ib.thewaspfactory-第8部分

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gether　while　Blyth　hurriedly　strapped　his　leg　on。
　　
　　Nobody　suspected。　From　the　first　moments；　when　my　brothers　and　I　stood　there　incredulous　as　Blyth　screamed　and　jumped　and　tugged　at　his　leg；　to　the　tearful　farewell　of　Blyth's　parents　and　Diggs　taking　statements　（a　bit　even　appeared　in　the　Inverness　Courier　which　was　picked　up　for　its　curiosity　value　by　a　couple　of　the　Fleet　Street　rags）；　not　one　person　even　suggested　that　it　might　have　been　anything　other　than　a　tragic　and　slightly　macabre　accident。　Only　I　knew　better。
　　
　　I　didn't　tell　Eric。　He　was　shocked　by　what　had　happened　and　genuinely　sorry　for　Blyth　and　his　parents。　All　I　said　was　that　I　thought　it　was　a　judgement　from　God　that　Blyth　had　first　lost　his　leg　and　then　had　the　replacement　bee　the　instrument　of　his　downfall。　All　because　of　the　rabbits。　Eric；　who　was　going　through　a　religious　phase　at　the　time　which　I　suppose　I　was　to　some　extent　copying；　thought　this　was　a　terrible　thing　to　say；　God　wasn't　like　that。　I　said　the　one　I　believed　in　was。
　　
　　At　any　rate；　such　was　the　reason　that　particular　patch　of　ground　got　its　name：　the　Snake　Park。
　　
　　I　lay　in　bed；　thinking　back　on　all　this。　Father　still　hadn't　e　back。　Perhaps　he　was　going　to　stay　out　all　night。　That　was　extremely　unusual；　and　rather　worrying。　Perhaps　he　had　been　knocked　down；　or　had　died　of　a　heart　attack。
　　
　　I've　always　had　a　rather　ambivalent　attitude　towards　something　happening　to　my　father；　and　it　persists。　A　death　is　always　exciting；　always　makes　you　realise　how　alive　you　are；　how　vulnerable　but　so…far…lucky；　but　the　death　of　somebody　close　gives　you　a　good　excuse　to　go　a　bit　crazy　for　a　while　and　do　things　that　would　otherwise　be　inexcusable。　What　delight　to　behave　really　badly　and　still　get　loads　of　sympathy！
　　
　　But　I'd　miss　him；　and　I　don't　know　what　the　legal　position　would　be　about　me　staying　on　here　by　myself。　Would　I　get　all　his　money？　That　would　be　good；　I　could　get　my　motorbike　now　instead　of　having　to　wait。　Jesus；　there'd　be　so　many　things　I　could　do　I　don't　even　know　where　to　start　thinking　about　them。　But　it　would　be　a　big　change；　and　I　don't　know　that　I'm　ready　for　it　yet。
　　
　　I　could　feel　myself　starting　to　slide　off　into　sleep；　I　began　to　imagine　and　see　all　sorts　of　weird　things　behind　my　eyes　：　maze…shapes　and　spreading　areas　of　unknown　colours；　then　fantastic　buildings　and　spaceships　and　weapons　and　landscapes。　I　often　wish　I　could　remember　my　dreams　better。。。。
　　
　　Two　years　after　I　killed　Blyth　I　murdered　my　young　brother　Paul；　for　quite　different　and　more　fundamental　reasons　than　I'd　disposed　of　Blyth；　and　then　a　year　after　that　I　did　for　my　young　cousin　Esmerelda；　more　or　less　on　a　whim。
　　
　　That's　my　score　to　date。　Three。　I　haven't　killed　anybody　for　years；　and　don't　intend　to　ever　again。
　　
　　It　was　just　a　stage　I　was　going　through。
　　
　　
　　　3：　In　the　Bunker
　　
　　
　　My　GREATEST　ENEMIES　are　Women　and　the　Sea。　These　things　I　hate。　Women　because　they　are　weak　and　stupid　and　live　in　the　shadow　of　men　and　are　nothing　pared　to　them；　and　the　Sea　because　it　has　always　frustrated　me；　destroying　what　I　have　built；　washing　away　what　I　have　left；　wiping　clean　the　marks　I　have　made。　And　I'm　not　all　that　sure　the　Wind　is　blameless；　either。
　　
