was　a　fraction　of　Mary's；　but　enough　to　make　contact　with　her。　Their　eyes　met。　In　a　sea　of　blue　darkness；　surrounded　on　every　side　with　a　civilization　they　neither　knew　nor　understood；　their　living　hearts　met　and　married。
　　〃I'm　sorry；〃　he　said　silently。　It　was　infinitely　pitiful。　〃I'm　sorry。　I'm　sorry。〃　He　looked　away；　his　gaze　wrenched　from　hers。
　　She　was　certain　she　must　be　almost　at　the　top　of　the　stairs；　her　feet　still　treading　air　as　far　as　her　eyes　could　tell；　the　faces　of　the　travellers　above；　below　and　on　every　side　of　her。　But　she　could　see；　very　faintly；　the　outline　of　the　door；　and　the　boards　and　beams　of　the　room　where　Simon　lay。　He　was　one　mass　of　blood　now；　from　head　to　foot。　She　could　see　the　marks；　the　hieroglyphics　of　agony　on　every　inch　of　his　torso；　his　face；　his　limbs。　One　moment　he　seemed　to　flash　into　a　kind　of　focus；　and　she　could　see　him　in　the　empty　room；　with　the　sun　through　the　window；　and　the　shattered　jug　at　his　side。　Then　her　concentration　would　falter　and　instead　she'd　see　the　invisible　world　made　visible；　and　he'd　be　hanging　in　the　air　while　they　wrote　on　him　from　every　side；　plucking　out　the　hair　on　his　head　and　body　to　clear　the　page；　writing　in　his　armpits；　writing　on　his　eyelids；　writing　on　his　genitals；　in　the　crease　of　his　buttocks；　on　the　soles　of　his　feet。
　　Only　the　wounds　were　in　mon　between　the　two　sights。　Whether　she　saw　him　beset　with　authors；　or　alone　in　the　room；　he　was　bleeding　and　bleeding。
　　She　had　reached　the　door　now。　Her　trembling　hand　stretched　to　touch　the　solid　reality　of　the　handle；　but　even　with　all　the　concentration　she　could　muster　it　would　not　e　clear。　There　was　barely　a　ghost…image　for　her　to　focus　on；　though　it　was　sufficient。　She　grasped　the　handle；　turned　it；　and　flung　the　door　of　the　writing　room　open。
　　He　was　there；　in　front　of　her。　No　more　than　two　or　three　yards　of　possessed　air　separated　them。　Their　eyes　met　again；　and　an　eloquent　look；　mon　to　the　living　and　the　dead　worlds；　passed　between　them。　There　was　passion　in　that　look；　and　love。　The　fictions　fell　away；　the　lies　were　dust。　In　place　of　the　boy's　manipulative　smiles　was　a　true　sweetness…answered　in　her　face。
　　And　the　dead；　fearful　of　this　look；　turned　their　heads　away。　Their　faces　tightened；　as　though　the　skin　was　being　stretched　over　the　bone；　their　flesh　darkening　to　a　bruise；　their　voices　being　wistful　with　the　anticipation　of　defeat。　She　reached　to　touch　him；　no　longer　having　to　fight　against　the　hordes　of　the　dead；　they　were　falling　away　from　their　quarry　on　every　side；　like　dying　flies　dropping　from　a　window。
　　She　touched　him；　lightly；　on　the　face。　The　touch　was　a　benediction。　Tears　filled　his　eyes；　and　ran　down　his　scarified　cheek；　mingling　with　the　blood。
　　The　dead　had　no　voices　now；　nor　even　mouths。　They　were　lost　along　the　highway；　their　malice　dammed。
　　Plane　by　plane　the　room　began　to　re…establish　itself。　The　floor…boards　became　visible　under　his　sobbing　body；　every　nail；　every　stained　plank。　The　windows　came　clearly　into　view…and　outside　the　twilight　street　was　echoing　with　the　clamour　of　children。　The　highway　had　disappeared　from　living　human　sight　entirely。　Its　travellers　had　turned　their　faces　to　the　dark　and　gone　away　into　oblivion；　leaving　only　their　signs　and　their　talismans　in　the　concrete　world。
