cb.booksofblood2-第7部分

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ndeed　empty。　The　house　was　silent。　Through　the　open　door　he　could　see　the　top　of　the　stairs。　There　was　no　axe…man；　of　course。
　
　Steve　woke　to　shouting。　It　was　still　dark。　He　didn't　know　how　long　he'd　been　asleep；　but　his　limbs　no　longer　ached　so　badly。　Elbows　on　his　pillow；　he　half…sat　up　and　stared　down　the　dormitory　to　see　what　all　the　motion　was　about。　Four　bed…rows　down　from　his；　two　men　were　fighting。　The　bone　of　contention　was　by　no　means　clear。　They　just　grappled　with　each　other　like　girls　（it　made　Steve　laugh　to　watch　them）；　screeching　and　puffing　each　other's　hair。　By　moonlight　the　blood　on　their　faces　and　hands　was　black。
　
　One　of　them；　the　older　of　the　two；　was　thrust　back　across
　his　bed；　screaming：　'I　will　not　go　to　the　Finchley　Road！
　You　will　not　make　me。　Don't　strike　me！　I'm　not　your　man！
　I'm　not！'
　The　other　was　beyond　listening；　he　was　too　stupid；　or　too　mad；　to　understand　that　the　old　man　was　begging　to　be　left　alone。　Urged　on　by　spectators　on　every　side；　the　old　man's　assailant　had　taken　off　his　shoe　and　was　belabouring　his　victim　with　it。　Steve　could　hear　the　crack；　crack　of　his　blows：　heel　on　head。　There　were　cheers　acpanying　each　strike；　and　lessening　cries　from　the　old　man。
　Suddenly；　the　applause　faltered；　as　somebody　came　into　the　dormitory。　Steve　couldn't　see　who　it　was；　the　mass　of　men　crowded　around　the　fight　were　between　him　and　the　door。
　He　did　see　the　victor　toss　his　shoe　into　the　air　however；　with　a　final　shout　of　'Fucker！'
　The　shoe。
　Steve　couldn't　take　his　eyes　off　the　shoe。　It　rose　in　the　air；　turning　as　it　rose；　then　plummeted　to　the　bare　boards　like　a　shot　bird。　Steve　saw　it　clearly；　more　clearly　than　he'd　seen　anything　in　many　days。
　It　landed　not　far　from　him。
　It　landed　with　a　loud　thud。
　It　landed　on　its　side。　As　his　shoe　had　landed。　His　shoe。　The　one　he　kicked　off。　On　the　grid。　In　the　room。　In　the　house。　In　Pilgrim　Street。
　
　Quaid　woke　with　the　same　dream。　Always　the　stairway。　Always　him　looking　down　the　tunnel　of　the　stairs；　while　that　ridiculous　sight；　half…joke；　half…horror；　tip…toed　up　towards　him；　a　laugh　on　every　step。
　
　He'd　never　dreamt　twice　in　one　night　before。　He　swung　his　hand　out　over　the　edge　of　the　bed　and　fumbled　for　the　bottle　he　kept　there。　In　the　dark　he　swigged　from　it；　deeply。
　
　Steve　walked　past　the　knot　of　angry　men；　not　caring　about　their　shouts　or　the　old　man's　groans　and　curses。　The　warders　were　having　a　hard　time　dealing　with　the　disturbance。　It　was　the　last　time　Old　Man　Crowley　would　be　let　in：　he　always　invited　violence。　This　had　all　the　marks　of　a　near…riot；　it　would　take　hours　to　settle　them　down　again。
　Nobody　questioned　Steve　as　he　wandered　down　the　corridor；　through　the　gate；　and　into　the　vestibule　of　the　Night　Hostel。　The　swing　doors　were　closed；　but　the　night　air；　bitter　before　dawn；　smelt　refreshing　as　it　seeped　in。
　The　pokey　reception　office　was　empty；　and　through　the　door　Steve　could　see　the　fire…extinguisher　hanging　on　the　wall。　It　was　red　and　bright：　Beside　it　was　a　long　black　hose；　curled　up　on　a　red　drum　like　a　sleeping　snake。　Beside　that；　sitting　in　two　brackets　on　the　wall；　was　an　axe。
　A　very　pretty　axe。
　Stephen　walked　into　the　office。　A　little　distance　away　he　heard　running　feet；　shouts；　a　whistle。　But　nobody　came　to　interrupt　Steve；　as　he　made　friends　with　the　axe。
　First　he　smiled　at　it。
