cb.booksofblood2-第4章

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　'See？'
　She　picks　up　the　meat。
　Yes；　she　picks　it　up；　her　face　full　of　horror。　The　haunch　of　the　beef　looks　well…ripened　now；　speckled　with　flies'　eggs。　Gross。
　'She　bites　it。'
　The　next　photograph；　and　her　face　is　buried　in　the　meat。
　Steve　seemed　to　taste　the　rotten　flesh　in　the　back　of　his　throat。　His　mind　found　a　stench　to　imagine；　and　created　a　gravy　of　putrescence　to　run　over　his　tongue。　How　could　she　do　it？
　Twenty…nine：　she　is　vomiting　in　the　bucket　in　the　corner　of　the　room。
　Thirty：　she　is　sitting　looking　at　the　table。　It　is　empty。　The　water…jug　has　been　thrown　against　the　wall。　The　plate　has　been　smashed。　The　beef　lies　on　the　floor　in　a　slime　of　degeneration。
　Thirty…one：　she　sleeps。　Her　head　is　lost　in　a　tangle　of　arms。
　Thirty…two：　she　is　standing　up。　She　is　looking　at　the　meat　again；　defying　it。　The　hunger　she　feels　is　plain　on　her　face。　So　is　the　disgust。
　Thirty…three。　She　sleeps。
　'How　long　now？'　asked　Steve。
　'Five　days。　No；　six。'
　Six　days。
　Thirty…four。　She　is　a　blurred　figure；　apparently　flinging　herself　against　a　wall。　Perhaps　beating　her　head　against　it；　Steve　couldn't　be　sure。　He　was　past　asking。　Part　of　him　didn't　want　to　know。
　Thirty…five：　she　is　again　sleeping；　this　time　beneath　the　table。　The　sleeping　bag　has　been　torn　to　pieces；　shredded　cloth　and　pieces　of　stuffing　littering　the　room。
　Thirty…six：　she　speaks　to　the　door；　through　the　door；　knowing　she　will　get　no　answer。
　Thirty…seven：　she　eats　the　rancid　meat。
　Calmly　she　sits　under　the　table；　like　a　primitive　in　her　cave；　and　pulls　at　the　meat　with　her　incisors。　Her　face　is　again　expressionless；　all　her　energy　is　bent　to　the　purpose　of　the　moment。　To　eat。　To　eat　'til　the　hunger　disappears；　'til　the　agony　in　her　belly；　and　the　sickness　in　her　head　disappear。
　Steve　stared　at　the　photograph。
　'It　startled　me；'　said　Quaid；　'how　suddenly　she　gave　in。　One　moment　she　seemed　to　have　as　much　resistance　as　ever。　The　monologue　at　the　door　was　the　same　mixture　of　threats　and　apologies　as　she'd　delivered　day　in；　day　out。　Then　she　broke。　Just　like　that。　Squatted　under　the　table　and　ate　the　beef　down　to　the　bone；　as　though　it　were　a　choice　cut。'
　Thirty…eight：　she　sleeps。　The　door　is　open。　Light　pours
　in。
　Thirty…nine：　the　room　is　empty。
　'Where　did　she　go？'
　'She　wandered　downstairs。　She　came　into　the　kitchen；　drank　several　glasses　of　water；　and　sat　in　a　chair　for　three　or　four　hours　without　saying　a　word。'
　'Did　you　speak　to　her？'
　'Eventually。　When　she　started　to　e　out　of　her　fugue　state。　The　experiment　was　over。　I　didn't　want　to　hurt　her。'
　'What　did　she　say？'
　'Nothing。'
　'Nothing？'
　'Nothing　at　all。　For　a　long　time　I　don't　believe　she　was　even　aware　of　my　presence　in　the　room。　Then　I　cooked　some　potatoes；　which　she　ate。'
　'She　didn't　try　and　call　the　police？'　'No。'
　'No　violence？'
　'No。　She　knew　what　I'd　done；　and　why　I'd　done
　it。　It　wasn't　pre…planned；　but　we'd　talked　about　such　experiments；　in　abstract　conversations。　She　hadn't　e　to　any　harm；　you　see。　She'd　lost　a　bit　of　weight　perhaps；　but　that　was　about　all。'
　'Where　is　she　now？'
　'She　left　the　day　after。　I　don't　know　where　she　went。'
　'And　what　did　it　all　prove？'
　'Nothing　at　all；　perhaps。　But　it　made　an　interesting　start　to　my　investigations。'
　'Start？　This　was　only　a　start？'
　There　was　plain　disgust　for　Quaid　in　Steve's　voice。
　'Stephen　…'
　'You　could　have　killed　her！'
　'No。'
　'She　could　have　lost　her　mind。　Unbalanced　her　per…manently。'
　'Possibly。　But　unlikely。　She　was　a　strong…willed　woman。'
　'But　you　broke　her。'
　'Yes。　It　was　a　journey　she　was　ready　to　take。　We'd　talked　of　going　to　face　her　fear。　So　here　was　I；　arranging　for　Cheryl　to　do　just　that。　Nothing　much　really。'