　　On　the　middle　landing　of　Number　65　the　smoking；　blistered　body　of　Reg　Fuller　was　casually　trodden　by　the　travellers〃　feet　as　they　passed　over　the　intersection。　At　length　Fuller's　own　soul　came　by　in　the　throng　and　glanced　down　at　the　flesh　he　had　once　occupied；　before　the　crowd　pressed　him　on　towards　his　judgement。
　　Upstairs；　in　the　darkening　room；　Mary　Florescu　knelt　beside　the　McNeal　boy　and　stroked　his　blood…plastered　head。　She　didn't　want　to　leave　the　house　for　assistance　until　she　was　certain　his　tormentors　would　not　e　back。
　　There　was　no　sound　now　but　the　whine　of　a　jet　finding　its　way　through　the　stratosphere　to　morning。　Even　the　boy's　breathing　was　hushed　and　regular。　No　nimbus　of　light　surrounded　him。　Every　sense　was　in　place。　Sight。　Sound。　Touch。
　　Touch。
　　She　touched　him　now　as　she　had　never　previously　dared；　brushing　her　fingertips；　oh　so　lightly；　over　his　body；　running　her　fingers　across　the　raised　skin　like　a　blind　woman　reading　braille。　There　were　minute　words　on　every　millimetre　of　his　body；　written　in　a　multitude　of　hands。　Even　through　the　blood　she　could　discern　the　meticulous　way　that　the　words　had　harrowed　into　him。　She　could　even　read；　by　the　dimming　light；　an　occasional　phrase。　It　was　proof　beyond　any　doubt；　and　she　wished；　oh　God　how　she　wished；　that　she　had　not　e　by　it。　And　yet；　after　a　lifetime　of　waiting；　here　it　was：　the　revelation　of　life　beyond　flesh；　written　in　flesh　itself。
　　The　boy　would　survive；　that　was　clear。　Already　the　blood　was　drying；　and　the　myriad　wounds　healing。　He　was　healthy　and　strong；　after　all：　there　would　be　no　fundamental　physical　damage。　His　beauty　was　gone　forever；　of　course。　From　now　on　he　would　be　an　object　of　curiosity　at　best；　and　at　worst　of　repugnance　and　horror。　But　she　would　protect　him；　and　he　would　learn；　in　time；　how　to　know　and　trust　her。　Their　hearts　were　inextricably　tied　together。
　　And　after　a　time；　when　the　words　on　his　body　were　scabs　and　scars；　she　would　read　him。　She　would　trace；　with　infinite　love　and　patience；　the　stories　the　dead　had　told　on　him。
　　The　tale　on　his　abdomen；　written　in　a　fine；　cursive　style。　The　testimony　in　exquisite；　elegant　print　that　covered　his　face　and　scalp。　The　story　on　his　back；　and　on　his　shin；　on　his　hands。
　　She　would　read　them　all；　report　them　all；　every　last　syllable　that　glistened　and　seeped　beneath　her　adoring　fingers；　so　that　the　world　would　know　the　stories　that　the　dead　tell。
　　He　was　a　Book　of　Blood；　and　she　his　sole　translator。
　　As　darkness　fell；　she　left　off　her　vigil　and　led　him；　naked；　into　the　balmy　night。
　　
　　Here　then　are　the　stories　written　on　the　Book　of　Blood。　Read；　if　it　pleases　you；　and　learn。
　　They　are　a　map　of　that　dark　highway　that　leads　out　of　life　towards　unknown　destinations。　Few　will　have　to　take　it。　Most　will　go　peacefully　along　lamplit　streets；　ushered　out　of　living　with　prayers　and　caresses。　But　for　a　few；　a　chosen　few；　the　horrors　will　e；　skipping　to　fetch　them　off　to　the　highway　of　the　damned。
　　So　read。　Read　and　learn。
