ib.thewaspfactory-第21章

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　　I　shook　my　head；　and　she　smiled　and　nodded　and　patted　me　on　the　shoulder　and　padded　off　to　the　kitchen。　Jamie　came　in　and　sat　on　the　couch　next　to　my　chair。　He　looked　at　me　and　grinned　and　shook　his　head。
　　
　　'What　a　state。　What　a　state！'　He　clapped　his　hands　and　rocked　forward　on　the　couch；　his　feet　sticking　out　straight　in　front　of　him。　I　rolled　my　eyes　and　looked　away。　'Never　mind；　Frankie　lad。　A　couple　of　cups　of　tea　and　you'll　be　fine。'
　　
　　'Huh；'　I　managed；　and　shivered。
　　
　　I　left　about　one　o'clock　in　the　morning；　more　sober；　and　awash　with　tea。　My　stomach　and　throat　were　almost　back　to　normal；　though　my　voice　still　sounded　harsh。　I　bade　Jamie　and　his　mother　goodnight　and　walked　on　through　the　outskirts　of　town　to　the　track　heading　for　the　island；　then　down　the　track　in　blackness；　sometimes　using　my　small　torch；　towards　the　bridge　and　the　house。
　　
　　It　was　a　quiet　walk　through　the　marsh　and　dune　land　and　the　patchy　pasture。　Apart　from　the　few　noises　I　made　on　the　path；　all　I　could　hear　was　the　very　occasional　and　distant　roar　of　heavy　trucks　on　the　road　through　town。　The　clouds　covered　most　of　the　sky　and　there　was　little　light　from　the　moon；　and　none　ahead　of　me　at　all。
　　
　　I　remembered　once；　in　the　middle　of　summer　two　years　ago；　when　I　was　ing　down　the　path　in　the　late　dusk　after　a　day's　walking　in　the　hills　beyond　the　town；　I　saw　in　the　gathering　night　strange　lights；　shifting　in　the　air　over　and　far　beyond　the　island。　They　wavered　and　moved　uncannily；　glinting　and　shifting　and　burning　in　a　heavy；　solid　way　no　thing　should　in　the　air。　I　stood　and　watched　them　for　a　while；　training　my　binoculars　on　them　and　seeming；　now　and　again　in　the　shifting　images　of　light；　to　discern　structures　around　them。　A　chill　passed　through　me　then　and　my　mind　raced　to　reason　out　what　I　was　seeing。　I　glanced　quickly　about　in　the　gloom；　and　then　back　to　those　distant；　utterly　silent　towers　of　flickering　flame。　They　hung　there　in　the　sky　like　faces　of　fire　looking　down　on　the　island；　like　something　waiting。
　　
　　Then　it　came　to　me；　and　I　knew。
　　
　　A　mirage；　a　reflection　of　layers　on　air　out　to　sea。　I　was　watching　the　gas…flares　of　oil…rigs　maybe　hundreds　of　kilometres　away；　out　in　the　North　Sea。　Looking　again　at　those　dim　shapes　around　the　flame；　they　did　appear　to　be　rigs；　vaguely　made　out　in　their　own　gassy　glare。　I　went　on　my　way　happy　after　that…indeed；　happier　than　I　had　been　before　I　had　seen　the　strange　apparitions…and　it　occurred　to　me　that　somebody　both　less　logical　and　less　imaginative　would　have　jumped　to　the　conclusion　that　what　they　had　seen　were　UFOs。
　　
　　I　got　to　the　island　eventually。　The　house　was　dark。　I　stood　looking　at　it　in　the　darkness；　just　aware　of　its　bulk　in　the　feeble　light　of　a　broken　moon；　and　I　thought　it　looked　even　bigger　than　it　really　was；　like　a　stone…giant's　head；　a　huge　moonlit　skull　full　of　shapes　and　memories；　staring　out　to　sea　and　attached　to　a　vast；　powerful　body　buried　in　the　rock　and　sand　beneath；　ready　to　shrug　itself　free　and　disinter　itself　on　some　unknowable　mand　or　cue。
　　
　　The　house　stared　out　to　sea；　out　to　the　night；　and　I　went　into　it。
　　
　　
　　　5　：　A　Bunch　of　Flowers
　　
　　
　　I　KILLED　little　Esmerelda　because　I　felt　lowed　it　to　myself　and　to　the　world　in　general。　I　had；　after　all；　accounted　for　two　male　children　and　thus　done　womankind　something　of　a　statistical　favour。　If　I　really　had　the　courage　of　my　convictions；　I　reasoned；　I　ought　to　redress　the　balance　at　least　slightly。　My　cousin　was　simply　the　easiest　and　most　obvious　target。
　　
