ib.thewaspfactory-第1部分

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　　I　HAD　BEEN　making　the　rounds　of　the　Sacrifice　Poles　the　day　we　heard　my　brother　had　escaped。　I　already　knew　something　was　going　to　happen；　the　Factory　told　me。
　　
　　At　the　north　end　of　the　island；　near　the　tumbled　remains　of　the　slip　where　the　handle　of　the　rusty　winch　still　creaks　in　an　easterly　wind；　I　had　two　Poles　on　the　far　face　of　the　last　dune。　One　of　the　Poles　held　a　rat　head　with　two　dragonflies；　the　other　a　seagull　and　two　mice。　I　was　just　sticking　one　of　the　mouse　heads　back　on　when　the　birds　went　up　into　the　evening　air；　kaw…calling　and　screaming；　wheeling　over　the　path　through　the　dunes　where　it　went　near　their　nests。　I　made　sure　the　head　was　secure；　then　clambered　to　the　top　of　the　dune　to　watch　with　my　binoculars。
　　
　　Diggs；　the　policeman　from　the　town；　was　ing　down　the　path　on　his　bike；　pedalling　hard；　his　head　down　as　the　wheels　sank　part　way　into　the　sandy　surface。　He　got　off　the　bike　at　the　bridge　and　left　it　propped　against　the　suspension　cables；　then　walked　to　the　middle　of　the　swaying　bridge；　where　the　gate　is。　I　could　see　him　press　the　button　on　the　phone。　He　stood　for　a　while；　looking　round　about　at　the　quiet　dunes　and　the　settling　birds。　He　didn't　see　me；　because　I　was　too　well　hidden。　Then　my　father　must　have　answered　the　buzzer　in　the　house；　because　Diggs　stooped　slightly　and　talked　into　the　grille　beside　the　button；　and　then　pushed　the　gate　open　and　walked　over　the　bridge；　on　to　the　island　and　down　the　path　towards　the　house。　When　he　disappeared　behind　the　dunes　I　sat　for　a　while；　scratching　my　crotch　as　the　wind　played　with　my　hair　and　the　birds　returned　to　their　nests。
　　
　　I　took　my　catapult　from　my　belt；　selected　a　half…inch　steelie；　sighted　carefully；　then　sent　the　big　ball…bearing　arcing　out　over　the　river；　the　telephone　poles　and　the　little　suspension　bridge　to　the　mainland。　The　shot　hit　the　'Keep　Out…Private　Property'　sign　with　a　thud　I　could　just　hear；　and　I　smiled。　It　was　a　good　omen。　The　Factory　hadn't　been　specific　（it　rarely　is）；　but　I　had　the　feeling　that　whatever　it　was　warning　me　about　was　important；　and　I　also　suspected　it　would　be　bad；　but　I　had　been　wise　enough　to　take　the　hint　and　check　my　Poles；　and　now　I　knew　my　aim　was　still　good；　things　were　still　with　me。
　　
　　I　decided　not　to　go　straight　back　to　the　house。　Father　didn't　like　me　to　be　there　when　Diggs　came　and；　anyway；　I　still　had　a　couple　of　Poles　to　check　before　the　sun　went　down。　I　jumped　and　slid　down　the　slope　of　the　dune　into　its　shadow；　then　turned　at　the　bottom　to　look　back　up　at　those　small　heads　and　bodies　as　they　watched　over　the　northern　approaches　to　the　island。　They　looked　fine；　those　husks　on　their　gnarled　branches。　Black　ribbons　tied　to　the　wooden　limbs　blew　softly　in　the　breeze；　waving　at　me。　I　decided　nothing　would　be　too　bad；　and　that　tomorrow　I　would　ask　the　Factory　for　more　information。　If　I　was　lucky；　my　father　might　tell　me　something　and；　if　I　was　luckier　still；　it　might　even　be　the　truth。
　　
　　I　left　the　sack　of　heads　and　bodies　in　the　Bunker　just　as　the　light　was　going　pletely　and　the　stars　were　starting　to　e　out。　The　birds　had　told　me　Diggs　had　left　a　few　minutes　earlier；　so　I　ran　back　the　quick　way　to　the　house；　where　the　lights　all　burned　as　usual。　My　father　met　me　in　the　kitchen。
　　
　　'Diggs　was　just　here。　I　suppose　you　know。'
　　
