cb.booksofblood2-第2章

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　'What？'　said　Cheryl。　'You　mean　things　to　do　with　bad　experiences？　Falling　off　your　bike；　or　something　like　that？'
　'Perhaps；'　Steve　said。　'I　find　myself；　sometimes；　think…ing　of　those　pictures。　Not　deliberately；　just　when　my　concentration's　idling。　It's　almost　as　though　my　mind　went　to　them　automatically。'
　Quaid　gave　a　little　grunt　of　satisfaction。　'Precisely；'　he　said。
　'Freud　writes　on　that；'　said　Cheryl。
　'What？'
　'Freud；'　Cheryl　repeated；　this　time　making　a　perf…ormance　of　it；　as　though　she　were　speaking　to　a　child。　'Sigmund　Freud：　you　may　have　heard　of　him。'
　Quaid's　lip　curled　with　unrestrained　contempt。　'Mother　fixations　don't　answer　the　problem。　The　real　terrors　in　me；　in　all　of　us；　are　pre…personality。　Dread's　there　before　we　have　any　notion　of　ourselves　as　individuals。　The　thumb…nail；　curled　up　on　itself　in　the　womb；　feels　fear。'
　'You　remember　do　you？'　said　Cheryl。
　'Maybe；'　Quaid　replied；　deadly　serious。
　'The　womb？'
　Quaid　gave　a　sort　of　half…smile。　Steve　thought　the　smile　said：　'I　have　knowledge　you　don't。'
　It　was　a　weird；　unpleasant　smile；　one　Steve　wanted　to　wash　off　his　eyes。
　'You're　a　liar；'　said　Cheryl；　getting　up　from　her　seat；　and　looking　down　her　nose　at　Quaid。
　'Perhaps　I　am；'　he　said；　suddenly　the　perfect　gentleman。
　After　that　the　debates　stopped。
　No　more　talking　about　nightmares；　no　more　debating　the　things　that　go　bump　in　the　night。　Steve　saw　Quaid　irregularly　for　the　next　month；　and　when　he　did　Quaid　was　invariably　in　the　pany　of　Cheryl　Fromm。　Quaid　was　polite　with　her；　even　deferential。　He　no　longer　wore　his　leather　jacket；　because　she　hated　the　smell　of　dead　animal　matter。　This　sudden　change　in　their　relationship　confounded　Stephen；　but　he　put　it　down　to　his　primitive　understanding　of　sexual　matters。　He　wasn't　a　virgin；　but　women　were　still　a　mystery　to　him：　contradictory　and　puzzling。
　He　was　also　jealous；　though　he　wouldn't　entirely　admit　that　to　himself。　He　resented　the　fact　that　the　wet　dream　genius　was　taking　up　so　much　of　Quaid's　time。
　There　was　another　feeling；　a　curious　sense　he　had　that　Quaid　was　courting　Cheryl　for　his　own　strange　reasons。　Sex　was　not　Quaid's　motive；　he　felt　sure。　Nor　was　it　respect　for　Cheryl's　intelligence　that　made　him　so　attentive。　No；　he　was　cornering　her　somehow；　that　was　Steve's　instinct。　Cheryl　Fromm　was　being　rounded　up　for　the　kill。
　Then；　after　a　month；　Quaid　let　a　remark　about　Cheryl　drop　in　conversation。
　'She's　a　vegetarian；'　he　said。
　'Cheryl？'
　'Of　course；　Cheryl。'
　'I　know。　She　mentioned　it　before。'
　'Yes；　but　it　isn't　a　fad　with　her。　She's　passionate　about　it。　Can't　even　bear　to　look　in　a　butcher's　window。　She　won't　touch　meat；　smell　meat　…'
　'Oh。'　Steve　was　stumped。　Where　was　this　leading？
　'Dread；　Steve。'
　'Of　meat？'
　'The　signs　are　different　from　person　to　person。　She　fears　meat。　She　says　she's　so　healthy；　so　balanced。　Shit！　I'll　find
　'Find　what？'
　'The　fear；　Steve。'
　'You're　not　going　to　。　。　。？'　Steve　didn't　know　how　to　voice　his　anxiety　without　sounding　accusatory。
　'Harm　her？'　said　Quaid。　'No；　I'm　not　going　to　harm　her　in　any　way。　Any　damage　done　to　her　will　be　strictly　self…inflicted。'
　Quaid　was　staring　at　him　almost　hypnotically。　'It's　about　time　we　learnt　to　trust　one　another；'　Quaid　went　on。　He　leaned　closer。　'Between　the　two　of　us　…'
　'Listen；　I　don't　think　I　want　to　hear。'
　'We　have　to　touch　the　beast；　Stephen。'
　'Damn　the　beast！　I　don't　want　to　hear！'
　Steve　got　up；　as　much　to　break　the　oppression　of　Quaid's　stare　as　to　finish　the　conversation。
　
　'We're　friends；　Stephen。'
　'Yes。。。'
　'Then　respect　that。'
　〃What？'
　'Silence。　Not　a　word。'
　Steve　nodded。　That　wasn't　a　difficult　promise　to　keep。　There　was　nobody　he　could　tell　his　anxieties　to　without　being　laughed　at。
