cb.damnationgame-第57部分

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　　Carys　had　slid　the　bolt　open　on　the　cellar　door。　Steps；　dimly　illuminated　by　the　thrown　light　from　the　kitchen；　led　down　into　the　pit。　A　smell　of　disinfectant　and　wood　shaving：　healthy　smells。　They　crept　down　the　stairs；　cringing　at　each　scraped　heel；　each　creaking　step。　But　the　Razor…Eater　was　too　busy　to　hear；　it　seemed。　There　was　no　howl　of　pursuit。　Marty　closed　the　cellar　door　on　them；　desperately　hoping　freer　would　not　notice　that　the　bolts　had　been　drawn；　and　listened。
　　In　time；　the　sound　of　running　water；　then　the　clink　of　cups；　a　teapot　perhaps：　the　monster　was　brewing　camomile。
　　Breer's　senses　were　not　as　acute　as　they　had　been。　The　heat　of　the　summer　made　him　listless　and　weak。　His　skin　smelled；　his　hair　was　falling　out；　his　bowels　would　scarcely　move　these　days。　He　needed　a　holiday；　he'd　decided。　Once　the　European　had　found　Whitehead；　and　dispatched　him…and　that　was　surely　only　a　matter　of　days　away…he'd　go　and　see　the　aurora　borealis。　That　would　mean　leaving　his　houseguest…he　felt　her　proximity；　mere　feet　away…but　by　that　time　she　would　have　lost　her　appeal　anyway。　He　was　more　fickle　than　he　used　to　be；　and　beauty　was　transient。　In　two　weeks；　three　in　cool　weather；　all　their　charms　dispersed。
　　He　sat　down　at　the　table　and　poured　a　cup　of　the　camomile。　Its　scent；　once　a　great　joy　to　him；　was　too　subtle　for　his　dogged　sinuses；　but　he　drank　it　for　tradition's　sake。　Later　he'd　go　up　to　his　room　and　watch　the　soap　operas　he　loved　so　much；　maybe　he'd　look　in　on　Carys　and　watch　her　while　she　slept；　oblige　her；　if　she　woke；　to　pass　water　in　his　presence。　Lost　in　a　reverie　of　toilet　training；　he　sat　and　sipped　his　tea。
　　Marty　had　hoped　the　man　would　retire　to　his　room　with　his　brew；　leaving　them　access　to　the　back　door；　but　Breer　was　clearly　staying　put　for　awhile。
　　He　reached　back　in　the　dark　to　Carys。　She　was　on　the　stairs　behind　him；　trembling　from　head　to　toe；　as　was　he。　Foolishly　he'd　left　his　jimmy；　his　only　weapon；　somewhere　in　the　house；　probably　in　Carys〃　room。　Should　it　e　to　a　face…to…face　confrontation；　he　was　weaponless。　Worse；　time　was　passing。　How　long　before　Mamoulian　came　home？　His　heart　sank　at　the　thought。　He　slid　down　the　stairs；　hands　on　the　cold　brick　of　the　wall；　past　Carys　and　into　the　body　of　the　cellar　itself。　Perhaps　there　was　a　weapon　of　some　kind　down　here。　Even；　hope　of　hopes；　another　exit　from　the　house。　There　was　very　little　light；　however。　He　could　see　no　chinks　to　suggest　a　trapdoor　or　coalhole。　Certain　that　he　was　out　of　direct　line　with　the　door；　he　switched　on　his　flashlight。　The　cellar　was　not　entirely　empty。　There　was　a　tarpaulin　strung　up　to　divide　it；　an　artificial　wall。
　　He　put　his　hand　up　to　the　low　roof　and　guided　himself　across　the　cellar　step　by　tentative　step；　clinging　to　the　pipes　on　the　ceiling　for　equilibrium。　He　pulled　the　tarpaulin　aside；　and　aimed　the　flashlight　beam　into　the　space　beyond。　As　he　did　so　his　stomach　leaped　up　into　his　mouth。　A　cry　almost　came；　he　stifled　it　an　instant　before　it　escaped。
　　A　yard　or　two　from　where　he　stood　was　a　table。　At　it　sat　a　young　girl。　She　was　staring　at　him。
　　He　put　his　fingers　to　his　mouth　to　hush　her　before　she　cried　out。　But　there　was　no　need。　She　neither　moved　nor　spoke。　The　glazed　look　on　her　face　was　not　mental　deficiency。　The　child　was　dead；　he　now　understood。　There　was　dust　on　her。
　　〃Oh；　Christ；〃　he　said；　very　quietly。