　　He　put　the　stub　of　the　fat　cigar　he　had　been　smoking　under　the　cold　tap；　turned　the　water　on　for　a　second　while　the　brown　stump　sizzled　and　died；　then　threw　the　sodden　remnant　in　the　bin。　I　put　my　things　down　on　the　big　table　and　sat　down；　shrugging。　My　father　turned　up　the　ring　on　the　cooker　under　the　soup…pan；　looking　beneath　the　lid　into　the　warming　mixture　and　then　turning　back　to　look　at　me。
　　
　　There　was　a　layer　of　grey…blue　smoke　in　the　room　at　about　shoulder　level；　and　a　big　wave　in　it；　probably　produced　by　me　as　I　came　in　through　the　double　doors　of　the　back　porch。　The　wave　rose　slowly　between　us　while　my　father　stared　at　me。　I　fidgeted；　then　looked　down；　toying　with　the　wrist…rest　of　the　black　catapult。　It　crossed　my　mind　that　my　father　looked　worried；　but　he　was　good　at　acting　and　perhaps　that　was　just　what　he　wanted　me　to　think；　so　deep　down　I　remained　unconvinced。
　　
　　'I　suppose　I'd　better　tell　you；'　he　said；　then　turned　away　again；　taking　up　a　wooden　spoon　and　stirring　the　soup。　I　waited。　'It's　Eric。'
　　
　　Then　I　knew　what　had　happened。　He　didn't　have　to　tell　me　the　rest。　I　suppose　I　could　have　thought　from　the　little　he'd　said　up　until　then　that　my　half…brother　was　dead；　or　ill；　or　that　something　had　happened　to　him；　but　I　knew　then　it　was　something　Eric　had　done；　and　there　was　only　one　thing　he　could　have　done　which　would　make　my　father　look　worried。　He　had　escaped。　I　didn't　say　anything；　though。
　　
　　'Eric　has　escaped　from　the　hospital。　That　was　what　Diggs　came　to　tell　us。　They　think　he　might　head　back　here。　Take　those　things　off　the　table；　I've　told　you　before。'　He　sipped　the　soup；　his　back　still　turned。　I　waited　until　he　started　to　turn　round；　then　took　the　catapult；　binoculars　and　spade　off　the　table。　In　the　same　flat　tone　my　father　went　on；　'Well；　I　don't　suppose　he'll　get　this　far。　They'll　probably　pick　him　up　in　a　day　or　two。　I　just　thought　I'd　tell　you。　In　case　anybody　else　hears　and　says　anything。　Get　out　a　plate。'
　　
　　I　went　to　the　cupboard　and　took　out　a　plate；　then　sat　down　again；　one　leg　crossed　underneath　me。　My　father　went　back　to　stirring　the　soup；　which　I　could　smell　now　above　the　cigar　smoke。　I　could　feel　excitement　in　my　stomach…a　rising；　tingling　rush。　So　Eric　was　ing　back　home　again；　that　was　good…bad。　I　knew　he'd　make　it。　I　didn't　even　think　of　asking　the　Factory　about　it；　he'd　be　here。　I　wondered　how　long　it　would　take　him；　and　whether　Diggs　would　now　have　to　go　shouting　through　the　town；　warning　that　the　mad　boy　who　set　fire　to　dogs　was　on　the　loose　again；　lock　up　your　hounds！
　　
　　My　father　ladled　some　soup　into　my　plate。　I　blew　on　it。　I　thought　of　the　Sacrifice　Poles。　They　were　my　early…warning　system　and　deterrent　rolled　into　one；　infected；　potent　things　which　looked　out　from　the　island；　warding　off。　Those　totems　were　my　warning　shot；　anybody　who　set　foot　on　the　island　after　seeing　them　should　know　what　to　expect。　But　it　looked　like；　instead　of　being　a　clenched　and　threatening　fist；　they　would　present　a　weling；　open　hand。　For　Eric。
　　
　　'I　see　you　washed　your　hands　again；'　my　father　said　as　I　sipped　the　hot　soup。　He　was　being　sarcastic。　He　took　the　bottle　of　whisky　from　the　dresser　and　poured　himself　a　drink。　The　other　glass；　which　I　guessed　had　been　the　constable's；　he　put　in　the　sink。　He　sat　down　at　the　far　end　of　the　table。
　　