　Quaid　looked　satisfied。　He　hurried　away；　leaving　Steve　feeling　as　though　he　had　unwillingly　joined　some　secret　society；　for　what　purpose　he　couldn't　begin　to　tell。　Quaid　had　made　a　pact　with　him　and　it　was　unnerving。
　For　the　next　week　he　cut　all　his　lectures　and　most　of　his　seminars。　Notes　went　un…copied；　books　unread；　essays　unwritten。　On　the　two　occasions　he　actually　went　into　the　university　building　he　crept　around　like　a　cautious　mouse；　praying　he　wouldn't　collide　with　Quaid。
　He　needn't　have　feared。　The　one　occasion　he　did　see　Quaid's　stooping　shoulders　across　the　quadrangle　he　was　involved　in　a　smiling　exchange　with　Cheryl　Fromm。　She　laughed；　musically；　her　pleasure　echoing　off　the　wall　of　the　History　Department。　The　jealousy　had　left　Steve　altogether。　He　wouldn't　have　been　paid　to　be　so　near　to　Quaid；　so　intimate　with　him。
　The　time　he　spent　alone；　away　from　the　bustle　of　lectures　and　overfull　corridors；　gave　Steve's　mind　time　to　idle。　His　thoughts　returned；　like　tongue　to　tooth；　like　fingernail　to　scab；　to　his　fears。
　And　so　to　his　childhood。
　At　the　age　of　six；　Steve　had　been　struck　by　a　car。　The　injuries　were　not　particularly　bad；　but　concussion　left　him　partially　deaf。　It　was　a　profoundly　distressing　experience　for　him；　not　understanding　why　he　was　suddenly　cut　off　from　the　world。　It　was　an　inexplicable　torment；　and　the　child　assumed　it　was　eternal。
　One　moment　his　life　had　been　real；　full　of　shouts　and　laughter。　The　next　he　was　cut　off　from　it；　and　the　external　world　became　an　aquarium；　full　of　gaping　fish　with　grotesque　smiles。　Worse　still；　there　were　times　when　he　suffered　what　the　doctors　called　tinnitus；　a　roaring　or　ringing　sound　in　the　ears。　His　head　would　fill　with　the　most　outlandish　noises；　whoops　and　whistlings；　that　played　like　sound…effects　to　the　flailings　of　the　outside　world。　At　those　times　his　stomach　would　churn；　and　a　band　of　iron　would　be　wrapped　around　his　forehead；　crushing　his　thoughts　into　fragments；　dissociating　head　from　hand；　intention　from　practice。　He　would　be　swept　away　in　a　tide　of　panic；　pletely　unable　to　make　sense　of　the　world　while　his　head　sang　and　rattled。
　But　at　night　came　the　worst　terrors。　He　would　wake；　sometimes；　in　what　had　been　（before　the　accident）　the　reassuring　womb　of　his　bedroom；　to　find　the　ringing　had　begun　in　his　sleep。
　His　eyes　would　jerk　open。　His　body　would　be　wet　with　sweat。　His　mind　would　be　filled　with　the　most　raucous　din；　which　he　was　locked　in　with；　beyond　hope　of　reprieve。　Nothing　could　silence　his　head；　and　nothing；　it　seemed；　could　bring　the　world；　the　speaking；　laughing；　crying　world　back　to　him。
　He　was　alone。
　That　was　the　beginning；　middle　and　end　of　the　dread。　He　was　absolutely　alone　with　his　cacophony。　Locked　in　this　house；　in　this　room；　in　this　body；　in　this　head；　a　prisoner　of　deaf；　blind　flesh。
　It　was　almost　unbearable。　In　the　night　the　boy　would　sometimes　cry　out；　not　knowing　he　was　making　any　sound；　and　the　fish　who　had　been　his　parents　would　turn　on　the　light　and　e　to　try　and　help　him；　bending　over　his　bed　making　faces；　their　soundless　mouths　forming　ugly　shapes　in　their　attempts　to　help。　Their　touches　would　calm　him　at　last；　with　time　his　mother　learned　the　trick　of　soothing　away　the　panic　that　swept　over　him。
　A　week　before　his　seventh　birthday　his　hearing　returned；　not　perfectly；　but　well　enough　for　it　to　seem　like　a　miracle。　The　world　snapped　back　into　focus；　and　life　began　afresh。
　It　took　several　months　for　the　boy　to　trust　his　senses　again。　He　would　still　wake　in　the　night；　half…anticipating　the　head…noises。
　But　though　his　ears　would　ring　at　the　slightest　volume　of　sound；　preventing　Steve　from　going　to　rock　concerts　with　the　rest　of　the　students；　he　now　scarcely　ever　noticed　his　slight　deafness。