　　Again；　I　bore　her　no　personal　ill…will。　Children　aren't　real　people；　in　the　sense　that　they　are　not　small　males　and　females　but　a　separate　species　which　will　（probably）　grow　into　one　or　the　other　in　due　time。　Younger　children　in　particular；　before　the　insidious　and　evil　influence　of　society　and　their　parents　have　properly　got　to　them；　are　sexlessly　open　and　hence　perfectly　likeable。　I　did　like　Esmerelda　（even　if　I　thought　her　name　was　a　bit　soppy）　and　played　with　her　a　lot　when　she　came　to　stay。　She　was　the　daughter　of　Harmsworth　and　Morag　Stove；　my　half…uncle　and　half…aunt　by　my　father's　first　marriage；　they　were　the　couple　who　had　looked　after　Eric　between　the　ages　of　three　and　five。　They　would　e　over　from　Belfast　to　stay　with　us　in　the　summers　sometimes；　my　father　used　to　get　on　well　with　Harmsworth；　and　because　I　looked　after　Esmerelda　they　could　have　a　nice　relaxing　holiday　here。　I　think　Mrs　Stove　was　a　little　worried　about　trusting　her　daughter　to　me　that　particular　summer；　as　it　was　the　one　after　I'd　struck　young　Paul　down　in　his　prime；　but　at　nine　years　of　age　I　was　an　obviously　happy　and　well…adjusted　child；　responsible　and　well…spoken　and；　when　it　was　mentioned；　demonstrably　sad　about　my　younger　brother's　demise。　I　am　convinced　that　only　my　genuinely　clear　conscience　let　me　convince　the　adults　around　me　that　I　was　totally　innocent。　I　even　carried　out　a　double…bluff　of　appearing　slightly　guilty　for　the　wrong　reasons；　so　that　adults　told　me　I　shouldn't　blame　myself　because　I　hadn't　been　able　to　warn　Paul　in　time。　I　was　brilliant。
　　
　　I　had　decided　I　would　try　to　murder　Esmerelda　before　she　and　her　parents　even　arrived　for　their　holiday。　Eric　was　away　on　a　school　cruise；　so　there　would　only　be　me　and　her。　It　would　be　risky；　so　soon　after　Paul's　death；　but　I　had　to　do　something　to　even　up　the　balance。　I　could　feel　it　in　my　guts；　in　my　bones；　I　had　to。　It　was　like　an　itch；　something　I　had　no　way　of　resisting；　like　when　I　walk　along　a　pavement　in　Porteneil　and　I　accidentally　scuff　one　heel　on　a　paving　stone。　I　have　to　scuff　the　other　foot　as　well；　with　as　near　as　possible　the　same　weight；　to　feel　good　again。　The　same　if　I　brush　one　arm　against　a　wall　or　a　lamp…post；　I　must　brush　the　other　one　as　well；　soon；　or　at　the　very　least　scratch　it　with　the　other　hand。　In　a　whole　range　of　ways　like　that　I　try　to　keep　balanced；　though　I　have　no　idea　why。　It　is　simply　something　that　must　be　done；　and；　in　the　same　way；　I　had　to　get　rid　of　some　woman；　tip　the　scales　back　in　the　other　direction。
　　
　　I　had　taken　to　making　kites　that　year。　It　was　I973；　I　suppose。　I　used　many　things　to　make　them：　cane　and　dowling　and　metal　coat　hangers　and　aluminium　tent…poles；　and　paper　and　plastic　sheeting　and　dustbin　bags　and　sheets　and　string　and　nylon　rope　and　twine　and　all　sorts　of　little　straps　and　buckles　and　bits　of　cord　and　elastic　bands　and　strips　of　wire　and　pins　and　screws　and　nails　and　pieces　cannibalised　from　model　yachts　and　various　toys。　I　made　a　hand　winch　with　a　double　handle　and　a　ratchet　and　room　for　half　a　kilometre　of　twine　on　the　drum；　I　made　different　types　of　tails　for　the　kites　that　needed　them；　and　dozens　of　kites　large　and　small；　some　stunters。　I　kept　them　in　the　shed　and　eventually　had　to　put　the　bikes　outside　under　a　tarpaulin　when　the　collection　got　too　large。
　　
　　That　summer　I　took　Esmerelda　kiting　quite　a　lot。　I　let　her　play　with　a　small；　single…string　kite　while　I　used　a　stunter。　I　would　send　it　swooping　over　and　under　hers；　or　dive　it　down　to　the　sands　while　I　stood　on　a　dune　cliff；　pulling　the　kite　down　to　nick　tall　towers　of　sand　I'd　built；　then　pulling　up　again；　the　kite　trailing　a　spray　of　sand　through　the　air　from　the　collapsing　tower。　Although　it　took　a　while　and　I　crashed　a　couple　of　times；　once　I　even　knocked　a　dam　down　with　a　kite。　I　swooped　it　so　that　on　each　pass　it　caught　the　top　of　the　dam　wall　with　one　corner；　gradually　producing　a　nick　in　the　sand　barrier　which　the　water　was　able　to　flow　through；　quickly　going　on　to　overwhelm　the　whole　dam　and　the　sand…house　village　beneath。
　　
　　Then　one　day　I　was　standing　there　on　a　dune　top；　straining　against　the　pull　of　the　wind　in　the　kite；　gripping　and　hauling　and　sensing　and　adjusting　and　twisting；　when　one　of　those　twists　became　like　a　strangle　around　Esmerelda's　neck；　and　the　idea　was　there。　Use　the　kites。
　　
　　I　thought　about　it　calmly；　still　standing　there　as　though　nothing　had　passed　through　my　mind　but　the　continual　putation　guiding　the　kite；　and　I　thought　it　seemed　reasonable。　As　I　thought　about　it；　the　notion　took　its　own　shape；　blossoming；　as　it　were；　and　escalating　int