　　My　father　is　tall　and　slim；　though　slightly　stooped。　He　has　a　delicate　face；　like　a　woman's；　and　his　eyes　are　dark。　He　limps　now；　and　has　done　ever　since　I　can　remember。　His　left　leg　is　almost　totally　stiff；　and　he　usually　takes　a　stick　with　him　when　he　leaves　the　house。　Some　days；　when　it's　damp；　he　has　to　use　the　stick　inside；　too；　and　I　can　hear　him　clacking　about　the　uncarpeted　rooms　and　corridors　of　the　house；　a　hollow　noise；　going　from　place　to　place。　Only　here　in　the　kitchen　is　the　stick　quieted；　the　flagstones　silence　it。
　　
　　That　stick　is　the　symbol　of　the　Factory's　security。　My　father's　leg；　locked　solid；　has　given　me　my　sanctuary　up　in　the　warm　space　of　the　big　loft；　right　at　the　top　of　the　house　where　the　junk　and　the　rubbish　are；　where　the　dust　moves　and　the　sunlight　slants　and　the　Factory　sits…silent；　living　and　still。
　　
　　My　father　can't　climb　up　the　narrow　ladder　from　the　top　floor；　and；　even　if　he　could；　I　know　he　wouldn't　be　able　to　negotiate　the　twist　you　have　to　make　to　get　from　the　top　of　the　ladder；　round　the　brickwork　of　the　chimney　flues；　and　into　the　loft　proper。
　　
　　So　the　place　is　mine。
　　
　　I　suppose　my　father　is　about　forty…five　now；　though　sometimes　I　think　he　looks　a　lot　older；　and　occasionally　I　think　he　might　be　a　little　younger。　He　won't　tell　me　his　real　age；　so　forty…five　is　my　estimate；　judging　by　his　looks。
　　
　　'What　height　is　this　table？'　he　said　suddenly；　just　as　I　was　about　to　go　to　the　breadbin　for　a　slice　to　wipe　my　plate　with。　I　turned　round　and　looked　at　him；　wondering　why　he　was　bothering　with　such　an　easy　question。
　　
　　'Thirty　inches；'　I　told　him；　and　took　a　crust　from　the　bin。
　　
　　'Wrong；'　he　said　with　an　eager　grin。　'Two　foot　six。'
　　
　　I　shook　my　head　at　him；　scowling；　and　wiped　the　brown　rim　of　soup　from　the　inside　of　my　plate。　There　was　a　time　when　I　was　genuinely　afraid　of　these　idiotic　questions；　but　now；　apart　from　the　fact　that　I　must　know　the　height；　length；　breadth；　area　and　volume　of　just　about　every　part　of　the　house　and　everything　in　it；　I　can　see　my　father's　obsession　for　what　it　is。　It　gets　embarrassing　at　times　when　there　are　guests　in　the　house；　even　if　they　are　family　and　ought　to　know　what　to　expect。　They'll　be　sitting　there；　probably　in　the　lounge；　wondering　whether　Father's　going　to　feed　them　anything　or　just　give　an　impromptu　lecture　on　cancer　of　the　colon　or　tapeworms；　when　he'll　sidle　up　to　somebody；　look　round　to　make　sure　everybody's　watching；　then　in　a　conspiratorial　stage…whisper　say：　'See　that　door　over　there？　It's　eighty…five　inches；　corner　to　corner。　'　Then　he'll　wink　and　walk　off；　or　slide　over　on　his　seat；　looking　nonchalant。
　　
　　Ever　since　I　can　remember　there　have　been　little　stickers　of　white　paper　all　over　the　house　with　neat　black…biro　writing　on　them。　Attached　to　the　legs　of　chairs；　the　edges　of　rugs；　the　bottoms　of　jugs；　the　aerials　of　radios；　the　doors　of　drawers；　the　headboards　of　beds；　the　screens　of　televisions；　the　handles　of　pots　and　pans；　they　give　the　appropriate　measurement　for　the　part　of　the　object　they're　stuck　to。　There　are　even　ones　in　pencil　stuck　to　the　leaves　of　plants。　When　I　was　a　child　I　once　went　round　the　house　tearing　all　the　stickers　off；　I　was　belted　and　sent　to　my　room　for　two　days。　Later　my　father　decided　it　would　be　useful　and　character…forming　for　me　to　know　all　the　measurements　as　well　as　he　did；　so　I　had　to　sit　for　hours　with　the　Measurement　Book　（a　huge　loose…leaf　thing　with　all　the　information　on　the　little　stickers　carefully　recorded