ib.thewaspfactory-第23部分

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。　Only　the　vaguest　outlines　are　still　discernible　now；　along　with　a　few　freak　patches　of　real　colour；　like　peeling　skin。
　　
　　I　opened　the　torch…firer　up；　shoved　the　cylindrical　batteries　inside；　secured　them；　then　clicked　the　flasher　button　on　top　of　the　torch　body。　The　current　flowed　in　series　with　the　nine…volt　pack…battery　taped　to　the　outside；　down　the　wires　leading　from　the　hole　where　the　bulb　used　to　go；　and　into　the　casing　of　the　bomb。　Somewhere　near　its　centre；　steel　wool　glowed　dully；　then　brightly　and　started　to　melt；　and　the　white　crystal　mixture　exploded；　tearing　the　metal…which　it　took　me　and　a　heavy…duty　vice　a　lot　of　sweat；　time　and　leverage　to　bend　at　all…as　though　it　was　paper。
　　
　　Wham！　The　front　of　the　main　dam　crashed　up　and　out；　a　messy　mix　of　steam　and　gas；　water　and　sand　leaped　into　the　air　and　fell　back　spattering。　The　noise　was　good　and　dull；　and　the　tremor　I　felt　through　the　seat　of　my　pants　just　before　I　heard　the　whump；　single　and　strong。
　　
　　The　sand　in　the　air　slipped；　fell　back；　splashed　in　the　waters　and　thudded　in　little　heaps　on　to　roads　and　houses。　The　unleashed　waters　flooded　out　of　the　gap　smashed　in　the　sand　wall　and　rolled　down；　sucking　sand　from　the　edges　of　the　breach　and　spilling　in　a　sloped　brown　tide　down　upon　the　first　village；　cutting　through　it；　piling　up　behind　the　next　dam；　backing　up；　collapsing　sand　houses；　tipping　the　castle　to　one　side　as　a　unit　and　undermining　its　already　cracked　towers。　The　bridge　supports　gave　way；　the　wood　slipped；　fell　in　at　one　side；　then　the　dam　started　to　spill　over　and　soon　its　whole　top　was　awash　and　being　eaten　away　by　the　flood　still　piling　out　of　the　first　dam　as　the　head　of　water　pushed　forward　from　fifty　metres　or　more　back　up　the　stream。　The　castle　disintegrated；　falling　over。
　　
　　I　left　the　jar　and　ran　down　the　dune；　exulting　in　the　wave　of　water　as　it　sped　over　the　braided　surface　of　the　stream　bed；　hit　houses；　followed　roads；　ran　through　tunnels；　then　hit　the　last　dam；　quickly　overwhelmed　it　and　went　on　to　smash　into　the　rest　of　the　houses；　grouped　into　the　second　village。　Dams　were　disintegrating；　houses　slipping　into　the　water；　bridges　and　tunnels　falling　and　banks　collapsing　allover　the　place；　a　gorgeous　feeling　of　excitement　rose　in　my　stomach　like　a　wave　and　settled　in　my　throat　as　I　thrilled　to　the　watery　havoc　about　me。
　　
　　I　watched　the　wires　wash　and　roll　themselves　to　one　side　of　the　flood's　course；　then　looked　at　the　front　of　the　racing　water　as　it　headed　quickly　for　the　sea　over　the　long…dried　sand。　I　sat　down　opposite　where　the　first　village　had　been；　where　long　brown　humps　of　water　surged；　slowly　advancing；　and　waited　for　the　storm　of　water　to　subside；　my　legs　crossed；　my　elbows　on　my　knees　and　my　face　in　my　hands。　I　felt　warm　and　happy　and　slightly　hungry。
　　
　　Eventually；　when　the　stream　was　almost　back　to　normal　and　there　was　virtually　nothing　left　of　my　hours　of　work；　I　spotted　what　I　was　looking　for：　the　black　and　silver　wreck　of　the　bomb；　sticking　ripped　and　gnarled　in　the　sand　just　downstream　from　the　site　of　the　dam　it　had　destroyed。　I　didn't　take　my　boots　off　but；　with　the　tips　of　my　toes　still　on　the　dry　bank；　walked　with　my　hands　until　I　was　almost　at　full　stretch　out　in　the　middle　of　the　stream。　I　picked　the　remains　of　the　bomb　out　of　the　stream　bed；　put　its　jagged　body　carefully　into　my　mouth；　then　walked　my　hands　back　until　I　was　able　to　throw　myself　back　and　stand　up。
