cb.booksofblood2-第8章

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　run　out　of　steam；　but　Joel　wasn't　interested　in　celibacy；　and　Cameron　didn't　altogether　blame　him。
　
　The　pistol　was　raised；　and　fired。　A　plume　of　blue…white　smoke　followed　by　a　sound　more　pop　than　bang。　The　shot　woke　the　pigeons　from　the　dome　of　St　Paul's　and　they　rose　in　a　chattering　congregation；　their　worship　interrupted。
　Joel　was　off　to　a　good　start。　Clean；　neat　and　fast。
　The　crowd　began　to　call　his　name　immediately；　their　voices　at　his　back；　at　his　side；　a　gale　of　loving　enthusiasm。
　Cameron　watched　the　first　two　dozen　yards；　as　the　field　jockeyed　for　a　running　order。　Loyer　was　at　the　front　of　the　pack；　though　Cameron　wasn't　sure　whether　he'd　got　there　by　choice　or　chance。　Joel　was　behind　McCloud；　who　was　behind　Loyer。　No　hurry；　boy；　said　Cameron；　and　slipped　away　from　the　starting　line。　His　bicycle　was　chained　up　in　Paternoster　Row；　a　minute's　walk　from　the　square。　He'd　always　hated　cars：　godless　things；　crippling；　inhuman；　unchristian　things。　With　a　bike　you　were　your　own　master。　Wasn't　that　all　a　man　could　ask？
　'…　And　it's　a　superb　start　here；　to　what　looks　like　a　potentially　marvellous　race。　They're　already　across　the　square　and　the　crowd's　going　wild　here：　it　really　is　more　like　the　European　Games　than　a　Charity　Race。　What　does　it　look　like　to　you；　Jim？'
　'Well　Mike；　I　can　see　crowds　lining　the　route　all　the　way　along　Fleet　Street：　and　I've　been　asked　by　the　police　to　tell　people　please　not　to　try　and　drive　down　to　see　the　race；　because　of　course　all　these　roads　have　been　cleared　for　the　event；　and　if　you　try　and　drive；　really　you'll　get　nowhere。'
　'Who's　got　the　lead　at　the　moment？'
　'Well；　Nick　Loyer　is　really　setting　the　pace　at　this　stage　in　the　game；　though　of　course　as　we　know　there's　going　to　be　a　lot　of　tactical　running　over　this　kind　of　distance。　It's　more　than　a　middle…distance；　and　it's　less　than　a　marathon；　but　these　men　are　all　tacticians；　and　they'll　each　be　trying　to　let　the　other　make　the　running　in　the　early　stages。'
　Cameron　always　said：　let　the　others　be　heroes。
　That　was　a　hard　lesson　to　learn；　Joel　had　found。　When　the　pistol　was　fired　it　was　difficult　not　to　go　for　broke；　unwind　suddenly　like　a　tight　spring。　All　gone　in　the　first　two　hundred　yards　and　nothing　left　in　reserve。
　It's　easy　to　be　a　hero；　Cameron　used　to　say。　It's　not　clever；　it's　not　clever　at　all。　Don't　waste　your　time　showing　off；　just　let　the　Supermen　have　their　moment。　Hang　on　to　the　pack；　but　hold　back　a　little。　Better　to　be　cheered　at　the　post　because　you　won　than　have　them　call　you　a　good…hearted　loser。
　Win。　Win。　Win。
　At　all　costs。　At　almost　all　costs。
　Win。
　The　man　who　doesn't　want　to　win　is　no　friend　of　mine；　he'd　say。　If　you　want　to　do　it　for　the　love　of　it；　for　the　sport　of　it；　do　it　with　somebody　else。　Only　public　schoolboys　believe　that　crap　about　the　joy　of　playing　the　game。　There's　no　joy　for　losers；　boy。　What　did　I　say？
　There's　no　joy　for　losers。
　Be　barbaric。　Play　the　rules；　but　play　them　to　the　limit。　As　far　as　you　can　push；　push。　Let　no　other　sonofabitch　tell　you　differently。　You're　here　to　win。　What　did　I　say？
　Win。
　In　Paternoster　Row　the　cheering　was　muted；　and　the　shadows　of　the　buildings　blocked　the　sun。　It　was　almost　cold。　The　pigeons　still　passed　over；　unable　to　settle　now　they'd　been　roused　from　their　roost。　They　were　the　only　occupants　of　the　back　streets。　The　rest　of　the　living　world；　it　seemed；　was　watching　this　race。
　
　Cameron　unlocked　his　bicycle；　pocketed　the　chain　and　pad…locks；　and　hopped　on。　Pretty　healthy　for　a　fifty　year　old　he　thought；　despite　the　addiction　to　cheap　cigars。　He　switched　on　the　radio。　Reception　was　bad；　walled　in　by　the　buildings；　all　crackle。　He　stood　astride　his　bike　and　tried　to　improve　the　tuning。　It　did　a　little　good。
