cb.booksofblood2-第9章

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　ical　fellow；　wasn't　he？　He　made　himself　laugh；　he　was　so　ical。
　The　wind　began　to　get　into　him；　whipping　him　up　into　a　frenzy　as　it　scooted　through　his　hair　and　made　his　eye…balls　as　cold　as　two　lumps　of　ice　in　his　sockets。
　He　began　to　run；　skip；　dance；　cavort　through　the　streets；　white　under　the　lights；　dark　in　between。　Now　you　see　me；　now　you　don't。　Now　you　see　me；　now　you　…Quaid　hadn't　been　woken　by　the　dream　this　time。　This
　time　he　had　heard　a　noise。　Definitely　a　noise。
　The　moon　had　risen　high　enough　to　throw　its　beams　through　the　window；　through　the　door　and　on　to　the　top　of　the　stairs。　There　was　no　need　to　put　on　the　light。　All　he　needed　to　see；　he　could　see。　The　top　of　the　stairs　were　empty；　as　ever。
　Then　the　bottom　stair　creaked；　a　tiny　noise　as　though　a　breath　had　landed　on　it。
　Quaid　knew　dread　then。
　Another　creak；　as　it　came　up　the　stairs　towards　him；　the　ridiculous　dream。　It　had　to　be　a　dream。　After　all；　he　knew　no　clowns；　no　axe…killers。　So　how　could　that　absurd　image；　the　same　image　that　woke　him　night　after　night；　be　anything　but　a　dream？
　
　Yet；　perhaps　there　were　some　dreams　so　preposterous　they　could　only　be　true。
　No　clowns；　he　said　to　himself；　as　he　stood　watching　the　door；　and　the　stairway；　and　the　spotlight　of　the　moon。　Quaid　knew　only　fragile　minds；　so　weak　they　couldn't　give　him　a　clue　to　the　nature；　to　the　origin；　or　to　the　cure　for　the　panic　that　now　held　him　in　thrall。　All　they　did　was　break；　crumble　into　dust；　when　faced　with　the　slightest　sign　of　the　dread　at　the　heart　of　life。
　He　knew　no　clowns；　never　had；　never　would。
　Then　it　appeared；　the　face　of　a　fool。　Pale　to　whiteness　in　the　light　of　the　moon；　its　young　features　bruised；　unshaven　and　puffy；　its　smile　open　like　a　child's　smile。　It　had　bitten　its　lip　in　its　excitement。　Blood　was　smeared　across　its　lower　jaw；　and　its　gums　were　almost　black　with　blood。　Still　it　was　a　clown。　Indisputably　a　clown　even　to　its　ill…fitting　clothes；　so　incongruous；　so　pathetic。
　Only　the　axe　didn't　quite　match　the　smile。
　It　caught　the　moonlight　as　the　maniac　made　small；　chopping　motions　with　it；　his　tiny　black　eyes　glinting　with　anticipation　of　the　fun　ahead。
　Almost　at　the　top　of　the　stairs；　he　stopped；　his　smile　not　faltering　for　a　moment　as　he　gazed　at　Quaid's　terror。
　Quaid's　legs　gave　out；　and　he　stumbled　to　his　knees。
　The　clown　climbed　another　stair；　skipping　as　he　did　so；　his　glittering　eyes　fixed　on　Quaid；　filled　with　a　sort　of　benign　malice。　The　axe　rocked　back　and　forth　in　his　white　hands；　in　a　petite　version　of　the　killing　stroke。
　Quaid　knew　him。
　It　was　his　pupil：　his　guinea…pig；　transformed　into　the　image　of　his　own　dread。
　Him。　Of　all　men。　Him。　The　deaf　boy。
　
　The　skipping　was　bigger　now；　and　the　clown　was　making　a　deep…throated　noise；　like　the　call　of　some　fantastical　bird。　The　axe　was　describing　wider　and　wider　sweeps　in　the　air；　each　more　lethal　than　the　last。
　'Stephen；'　said　Quaid。
　The　name　meant　nothing　to　Steve。　All　he　saw　was　the　mouth　opening。　The　mouth　closing。　Perhaps　a　sound　came　out：　perhaps　not。　It　was　irrelevant　to　him。
　The　throat　of　the　clown　gave　out　a　screech；　and　the　axe　swung　up　over　his　head；　two…handed。　At　the　same　moment　the　merry　little　dance　became　a　run；　as　the　axe　man　leapt　the　last　two　stairs　and　ran　into　the　bedroom；　full　into　the　spotlight。
　Quaid's　body　half　turned　to　avoid　the　killing　blow；　but　not　quickly　or　elegantly　enough。　The　blade　slit　the　air　and　sliced　through　the　back　of　Quaid's　arm；　sheering　off　most　of　his　triceps；　shattering　his　humerus　and　opening　the　flesh　of　his　lower　arm　in　a　gash　that　just　missed　his　artery。
　Quaid's　scream　could　have　been　heard　ten　houses　away；　except　that　those　houses　were　rubble。　There　was　nobody　to　hear。　Nobody　to　e　and　drag　the　clown　off　him。
　The　axe；　eager　to　be　about　its　business；　was　hacking　at　Quaid's　thigh　now；　as　though　it　was　chopping　a　log。　Yawning　wounds　four　or　five　inches　deep　exposed　the　shiny　steak　of　the　philosopher's　muscle；　the　bone；　the　marrow。　With　each　stroke　the　clown　would　tug　at　the　axe　to　pull　it　out；　and　Quaid's　body　would　jerk　like　a　puppet。
