cb.booksofblood-第10部分

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　　The　little　father　who　had　spoken　earlier　stood　in　front　of　Kaufman。
　　〃Serve　us？〃　it　asked；　gently；　as　you　might　ask　a　cow　to　follow　you。
　　Kaufman　was　staring　at　the　cleaver；　the　Butcher's　symbol　of　office。　The　creatures　were　leaving　the　car　now；　dragging　the　half…eaten　bodies　after　them。　As　the　torches　were　taken　out　of　the　car；　darkness　was　returning。
　　But　before　the　lights　had　pletely　disappeared　the　father　reached　out　and　took　hold　of　Kaufman's　face；　thrusting　him　round　to　look　at　himself　in　the　filthy　glass　of　the　car　window。
　　It　was　a　thin　reflection；　but　Kaufman　could　see　quite　well　enough　how　changed　he　was。　Whiter　than　any　living　man　should　be；　covered　in　grime　and　blood。
　　The　father's　hand　still　gripped　Kaufman's　face；　and　its　forefinger　hooked　into　his　mouth　and　down　his　gullet；　the　nail　scoring　the　back　of　his　throat。　Kaufman　gagged　on　the　intruder；　but　had　no　will　left　to　repel　the　attack。
　　〃Serve；〃　said　the　creature。　〃In　silence。〃　Too　late；　Kaufman　realized　the　intention　of　the　fingers…　Suddenly　his　tongue　was　seized　tight　and　twisted　on　the　root。　Kaufman；　in　shock；　dropped　the　cleaver。　He　tried　to　scream；　but　no　sound　came。　Blood　was　in　his　throat；　he　heard　his　flesh　tearing；　and　agonies　convulsed　him。
　　Then　the　hand　was　out　of　his　mouth　and　the　scarlet；　spittle…covered　fingers　were　in　front　of　his　face；　with　his　tongue；　held　between　thumb　and　forefinger。
　　Kaufman　was　speechless。
　　〃Serve；〃　said　the　father；　and　stuffed　the　tongue　into　his　own　mouth；　chewing　on　it　with　evident　satisfaction。　Kaufman　fell　to　his　knees；　spewing　up　his　sandwich。
　　The　father　was　already　shuffling　away　into　the　dark；　the　rest　of　the　ancients　had　disappeared　into　their　warren　for　another　night。
　　The　tannoy　crackled。
　　〃Home；〃　said　the　driver。
　　The　doors　hissed　closed　and　the　sound　of　power　surged　through　the　train。　The　lights　flickered　on；　then　off　again；　then　on。
　　The　train　began　to　move。
　　Kaufman　lay　on　the　floor；　tears　pouring　down　his　face；　tears　of　disfiture　and　of　resignation。　He　would　bleed　to　death；　he　decided；　where　he　lay。　It　wouldn't　matter　if　he　died。　It　was　a　foul　world　anyway。
　　
　　The　driver　woke　him。　He　opened　his　eyes。　The　face　that　was　looking　down　at　him　was　black；　and　not　unfriendly。　It　grinned。　Kaufman　tried　to　say　something；　but　his　mouth　was　sealed　up　with　dried　blood。　He　jerked　his　head　around　like　a　driveller　trying　to　spit　out　a　word。　Nothing　came　but　grunts。
　　He　wasn't　dead。　He　hadn't　bled　to　death。
　　The　driver　pulled　him　to　his　knees；　talking　to　him　as　though　he　were　a　three…year…old。
　　
　　〃You　got　a　job　to　do；　my　man：　they're　very　pleased　with　you。〃　The　driver　had　licked　his　fingers；　and　was　rubbing　Kaufman's　swollen　lips；　trying　to　part　them。
　　〃Lots　to　learn　before　tomorrow　night。　。　。〃　Lots　to　learn。　Lots　to　learn。
　　He　led　Kaufman　out　of　the　train。　They　were　in　no　station　he　had　ever　seen　before。　It　was　white…tiled　and　absolutely　pristine；　a　station…keeper's　Nirvana。　No　graffiti　disfigured　the　walls。　There　were　no　token…booths；　but　then　there　were　no　gates　and　no　passengers　either。　This　was　a　line　that　provided　only　one　service：　The　Meat　Train。
　　A　morning　shift　of　cleaners　were　already　busy　hosing　the　blood　off　the　seats　and　the　floor　of　the　train。　Somebody　was　stripping　the　Butcher's　body；　in　preparation　for　dispatch　to　New　Jersey。　All　around　Kaufman　people　were　at　work。
　　A　rain　of　dawn　light　was　pouring　through　a　grating　in　the　roof　of　the　station。　Motes　of　dust　hung　in　the　beams；　turning　over　and　over。　Kaufman　watched　them；　entranced。　He　hadn't　seen　such　a　beautiful　thing　since　he　was　a　child。　Lovely　dust。　Over　and　over；　and　over　and　over。
　　The　driver　had　managed　to　separate　Kaufman's　lips。　His　mouth　was　too　wounded　for　him　to　move　it；　but　at　least　he　could　breathe　easily。　And　the　pain　was　already　beginning　to　subside。
　　The　driver　smiled　at　him；　then　turned　to　the　rest　of　the　workers　in　the　station。
　　〃I'd　like　to　introduce　Mahogany's　replacement。　Our　new　butcher；〃　he　announced。
