cb.booksofblood2-第7章

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　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　fretting；'　Cameron　had　told　him。
　But　he　didn't　feel　fine；　he　felt　sick　in　the　pit　of　his　stomach。　Not　pre…race　nerves；　he　was　used　to　those；　and　he　could　deal　with　the　feeling。　Two　fingers　down　the　Throat　and　throw　up；　that　was　the　best　remedy　he'd　found；　get　it　over　and　done　with。　No；　this　wasn't　pre…race　nerves；　or　anything　like　them。　It　was　deeper；　for　a　start；　as　though　his　bowels；　to　his　centre；　to　his　source；　were　cooking。
　Cameron　had　no　sympathy。
　'It's　a　charity　race；　not　the　Olympics；'　he　said；　looking　the　boy　over。　'Act　your　age。'
　That　was　Cameron's　technique。　His　mellow　voice　was　made　for　coaxing；　but　was　used　to　bully。　Without　that　bullying　there　would　have　been　no　gold　medal；　no　cheering　crowds；　no　admiring　girls。　One　of　the　tabloids　had　voted　Joel　the　best　loved　black　face　in　England。　It　was　good　to　be　greeted　as　a　friend　by　people　he'd　never　met；　he　liked　the　admiration；　however　short…lived　it　might　turn　out　to　be。
　'They　love　you；'　said　Cameron。　'God　knows　why　…　they　love　you。'
　Then　he　laughed；　his　little　cruelty　over。
　'You'll　be　all　right；　son；'　he　said。　'Get　out　and　run　for　your　life。'
　Now；　in　the　broad　daylight；　Joel　looked　at　the　rest　of　the　field　and　felt　a　little　more　buoyant。　Kinderman　had　stamina；　but　he　had　no　finishing　power　over　middle　distance。　Marathon　technique　was　a　different　skill　altogether。　Besides　he　was　so　short…sighted　he　wore　wire　rimmed　glasses　so　thick　they　gave　him　the　look　of　a　bemused　frog。　No　danger　there。　Loyer；　he　was　good；　but　this　wasn't　really　his　distance　either。　He　was　a　hurdler；　and　a　sometime　sprinter。　400　metres　was　his　limit　and　even　then　he　wasn't　happy。　Voight；　the　South　African。　Well；　there　was　not　much　information　on　him。　Obviously　a　fit　man　to　judge　by　the　look　of　him；　and　someone　to　watch　out　for　just　in　case　he　sprung　a　surprise。　But　the　real　problem　of　the　race　was　McCloud。　Joel　had　run　against　Frank　'Flash'　McCloud　three　times。　Twice　beaten　him　into　second　place；　once　（painfully）　had　the　positions　reversed。　And　Frankie　boy　had　a　few　scores　to　settle：　especially　the　Olympics　defeat；　he　hadn't　liked　taking　the　silver。　Frank　was　the　man　to　watch。　Charity　race　or　no　charity　race　McCloud　would　be　running　his　best；　for　the　crowd　and　for　his　pride。　He　was　at　the　line　already　testing　his　starting　position；　his　ears　practically　pricked。　Flash　was　the　man；　no　doubt　of　it。
　
　For　a　moment　Joel　caught　Voight　staring　at　him。　Unusual　that。　petitors　seldom　even　glanced　at　each　other　before　a　race；　it　was　a　kind　of　coyness。　The　man's　face　was　pale；　and　his　hair…line　was　receding。　He　looked　to　be　in　his　early　thirties；　but　had　a　younger；　leaner　physique。　Long　legs；　big　hands。　A　body　somehow　out　of　proportion　to　his　head。　When　their　eyes　met；　Voight　looked　away。　The　fine　chain　around　his　neck　caught　the　sun　and　the　crucifix　he　was　wearing　glinted　gold　as　it　swung　gently　beneath　his　chin。
　Joel　had　his　good…luck　charm　with　him　too。　Tucked　into　the　waistband　of　his　shorts；　a　lock　of　his　mother's　hair；　which　she　had　plaited　for　him　half　a　decade　ago；　before　his　first　major　race。　She　had　returned　to　Barbados　the　following　year；　and　died　there。　A　great　grief：　an　unforgettable　loss。　Without　Cameron；　he　would　have　crumbled。
　Cameron　watched　the　preparations　from　the　steps　of　the　Cathedral；　he　planned　to　see　the　start；　then　ride　his　bike　round　the　back　of　the　Strand　to　catch　the　finish。　He'd　arrive　well　before　the　petitors；　and　he　could　keep　up　with　the　race　on　his　radio。　He　felt　good　with　the　day。　His　boy　was　in　fine　shape；　nausea　or　no　nausea；　and　the　race　was　an　ideal　way　to　keep　the　lad　in　a　petitive　mood　without　over…stretching　him。　It　was　quite　a　distance　of　course；　across　Ludgate　Circus；　along　Fleet　Street　and　past　Temple　Bar　into　the　Strand；　then　cutting　across　the　corner　of　Trafalgar　and　down　Whitehall　to　the　Houses　of　Parliament。　Running　on　tarmac　too。　But　it　was　good　experience　for　Joel；　and　it　would　pressure　him　a　little；　which　was　useful。　There　was　a　distance　runner　in　the　boy；　and　Cameron　knew　it。　He'd　never　been　a　sprinter；　he　couldn't　pace　himself　accurately　enough。　He　needed　distance　and　time；　to　find　his　pulse；　to　settle　down　and　to　work　out　his　tactics。　Over　800　metres　the　boy　was　a　natural：　his　stride　was　a　model　of　economy；　his　rhythm　damn…near　perfect。　But　more；　he　had　courage。　Courage　had　won　him　the　gold；　and　courage　would　take　him　first　to　the　finish　again　and　again。　That's　what　made　Joel　different。　Any　number　of　technical　whizz…kids　came　and　went；　but　without　courage　to　supplement　those　skills　they　went　for　almost　nothing。　To　risk　when　it　was　worth　risking；　to　run　'til　the　pain　blinded　you；　that　was　special　and　Cameron　knew　it。　He　liked　to　think　he'd　had　a　little　of　it　himself。
　Today；　the　boy　looked　less　than　happy。　Women　trouble　was　Cameron's　bet。　There　were　always　problems　with　women；　especially　with　the　golden　boy　reputation　Joel　had　garnered。　He'd　tried　to　explain　that　there'd　be　plenty　of　time　for　bed　and　bawd　when　his　career　had　run　out　of　steam；　but　Joel　wasn't　interested　in　celibac