　Quaid　screamed。　Quaid　begged。　Quaid　cajoled。
　The　clown　didn't　hear　a　word。
　All　he　heard　was　the　noise　in　his　head：　the　whistles；　the　whoops；　the　howls；　the　hums。　He　had　taken　refuge　where　no　rational　argument；　nor　threat；　would　ever　fetch　him　out　again。　Where　the　thump　of　his　heart　was　law；　and　the　whine　of　his　blood　was　music。
　How　he　danced；　this　deaf…boy；　danced　like　a　loon　to　see　his　tormentor　gaping　like　a　fish；　the　depravity　of　his　intellect　silenced　forever。　How　the　blood　spurted！　How　it　gushed　and　fountained！
　The　little　clown　laughed　to　see　such　fun。　There　was　a　night's　entertainment　to　be　had　here；　he　thought。　The　axe　was　his　friend　forever；　keen　and　wise。　It　could　cut；　and　cross…cut；　it　could　slice　and　amputate；　yet　still　they　could　keep　this　man　alive；　if　they　were　cunning　enough；　alive　for　a　long；　long　while。
　Steve　was　happy　as　a　lamb。　They　had　the　rest　of　the　night　ahead　of　them；　and　all　the　music　he　could　possibly　want　was　sounding　in　his　head。
　And　Quaid　knew；　meeting　the　clown's　vacant　stare　through　an　air　turned　bloody；　that　there　was　worse　in　the　world　than　dread。　Worse　than　death　itself。
　There　was　pain　without　hope　of　healing。　There　was　life　that　refused　to　end；　long　after　the　mind　had　begged　the　body　to　cease。　And　worst；　there　were　dreams　e　true。
　
　HELL'S　EVENT
　
　HELL　CAME　UP　to　the　streets　and　squares　of　London　that　September；　icy　from　the　depths　of　the　Ninth　Circle；　too　frozen　to　be　warmed　even　by　the　swelter　of　an　Indian　summer。　It　had　laid　its　plans　as　carefully　as　ever；　plans　being　what　they　were；　and　fragile。　This　time　it　was　perhaps　a　little　more　finicky　than　usual；　checking　every　last　detail　twice　or　three　times；　to　be　certain　it　had　every　chance　of　winning　this　vital　game。
　It　had　never　lacked　petitive　spirit；　it　had　matched　life　against　flesh　a　thousand　thousand　times　down　the　centuries；　sometimes　winning；　more　often　losing。　Wagers　were；　after　all；　the　stuff　of　its　advancement。　Without　the　human　urge　to　pete；　to　bargain；　and　to　bet；　Pandemonium　might　well　have　fallen　for　want　of　citizens。　Dancing；　dog　racing；　fiddle…playing：　it　was　all　one　to　the　gulfs；　all　a　game　in　which　it　might；　if　it　played　with　sufficient　wit；　garner　a　soul　or　two。　That　was　why　Hell　came　up　to　London　that　bright　blue　day　　to　run　a　race；　and　to　win；　if　it　could；　enough　souls　to　keep　it　busy　with　perdition　another　age。
　
　Cameron　tuned　his　radio；　the　voice　of　the　mentator　flared　and　faded　as　though　he　was　speaking　from　the　Pole　instead　of　St　Paul's　Cathedral。　It　was　still　a　good　half…hour　before　the　race　began；　but　Cameron　wanted　to　listen　to　the　warm…up　mentary；　just　to　hear　what　they　were　saying　about　his　boy。
　'。　。　。　atmosphere　is　electric。　。　。　probably　tens　of　thou…sands　along　the　route。　。　。'
　The　voice　disappeared：　Cameron　cursed；　and　toyed　with　the　dial　until　the　imbecilities　reappeared。
　'。。。been　called　the　race　of　the　year；　and　what　a　day　it　is！　Isn't　it；　Jim？'
　'It　certainly　is；　Mike　…'
　'That's　big　Jim　Delaney；　who's　up　there　in　the　Eye　in　the　Sky；　and　he'll　be　following　the　race　along　the　route；　giving　us　a　bird's　eye　view；　won't　you；　Jim？'
　'I　certainly　will；　Mike　…'
　'Well；　there's　a　lot　of　activity　behind　the　line；　the　petitors　are　all　loosening　up　for　the　start。　I　can　see　Nick　Loyer　there；　he's　wearing　number　three；　and　I　must　say　he's　looking　very　fit。　He　said　to　me　when　he　arrived　he　didn't　usually　like　to　run　on　Sundays；　but　he's　made　an　exception　for　this　race；　because　of　course　it's　a　charity　event；　and　all　the　proceeds　will　be　going　to　Cancer　Research。　Joel　Jones；　our　Gold　Medallist　in　the　800　metres　is　here；　and　he'll　be　running　against　his　great　rival　Frank　McCloud。　And　besides　the　big　boys　we've　got　a　smattering　of　new　faces。　Wearing　number　five；　the　South　African；　Malcolm　Voight；　and　pleting　the　field　Lester　Kinderman；　who　was　of　course　the　surprise　winner　of　the　marathon　in　Austria　last　year。　And　I　must　say　they　all　look　fresh　as　daisies　on　this　superb　September　afternoon。　Couldn't　ask　for　a　better　day；　could　we　Jim？'
　
　Joel　had　woken　with　bad　dreams。
　'You'll　be　fine；　stop　fre