gns.throwback-第19部分

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s。　He　was　not　even　sure　if　he　had　been　below　ground　overnight；　whether　this　sun　which　sweated　him　was　the　same　one　that　had　been　rising　upwards　on　its　morning　journey　when　he　had　left　the　farm。
　　
　　A　feeling　that　something　was　decidedly　wrong　but　he　couldn't　place　it。　The　silence。　Even　out　here　you　always　heard　a　tractor　or　a　Land　Rover　in　the　distance；　the　constant　hum　of　rural　activity　so　much　in　contrast　to　the　city　clamour。　That　was　what　he　hated　about　the　country；　so　bloody　quiet　it　gave　you　the　creeps。　A　little　shiver　prickled　his　skin。　This　was　just　too　bloody　quiet；　even　for　the　country。
　　
　　Walking　down　a　sheep　track　that　flattened　out　into　a　bridle…path；　overhanging　boughs　lush　with　full　summer　greenery；　the　grass　thick　and　strong。　Everywhere　smelled　sweet；　sickly　sweet。　That　was　because　his　stomach　was　empty；　blackmailing　him；　give　me　food　or　else　I'll　throw　up。
　　
　　The　silence　was　starting　to　get　on　his　nerves。　You　always　heard　something。　But　not　now。　The　path　widened　and　he　came　to　a　stile；　the　beginning　of　his　father's　land。　Wasn't　anybody　out　looking　for　him；　hadn't　they　even　missed　him？
　　
　　Sheep；　normally　he　would　not　have　given　them　a　second　glance　because　they　didn't　interest　him。　In…bred；　unhealthy；　non…thinking；　stupid　animals。　His　head　jerked　round　again　and　he　stared　in　surprise。　They　were　his　father's　white…faced　Suffolks　all　right　with　a　black　'W　stamped　on　their　fleeces；　doing　exactly　what　you　would　have　expected　them　to　be　doing；　grazing　like　they　were　starving；　hadn't　seen　food　for　a　week。　Only　they　were　grazing　a　field　of　growing　barley！
　　
　　He　could　not　see　where　they　had　got　in　because　the　field　was　large　and　undulating；　one　weak　place　in　the　hedge　adjoining　the　long　stretch　of　pastureland　would　have　been　enough　and　they　would　have　trotted　through　in　single　file；　following　the　sheep　in　front　like　they　always　did。　OK；　everybody's　stock　got　out　sometimes　but　he　knew　his　father　well　enough　to　know　that　the　sheep　wouldn't　be　out　for　long　before　John　Winder　discovered　them　and　came　post　haste　in　his　pick…up　with　Flook　to　round　them　up　and　drive　them　back。　But　there　was　no　sign　of　anybody。
　　
　　Phil　stood　watching　for　a　few　seconds　and　then　he　broke　into　a　fast　trot。　Personally　he　didn't　give　a　fuck　about　the　sheep　in　the　barley　but　he　knew　that　something　had　to　be　wrong　back　home。　Maybe　they　were　too　busy　out　looking　for　him。　It　was　a　logical　explanation；　but　somehow　it　didn't　ring　true；　even　if　it　did　make　him　feel　guilty。　You　bloody　selfish　bastard。
　　
　　He　took　a　short…cut　across　the　big　grass　field；　saw　the　farmhouse　when　he　topped　the　brow。　Something　about　it　added　to　his　unease。　Sure　it　was　summer　and　there　wouldn't　be　smoke　ing　out　of　the　kitchen　chimney。　But　there　would　be　activity　of　some　kind。　The　red　pick…up　was　in　the　yard；　there　was　no　sign　of　the　bantams　which　virtually　lived　by　the　back　door。　He　started　to　run。
　　
