gns.throwback-第39部分

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er　of　hours*。
　　
　　
　　
　　　CHAPTER　TWENTY…ONE
　　
　　THE　THROWBACKS　would　not　be　attacking　again；　Jon　Quinn　was　optimistic　about　that。　They　would　not　face　guns；　they　had　learned　their　lesson。
　　
　　He　had　spent　the　remainder　of　that　awful　night　at　the　bedroom　window；　but　there　had　been　no　sign　of　the　enemy　out　there　in　the　darkness。　They　had　withdrawn；　were　doubtless　watching　from　the　hills　around。　But　they　had　no　answer　to　the　sudden　death　that　firearms　were　capable　of。　They　would　not　risk　another　raid；　would　rely　on　stealth；　maybe　an　ambush　if　they　got　the　chance。
　　
　　Dawn　came　gradually；　a　slow　greyness；　a　creeping　hill…fog　that　reduced　visibility　to　a　few　yards。　He　could　make　out　the　gate；　the　tall　hedge　that　bordered　the　lane；　but　only　because　he　knew　what　and　where　they　were。　Detail　was　obscured　in　a　still　damp　world。　If　you　listened　hard　enough　you　heard　the。　steady　dripping　of　condensation。　Not　even　the　harsh　squawking　of　a　crow　in　the　fir　spinney。　Nothing。
　　
　　Sylvia　was　sleeping　heavily。　He　bent　over　her；　for　one　awful　moment　thought　she　had　stopped　breathing。　Her　breasts　scarcely　rose　and　fell。　A　bination　of　shock　and　exhaustion。　She　would　probably　sleep　the　clock　round。
　　
　　As　he　turned　away　from　the　bed　an　awful　feeling　of　loneliness　assailed　him。　He　didn't　even　have　Sylvia　any　more。　Physically　she　was　here　in　the　cottage　but　her　love；　her　thoughts；　were　out　there　up　in　the　hills。　Eric　Atkinson　was　a　terrible　sight　to　behold　but　everything　in　her　had　gone　back　to　him。　She　might　even　go　to　him　now　and　if　that　was　her　wish　then　he　would　let　her　go。　There　was　no　point　in　trying　to　stop　her。
　　
　　Another　awful　thought；　out　there　in　the　yard　were　three　dead　bodies。
　　
　　Murderer！
　　
　　He　winced；　did　not　even　try　to　convince　his　conscience　that　it　was　self…defence；　that　he　had　shot　them　to　save　Sylvia；　just　accepted　that　he　had　killed　them。　The　corpses　had　to　be　buried；　there　was　no　question　about　that；　and　there　was　only　one　person　to　do　it。　It　was　a　task　that　could　not　be　delayed；
　　
　　He　went　downstairs　and　outside；　took　the　gun　with　him。　The　sooner　he　got　it　done；　the　better。　Funerals　were　therapy；　a　sort　of　climax　to　grief；　and　once　they　were　over　and　done　with　time　could　begin　to　heal；　perhaps　his　conscience　would　be　easier　when　the　dead　were　below　ground。
　　
　　The　cultivation　patch　was　the　obvious　choice；　the　soil　there　was　soft　and　the　digging　would　be　relatively　easy。　AH　the　same；　it　would　take　him　most　of　the　day。
　　
　　He　fetched　a　spade　from　the　outbuilding　and　propping　the　loaded　shotgun　up　against　the　fence　he　began　marking　out　the　first　oblong。　He　would　not　need　to　cultivate　the　whole　area　again；　all　he　would　need　would　be　a　few　rows　of　essential　basic　crops　for　himself　（Sylvia　would　not　be　here　then）。　He　might　not　even　bother　to　grow　vegetables　again。　He　wasn't　thinking　positively　any　more。
　　
　　The　digging　was　soft　and　easy；　rhythmic　motions；　taking　his　time；　piling　up　a　mound　of　soil；　some　of　it　sliding　back　into　the　shallow　rectangular　hole。
　　
　　The　fog　had　rolled　back　as　far　as　the　base　of　the　steep　hillside。　Every　so　often　he　paused　and　glanced　around　but　there　was　no　sign　of　anybody。　The　throwbacks　had　returned　to　the　hills；　maybe　now　they　would　leave　him　alone。
　　