　The　curve　of　the　blade　of　the　axe　smiled　back。
　Then　he　touched　it。
　The　axe　seemed　to　like　being　touched。　It　was　dusty；　and　hadn't　been　used　in　a　long　while。　Too　long。　It　wanted　to　be　picked　up；　and　stroked；　and　smiled　at。　Steve　took　it　out　of　its　brackets　very　gently；　and　slid　it　under　his　jacket　to　keep　warm。　Then　he　walked　back　out　of　the　reception　office；　through　the　swing…doors　and　out　to　find　his　other　shoe。
　
　Quaid　woke　again。
　
　It　took　Steve　a　very　short　time　to　orient　himself。　There　was　a　spring　in　his　step　as　he　began　to　make　his　way　to　Pilgrim　Street。　He　felt　like　a　clown；　dressed　in　so　many　bright　colours；　in　such　floppy　trousers；　such　silly　boots。　He　was　a　ical　fellow；　wasn't　he？　He　made　himself　laugh；　he　was　so　ical。
　The　wind　began　to　get　into　him；　whipping　him　up　into　a　frenzy　as　it　scooted　through　his　hair　and　made　his　eye…balls　as　cold　as　two　lumps　of　ice　in　his　sockets。
　He　began　to　run；　skip；　dance；　cavort　through　the　streets；　white　under　the　lights；　dark　in　between。　Now　you　see　me；　now　you　don't。　Now　you　see　me；　now　you　…Quaid　hadn't　been　woken　by　the　dream　this　time。　This
　time　he　had　heard　a　noise。　Definitely　a　noise。
　The　moon　had　risen　high　enough　to　throw　its　beams　through　the　window；　through　the　door　and　on　to　the　top　of　the　stairs。　There　was　no　need　to　put　on　the　light。　All　he　needed　to　see；　he　could　see。　The　top　of　the　stairs　were　empty；　as　ever。
　Then　the　bottom　stair　creaked；　a　tiny　noise　as　though　a　breath　had　landed　on　it。
　Quaid　knew　dread　then。
　Another　creak；　as　it　came　up　the　stairs　towards　him；　the　ridiculous　dream。　It　had　to　be　a　dream。　After　all；　he　knew　no　clowns；　no　axe…killers。　So　how　could　that　absurd　image；　the　same　image　that　woke　him　night　after　night；　be　anything　but　a　dream？
　
　Yet；　perhaps　there　were　some　dreams　so　preposterous　they　could　only　be　true。
　No　clowns；　he　said　to　himself；　as　he　stood　watching　the　door；　and　the　stairway；　and　the　spotlight　of　the　moon。　Quaid　knew　only　fragile　minds；　so　weak　they　couldn't　give　him　a　clue　to　the　nature；　to　the　origin；　or　to　the　cure　for　the　panic　that　now　held　him　in　thrall。　All　they　did　was　break；　crumble　into　dust；　when　faced　with　the　slightest　sign　of　the　dread　at　the　heart　of　life。
　He　knew　no　clowns；　never　had；　never　would。
　Then　it　appeared；　the　face　of　a　fool。　Pale　to　whiteness　in　the　light　of　the　moon；　its　young　features　bruised；　unshaven　and　puffy；　its　smile　open　like　a　child's　smile。　It　had　bitten　its　lip　in　its　excitement。　Blood　was　smeared　across　its　lower　jaw；　and　its　gums　were　almost　black　with　blood。　Still　it　was　a　clown。　Indisputably　a　clown　even　to　its　ill…fitting　clothes；　so　incongruous；　so　pathetic。
　Only　the　axe　didn't　quite　match　the　smile。
　It　caught　the　moonlight　as　the　maniac　made　small；　chopping　motions　with　it；　his　tiny　black　eyes　glinting　with　anticipation　of　the　fun　ahead。
　Almost　at　the　top　of　the　stairs；　he　stopped；　his　smile　not　faltering　for　a　moment　as　he　gazed　at　Quaid's　terror。
　Quaid's　legs　gave　out；　and　he　stumbled　to　his　knees。
　The　clown　climbed　another　stair；　skipping　as　he　did　so；　his　glittering　eyes　fixed　on　Quaid；　filled　with　a　sort　of　benign　malice。　The　axe　rocked　back　and　forth　in　his　white　hands；　in　a　petite　version　of　the　killing　stroke。
　Quaid　knew　him。
　It　was　his　pupil：　his　guinea…pig；　transformed　into　the　image　of　his　own　dread。
　Him。　Of　all　men。　Him。　The　deaf　boy。
　