　　
　　I　wiped　the　almost　flat　piece　of　metal　with　a　rag　from　the　War　Bag；　put　the　bomb　inside　the　bag；　then　collected　the　wasp　jar　and　went　back　to　the　house　for　tea；　leaping　the　stream　just　up　from　the　highest　point　the　waters　had　been　backed　up　to。
　　
　　All　our　lives　are　symbols。　Everything　we　do　is　part　of　a　pattern　we　have　at　least　some　say　in。　The　strong　make　their　own　patterns　and　influence　other　people's；　the　weak　have　their　courses　mapped　out　for　them。　The　weak　and　the　unlucky；　and　the　stupid。　The　Wasp　Factory　is　part　of　the　pattern　because　it　is　part　of　life　and…even　more　so…　part　of　death。　Like　life　it　is　plicated；　so　all　the　ponents　are　there。　The　reason　it　can　answer　questions　is　because　every　question　is　a　start　looking　for　an　end；　and　the　Factory　is　about　the　End…death；　no　less。　Keep　your　entrails　and　sticks　and　dice　and　books　and　birds　and　voices　and　pendants　and　all　the　rest　of　that　crap；　I　have　the　Factory；　and　it's　about　now　and　the　future；　not　the　past。
　　
　　I　lay　in　bed　that　night；　knowing　the　Factory　was　primed　and　ready　and　waiting　for　the　wasp　that　crawled　and　felt　its　way　about　the　jar　that　lay　by　my　bedside。　I　thought　of　the　Factory；　above　me　in　the　loft；　and　I　waited　for　the　phone　to　ring。
　　
　　The　Wasp　Factory　is　beautiful　and　deadly　and　perfect。　It　would　give　me　some　idea　of　what　was　going　to　happen；　it　would　help　me　to　know　what　to　do；　and　after　I　had　consulted　it　I　would　try　to　contact　Eric　through　the　skull　of　Old　Saul。　We　are　brothers；　after　all；　even　if　only　half　so；　and　we　are　both　men；　even　if　I　am　only　half　so。　At　some　deep　level　we　understand　each　other；　even　though　he　is　mad　and　I　am　sane。　We　even　had　that　link　I　had　not　thought　of　until　recently；　but　which　might　e　in　useful　now：　we　have　both　killed；　and　used　our　heads　to　do　it。
　　
　　It　occurred　to　me　then；　as　it　has　before；　that　that　is　what　men　are　really　for。　Both　sexes　can　do　one　thing　specially　well；　women　can　give　birth　and　men　can　kill。　We…I　consider　myself　an　honorary　man…are　the　harder　sex。　We　strike　out；　push　through；　thrust　and　take。　The　fact　that　it　is　only　an　analogue　of　all　this　sexual　terminology　I　am　capable　of　does　not　discourage　me。　I　can　feel　it　in　my　bones；　in　my　uncastrated　genes。　Eric　must　respond　to　that。
　　
　　Eleven　o'clock　came；　then　midnight　and　the　time　signal；　so　I　turned　the　radio　off　and　went　to　sleep。
　　
　　
　　　8：　The　Wasp　Factory
　　
　　
　　IN　THE　EARLY　morning；　while　my　father　slept　and　the　cold　light　filtered　through　the　sharp　overcast　of　young　cloud；　I　rose　silently；　washed　and　shaved　carefully；　returned　to　my　room；　dressed　slowly；　then　took　the　jar　with　the　sleepy…looking　wasp　in　it　up　to　the　loft；　where　the　Factory　waited。
　　
　　I　left　the　jar　on　the　small　altar　under　the　window　and　made　the　last　few　preparations　the　Factory　required。　Once　that　was　done　I　took　some　of　the　green　cleaning　jelly　from　the　pot　by　the　altar　and　rubbed　it　well　into　my　hands。　I　looked　at　the　Time；　Tide　and　Distance　Tables；　the　little　red　book　that　I　kept　on　the　other　side　of　the　altar；　noting　the　time　of　high　tide。　I　set　the　two　small　wasp　candles　into　the　positions　the　tips　of　the　hands　of　a　clock　would　have　occupied　on　the　face　of　the　Factory　if　showing　the　time　of　local　high　tide；　then　I　slid　the　top　off　the　jar　a　little　and　extracted　the　leaves　and　the　small　piece　of　orange　peel；　leaving　the　wasp　in　there　alone。