　　Breathless；　he　went　in　through　the　yard　gate　and　that　was　when　he　first　saw　his　parents。　They　were　in　the　big　dutch　barn　which　still　had　a　few　bales　of　last　year's　hay　in　it　and　。。。　oh　Christ；　it　wasn't　really　them　。　。　。　was　it？　No；　for　fuck's　sake；　you　aren't　my　parents！
　　
　　His　logic　tried　to　throw　out　all　sorts　of　answers；　tried　to　make　him　believe　them。　A　couple　of　tramps；　filthy　dirty　and　with　no　clothes；　they'd　hidden　in　the　barn。　But　these　weren't　tramps。　Facially　they　resembled　his　mother　and　father；　the　man　looking　like　his　pubic　hair　had　run　riot　and　grown　a　widening　path　right　up　to　his　stubble　of　a　beard。　Instead　of　the　old…fashioned　short　back　and　sides　his　hair　curled　greasily　down　to　his　shoulders。　Phil　kept　his　eyes　elevated；　it　was　too　embarrassing　to　look　below　the　waistline　of　your　own　father。
　　
　　On　to　his　mother：　she　had　lost　her　false　teeth　so　that　her　cheeks　were　hollowed；　her　mouth　shrunken。　Again　an　excess　of　hair　but　it　was　not　so　prolific　on　her　body　as　on　her　husband's。　Unsightly　baggy　breasts　that　sagged　with　age；　a　roll　of　waistline　fat　that　she　had　hidden　from　him　for　years　with　a　pair　of　corsets。　A　V　of　hair；　he　jerked　his　head　away；　saw　their　expressions　of　fear；　the　way　they　backed　away　from　him。　It　was　them。
　　
　　'Father；　mother。'　He　whispered　the　words；　tried　to　will　them　to　shout　back；　'We're　not　your　father　and　mother。'　They　huddled　together　pathetically；　whined　like　a　pair　of　collies　that　knew　they　were　in　for　a　good　larruping。　For　maybe　ten　seconds　parents　and　offspring　stared　at　one　another　and　then　with　a　shrill　shriek　the　two　hideous　caricatures　broke　into　a　shuffling　flight；　scrambling　over　hay　bales；　dragging　each　other　in　turn；　out　through　the　other　end　of　the　bay　and　into　the　fields。
　　
　　Phil　Winder　stood　and　watched　them　go。　He　did　not　pursue　them　because　he　did　not　want　to　catch　up　with　them　again；　did　not　want　to　have　to　look　upon　their　wizened　animal…like　faces　and　have　to　convince　himself　once　more　that　they　were　his　parents。
　　
　　He　didn't　need　any　more　convincing；　didn't　look　for　reasons；　accepted　that　some　terrible　change　had　e　over　everybody　and　everything。　Except　himself？　Fearfully　he　smoothed　his　hands　down　his　body；　felt　at　his　skin。　He　seemed　OK。

　　
　　It　was　a　long　time　before　he　finally　plucked　up　the　courage　to　go　into　the　house；　kicked　open　the　back　door　and　almost　shouted　'Is　anybody　there？'　Of　course　there　was　nobody　there。　Then　the　stench　hit　him；　a　foul　putrefying　odour　that　would　have　had　him　spewing　if　he　hadn't　had　an　empty　stomach。　He　retched　and　it　hurt；　recognised　the　smell　even　before　he　saw　the　mess　on　the　red　quarry　tiles；　patches　of　semi…solid　excreta　crawling　with　bluebottles。　They　lifted；　settled　again　almost　immediately；　fed　ravenously。
　　
　　They've　shit　on　the　floor；　a　voice　inside　him　gasped　and　he　wanted　to　cry。　Oh　Jesus；　who's　done　this　to　my　folks？
　　
　　Apart　from　that　the　house　was　much　the　same　as　it　always　was；　working…class　tidiness　reminiscent　of　his　mother's　upbringing　in　a　farm　labourer's　cottage　in　the　days　when　people　really　were　poor。　He　checked　himself　in　the　mirror；　didn't　really　care　now　whether　anything　had　happened　to　him　or　not。　Physically　he　looked　the　same。　But　I'm　going　slowly　fucking　mad。
