ib.thewaspfactory-第19部分

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　　Then　it　came　to　me；　and　I　knew。
　　
　　A　mirage；　a　reflection　of　layers　on　air　out　to　sea。　I　was　watching　the　gas…flares　of　oil…rigs　maybe　hundreds　of　kilometres　away；　out　in　the　North　Sea。　Looking　again　at　those　dim　shapes　around　the　flame；　they　did　appear　to　be　rigs；　vaguely　made　out　in　their　own　gassy　glare。　I　went　on　my　way　happy　after　that…indeed；　happier　than　I　had　been　before　I　had　seen　the　strange　apparitions…and　it　occurred　to　me　that　somebody　both　less　logical　and　less　imaginative　would　have　jumped　to　the　conclusion　that　what　they　had　seen　were　UFOs。
　　
　　I　got　to　the　island　eventually。　The　house　was　dark。　I　stood　looking　at　it　in　the　darkness；　just　aware　of　its　bulk　in　the　feeble　light　of　a　broken　moon；　and　I　thought　it　looked　even　bigger　than　it　really　was；　like　a　stone…giant's　head；　a　huge　moonlit　skull　full　of　shapes　and　memories；　staring　out　to　sea　and　attached　to　a　vast；　powerful　body　buried　in　the　rock　and　sand　beneath；　ready　to　shrug　itself　free　and　disinter　itself　on　some　unknowable　mand　or　cue。
　　
　　The　house　stared　out　to　sea；　out　to　the　night；　and　I　went　into　it。
　　
　　
　　　5　：　A　Bunch　of　Flowers
　　
　　
　　I　KILLED　little　Esmerelda　because　I　felt　lowed　it　to　myself　and　to　the　world　in　general。　I　had；　after　all；　accounted　for　two　male　children　and　thus　done　womankind　something　of　a　statistical　favour。　If　I　really　had　the　courage　of　my　convictions；　I　reasoned；　I　ought　to　redress　the　balance　at　least　slightly。　My　cousin　was　simply　the　easiest　and　most　obvious　target。
　　
　　Again；　I　bore　her　no　personal　ill…will。　Children　aren't　real　people；　in　the　sense　that　they　are　not　small　males　and　females　but　a　separate　species　which　will　（probably）　grow　into　one　or　the　other　in　due　time。　Younger　children　in　particular；　before　the　insidious　and　evil　influence　of　society　and　their　parents　have　properly　got　to　them；　are　sexlessly　open　and　hence　perfectly　likeable。　I　did　like　Esmerelda　（even　if　I　thought　her　name　was　a　bit　soppy）　and　played　with　her　a　lot　when　she　came　to　stay。　She　was　the　daughter　of　Harmsworth　and　Morag　Stove；　my　half…uncle　and　half…aunt　by　my　father's　first　marriage；　they　were　the　couple　who　had　looked　after　Eric　between　the　ages　of　three　and　five。　They　would　e　over　from　Belfast　to　stay　with　us　in　the　summers　sometimes；　my　father　used　to　get　on　well　with　Harmsworth；　and　because　I　looked　after　Esmerelda　they　could　have　a　nice　relaxing　holiday　here。　I　think　Mrs　Stove　was　a　little　worried　about　trusting　her　daughter　to　me　that　particular　summer；　as　it　was　the　one　after　I'd　struck　young　Paul　down　in　his　prime；　but　at　nine　years　of　age　I　was　an　obviously　happy　and　well…adjusted　child；　responsible　and　well…spoken　and；　when　it　was　mentioned；　demonstrably　sad　about　my　younger　brother's　demise。　I　am　convinced　that　only　my　genuinely　clear　conscience　let　me　convince　the　adults　around　me　that　I　was　totally　innocent。　I　even　carried　out　a　double…bluff　of　appearing　slightly　guilty　for　the　wrong　reasons；　so　that　adults　told　me　I　shouldn't　blame　myself　because　I　hadn't　been　able　to　warn　Paul　in　time。　I　was　brilliant。