　　
　　I　set　the　jar　on　the　altar；　which　was　decorated　with　various　powerful　things；　the　skull　of　the　snake　which　killed　Blyth　（tracked　down　and　sliced　in　half　by　his　father；　using　a　garden　spade…I　retrieved　it　from　the　grass　and　hid　that　front　part　of　the　snake　in　the　sand　before　Diggs　could　take　it　away　for　evidence）；　a　fragment　of　the　bomb　which　had　destroyed　Paul　（the　smallest　bit　I　could　find；　there　were　lots）；　a　piece　of　tent　fabric　from　the　kite　which　had　elevated　Esmerelda　（not　a　piece　of　the　actual　kite　of　course；　but　an　off…cut）　and　a　little　dish　containing　some　of　the　yellow；　worn　teeth　of　Old　Saul　（easily　pulled）。
　　
　　I　held　my　crotch；　closed　my　eyes　and　repeated　my　secret　catechisms。　I　could　recite　them　automatically；　but　I　tried　to　think　of　what　they　meant　as　I　repeated　them。　They　contained　my　confessions；　my　dreams　and　hopes；　my　fears　and　hates；　and　they　still　make　me　shiver　whenever　I　say　them；　automatic　or　not。　One　tape　recorder　in　the　vicinity　and　the　horrible　truth　about　my　three　murders　would　be　known。　For　that　reason　alone　they　are　very　dangerous。　The　catechisms　also　tell　the　truth　about　who　I　am；　what　I　want　and　what　I　feel；　and　it　can　be　unsettling　to　hear　yourself　described　as　you　have　thought　of　yourself　in　your　most　honest　and　abject　moods；　just　as　it　is　humbling　to　hear　what　you　have　thought　about　in　your　most　hopeful　and　unrealistic　moments。
　　
　　Once　I　had　gone　through　this　I　took　the　wasp　without　further　ado　to　the　underside　of　the　Factory；　and　let　it　in。
　　
　　The　Wasp　Factory　covers　an　area　of　several　square　metres　in　an　irregular　and　slightly　ramshackle　tangle　of　metal；　wood；　glass　and　plastic。　It　is　all　based　around　the　face　of　the　old　clock　which　used　to　hang　over　the　door　of　the　Royal　Bank　of　Scotland　in　Porteneil。
　　
　　The　clock　face　is　the　most　important　thing　I　have　ever　recovered　from　the　town　dump。　I　found　it　there　during　the　Year　of　the　Skull　and　rolled　it　home　down　the　path　to　the　island　and　rumbled　it　over　the　footbridge。　I　stored　it　in　the　shed　until　my　father　was　away　for　the　day；　then　I　strained　and　sweated　all　day　to　get　it　up　into　the　loft。　It　is　made　of　metal　and　is　nearly　a　metre　in　diameter；　it　is　heavy　and　almost　unblemished；　the　numerals　are　in　roman　script　and　it　was　made　along　with　the　rest　of　the　clock　in　Edinburgh　in　1864；　one　hundred　years　exactly　before　my　birth。　Certainly　not　a　coincidence。
　　
　　Of　course；　as　the　clock　looked　both　ways；　there　must　have　been　another　face；　the　other　side　of　the　clock；　but；　although　I　scoured　the　dump　for　weeks　after　I　found　the　face　I　do　have；　I　never　did　discover　the　other　one；　so　that　it；　too；　is　part　of　the　mystery　of　the　Factory…a　little　Grail　legend　of　its　own。　Old　Cameron　in　the　ironmonger's　shop　in　the　town　told　me　that　he　heard　a　scrap…metal　dealer　from　Inverness　took　the　workings　of　the　clock；　so　perhaps　the　other　face　was　melted　down　years　ago；　or　now　adorns　the　wall　of　some　smart　house　on　the　Black　Isle　built　from　the　profits　of　dead　cars　and　the　varying　price　of　lead。　I'd　rather　the　former。
　　
　　There　were　a　few　holes　in　the　face　which　I　soldered　up；　but　I　left　the　hole　in　the　dead　centre　where　the　mechanism　connected　with　the　hands；　and　it　is　through　that　the　wasp　is　let　into　the　Factory。　Once　there　it　can　wander　about　the　face　for　as　long　as　it　likes；　inspecting　the　tiny　candles　with　its　dead　cousins　buried　inside　if