　'…　and　Nick　Loyer　is　falling　behind　already　…'
　That　was　quick。　Mind　you；　Loyer　was　past　his　prime　by　two　or　three　years。　Time　to　throw　in　the　spikes　and　let　the　younger　men　take　over。　He'd　had　to　do　it；　though　my　God　it　had　been　painful。　Cameron　remembered　acutely　how　he'd　felt　at　thirty…three；　when　he　realized　that　his　best　running　years　were　over。　It　was　like　having　one　foot　buried　in　the　grave；　a　salutary　reminder　of　how　quickly　the　body　blooms　and　begins　to　wither。
　As　he　pedaled　out　of　the　shadows　into　a　sunnier　street　a　black　Mercedes；　chauffeur…driven；　sailed　past；　so　quietly　it　could　have　been　wind…propelled。　Cameron　caught　sight　of　the　passengers　only　briefly。　One　he　recognized　as　a　man　Voight　had　been　talking　with　before　the　race；　a　thin　faced　individual　of　about　forty；　with　a　mouth　so　tight　his　lips　might　have　been　surgically　removed。
　Beside　him　sat　Voight。
　Impossible　as　it　seemed　it　was　Voight's　face　that　glanced　back　out　of　the　smoked　glass　windows；　he　was　even　dressed　for　the　race。
　Cameron　didn't　like　the　look　of　this　at　all。　He'd　seen　the　South　African　five　minutes　earlier；　off　and　running。　So　who　was　this？　A　double　obviously。　It　smelt　of　a　fix；　somehow；　it　stank　to　high　heaven。
　The　Mercedes　was　already　disappearing　around　a　corner。　Cameron　turned　off　the　radio　and　pedaled　pell…mell　after　the　car。　The　balmy　sun　made　him　sweat　as　he　rode。
　
　The　Mercedes　was　threading　its　way　through　the　narrow　streets　with　some　difficulty；　ignoring　all　the　One　Way　signs　as　it　went。　Its　slow　passage　made　it　relatively　easy　for　Cameron　to　keep　the　vehicle　in　view　without　being　seen　by　its　occupants；　though　the　effort　was　beginning　to　light　a　fire　in　his　lungs。
　In　a　tiny；　nameless　alley　just　west　of　Fetter　Lane；　where　the　shadows　were　particularly　dense；　the　Mercedes　stopped。　Cameron；　hidden　from　view　round　a　corner　not　twenty　yards　from　the　car；　watched　as　the　door　was　opened　by　the　chauffeur　and　the　lipless　man；　with　the　Voight　look…alike　close　behind；　stepped　out　and　went　into　a　nondescript　building。　When　all　three　had　disappeared　Cameron　propped　his　bike　up　against　the　wall　and　fol…lowed。
　The　street　was　pin…drop　hushed。　From　this　distance　the　roar　of　the　crowd　was　only　a　murmur。　It　could　have　been　another　world；　this　street。　The　flitting　shadows　of　birds；　the　windows　of　the　buildings　bricked　up；　the　peeling　paint；　the　rotten　smell　in　the　still　air。　A　dead　rabbit　lay　in　the　gutter；　a　black　rabbit　with　a　white　collar；　someone's　lost　pet。　Flies　rose　and　fell　on　it；　alternately　startled　and　ravenous。
　Cameron　crept　towards　the　open　door　as　quietly　as　he　was　able。　He　had；　as　it　turned　out；　nothing　to　fear。　The　trio　had　disappeared　down　the　dark　hallway　of　the　house　long　since。　The　air　was　cool　in　the　hall；　and　smelt　of　damp。　Looking　fearless；　but　feeling　afraid；　Cameron　entered　the　blind　building。　The　wall…paper　in　the　hallway　was　shit…coloured；　the　paint　the　same。　It　was　like　walking　into　a　bowel；　a　dead　man's　bowel；　cold　and　shitty。　Ahead；　the　stairway　had　collapsed；　preventing　access　to　the　upper　storey。　They　had　not　gone　up；　but　down。
　
　The　door　to　the　cellar　was　adjacent　to　the　defunct　staircase；　and　Cameron　could　hear　voices　from　below。
　No　time　like　the　present；　he　thought；　and　opened　the　door　sufficiently　to　squeeze　into　the　dark　beyond。　It　was　icy。　Not　just　cold；　not　damp；　but　refrigerated。　For　a　moment　he　thought　he'd　stepped　into　a　cold　storage　room。　His　breath　became　a　mist　at　his　lips：　his　teeth　wanted　to　chatter。
　Can't　turn　back　now；　he　thought；　and　started　down　the　frost…slick　steps。　It　wasn't　impossibly　dark。　At　the　bottom　of　the　flight；　a　long　way　down；　a　pale　light　flickered；　its　uninspired　glow　aspiring　to　the　day。　Cameron　glanced　longingly　round　at　the　open　door　behind　him。　It　looked　extremely　tempting；　but　he　was　curious；　so　curious。　There　was　nothing　to　do　but　descend。
