cb.booksofblood2-第7章
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ome Saviour es to the lips； as the personality is swept away in madness？ There must be something。
Quaid waited like a carrion bird at the site of some atrocity； counting the minutes left to the expiring soul； hoping for a morsel。
Steve woke face down on the grid。 The air was much staler now； and the metal bars bit into the flesh of his cheek。 He was hot and unfortable。
He lay still； letting his eyes bee accustomed to his surroundings again。 The lines of the grid ran off in perfect perspective to meet the wall of the shaft。 The simple network of criss…crossed bars struck him as pretty。 Yes； pretty。 He traced the lines back and forth； 'til he tired of the game。 Bored； he rolled over onto his back； feeling the grid vibrate under his body。 Was it less stable now？ It seemed to rock a little as he moved。
Hot and sweaty； Steve unbuttoned his shirt。 There was sleep…spittle on his chin but he didn't care to wipe it off。 What if he drooled？ Who was to see？
He half pulled off his shirt； and using one foot； kicked his shoe off the other。
Shoe： lattice： fall。 Sluggishly； his mind made the con…nection。 He sat up。 Oh poor shoe。 His shoe would fall。 It would slip between the bars and be lost。 But no。 It was finely balanced across two sides of a lattice…hole； he could still save it if he tried。
He reached for his poor； poor shoe； and his movement shifted the grid。
The shoe began to slip。
'Please；' he begged it； 'don't fall。' He didn't want to lose his nice shoe； his pretty shoe。 It mustn't fall。 It mustn't fall。
As he stretched to snatch it； the shoe tipped； heel down； through the grid and fell into the darkness。
He let out a cry of loss that he couldn't hear。
Oh； if only he could listen to the shoe falling； to count the seconds of its descent。 To hear it thud home at the bottom of the shaft。 At least then he'd know how far he had to fall to his death。
He couldn't endure it any longer。 He rolled over on to his stomach and thrust both arms through the grid； screaming：
'I'll go too！ I'll go too！'
He couldn't bear waiting to fall； in the dark； in the whining silence； he just wanted to follow his shoe down； down； down the dark shaft to extinction； and have the whole game finished once and for all。
'I'll go！ I'll go！ I'll go！' he shrieked。 He pleaded with gravity。
Beneath him； the grid moved。
Something had broken。 A pin； a chain； a rope that held the grid in position had snapped。 He was no' longer horizontal； already he was sliding across the bars as they tipped him off into the dark。
With shock he realized his limbs were no longer chained。
He would fall。
The man wanted him to fall。 The bad man … what was his name？ Quake？ Quail？ Quarrel …Automatically he seized the grid with both hands as it tipped even further over。 Maybe he didn't want to fall after his shoe； after all？ Maybe life； a little moment more of life； was worth holding on to …The dark beyond the edge of the grid was so deep； and who could guess what lurked in it？
In his head the noises of his panic multiplied。 The thumping of his bloody heart； the stutter of his mucus； the dry rasp of his palate。 His palms； slick with sweat； were losing their grip。 Gravity wanted him。 It demanded its rights of his body's bulk： demanded that he fall。 For a moment； glancing over his shoulder at the mouth that opened under him； he thought he saw monsters stirring below him。 Ridiculous； loony things； crudely drawn； dark on dark。 Vile graffiti leered up from his childhood and uncurled their claws to snatch at his legs。
'Mama；' he said； as his hands failed him； and he was delivered into dread。
'Mama。'
That was the word。 Quaid heard it plainly； in all its banality。
'Mama！'
By the time Steve hit the bottom of the shaft； he was past judging how far he'd fallen。 The moment his hands let go of the grid； and he knew the dark would have him； his mind snapped。 The animal self survived to relax his body； saving him all but minor injury on impact。 The rest of his life； all but the simplest responses； were shattered； the pieces flung into the recesses of his memory。
When the light came； at last； he looked up at the person in the Mickey Mouse mask at the door； and smiled at him。 It was a child's smile； one of thankfulness for his ical rescuer。 He let the man take him by the ankles and haul him out of the big round room in which he was lying。 His pants were wet； and he knew he'd dirtied himself in his sleep。 Still； the Funny Mouse would kiss him better。
His head lolled on his shoulders as he was dragged out of the torture…chamber。 On the floor beside his head was a shoe。 And seven or eight feet above him was the grid from which he had fallen。
It meant nothing at all。
He let the Mouse sit him down in a bright room。 He let the Mouse give him his ears back； though he didn't really want them。 It was funny watching the world without sound； it made him laugh。
He drank some water； and ate some sweet cake。
He was tired。 He wanted to sleep。 He wanted his Mama。 But the Mouse didn't seem to understand； so he cried； and kicked the table and threw the plates and cups on the floor。 Then he ran into the next room； and threw all the papers he could find in the air。 It was nice watching them flutter up and flutter down。 Some of them fell face down； some face up。 Some were covered with writing。 Some were pictures。 Horrid pictures。 Pictures that made him feel very strange。
They were all pictures of dead people； every one of them。 Some of the pictures were of little children； others were of grown…up children。 They were lying down； or half…sitting； and there were big cuts in their faces and their bodies； cuts that showed a mess underneath； a mish…mash of shiny bits and oozy bits。 And all around the dead people： black paint。 Not in neat puddles； but splashed all around； and finger…marked； and hand…printed and very messy。
In three or four of the pictures the thing that made the cuts was still there。 He knew the word for it。
Axe。
There was an axe in a lady's face buried almost to the handle。 There was an axe in a man's leg； and another lying on the floor of a kitchen beside a dead baby。
This man collected pictures of dead people and axes； which Steve thought was strange。
That was his last thought before the too…familiar scent of chloroform filled his head and he lost consciousness。
The sordid doorway smelt of old urine and fresh vomit。 It was his own vomit； it was all over the front of his shirt。 He tried to stand up； but his legs felt wobbly。 It was very cold。 His throat hurt。
Then he heard footsteps。 It sounded like the Mouse was ing back。 Maybe he'd take him home。
'Get up； son。'
It wasn't the Mouse。 It was a policeman。
'What are you doing down there？ I said get up。'
Bracing himself against the crumbling brick of the doorway Steve got to his feet。 The policeman shone his torch at him。
'Jesus Christ；' said the policeman； disgust written over his face。 'You're in a right fucking state。 Where do you live？'
Steve shook his head； staring down at his vomit…soaked shirt like a shamed schoolboy。
'What's your name？'
He couldn't quite remember。
'Name； lad？'
He was trying。 If only the policeman wouldn't shout。
'e on； take a hold of yourself。'
The words didn't make much sense。 Steve could feel tears pricking the backs of his eyes。
'Home。'
Now he was blubbering； sniffing snot； feeling utterly forsaken。 He wanted to die： he wanted to lie down and die。
The policeman shook him。
'You high on something？' he demanded； pulling Steve into the glare of the streetlights and staring at his tear…stained face。
'You'd better move on。'
'Mama；' said Steve； 'I want my Mama。'
The words changed the encounter entirely。
Suddenly the policeman found the spectacle more than disgusting； more than pitiful。 This little bastard； with his bloodshot eyes and his dinner down his shirt was really getting on his nerves。 Too much money； too much dirt in his veins； too little discipline。
'Mama' was the last straw。 He punched Steve in the stomach； a neat； sharp； functional blow。 Steve doubled up； whimpering。
'Shut up； son。'
Another blow finished the job of crippling the child； and then he t