　　Carys　heard　him。　She　turned；　and　made　her　way　to　the　bottom　of　the　steps。
　　〃Marty？〃　she　breathed。
　　〃Stay　away；〃　he　said；　unable　to　unglue　his　eyes　from　the　dead　girl。　There　was　more　than　the　body　to　feast　his　eyes　upon。　There　were　the　knives　and　the　plate　on　the　table　in　front　of　her；　with　a　napkin　lovingly　shaken　out　and　spread　in　her　lap。　The　plate；　he　saw；　had　meat　on　it；　sliced　thinly　as　if　by　a　master　butcher。　He　moved　past　the　body；　trying　to　slide　from　under　its　gaze。　As　he　passed　the　table　he　brushed　the　silk　napkin；　it　slid　through　the　divide　of　the　girl's　legs。
　　Two　horrors　came；　brutal　twins；　one　upon　the　other。　The　napkin　had　neatly　covered　a　place　on　the　girl's　inner　thigh　from　which　the　meat　on　her　plate　had　been　carved。　In　the　same　moment　came　another　recognition：　that　he　had　eaten　such　meat；　at　Whitehead's　encouragement；　in　the　room　at　the　estate。　It　had　been　the　tastiest　of　delicacies；　he'd　left　his　plate　clean。
　　Nausea　swept　up　him。　He　dropped　the　flashlight　as　he　tried　to　fight　the　sickness　back；　but　it　was　beyond　his　physical　control。　The　bitter　odor　of　stomach　acid　filled　the　cellar。　All　at　once　there　was　no　hiding；　no　help　for　this　insanity　but　to　throw　it　up　and　take　the　consequences。
　　Overhead；　the　Razor…Eater　raised　himself　from　his　tea；　pushed　back　his　chair　and　came　out　of　the　kitchen。
　　〃Who？〃　his　thick　voice　demanded。　〃Who's　down　there？〃　He　crossed　unerringly　to　the　cellar　door　and　pulled　it　open。　Dead　fluorescent　light　rolled　down　the　stairs。
　　〃Who's　there？〃　he　said　again；　and　now　he　was　ing　down　in　pursuit　of　the　light；　his　feet　thundering　on　the　wooden　steps。　〃What　are　you　doing？〃　He　was　shouting；　his　voice　was　at　hysteria　pitch。　〃You　can't　e　down　here！〃　Marty　looked　up；　dizzied　by　breathlessness；　to　see　Carys　crossing　the　cellar　toward　him：　Her　eyes　alighted　on　the　tableau　at　the　table　but　she　kept　admirable　control；　ignoring　the　body　and　reaching　for　the　knife　and　fork　that　sat　beside　the　plate。　She　snatched　them　both　up；　catching　the　tablecloth　in　her　haste。　The　plate　and　its　flyblown　serving　spun　to　the　floor；　knives　cluttered　beside　it。
　　Breer　had　paused　at　the　bottom　of　the　stairs　to　take　in　the　desecration　of　his　temple。　Now；　appalled；　he　came　careering　toward　the　infidels；　his　size　lending　awesome　momentum　to　the　attack。　Dwarfed　by　him；　Carys　half…turned　as　he　reached　for　her；　roaring。　She　was　eclipsed。　Marty　couldn't　make　out　who　was　where。　But　the　confusion　lasted　only　seconds。　Then　Breer　was　raising　his　gray　hands　as　if　to　push　Carys　off；　his　head　shaking　to　and　fro。　A　howl　was　issuing　from　him；　more　of　plaint　than　pain。
　　Carys　ducked　his　flailing；　and　slipped　sideways　out　of　harm's　way。　The　knife　and　fork　she　had　held　were　no　longer　in　her　hands。　Breer　had　run　straight　onto　them。　He　seemed　not　to　be　aware　of　their　presence　in　his　gut；　however。　His　concern　was　for　the　girl　whose　body　was　even　now　toppling　and　falling　into　a　rubber…jointed　heap　on　the　cellar　floor。　He　rushed　to　her　fort；　ignoring　the　desecraters　in　his　anguish。　Carys　caught　sight　of　Marty；　his　face　a　greaseball；　hauling　himself　upright　by　hanging　on　to　the　ceiling　pipes。