　　The　Sea　is　a　sort　of　mythological　enemy；　and　I　make　what　you　might　call　sacrifices　to　it　in　my　soul；　fearing　it　a　little；　respecting　it　as　you're　supposed　to；　but　in　many　ways　treating　it　as　an　equal。　It　does　things　to　the　world；　and　so　do　I；　we　should　both　be　feared。　Women。。。　well；　women　are　a　bit　too　close　for　fort　as　far　as　I'm　concerned。　I　don't　even　like　having　them　on　the　island；　not　even　Mrs　Clamp；　who　es　every　week　on　a　Saturday　to　clean　the　house　and　deliver　our　supplies。　She's　ancient；　and　sexless　the　way　the　very　old　and　the　very　young　are；　but　she's　still　been　a　woman；　and　I　resent　that；　for　my　own　good　reason。
　　
　　I　woke　the　next　morning；　wondering　if　my　father　had　e　back　or　not。　Without　bothering　to　dress；　I　went　to　his　room。　I　was　going　to　try　the　door；　but　I　could　hear　him　snoring　before　I　touched　the　handle；　so　I　turned　and　went　to　the　bathroom。
　　
　　In　the　bathroom；　after　a　piss；　I　went　through　my　daily　washing　ritual。　First　I　had　my　shower。　The　shower　is　the　only　time　in　any　twenty…four…hour　period　I　take　my　underpants　right　off。　I　put　the　old　pair　in　the　dirty…linen　bag　in　the　airing　cupboard。　I　showered　carefully；　starting　at　my　hair　and　ending　between　my　toes　and　under　my　toenails。　Sometimes；　when　I　have　to　make　precious　substances　such　as　toenail　cheese　or　belly…button　fluff；　I　have　to　go　without　a　shower　or　bath　for　days　and　days；　I　hate　doing　this　because　I　soon　feel　dirty　and　itchy；　and　the　only　bright　thing　about　such　abstinence　is　how　good　it　feels　to　have　a　shower　at　the　end　of　it。
　　
　　After　my　shower；　and　a　brisk　rub…down　with　first　a　face…cloth　and　then　a　towel；　I　trimmed　my　nails。　Then　I　brushed　my　teeth　thoroughly　with　my　electric　toothbrush。　Next　the　shave。　I　always　use　shaving　foam　and　the　latest　razors　（twin…blade　swivel…heads　are　state…of…the…art　at　the　moment）；　removing　the　downy　brown　growth　of　the　previous　day　and　night　with　dexterity　and　precision。　As　with　all　my　ablutions；　the　shave　follows　a　definite　and　predetermined　pattern；　I　take　the　same　number　of　strokes　of　the　same　length　in　the　same　sequence　each　morning。　As　always；　I　felt　a　rising　tingle　of　excitement　as　I　contemplated　the　meticulously　shorn　surfaces　of　my　face。
　　
　　I　blew　and　picked　my　nose　clean；　washed　my　hands；　cleaned　the　razor；　nail…clipper；　shower　and　basin；　rinsed　out　the　flannel　and　bed　my　hair。　Happily　I　didn't　have　any　spots；　so　there　was　nothing　else　required　but　a　final　handwash　and　a　clean　pair　of　underpants。　I　placed　all　my　washing　materials；　towels；　razor　and　so　forth　exactly　where　they　should　be；　wiped　a　little　steam　off　the　mirror　on　my　bathroom　cabinet；　and　returned　to　my　room。
　　
　　There　I　put　on　my　socks；　green　for　that　day。　Then　a　khaki　shirt　with　pockets。　In　the　winter　I'd　have　a　vest　underneath　and　a　green　army　jumper　over　the　shirt；　but　not　in　the　summer。　My　green　cord　trousers　came　next；　followed　by　my　fawn　Kickers　boots；　labels　removed　as　from　everything　I　wear　because　I　refuse　to　be　a　walking　advertisement　for　anybody。　My　bat　jacket；　knife；　bags；　catapult　and　other　equipment　I　took　down　to　the　kitchen　with　me。
　　
　　It　was　still　early；　and　the　rain　I'd　heard　forecast　the　previous　night　was　looking　about　ready　to　drop。　I　had　my　modest　breakfast；　and　I　was　ready。
　　
　　I　went　out　into　the　fresh　damp　morning；　walking　quickly　to　keep　warm　and　get　round　the　island　before　any　rain　started。　The　hills　beyond　the　town　were　hidden　by　cloud；　and　the　sea　was　rough　as　the　wind　freshened。　The　grass　was　heavy　with　dew；　drops　of　mist　bowed　the　unopened　flowers　and　clung　to　my　Sacrifice　Poles；　too；　like　clear　blood　on　the　shrivelled　heads　and　tiny；　desiccated　bodies。
