gns.theplutopact-第13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！


　　
　　'How　the　hell　should　I　know？　They　told　us　it　might　be　a　couple　of　days；　even　a　week　or　a　fortnight。　Report　back　Monday。'
　　
　　'You　went　through　the　decontamination　chamber　before　leaving？'
　　
　　'Everybody　does；　every　day。　It's　a　rule。　Your　protective　clothing　is　removed；　and　you're　given　a　new　suit　the　next　day。'
　　
　　Go…operation…and　it　had　taken　a　straight　left　to　bring　it　about。　Coyle　knew　that　his　son　would　be　unable　to　tell　him　any　more；　even　had　he　wished　to。
　　
　　'I'm　。　。　。　sorry　。　。　。　about　that；'　the　newspaperman　turned　back　to　the　door；　his　eyes　resting　on　the　floor。
　　
　　'Just　leave　me　be。'
　　
　　The　apology　had　been　rejected。　That　made　him　feel　a　thousand　times　worse。　Slowly　he　descended　the　stairs。　Jane　and　Sarah　were　standing　together　in　the　living…room　with　strained　expressions；　their　eyes　boring　into　him。　Explanations　would　be　futile。　They　had　undoubtedly　heard　it　all。
　　
　　Sarah　was　obviously　on　the　point　of　going　out。　She　was　wearing　a　brand…new　sheepskin　coat。　Brandon；　the　best　quality；　with　leather…lined　trims。　Coyle　hated　it。　He　hated　Houston。　Maybe　one　day　he'd　hit　him；　too；　only　when　that　happened　he　would　have　no　regrets。
　　
　　'You　bloody　bully。'
　　
　　Coyle　winced　at　his　daughter's　words；　but　did　not　reply。　There　was　nothing　more　to　be　said。　He　was　relieved　when　she　turned　her　back　abruptly　on　him；　and　went　out；　banging　the　front　door　behind　her。
　　
　　'Did　you　have　to　hit　him？'　A　mother's　instinct　to　protect　her　son。　'Sarah　hates　you　for　it。　She's　hated　you　for　some　time　now。'
　　
　　'I　know。'
　　
　　Bob　Coyle　attempted　to　take　her　in　his　arms；　but　she　pushed　him　away。
　　
　　'Just　look　at　what　you've　done　to　this　household。　Just　when　things　were　beginning　to　e　right　between　us。'
　　
　　That　made　him　think　of　Anne。　Sooner　or　later　he　would　have　to　tell　his　wife。　Maybe　this　new　family　rift　would　make　it　all　the　easier。　He　threw　himself　on　to　the　settee；　and　picked　up　the　Sun。　Some　guy　owning　a　pack　of　vicious　dogs　had　refused　to　have　them　destroyed。　It　had　made　the　headlines。　Oxide　reprocessing　had　virtually　disappeared　from　the　papers　these　days。　Even　his　own…but　that　wasn't　his　fault。　He　turned　the　pages。　A　bird　with　boobs　which　reminded　him　of　Anne。　He　couldn't　concentrate。　Tomorrow　there　would　be　an　awful　lot　to　do。　Somehow；　something　had　to　be　brought　to　a　head。　But　how？
　　
　　He　regretted　that　he　wasn't　seeing　Anne　that　night。　She　would　have　understood。　Jane　had　promised　her　support　that　night　she　had　taken　him；　but　it　had　not　materialised…not　that　he　was　aware　of；　anyway。　His　whole　family　was　opposed　to　him。　That　resulted　from　a　culmination　of　events　totally　beyond　his　control。　Perhaps　he　had　got　it　all　wrong　。　。　。　perhaps　he　was　under　the　illusion　that　he　was　the　only　soldier　in　the　whole　regiment　who　was　marching　in　step。　It　was　a　possibility…but　he　didn't　think　so。
　　