　He　remembered；　of　course。　Very　well。　He　could　bring　back　the　taste　of　his　panic；　the　feel　of　the　iron　band　around　his　head。　And　there　was　a　residue　of　fear　there；　of　the　dark；　of　being　alone。
　But　then；　wasn't　everyone　afraid　to　be　alone？　To　be　utterly　alone。
　Steve　had　another　fear　now；　far　more　difficult　to　pin　down。
　Quaid。
　In　a　drunken　revelation　session　he　had　told　Quaid　about　his　childhood；　about　the　deafness；　about　the　night　terrors。
　Quaid　knew　about　his　weakness：　the　clear　route　into　the　heart　of　Steve's　dread。　He　had　a　weapon；　a　stick　to　beat　Steve　with；　should　it　ever　e　to　that。　Maybe　that　was　why　he　chose　not　to　speak　to　Cheryl　（warn　her；　was　that　what　he　wanted　to　do？）　and　certainly　that　was　why　he　avoided　Quaid。
　
　The　man　had　a　look；　in　certain　moods；　of　malice。　Nothing　more　or　less。　He　looked　like　a　man　with　malice　deep；　deep　in　him。
　Maybe　those　four　months　of　watching　people　with　the　sound　turned　down　had　sensitized　Steve　to　the　tiny　glances；　sneers　and　smiles　that　flit　across　people's　faces。　He　knew　Quaid's　life　was　a　labyrinth；　a　map　of　its　plexities　was　etched　on　his　face　in　a　thousand　tiny　expressions。
　The　next　phase　of　Steve's　initiation　into　Quaid's　secret　world　didn't　e　for　almost　three　and　a　half　months。　The　university　broke　for　the　summer　recess；　and　the　students　went　their　ways。　Steve　took　his　usual　vacation　job　at　his　father's　printing　works；　it　was　long　hours；　and　physically　exhausting；　but　an　undeniable　relief　for　him。　Academe　had　overstuffed　his　mind；　he　felt　force…fed　with　words　and　ideas。　The　print　work　sweated　all　of　that　out　of　him　rapidly；　sorting　out　the　jumble　in　his　mind。
　It　was　a　good　time：　he　scarcely　thought　of　Quaid　at　all。
　He　returned　to　campus　in　the　late　September。　The　students　were　still　thin　on　the　ground。　Most　of　the　courses　didn't　start　for　another　week；　and　there　was　a　melancholy　air　about　the　place　without　its　usual　melee　of　plaining；　flirting；　arguing　kids。
　Steve　was　in　the　library；　cornering　a　few　important　books　before　others　on　his　course　had　their　hands　on　them。　Books　were　pure　gold　at　the　beginning　of　term；　with　reading　lists　to　be　checked　off；　and　the　university　book　shop　forever　claiming　the　necessary　titles　were　on　order。　They　would　invariably　arrive；　those　vital　books；　two　days　after　the　seminar　in　which　the　author　was　to　be　discussed。　This　final　year　Steve　was　determined　to　be　ahead　of　the　rush　for　the　few　copies　of　seminal　works　the　library　possessed。
　The　familiar　voice　spoke。
　'Early　to　work。'
　Steve　looked　up　to　meet　Quaid's　pin…prick　eyes。
　'I'm　impressed；　Steve。'　'What　with？'　'Your　enthusiasm　for　the　job。'　'Oh。'
　Quaid　smiled。　'What　are　you　looking　for？'
　'Something　on　Bentham。'
　'I've　got　〃Principles　of　Morals　and　Legislation。〃　Will　that　do？'
　It　was　a　trap。　No：　that　was　absurd。　He　was　offering　a　book；　how　could　that　simple　gesture　be　construed　as　a　trap？
　'e　to　think　of　it；'　the　smile　broadened；　'I　think　it's　the　library　copy　I've　got。　I'll　give　it　to　you。'
　'Thanks。'
　'Good　holiday？'
　'Yes。　Thank　you。　You？'
　'Very　rewarding。'
　The　smile　had　decayed　into　a　thin　line　beneath　his　…'You've　grown　a　moustache。'
　It　was　an　unhealthy　example　of　the　species。　Thin；　patchy；　and　dirty…blond；　it　wandered　back　and　forth　under　Quaid's　nose　as　if　looking　for　a　way　off　his　face。　Quaid　looked　faintly　embarrassed。
　'Was　it　for　Cheryl？'
　He　was　definitely　embarrassed　now。
　'Well。。。'
　'Sounds　like　you　had　a　good　vacation。'
　The　embarrassment　was　surmounted　by　something　else。
　'I've　got　some　wonderful　photographs；'　Quaid　said。
　'What　of？'
　'Holiday　snaps。'
　Steve　couldn't　believe　his　ears。　Had　C。　Fromm　tamed　the　Quaid？　Holiday　snaps？
　'You　won't　believe　some