　'You　forced　her　to　do　it。　She　wouldn't　have　gone　otherwise。'
　'True。　It　was　an　education　for　her。'
　'So　now　you're　a　teacher？'
　Steve　wished　he'd　been　able　to　keep　the　sarcasm　out　of　his　voice。　But　it　was　there。　Sarcasm；　anger；　and　a　little　fear。
　'Yes；　I'm　a　teacher；'　Quaid　replied；　looking　at　Steve　obliquely；　his　eyes　not　focused。　'I'm　teaching　people　dread。'
　Steve　stared　at　the　floor。　'Are　you　satisfied　with　what　you've　taught？'
　'And　learned；　Steve。　I've　learned　too。　It's　a　very　exciting　prospect：　a　world　of　fears　to　investigate。　Especially　with　inteffigent　subjects。　Even　in　the　face　of　rationalization　…'
　Steve　stood　up。　'I　don't　want　to　hear　any　more。'
　'Oh？　OK。'
　'I've　got　classes　early　tomorrow。'
　'No。'
　'What？'
　A　beat；　faltering。
　'No。　Don't　go　yet。'
　'Why？'　His　heart　was　racing。　He　feared　Quaid；　he'd　never　realized　how　profoundly。
　'I've　got　some　more　books　to　give　you。'
　Steve　felt　his　face　flush。　Slightly。　What　had　he　thought　in　that　moment？　That　Quaid　was　going　to　bring　him　down　with　a　rugby　tackle　and　start　experimenting　on　his　fears？
　No。　Idiot　thoughts。
　'I've　got　a　book　on　Kierkegaard　you'll　like。　Upstairs。　I'll　be　two　minutes。'
　Smiling；　Quaid　left　the　room。
　
　Steve　squatted　on　his　haunches　and　began　to　sheaf　through　the　photographs　again。　It　was　the　moment　when　Cheryl　first　picked　up　the　rotting　meat　that　fascinated　him　most。　Her　face　wore　an　expression　pletely　uncha…racteristic　of　the　woman　he　had　known。　Doubt　was　written　there；　and　confusion；　and　deep　…Dread。
　It　was　Quaid's　word。　A　dirty　word。　An　obscene　word；　associated　from　this　night　on　with　Quaid's　torture　of　an　innocent　girl。
　For　a　moment　Steve　thought　of　the　expression　on　his　own　face；　as　he　stared　down　at　the　photograph。　Was　there　not　some　of　the　same　confusion　on　his　face？　And　perhaps　some　of　the　dread　too；　waiting　for　release。
　He　heard　a　sound　behind　him；　too　soft　to　be　Quaid。
　Unless　he　was　creeping。
　Oh；　God；　unless　he　was　…A　pad　of　chloroformed　cloth　was　clamped　over　Steve's
　mouth　and　his　nostrils。　Involuntarily；　he　inhaled　and　the　vapours　stung　his　sinuses；　made　his　eyes　water。
　A　blob　of　blackness　appeared　at　the　corner　of　the　world；　just　out　of　sight；　and　it　started　to　grow；　this　stain；　pulsing　to　the　rhythm　of　his　quickening　heart。
　In　the　centre　of　Steve's　head　he　could　see　Quaid's　voice　as　a　veil。　It　said　his　name。
　'Stephen。'
　Again。
　'…　ephen。'
　'…　phen。'
　'…　hen。'
　'en。'
　The　stain　was　the　world。　The　world　was　dark；　gone　away。　Out　of　sight；　out　of　mind。
　
　Steve　fell　clumsily　amongst　the　photographs。
　When　he　woke　up　he　was　unaware　of　his　consciousness。　There　was　darkness　everywhere；　on　all　sides。　He　lay　awake　for　an　hour　with　his　eyes　wide　before　he　realized　they　were　open。
　Experimentally；　he　moved　first；　his　arms　and　his　legs；　then　his　head。　He　wasn't　bound　as　he'd　expected；　except　by　his　ankle。　There　was　definitely　a　chain　or　something　similar　around　his　left　ankle。　It　chafed　his　skin　when　he　tried　to　move　too　far。
　The　floor　beneath　him　was　very　unfortable；　and　when　he　investigated　it　more　closely　with　the　palm　of　his　hand　he　realized　he　was　lying　on　a　huge　grille　or　grid　of　some　kind。　It　was　metal；　and　its　regular　surface　spread　in　every　direction　as　far　as　his　arms　would　reach。　When　he　poked　his　arm　down　through　the　holes　in　this　lattice　he　touched　nothing。　Just　empty　air　falling　away　beneath　him。
　The　first　infra…red　photographs　Quaid　took　of　Stephen's　confinement　pictured　his　exploration。　As　Quaid　had　expected　the　subject　was　being　quite　rational　about　his　situation。　No　hysterics。　No　curses。　No　tears。　That　was　the　challenge　of　this　particular　subject。　He　knew　precisely　what　was　going　on；　and　he　would　respond　logically　to　his　fears。　That　would　surely　make　a　more　difficult　mind　to　break　than　Cheryl's。