　In　his　nostrils　the　scent　of　the　place　teased。　He　had　a　lousy　sense　of　smell；　and　a　worse　palate；　as　his　wife　was　fond　of　reminding　him。　She'd　say　he　couldn't　distinguish　between　garlic　and　a　rose；　and　it　was　probably　true。　But　the　smell　in　this　deep　meant　something　to　him；　something　that　stirred　the　acid　in　his　belly　into　life。
　Goats。　It　smelt；　ha；　he　wanted　to　tell　her　then　and　there　how　he'd　remembered；　it　smelt　of　goats。
　He　was　almost　at　the　bottom　of　the　stairs；　twenty；　maybe　thirty；　feet　underground。　The　voices　were　still　some　distance　away；　behind　a　second　door。
　He　was　standing　in　a　little　chamber；　its　walls　badly　white…washed　and　scrawled　with　obscene　graffiti；　mostly　pictures　of　the　sex…act。　On　the　floor；　a　candelabra；　seven　forked。　Only　two　of　the　dingy　candles　were　lit；　and　they　burned　with　a　guttering　flame　that　was　almost　blue。　The　goaty　smell　was　stronger　now：　and　mingled　with　a　scent　so　sickly…sweet　it　belonged　in　a　Turkish　brothel。
　
　Two　doors　led　off　the　chamber；　and　from　behind　one　Cameron　heard　the　conversation　continuing。　With　scrupulous　caution　he　crossed　the　slippery　floor　to　the　door；　straining　to　make　sense　of　the　murmuring　voices。　There　was　an　urgency　in　them。
　'…　hurry　…'
　'…　the　right　skills　…''children；　children　…'Laughter。
　'I　believe　we　…　tomorrow　…　all　of　us　…'
　Laughter　again。
　Suddenly　the　voices　seemed　to　change　direction；　as　if　the　speakers　were　moving　back　towards　the　door。　Cameron　took　three　steps　back　across　the　icy　floor；　almost　colliding　with　the　candelabra。　The　flames　spat　and　whispered　in　the　chamber　as　he　passed。
　He　had　to　choose　either　the　stairs　or　the　other　door。　The　stairs　represented　utter　retreat。　If　he　climbed　them　he'd　be　safe；　but　he　would　never　know。　Never　know　why　the　cold；　why　the　blue　flames；　why　the　smell　of　goats。　The　door　was　a　chance。　Back　to　it；　his　eyes　on　the　door　opposite；　he　fought　with　the　bitingly　cold　brass　handle。　It　turned　with　some　tussling；　and　he　ducked　out　of　sight　as　the　door　opposite　opened。　The　two　movements　were　perfectly　syncopated：
　God　was　with　him。
　Even　as　he　closed　the　door　he　knew　he'd　made　an　error。　God　wasn't　with　him　at　all。
　Needles　of　cold　penetrated　his　head；　his　teeth；　his　eyes；　his　fingers。　He　felt　as　though　he'd　been　thrown　naked　into　the　heart　of　an　iceberg。　His　blood　seemed　to　stand　still　in　his　veins：　the　spit　on　his　tongue　crystallized：　the　mucus　on　the　lining　of　his　nose　pricked　as　it　turned　to　ice。　The　cold　seemed　to　cripple　him：　he　couldn't　even　turn　round。
　
　Barely　able　to　move　his　joints；　he　fumbled　for　his　cigarette　lighter　with　fingers　so　numb　they　could　have　been　cut　off　without　him　feeling　it。
　The　lighter　was　already　glued　to　his　hand；　the　sweat　on　his　fingers　had　turned　to　frost。　He　tried　to　ignite　it；　against　the　dark；　against　the　cold。　Reluctantly　it　sparked　into　a　spluttering　half…life。
　The　room　was　large：　an　ice…cavern。　Its　walls；　its　encrusted　roof；　sparkled　and　shone。　Stalactites　of　ice；　lance…sharp；　hung　over　his　head。　The　floor　on　which　he　stood；　poised　uncertainly；　was　raked　towards　a　hole　in　the　middle　of　the　room。　Five　or　six　feet　across；　its　edges　and　walls　were　so　lined　with　ice　it　seemed　as　though　a　river　had　been　arrested　as　it　poured　down　into　the　darkness。
　He　thought　of　Xanadu；　a　poem　he　knew　by　heart。
　
　Visions　of　another　Albion　…'Where　AIph　the　sacred　river　ran；　Through　caverns　measureless　to　man；　Down　to　a　sunless　sea。'
　
　If　there　was　indeed　a　sea　down　there；　it　was　a　frozen　sea。　It　was　death　forever。
　It　was　as　much　as　he　could　do　to　keep　upright；　to　prevent　himself　from　sliding　down　the　incline　towards　the　unknown。　The