　　〃Move！〃　she　yelled　at　him。　She　waited　long　enough　to　see　that　he　had　responded　and　then　made　for　the　stairs。　As　she　clattered　up　the　steps　toward　the　light；　she　heard　the　Razor…Eater　behind　him；　shouting：　〃No！　No！〃　She　glanced　over　her　shoulder。　Marty　gained　the　bottom　of　the　stairs　just　as　Breer's　hands…manicured；　perfumed　and　lethal…grabbed　for　him。　Marty　threw　an　ill…aimed　swipe　backward；　and　Breer　lost　his　hold。　It　was　a　moment's　grace；　however；　no　more。　Marty　was　only　halfway　up　the　stairs　before　his　attacker　was　back　on　his　heels。　The　rouged　face　was　smeared　as　it　peered　up　from　the　cellar　depths；　the　features　so　contorted　by　outrage　that　they　appeared　scarcely　human。
　　This　time　Breer's　grasp　caught　Marty's　trousers；　the　fingers　digging　deeply　into　the　muscle　of　his　skin。　Marty　yelped　as　cloth　tore　and　blood　ran。　He　flung　out　a　hand　to　Carys；　who　loaned　what　strength　she　had　left　to　the　contest；　pulling　Marty　up　toward　her。　Breer；　badly　balanced；　lost　his　snatched　grip；　and　Marty　stumbled　up　the　stairs；　pressing　Carys　ahead　of　him。　She　tumbled　into　the　hallway；　and　Marty　followed；　with　Breer　at　his　back。　At　the　top　of　the　stairs　Marty　suddenly　turned　and　kicked。　His　heel　struck　the　Razor…Eater's　punctured　belly。　Breer　fell　backward；　hands　clawing　the　air　for　support；　there　was　none　to　be　had。　His　nails　managed　to　rake　the　brickwork　as　he　toppled　and　fell　heavily　down　the　steps；　hitting　the　stone　floor　of　the　cellar　with　a　lazy　thud。　There；　sprawled；　he　lay　still；　a　painted　giant。
　　Marty　slammed　the　door　on　him；　and　bolted　it。　He　felt　too　squeamish　to　look　at　the　gouging　on　his　leg；　but　he　could　tell　by　the　warmth　soaking　into　sock　and　shoe　that　it　was　bleeding　badly。
　　〃Can　you　。　。　。　you　get　something　。　。　。〃　he　said；　〃。　。　。　just　to　cover　it？〃　Too　breathless　to　reply；　Carys　nodded；　and　rounded　the　corner　into　the　kitchen。　There　was　a　towel　on　the　draining　board；　but　it　was　too　unsavory　to　be　used　on　an　open　wound。　She　started　to　search　for　something　clean；　however　primitive。　It　was　time　they　were　gone；　Mamoulian　would　not　stay　out　all　night。
　　In　the　hallway；　Marty　listened　for　any　sound　from　the　cellar。　He　heard　none。
　　Another　noise　infiltrated；　however；　one　that　he'd　almost　forgotten　about。　The　buzz　of　the　house　was　back　in　his　head；　and　that　mellow　voice　was　threaded　into　it；　a　dreamy　undercurrent。　mon　sense　told　him　to　shut　it　out。　But　when　he　listened；　trying　to　sort　out　its　syllables；　it　seemed　the　nausea　and　the　pain　in　his　leg　subsided。
　　On　the　back　of　a　kitchen　chair　Carys　had　found　one　of　Mamoulian's　dark…gray　shirts。　The　European　was　fastidious　about　his　laundry。　The　shirt　had　been　recently　laundered；　an　ideal　bandage。　She　tore　it　up…though　its　fine…quality　cotton　resisted…then　soaked　a　length　of　it　in　cold　water　to　clean　the　wound；　and　made　strips　of　the　rest　to　bind　the　leg　up。　When　she　was　done；　she　went　out　into　the　hallway。　But　Marty　had　gone。
　　
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　　He　had　to　see。　Or　if　seeing　wouldn't　do　（What　was　seeing　anyway？　Mere　sensuality）　then　he　would　learn　a　new　way　of　knowing。　That　was　the　promise　the　room　whispered　in　his　ear：　a　new　thing　to　know　and　a　way　of　knowing　it。　He　pulled　himself　up　the　banisters；　hand　over　hand；　less　and　less　aware　of　the　pain　as　he　climbed　to　the　buzzing　darkness。　He　wanted　so　much　to　take　the　ghost…train　ride。　There　were　dreams　in　there。　he'd　never　dreamed；　would　never　have　a　chance　to　dream　again。　Blood　squelched　in　his　shoe；　he　laughed　at　it。　A　spasm　had　begun　in　his　leg；　he　ignored　it。　The　last　steps　were　ahead：　he　climbed　them　with　steady　work。　The　door　was　ajar。
　　He　achieved　the　summit　of　the　stairs　and　limped　toward　it。
　　Though　it　was　totally　dark　in　the　cellar；　that　scarcely