　　His　eyes　smarted　with　tears　that　would　not　e；　he　could　not　remember　the　last　time　he　had　cried。　Probably　when　he　was　a　young　boy。　He　had　not　even　cried　when　his　parents　had　died　and　God　knows　he　had　tried　hard　enough。　Burning　grief　inside　him　that　could　not　escape；　knotting　him　up。　The　only　two　funerals　he　had　ever　attended。
　　
　　Morbid；　so　unnecessary。　A　grave　like　this　one　only　much；　much　deeper；　a　roll　of　artificial　grass　hiding　the　mound　of　earth　for　some　obscure　reason。　Civilisation　went　to　a　lot　of　needless　trouble。　A　coffin　that　had　cost　a　hundred　quid　in　those　days；　high…quality　polished　oak　that　would　only　rot　away　in　the　ground。　Pointless　in　the　extreme。
　　
　　His　mother's　wish　had　been　to　be　buried　in　the　same　grave　so　they　had　to　dig　it　all　out　again。　The　same　rigmarole；　plastic　grass　and　a　meaningless　ceremony　because　nobody　except　himself　really　cared。　That　night　he　had　almost　cried。　Almost；　but　not　quite。
　　
　　He　paused。　He　was　sweating　heavily。　The　sides　of　the　grave　were　up　to　his　thighs。　It　would　do；　it　would　have　to。　So　long　as　he　got　the　corpses　underground　that　was　all　that　mattered。　He　debated　going　and　fetching　one　of　them；　no；　he　would　dig　the　other　graves　first；　try　and　get　finished　before　dark。　Filling　them　in　would　not　take　long。
　　
　　He　worked　right　through　until　mid…afternoon。　The　fog　was　beginning　to　creep　in　again　and　he　could　only　just　make　out　the　outline　of　the　cottage。　Probably　Sylvia　still　slept。　He　wouldn't　be　long　now。
　　
　　There　was　no　way　Jon　could　carry　the　bodies　across　to　the　graves；　he　would　have　to　drag　them　by　the　legs；　unceremoniously。　Ignominious。　Like　the　time　he　had　buried　Nita；　the　old　milking　goat。　He　had　put　a　piece　of　rope　on　her　back　legs；　pulled　her　in　stages　out　of　the　shed；　across　the　yard　and　into　the　field。　He　would　have　to　do　the　same　now。
　　
　　He　took　the　nearest　first；　looped　the　rope　over　the　man's　ankles；　pulled　it　tight；　took　the　strain。　Stiff　and　resisting；　a　rigid　arm　being　caught　on　the　gatepost。　He　sweated；　had　to　go　and　free　it。　Damn　it；　the　eyes　had　e　open；　were　staring　balefully　at　him。
　　
　　Murderer！
　　
　　No；　I　didn't　want　to　kill　you；　please　believe　me。　I'm　sorry。　Oh　God；　I'm　sorry！
　　
　　It　took　him　ten　minutes　to　lug　the　corpse　to　the　graveside；　turned　his　head　away　as　he　fumbled　to　undo　the　knots。　Don't　look　at　me　please。　I'm　sorry。
　　
　　He　pushed；　the　corpse　slid；　took　a　small　avalanche　of　soil　and　stones　with　it；　fell　awkwardly；　face　downwards。　No；　I'm　not　going　down　there　to　turn　you　over。　It　doesn't　matter　anyway　because　you're　dead。
　　
　　Maybe　he　should　have　dug　deeper；　one　big　grave；　buried　all　three　together。　Funny　how　you　thought　of　these　things　when　it　was　too　late。
　　
　　It　was　dusk　by　the　time　he　had　all　three　of　them　in　their　graves；　took　the　spade　again　and　began　to　shovel　the　earth　back　in　with　dull　thumps。　Finality。　Dust　to　dust；　ashes　to　ashes。　The　Lord　has　given　and　the　Lord　has　taken　away；　He　could　hear　that　young　curate's　voice　at　his　mother's　graveside；　rushing　through　the　words　as　though　he　had　to　get　it　all　over　as　soon　as　possible。　Maybe　he　had　been　scared　too。　Secretly　everybody　was　frightened　of　death　because　no　matter　what　you　did　in　life　you　ended　up　like　this。　All　efforts　were　in　vain。
　　
　　He　finished；　smoothed　the　slight　mounds　over　with　the　flat　of　the　spade　and　stood　back。　It　was　almost　dark　now；　the　fog　seeming　to　have　melted　with　the　ing　of　night。　The　sweat　was　chilling　fast　on　his　body；　an　icy　shirt　clinging　damply　to　his　flesh。　It　felt　like　there　could　be　a　frost　tonight。