　　
　　I　had　decided　I　would　try　to　murder　Esmerelda　before　she　and　her　parents　even　arrived　for　their　holiday。　Eric　was　away　on　a　school　cruise；　so　there　would　only　be　me　and　her。　It　would　be　risky；　so　soon　after　Paul's　death；　but　I　had　to　do　something　to　even　up　the　balance。　I　could　feel　it　in　my　guts；　in　my　bones；　I　had　to。　It　was　like　an　itch；　something　I　had　no　way　of　resisting；　like　when　I　walk　along　a　pavement　in　Porteneil　and　I　accidentally　scuff　one　heel　on　a　paving　stone。　I　have　to　scuff　the　other　foot　as　well；　with　as　near　as　possible　the　same　weight；　to　feel　good　again。　The　same　if　I　brush　one　arm　against　a　wall　or　a　lamp…post；　I　must　brush　the　other　one　as　well；　soon；　or　at　the　very　least　scratch　it　with　the　other　hand。　In　a　whole　range　of　ways　like　that　I　try　to　keep　balanced；　though　I　have　no　idea　why。　It　is　simply　something　that　must　be　done；　and；　in　the　same　way；　I　had　to　get　rid　of　some　woman；　tip　the　scales　back　in　the　other　direction。
　　
　　I　had　taken　to　making　kites　that　year。　It　was　I973；　I　suppose。　I　used　many　things　to　make　them：　cane　and　dowling　and　metal　coat　hangers　and　aluminium　tent…poles；　and　paper　and　plastic　sheeting　and　dustbin　bags　and　sheets　and　string　and　nylon　rope　and　twine　and　all　sorts　of　little　straps　and　buckles　and　bits　of　cord　and　elastic　bands　and　strips　of　wire　and　pins　and　screws　and　nails　and　pieces　cannibalised　from　model　yachts　and　various　toys。　I　made　a　hand　winch　with　a　double　handle　and　a　ratchet　and　room　for　half　a　kilometre　of　twine　on　the　drum；　I　made　different　types　of　tails　for　the　kites　that　needed　them；　and　dozens　of　kites　large　and　small；　some　stunters。　I　kept　them　in　the　shed　and　eventually　had　to　put　the　bikes　outside　under　a　tarpaulin　when　the　collection　got　too　large。
　　
　　That　summer　I　took　Esmerelda　kiting　quite　a　lot。　I　let　her　play　with　a　small；　single…string　kite　while　I　used　a　stunter。　I　would　send　it　swooping　over　and　under　hers；　or　dive　it　down　to　the　sands　while　I　stood　on　a　dune　cliff；　pulling　the　kite　down　to　nick　tall　towers　of　sand　I'd　built；　then　pulling　up　again；　the　kite　trailing　a　spray　of　sand　through　the　air　from　the　collapsing　tower。　Although　it　took　a　while　and　I　crashed　a　couple　of　times；　once　I　even　knocked　a　dam　down　with　a　kite。　I　swooped　it　so　that　on　each　pass　it　caught　the　top　of　the　dam　wall　with　one　corner；　gradually　producing　a　nick　in　the　sand　barrier　which　the　water　was　able　to　flow　through；　quickly　going　on　to　overwhelm　the　whole　dam　and　the　sand…house　village　beneath。
　　
　　Then　one　day　I　was　standing　there　on　a　dune　top；　straining　against　the　pull　of　the　wind　in　the　kite；　gripping　and　hauling　and　sensing　and　adjusting　and　twisting；　when　one　of　those　twists　became　like　a　strangle　around　Esmerelda's　neck；　and　the　idea　was　there。　Use　the　kites。
　　