　　He　made　a　mental　note　of　tomorrow's　phone…calls　in　order　of　priority。　Dyne；　a　rebuff；　even　if　he　succeeded　in　getting　through　to　him。　Eric　Stafford；　local　representative　of　British　Nuclear　Fuels；　honest　but　unsure　of　himself；　he　relied　too　much　on　Dyne。　Tyler；　of　Britain's　Hazardous　Materials　Group；　a　man　with　a　conscience。　Possibly　he　could　be　persuaded　to　give　some　hint；　but　not　over　the　phone。　Kent。　The　thought　of　speaking　to　his　former　colleague　made　him　feel　a　lot　better。　Kent　was　a　born　'stirrer'；　a　sensationalist；　who　overdid　it　at　times；　cost　his　paper　a　packet　on　one　occasion；　an　article　concerning　a　cabinet　minister。　They　hadn't　sacked　Kent；　though；　simply　because　they　knew　it　had　been　true。　Just　lack　of　conclusive　evidence；　or　rather；　too　many　falsely　substantiated　lies　from　those　in　power。　That　was　how　it　went。　Coyle　wished　that　he　had　Kent　there　with　him　now。　The　short　fair…haired　man　was　an　army　in　himself；　a　terrier　that　could　not　be　dislodged　once　he　had　a　hold。
　　
　　The　door　slammed　loudly　and　they　heard　Richard's　footsteps　heading　upstairs。　Tonight　he　would　not　be　going　anywhere　except　to　bed。　Maybe　he　had　decided　to　sleep　his　humiliation　off。
　　
　　Jane　came　back　into　the　room　and　switched　on　the　television。　That　was　the　best　thing　that　had　happened　all　evening。。
　　
　　The　sound　of　voices　stirred　Richard　Coyle　from　a　deep　slumber；　angry　voices；　chanting；　boots　scraping　on　hard　ground；　the　tinkle　of　breaking　glass。　A　slow　emergence　from　sleep　into　a　shocked　awakening；　sitting　up　in　bed；　throwing　back　the　bedclothes；　aware　that　it　was　still　dark　outside　except　for　the　orange　glow　of　streetlamps。
　　
　　He　ran　to　the　window；　snagged　the　curtains　back；　and　stared　with　disbelief　at　what　he　saw　in　the　street　below：　a　crowd　of　some　fifty　people；　maybe　more；　pushing　and　shoving　across　the　width　of　two　pavements。　Looking　up　at　the　window；　seeing　him；　yelling　obscenities。　。　'e　on　down；　Coyle。　We　want　you！'
　　
　　Fear　had　his　pyjama…clad　figure　trembling　violently。　Disbelief。　He　tried　to　make　his　confused　brain　work。　The　townspeople…and　probably　some　of　his　own　workmates。　A　frenzied　mob；　incensed　because　his　father　was　fighting　to　get　the　recycling　plant　closed　down…something　that　would　cost　them　their　jobs　and　throw　them　back　into　the　dole　queues。　Their　rage　was　understandable　。　。　。　except　that　Richard　was　one　of　them；　on　their　side。
　　
　　'It's　not　me　you　want；'　he　shouted　into　the　din　through　the　partly　open　window。　'It's　my　father。'
　　
　　'We　want　you；　Richard　Coyle！'
　　
　　He　stepped　back　as　a　jagged　half…brick　bounced　off　the　window…sill。　And　in　that　instant　his　terror　rose　to　a　climax。　This　was　no　ordinary　group　of　protesting　workers。　And　the　light　which　reflected　the　ugly　scene　did　not　e　from　electric　standards　。　。　。　The　eerie；　flickering　orange　glow　came　from　a　dozen　or　more　burning　torches　held　aloft；　now　revealing　the　uplifted　faces　in　detail。　Squat；　almost　inhuman　features；　grimed　with　filth　and　caked　with　dried　blood。　Mouths　wide；　with　animal…like　fangs。　Clothing　that　was　crude　and　ill…fitting…hand…sewn　garments　of　some　thick　unfamiliar　material。　They　were　people　who　had　no　right　to　exist　in　this　modern　day　and　age！
　　
　　And　where　were　all　the　other　houses？　Just　a　street。　。　。　no；　a　stony　cart…track　disappearing　into　black　shadows　in　either　direction；　a　world　of　darkness　beyond　the　blazing　torches。　No　glare　from　the　new　town　or　the　processing　centre　emblazoning　the　night　sky。
　　
　　Something　terrible　had　happened。　Perhaps　there　had　been　a　radioactive　leak…or　an　explosion　he　had　slept　through…and　the　survivors　had　e　to　revenge　themselves　on　him　for　some　inexplicable　reason。
　　
　　'e　out；　Richard　Coyle。　Or　we'll　drag　you　out！'
　　
　　He　glanced　around　his　bedroom。　Nothing　here　had　changed：　four　walls　covered　with　posters；　the　small　dressing…table　piled　high　with　junk　which　his　mother　had　been　begging　him　to　tidy　up　for　weeks…everything　lit　up　by　that　fiery　glow　from　outside。