　But　how　much　more　rewarding　the　results　would　be　when　he　did　crack。　Would　his　soul　not　open　up　then；　for　Quaid　to　see　and　touch？　There　was　so　much　there；　in　the　man's　interior；　he　wanted　to　study。
　Gradually　Steve's　eyes　became　accustomed　to　the　darkness。
　
　He　was　imprisoned　in　what　appeared　to　be　some　kind　of　shaft。　It　was；　he　estimated；　about　twenty　feet　wide；　and　pletely　round。　Was　it　some　kind　of　air…shaft；　for　a　tunnel；　or　an　underground　factory？　Steve's　mind　mapped　the　area　around　Pilgrim　Street；　trying　to　pinpoint　the　most　likely　place　for　Quaid　to　have　taken　him。　He　could　think　of　nowhere。
　Nowhere。
　He　was　lost　in　a　place　he　couldn't　fix　or　recognize。　The　shaft　had　no　corners　to　focus　his　eyes　on；　and　the　walls　offered　no　crack　or　hole　to　hide　his　consciousness
　in。
　Worse；　he　was　lying　spread…eagled　on　a　grid　that　hung　over　this　shaft。　His　eyes　could　make　no　impression　on　the　darkness　beneath　him：　it　seemed　that　the　shaft　might　be　bottomless。　And　there　was　only　the　thin　network　of　the　grill；　and　the　fragile　chain　that　shackled　his　ankle　to　it；　between　him　and　falling。
　He　pictured　himself　poised　under　an　empty　black　sky；　and　over　an　infinite　darkness。　The　air　was　warm　and　stale。　It　dried　up　the　tears　that　had　suddenly　sprung　to　his　eyes；　leaving　them　gummy。　When　he　began　to　shout　for　help；　which　he　did　after　the　tears　had　passed；　the　darkness　ate　his　words　easily。
　Having　yelled　himself　hoarse；　he　lay　back　on　the　lattice。　He　couldn't　help　but　imagine　that　beyond　his　frail　bed；　the　darkness　went　on　forever。　It　was　absurd；　of　course。　Nothing　goes　on　forever；　he　said　aloud。
　Nothing　goes　on　forever。
　And　yet；　he'd　never　know。　If　he　fell　in　the　absolute　blackness　beneath　him；　he'd　fall　and　fall　and　fall　and　not　see　the　bottom　of　the　shaft　ing。　Though　he　tried　to　think　of　brighter；　more　positive；　images；　his　mind　conjured　his　body　cascading　down　this　horrible　shaft；　with　the　bottom　a　foot　from　his　hurtling　body　and　his　eyes　not　seeing　it；　his　brain　not　predicting　it。
　Until　he　hit。
　Would　he　see　light　as　his　head　was　dashed　open　on　impact？　Would　he　understand；　in　the　moment　that　his　body　became　offal；　why　he'd　lived　and　died？
　Then　he　thought：　Quaid　wouldn't　dare。　'Wouldn't　dare！'　he　screeched。　'Wouldn't　dare！'
　The　dark　was　a　glutton　for　words。　As　soon　as　he'd　yelled　into　it；　it　was　as　though　he'd　never　made　a　sound。
　And　then　another　thought：　a　real　baddie。　Suppose　Quaid　had　found　this　circular　hell　to　put　him　in　because　it　would　never　be　found；　never　be　investigated？　Maybe　he　wanted　to　take　his　experiment　to　the　limits。
　To　the　limits。　Death　was　at　the　limits。　And　wouldn't　that　be　the　ultimate　experiment　for　Quaid？　Watching　a　man　die：　watching　the　fear　of　death；　the　mother　lode　of　dread；　approach。　Sartre　had　written　that　no　man　could　ever　know　his　own　death。　But　to　know　the　deaths　of　others；　intimately　to　watch　the　acrobatics　that　the　mind　would　surely　perform　to　avoid　the　bitter　truth　…　that　was　a　clue　to　death's　nature；　wasn't　it？　That　might；　in　some　small　way；　prepare　a　man　for　his　own　death。　To　live　another's　dread　vicariously　was　the　safest；　cleverest　way　to　touch　the　beast。
　Yes；　he　thought；　Quaid　might　kill　me；　out　of　his　own　tenor。
　Steve　took　a　sour　satisfaction　in　that　thought。　That　Quaid；　the　impartial　experimenter；　the　would…be　educator；　was　obsessed　with　terrors　because　his　own　dread　ran　deepest。
　That　was　why　he　had　to　watch　others　deal　with　their　fears。　He　needed　a　solution；　a　way　out　for　himself。
　
　Thinking　all　this　through　took　hours。　In　the　darkness　Steve's　mind　was　quick…silver；　but　uncontrollable。　He　found　it　difficult　to　keep　one　train　of　argument　for　very　long。　His　thoughts　were　like