　　I　thought　about　it　calmly；　still　standing　there　as　though　nothing　had　passed　through　my　mind　but　the　continual　putation　guiding　the　kite；　and　I　thought　it　seemed　reasonable。　As　I　thought　about　it；　the　notion　took　its　own　shape；　blossoming；　as　it　were；　and　escalating　into　what　I　finally　conceived　as　my　cousin's　nemesis。　I　grinned　then；　I　recall；　and　brought　the　stunter　down　fast　and　acute　across　the　weeds　and　the　water；　the　sand　and　the　surf；　scudding　it　in　across　the　wind　to　jerk　and　zoom　just　before　it　hit　the　girl　herself　where　she　sat　on　the　dune　top　holding　and　spasmodically　jerking　the　string　she　held　in　her　hand；　connected　to　the　sky。　She　turned；　smiled　and　shrieked　then；　squinting　in　the　summer　light。　I　laughed；　too；　controlling　the　thing　in　the　skies　above　and　the　thing　in　the　brain　beneath；　equally　well。
　　
　　I　built　a　big　kite。
　　
　　It　was　so　big　it　didn't　even　fit　inside　the　shed。　I　made　it　from　old　aluminium　tent…poles；　some　of　which　I　had　found　in　the　attic　a　long　time　previously　and　some　I　had　got　from　the　town　dump。　The　fabric；　at　first；　was　black　plastic　bags；　but　later　became　tent　fabric；　also　from　the　attic。
　　
　　I　used　heavy　orange　nylon　fishing…line　for　the　string；　wound　round　a　specially　made　drum　for　the　winch；　which　I　had　strengthed　and　fitted　with　a　chest…brace。　The　kite　had　a　tail　of　twisted　magazine…pages…Guns　and　Ammo；　which　I　got　regularly　at　the　time。　I　painted　the　head　of　a　dog　on　the　canvas　in　red　paint　because　I　had　yet　to　learn　I　was　not　a　Canis。　My　father　had　told　me　years　before　that　I　was　born　under　the　starsign　of　the　Dog　because　Sirius　was　overhead　at　the　time。　Anyway；　that　was　just　a　symbol。
　　
　　I　went　out　very　early　one　morning；　just　after　the　sun　came　up　and　long　before　anybody　else　woke。　I　went　to　the　shed；　got　the　kite；　walked　a　way　along　the　dunes　and　assembled　it；　battered　a　tent…peg　into　the　ground；　tied　the　nylon　to　it；　then　flew　the　kite　on　a　short　string　for　a　while。　I　sweated　and　strained　with　it；　even　in　quite　a　light　wind；　and　my　hands　grew　warm　despite　the　heavy…duty　welding…gloves　I　had　on。　I　decided　the　kite　would　do；　and　brought　it　in。
　　
　　That　afternoon；　while　the　same　wind；　now　freshened；　still　blew　across　the　island　and　off　into　the　North　Sea；　Esmerelda　and　I　went　out　as　usual；　and　stopped　off　at　the　shed　to　pick　up　the　dismantled　kite。　She　helped　me　carry　it　far　along　the　dunes；　dutifully　clutching　the　lines　and　winch　to　her　flat　little　chest　and　clicking　the　ratchet　on　the　drum；　until　we　reached　a　point　well　out　of　sight　from　the　house。　It　was　a　tall　dune　head　stuck　nodding　towards　distant　N　orway　or　Denmark；　grass　like　hair　swept　over　the　brow　and　pointing。
　　
　　Esmerelda　searched　for　flowers　while　I　constructed　the　kite　with　an　appropriately　solemn　slowness。　She　talked　to　the　flowers；　I　recall；　as　though　trying　to　persuade　them　to　show　themselves　and　be　collected；　broken　and　bunched。　The　wind　blew　her　blonde　hair　in　front　of　her　face　as　she　walked；　squatted；　crawled　and　talked；　and　I　assembled。
　　
　　Finally　the　kite　was　finished；　fully　made　up　and　lying　like　a　collapsed　tent　on　the　grass；　green　on　green。　The　wind　coursed　over　it　and　flapped　it…little　whip　noises　that　stirred　it　and　made　it　seem　alive；　the　dog…face　scowling。　I　sorted　the　orange　nylon　lines　out　and　did　some　tying；　untangling　line　from　lin