　　
　　Jon　Quinn　retrieved　his　gun；　headed　back　to　the　cottage。　He　kicked　his　boots　off　in　the　porch；　went　inside　and　locked　the　door　behind　him。　Silence。　No　movement；　no　faint　glow　of　a　candle　burning。
　　
　　He　grabbed　a　storm　lantern；　lit　it　and　waited　for　the　flame　to　settle。　The　wick　needed　renewing；　he　would　see　to　it　tomorrow。　Always　tomorrow　but　deep　down　you　found　yourself　hoping　that　tomorrow　never　came。
　　
　　Upstairs；　almost　afraid　to　go　into　the　bedroom。　Maybe　Sylvia　had　gone；　crept　out　whilst　he　was　engrossed　in　his　gruesome　task；　had　just　walked　away　into　the　fog　and　wouldn't　be　ing　back。　Or　else　she　was　dead。　Last　night　might　have　proved　too　much　for　her；　there　was　a　bottle　of　aspirins　by　the　bed。
　　
　　Nausea　pressed　his　stomach；　tried　to　force　him　to　vomit。　Don't　go　in　there；　don't　look。　That　way　you　won't　ever　know。　If　she's　dead　then　you'll　have　to　bury　her　too。
　　
　　He　kicked　open　the　door；　held　the　lamp　at　arm's　length；　the　yellow　circle　of　light　quivering　and　casting　weird　shadows。　The　bed；　a　still　form　beneath　the　crumpled　sheets。　Alive　or　dead？
　　
　　Then　the　bedclothes　moved　and　Sylvia　came　into　view；　propped　herself　up　on　an　elbow；　blinked　in　the　sudden　wan　light。　He　scarcely　recognised　her；　she　seemed　to　have　aged　a　decade；　her　eyes　black…ringed　and　sunken；　deep　contours　etched　into　her　skin。　Sheer　hopelessness；　and　something　else…grief。
　　
　　'Jon？'
　　
　　'Are　you　OK？'
　　
　　'Eric's　dead；　Jon。'
　　
　　A　jumble　of　replies　crammed　his　confused　brain。　Don't　be　silly。　How　could　you　possibly　know？　He's　OK；　I'm　certain　of　it。　But　they　all　sounded　hollow　so　he　said　nothing；　just　stood　there　looking　at　her。
　　
　　'He's　dead；'　she　repeated。
　　
　　Jon　moved　into　the　room；　set　the　lantern　down　on　the　dresser。　She　moved　again；　sat　up；　and　he　saw　that　she　was　still　fully　dressed。
　　
　　'I　know　he　is。'　She　spoke　flatly；　not　even　a　tremor　in　her　voice。　'I　wish　I　could　have　seen　him　one　more　time　though。　Just　to　say　I'm　sorry。'
　　
　　He　lowered　himself　down　on　to　the　edge　of　the　bed；　suddenly　saw　how　she　had　changed　during　these　last　few　hours；　almost　drew　away　in　horror。　The　texture　of　her　skin　was　different；　blotched；　coarser；　her　hair　wiry；　the　soft　silkiness　gone　out　of　it。　The　pertness　of　her　features　was　gone　too；　lips　thicker；　nose　less　pointed。　An　unmistakable　resemblance　to　those　corpses　which　he　had　interred　today！
　　
　　'You're　ill。'　He　had　to　say　something；　must　not　alarm　her　unduly。　He　hoped　the　revulsion；　the　shock；　did　not　show　in　his　expression。　He　tried　to　tell　himself　that　it　was　a　trick　of　the　light；　that　if　he　went　and　fetched　a　torch　and　shone　it　on　her　she　would　be　all　right。　In　the　end　he　accepted　what　he　saw；　let　his　brain　go　numb；　didn't　try　to　find　reasons；　or　hope。　Somehow　Sylvia　was　undergoing　the　physical　change　which　had　thrown　back　the　population　of　the　rest　of　the　world　thousands　of　years。　Mentally　she　seemed　to　have　all　her　faculties。　At　the　moment　anyway。
　　
　　'I　know　he's　dead。'　Her　voice　was　a　dull　whisper　now。　'I　just　know。'
　　
　　Panic　hit　him　as　he　sat　there。　Like　the　time　Jackie　（oh　God；　how　1　need　her　now！）　had　been　suddenly　ill　in　the　middle　of　the　night　soon　after　they　were　married。　It　had　turned　out　to　be　an　allergy　to　a　drug　which　the　doctor　had　prescribed　but　he　did