　　
　　A　couple　of　jets　screamed　over　the　island　at　one　point；　two　Jaguars　wing　to　wing　about　one　hundred　metres　up　and　going　fast；　crossing　the　whole　island　in　an　eye…blink　and　racing　out　to　sea。　I　glared　at　them；　then　went　on　my　way。　Once　they　made　me　jump；　another　couple　of　them；　a　couple　of　years　ago。　They　came　in　illegally　low　after　bombing　practice　on　the　range　just　down　the　firth；　blasting　over　the　island　so　suddenly　that　I　jumped　while　in　the　delicate　manoeuvre　of　teasing　a　wasp　into　a　jar　from　the　old　tree　stump　near　the　ruined　sheep…pen　at　the　north　end　of　the　island。　The　wasp　stung　me。
　　
　　I　went　into　town　that　day；　bought　an　extra　plastic　model　of　a　Jaguar；　made　the　kit　up　that　afternoon　and　ceremonially　blew　it　to　pieces　on　the　roof　of　the　Bunker　with　a　small　pipe…bomb。　Two　weeks　later　a　Jaguar　crashed　into　the　sea　off　Nairn；　though　the　pilot　ejected　in　time。　I'd　like　to　think　the　Power　was　working　then；　but　I　suspect　it　was　coincidence；　high…performance　jets　crash　so　often　it　was　no　real　surprise　my　symbolic　and　their　real　destruction　came　within　a　fortnight　of　each　other。
　　
　　I　sat　on　the　earth　banking　that　looks　out　over　the　Muddy　Creek　and　ate　an　apple。　I　leaned　back　on　the　young　tree　that　as　a　sapling　had　been　the　Killer。　It　was　grown　now；　and　a　good　bit　taller　than　me；　but　when　I　was　young　and　we　were　the　same　size　it　had　been　my　static　catapult　defending　the　southerly　approaches　to　the　island。　Then；　as　now；　it　looked　out　over　the　broad　creek　and　the　gunmetal…coloured　mud　with　the　eaten…looking　wreck　of　an　old　fishing　boat　sticking　out　of　it。
　　
　　After　the　Tale　of　Old　Saul　I　put　the　catapult　to　another　use；　and　it　became　the　Killer；　scourge　of　hamsters；　mice　and　gerbils。
　　
　　I　remember　that　it　could　whack　a　fist…sized　stone　well　over　the　creek　and　twenty　metres　or　more　into　the　undulating　ground　on　the　mainland；　and　once　I　got　keyed　into　its　natural　rhythm　I　could　send　off　a　shot　every　two　seconds。　I　could　place　them　anywhere　within　a　sixty…degree　angle　by　varying　the　direction　in　which　I　pulled　the　sapling　over　and　down。　I　didn't　use　a　little　animal　every　two　seconds；　they　were　expended　at　a　few　a　week。　For　six　months　I　was　the　best　customer　the　Porteneil　Pet　Shop　had；　going　in　every　Saturday　to　get　a　couple　of　beasts；　and　about　every　month　buying　a　tube　of　badminton　shuttlecocks　from　the　toyshop　as　well。　I　doubt　anybody　ever　put　the　two　together；　apart　from　me。
　　
　　It　was　all　for　a　purpose；　of　course；　little　that　I　do　is　not；　one　way　or　another。　I　was　looking　for　Old　Saul's　skull。
　　
　　I　threw　the　core　of　the　apple　over　the　creek；　it　plopped　into　the　mud　on　the　far　bank　with　a　satisfying　slurp。　I　decided　it　was　time　to　look　into　the　Bunker　properly；　and　set　off　along　the　bank　at　a　jog；　swinging　round　the　southernmost　dune　towards　the　old　pillbox。　I　stopped　to　look　at　the　shore。　There　didn't　seem　to　be　anything　interesting　there；　but　I　remembered　the　lesson　of　the　day　before；　when　I　had　stopped　to　sniff　the　air　and　everything　had　seemed　fine；　then　ten　minutes　later　I　was　wrestling　with　a　kamikaze　rabbit；　so　I　trotted　down　off　the　side　of　the　dune　and　down　to　the　line　of　debris　thrown　up　by　the　sea。
　　
　　There　was　one　bottle。　A　very　minor　enemy；　and　empty。　I　went　down　to　the　water…line　a