　　It's　best　to　be　prepared　for　the　worst；　after　all；　and　wise　to　learn　to　walk　before　breath　runs　out。
　　
　　
　　
　　
　　　THE　MIDNIGHT　MEAT　TRAIN
　　
　　
　　LEON　KAUFMAN　WAS　no　longer　new　to　the　city。　The　Palace　of　Delights；　he'd　always　called　it；　in　the　days　of　his　innocence。　But　that　was　when　he'd　lived　in　Atlanta；　and　New　York　was　still　a　kind　of　promised　land；　where　anything　and　everything　was　possible。
　　Now　Kaufman　had　lived　three　and　a　half　months　in　his　dream…city；　and　the　Palace　of　Delights　seemed　less　than　delightful。
　　Was　it　really　only　a　season　since　he　stepped　out　of　Port　Authority　Bus　Station　and　looked　up　42nd　Street　towards　the　Broadway　intersection？　So　short　a　time　to　lose　so　many　treasured　illusions。
　　He　was　embarrassed　now　even　to　think　of　his　naivety。　It　made　him　wince　to　remember　how　he　had　stood　and　announced　aloud：　〃New　York；　I　love　you。〃　Love？　Never。
　　It　had　been　at　best　an　infatuation。
　　And　now；　after　only　three　months　living　with　his　object　of　adoration；　spending　his　days　and　nights　in　her　presence；　she　had　lost　her　aura　of　perfection。
　　New　York　was　just　a　city。
　　He　had　seen　her　wake　in　the　morning　like　a　slut；　and　pick　murdered　men　from　between　her　teeth；　and　suicides　from　the　tangles　of　her　hair。　He　had　seen　her　late　at　night；　her　dirty　back　streets　shamelessly　courting　depravity。　He　had　watched　her　in　the　hot　afternoon；　sluggish　and　ugly；　indifferent　to　the　atrocities　that　were　being　mitted　every　hour　in　her　throttled　passages。
　　It　was　no　Palace　of　Delights。
　　It　bred　death；　not　pleasure。
　　Everyone　he　met　had　brushed　with　violence；　it　was　a　fact　of　life。　It　was　almost　chic　to　have　known　someone　who　had　died　a　violent　death。　It　was　proof　of　living　in　that　city。
　　But　Kaufman　had　loved　New　York　from　afar　for　almost　twenty　years。　He'd　planned　his　love　affair　for　most　of　his　adult　life。　It　was　not　easy；　therefore；　to　shake　the　passion　off；　as　though　he　had　never　felt　it。　There　were　still　times；　very　early；　before　the　cop…sirens　began；　or　at　twilight；　when　Manhattan　was　still　a　miracle。
　　For　those　moments；　and　for　the　sake　of　his　dreams；　he　still　gave　her　the　benefit　of　the　doubt；　even　when　her　behaviour　was　less　than　ladylike。
　　
　　She　didn't　make　such　forgiveness　easy。　In　the　few　months　that　Kaufman　had　lived　in　New　York　her　streets　had　been　awash　with　spilt　blood。
　　In　fact；　it　was　not　so　much　the　streets　themselves；　but　the　tunnels　beneath　those　streets。
　　〃Subway　Slaughter〃　was　the　catch…phrase　of　the　month。　Only　the　previous　week　another　three　killings　had　been　reported。　The　bodies　had　been　discovered　in　one　of　the　subway　cars　on　the　AVENUE　OF　THE　AMERICAS；　hacked　open　and　partially　disembowelled；　as　though　an　efficient　abattoir　operative　had　been　interrupted　in　his　work。　The　killings　were　so　thoroughly　professional　that　the　police　were　interviewing　every　man　on　their　records　who　had　some　past　connection　with　the　butchery　trade。　The　meat…packaging　plants　on　the　water…front　were　being　watched；　the　slaughter…houses　scoured　for　clues。　A　swift　arrest　was　promised；　though　none　was　made。
　　This　recent　trio　of　corpses　was　not　the　first　to　be　discovered　in　such　a　state；　the　very　day　that　Kaufman　had　arrived　a　story　had　broken