　　
　　Looking　back　he　could　not　really　remember　how　he　had　passed　the　rest　of　that　awful　day。　He　had　shovelled　up　the　mess　on　the　kitchen　floor；　thrown　it　out　into　the　yard　and　the　flies　had　followed　it。　After　that　he　had　just　sat　about；　lying　to　himself　that　his　mother　and　father　would　be　back　later　and　everything　would　be　all　right。
　　
　　But　they　did　not　return　and　everything　wasn't　all　right。　Dusk　merged　into　darkness　and　he　still　sat　there　in　the　old　wooden　rocking　chair　by　the　dead　Rayburn。　He　was　still　there　in　the　morning　when　the　sun's　rays　gently　eased　him　awake　and　everything　came　flooding　back　to　him。　I'm　glad　I　don't　believe　in　you；　God；　because　you　wouldn't　have　let　this　happen。　He　ate　a　tin　of　cold　beans　and　cut　his　finger　opening　the　can　so　that　he　spottled　blood　on　the　working　surface。　Eventually　he　stopped　bleeding　and　made　himself　some　coffee；　tried　to　work　out　what　he　was　going　to　do。
　　
　　He　needed　help；　he'd　take　the　pick…up　into　the　village　and　tell　the　police。　The　police　always　knew　what　to　do；　didn't　get　in　a　flap。　His　mind　made　up；　he　went　outside；　noted　absent…mindedly　that　it　was　going　to　be　another　scorcher。　He　had　pletely　forgotten　about　his　experiences　below　ground；　this　was　far　more　terrifying。
　　
　　As　he　drove　into　the　village　he　knew　right　away　he　wasn't　going　to　get　any　help…because　there　wasn't　anybody　here　to　help　him。　Like　a　trained　burglar　sussing　out　prospective　houses　he　could　tell　that　every　one　was　empty；　whether　the　front　doors　hung　open　or　not。
　　
　　He　might　have　been　a　century　too　late；　the　inhabitants　dead　and　gone。　A　cat　jumped　off　a　stone　wall　and　fled　at　his　approach。　A　mongrel　dog　barked　at　him　from　a　distance　then　turned　and　ran　with　its　tail　between　its　legs。　Apart　from　that　there　was　no　sign　of　life。
　　
　　He　pulled　up　by　the　triangle　of　rough　unmown　grass　that　was　fondly　termed　'the　Green'　and　saw　at　a　glance　that　the　telephone　in　the　kiosk　had　been　vandalised；　the　receiver　and　dialling　mechanism　were　torn　away；　left　smashed　and　bent　on　the　floor。
　　
　　He　sighed　his　despair；　glanced　at　the　Mazda's　petrol　gauge。　Almost　empty；　just　about　enough　juice　to　get　him　back　to　the　farm。　And　he　was　only　going　back　there　because　it　had　once　been　his　home。
　　
　　He　made　it　to　the　yard　gates　before　the　engine　stuttered　and　died；　free…wheeled　the　last　few　yards。　It　was　only　later　that　he　asked　himself　why　he　hadn't　tried　some　of　those　parked　cars　in　the　village；　almost　surely　he　would　have　found　one　with　the　keys　in　and　some　petrol　in　the　tank。　But　he　hadn't　and　that　was　that。　He　wasn't　going　back　there　again。
　　
　　Days　stretched　into　weeks　and　still　he　hung　around　the　farm　doing　nothing。　When　the　fridge　was　empty　he　started　on　the　freezer；　the　generator　out　by　the　buildings　would　keep　it　going　for　some　time　yet　because　it　was　not　running　anything　else。　When　he　ran　out　of　food　he　would　think　of　something　but　not　until。　His　parents　would　not　be　ing　back；　the　sheep　were　still　in　the　barley　and　there　wasn't　a