　The　skipping　was　bigger　now；　and　the　clown　was　making　a　deep…throated　noise；　like　the　call　of　some　fantastical　bird。　The　axe　was　describing　wider　and　wider　sweeps　in　the　air；　each　more　lethal　than　the　last。
　'Stephen；'　said　Quaid。
　The　name　meant　nothing　to　Steve。　All　he　saw　was　the　mouth　opening。　The　mouth　closing。　Perhaps　a　sound　came　out：　perhaps　not。　It　was　irrelevant　to　him。
　The　throat　of　the　clown　gave　out　a　screech；　and　the　axe　swung　up　over　his　head；　two…handed。　At　the　same　moment　the　merry　little　dance　became　a　run；　as　the　axe　man　leapt　the　last　two　stairs　and　ran　into　the　bedroom；　full　into　the　spotlight。
　Quaid's　body　half　turned　to　avoid　the　killing　blow；　but　not　quickly　or　elegantly　enough。　The　blade　slit　the　air　and　sliced　through　the　back　of　Quaid's　arm；　sheering　off　most　of　his　triceps；　shattering　his　humerus　and　opening　the　flesh　of　his　lower　arm　in　a　gash　that　just　missed　his　artery。
　Quaid's　scream　could　have　been　heard　ten　houses　away；　except　that　those　houses　were　rubble。　There　was　nobody　to　hear。　Nobody　to　e　and　drag　the　clown　off　him。
　The　axe；　eager　to　be　about　its　business；　was　hacking　at　Quaid's　thigh　now；　as　though　it　was　chopping　a　log。　Yawning　wounds　four　or　five　inches　deep　exposed　the　shiny　steak　of　the　philosopher's　muscle；　the　bone；　the　marrow。　With　each　stroke　the　clown　would　tug　at　the　axe　to　pull　it　out；　and　Quaid's　body　would　jerk　like　a　puppet。
　Quaid　screamed。　Quaid　begged。　Quaid　cajoled。
　The　clown　didn't　hear　a　word。
　All　he　heard　was　the　noise　in　his　head：　the　whistles；　the　whoops；　the　howls；　the　hums。　He　had　taken　refuge　where　no　rational　argument；　nor　threat；　would　ever　fetch　him　out　again。　Where　the　thump　of　his　heart　was　law；　and　the　whine　of　his　blood　was　music。
　How　he　danced；　this　deaf…boy；　danced　like　a　loon　to　see　his　tormentor　gaping　like　a　fish；　the　depravity　of　his　intellect　silenced　forever。　How　the　blood　spurted！　How　it　gushed　and　fountained！
　The　little　clown　laughed　to　see　such　fun。　There　was　a　night's　entertainment　to　be　had　here；　he　thought。　The　axe　was　his　friend　forever；　keen　and　wise。　It　could　cut；　and　cross…cut；　it　could　slice　and　amputate；　yet　still　they　could　keep　this　man　alive；　if　they　were　cunning　enough；　alive　for　a　long；　long　while。
　Steve　was　happy　as　a　lamb。　They　had　the　rest　of　the　night　ahead　of　them；　and　all　the　music　he　could　possibly　want　was　sounding　in　his　head。
　And　Quaid　knew；　meeting　the　clown's　vacant　stare　through　an　air　turned　bloody；　that　there　was　worse　in　the　world　than　dread。　Worse　than　death　itself。
　There　was　pain　without　hope　of　healing。　There　was　life　that　refused　to　end；　long　after　the　mind　had　begged　the　body　to　cease。　And　worst；　there　were　dreams　e　true。
　
　HELL'S　EVENT
　
　HELL　CAME　UP　to　the　streets　and　squares　of　London　that　September；　icy　from　the　depths　of　the　Ninth　Circle；　too　frozen　to　be　warmed　even　by　the　swelter　of　an　Indian　summer。　It　had　laid　its　plans　as　carefully　as　ever；　plans　being　what　they　were；　and　fragile。　This　time　it　was　perhaps　a　little　more　finicky　than　usual；　checking　every　last　detail　twice　or　three　times；　to　be　certain　it　had　every　chance　of　winning　this　vital　game。
　It　had　never　lacked　petitive　spirit；　it　had　matched　life　against　flesh　a　thousand　thousand　times　down　the　centuries；　sometimes　winning；　more　often　losing。　Wagers　were；　after　all；　the　stuff　of　its　advancement。　Without　the　human　urge　to　pete；　to　bargain；　and　to　bet；　Pandemonium　might　well　have　fallen　for　want　of　citizens。　D