　　
　　He　was　aware　that　he　was　shouting。　'Mom　。　。　。　Dad　。　。　。　Sarah　。　。　。　'　but　his　words　came　back　at　him　in　a　hollow　echo；　as　though　the　rest　of　the　house　was　empty；　his　family　gone　wherever　the　other　occupants　of　Craiglowrie　had　gone；　leaving　him　at　the　mercy　of　these　crazed；　peasant…like　monstrosities　in　an　empty　land。
　　
　　Footsteps　ing　up　the　stairs。　Richard　Coyle　shrank　back；　pressed　against　the　wall；　unable　to　take　his　eyes　from　the　door；　knowing　it　would　burst　open　at　any　second　。。。。　It　flew　back；　bounced　off　the　wall；　the　hinges　creaking　under　the　strain。　Flaming　torches　bellowing　black；　acrid　smoke　showed　him　that　his　worst　fears　were　confirmed。　The　landing　was　filled　with　sweat…stinking；　unwashed　bodies；　their　faces　primeval　masks　of　anger。
　　
　　There　was　nowhere　he　could　flee　to　escape　the　hands　groping　for　him；　broken　fingernails　gouging　his　flesh　as　calloused　fingers　closed　over　him。　A　last　desperate　struggle；　clawing　back　at　them　in　his　panic；　then　something　struck　him　in　the　genitals　and　he　sagged　unconscious　into　a　cradle　of　arms。
　　
　　It　was　all　a　dream；　a　nightmare。　Dimly　he　was　aware　of　his　body　being　tossed　and　turned；　one　way　then　the　other。　He　wanted　to　open　his　eyes　but　his　head　ached　abominably；　and　he　was　afraid　of　the　light。　So　hot；　sweating　feverishly；　a　subconscious　awareness　of　being　ill　but　unable　to　e　to　terms　with　it　logically。
　　
　　At　last　his　eyes　flickered　open；　the　pupils　seared　by　a　yellowish　light。　He　tried　to　tell　himself　that　it　came　from　the　streetlamps　outside　his　bedroom　window；　but　he　knew　it　didn't。　The　scene　which　greeted　him　was　the　same　as　before…only　a　thousand　times　more　devilish。　The　angry　shouting　crowd　looking　up　at　him；　baying　like　a　pack　of　wolves。
　　
　　But　he　wasn't　in　his　bedroom　anymore。　Now　he　was　perched　on　top　of　a　huge　pile　of　dead　branches；　far　larger　than　that　built　by　the　boys'　brigade　for　the　annual　5　November　bonfire　in　the　recreation　park。　He　was　securely　bound　to　a　thick　stake；　a　human　Guy　Fawkes　effigy　with　a　dozen　torches　poised　to　start　the　blaze　which　would　incinerate　him！　Panic　。　。　。　fighting　his　bonds　although　he　knew　it　was　useless　。　。　。　his　body　hot　and　dry；　naked　except　for　one　remaining　pyjama　sleeve。
　　
　　'Wait　。　。　。　you're　making　a　big　mistake！'　This　time　his　shout　was　audible。
　　
　　Coarse　laughter　rippled　through　the　watchers；　a　chorus　of　jibes；　obscenities。　Then　a　man　smaller　than　the　rest；　a　grotesque　dwarf…like　figure；　shuffled　forward；　mouth　strangely　lopsided　when　he　spoke。
　　
　　'We　are　not　mistaken。　You　are　one　of　those　sent　to　destroy　us　with　magic…a　disciple　of　Balzur。　You　bear　his　mark　on　your　loins；　the　red　plague　by　which　his　accursed　are　known。'
　　
　　Richard　tried　to　look　down；　but　the　ropes　prevented　him　from　seeing　further　than　his　waist。　But　there　was　a　distinct　burning　sensation　in　the　area　of　his　genitals…probably　from　a　blow　one　of　them　had　delivered。
　　
　　'Go　join　your　master　in　the　flames　of　hell！'
　　
　　The　dwarf　thrust　forward　his　burning　brand　and　immediately　the　dry　branches　began　to　blaze　and　crackle　at　the　foot　of　the　pile。　More　torches　were　hurled；　flames　leaping　higher；　seeking　out　his　feet　to　lick　at　them。　Richard　screamed；　kept　on　screaming；　and　through　a　red　haze　of　pain　and　fire　he　saw　a　sea　of　jeering　faces。