　　The　workers　looked　at　Kaufman。　There　was　a　certain　deference　in　their　faces；　which　he　found　appealing。
　　Kaufman　looked　up　at　the　sunlight；　now　falling　all　around　him。　He　jerked　his　head；　signifying　that　he　wanted　to　go　up；　into　the　open　air。　The　driver　nodded；　and　led　him　up　a　steep　flight　of　steps　and　through　an　alley…way　and　so　out　on　to　the　sidewalk。
　　It　was　a　beautiful　day。　The　bright　sky　over　New　York　was　streaked　with　filaments　of　pale　pink　cloud；　and　the　air　smelt　of　morning。
　　The　Streets　and　Avenues　were　practically　empty。　At　a　distance　an　occasional　cab　crossed　an　intersection；　its　engine　a　whisper；　a　runner　sweated　past　on　the　other　side　of　the　street。
　　Very　soon　these　same　deserted　sidewalks　would　be　thronged　with　people。　The　city　would　go　about　its　business　in　ignorance：　never　knowing　what　it　was　built　upon；　or　what　it　owed　its　life　to。　Without　hesitation；　Kaufman　fell　to　his　knees　and　kissed　the　dirty　concrete　with　his　bloody　lips；　silently　swearing　his　eternal　loyalty　to　its　continuance。
　　The　Palace　of　Delights　received　the　adoration　without　ment。
　　
　　
　　
　　　THE　YATTERING　AND　JACK
　　
　　
　　WHY　THE　POWERS　（long　may　they　hold　court；　long　may　they　shit　light　on　the　heads　of　the　damned）　had　sent　it　out　from　Hell　to　stalk　Jack　Polo；　the　Yattering　couldn't　discover。　Whenever　he　passed　a　tentative　enquiry　along　the　system　to　his　master；　just　asking　the　simple　question；　〃What　am　I　doing　here？〃　it　was　answered　with　a　swift　rebuke　for　its　curiosity。　None　of　its　business；　came　the　reply；　its　business　was　to　do。　Or　die　trying。　And　after　six　months　of　pursuing　Polo；　the　Yattering　was　beginning　to　see　extinction　as　an　easy　option。　This　endless　game　of　hide　and　seek　was　to　nobody's　benefit；　and　to　the　Yattering's　immense　frustration。　It　feared　ulcers；　it　feared　psychosomatic　leprosy　（a　condition　lower　demons　like　itself　were　susceptible　to）；　worst　of　all　it　feared　losing　its　temper　pletely　and　killing　the　man　outright　in　an　uncontrollable　fit　of　pique。
　　What　was　Jack　Polo　anyway？
　　A　gherkin　importer；　by　the　balls　of　Leviticus；　he　was　simply　a　gherkin　importer。　His　life　was　worn　out；　his　family　was　dull；　his　politics　were　simple…minded　and　his　theology　non…existent。　The　man　was　a　no…account；　one　of　nature's　blankest　little　numbers…why　bother　with　the　likes　of　him？　This　wasn't　a　Faust：　a　pact…maker；　a　soul…seller。　This　one　wouldn't　look　twice　at　the　chance　of　divine　inspiration：　he'd　sniff；　shrug　and　get　on　with　his　gherkin　importing。
　　Yet　the　Yattering　was　bound　to　that　house；　long　night　and　longer　day；　until　he　had　the　man　a　lunatic；　or　as　good　as。　It　was　going　to　be　a　lengthy　job；　if　not　interminable。　Yes；　there　were　times　when　even　psychosomatic　leprosy　would　be　bearable　if　it　meant　being　invalided　off　this　impossible　mission。
　　For　his　part；　Jack　J。　Polo　continued　to　be　the　most　unknowing　of　men。　He　had　always　been　that　way；　indeed　his　history　was　littered　with　the　victims　of　his　na？veté。　When　his　late；　lamented　wife　had　cheated　on　him　（he'd　been　in　the　house　on　at　least　two　of　the　occasions；　watching　the　television）　he　was　the　last　one　to　find　out。　And　the　clues　they'd　left　behind　them！　A　blind；　deaf　and　dumb　man　would　have　bee　suspicious。　Not　Jack。　He　pottered　about　his　dull　business　and　never　noticed　the　tang　of　the　adulterer's　cologne；　nor　the　abnormal　regularity　with　which　his　wife　changed　the　bed…linen。
　　He　was　no　less　disinterested　in　events　when　his　younger　daughter　Amanda　confessed　her　lesbianism　to　him。　His　response　was　a　sigh　and　a　puzzled　look。
　　〃Well；　as　long　as　you　don't　get　pregnant；　darling；〃　he　replied；　and　sauntered　off　into　the　garden；　blithe　as　ever。
　　What　chance　did　a　fury　have　with　a　man　like　that？
　　To　a　creature　trained　to　put　its　meddling　fingers　into　the　wounds　of　the　human　psyche；　Polo　offered　a　surface　so　glacial；　so　utterly　without　distinguishing　marks；　as　to　deny　malice　any　hold　whatsoever。
　　Events　seemed　to　make　no　dent　in　his　perfect　indifference。　His　life's　disasters　seemed　not　to　scar　his　mind　at　all。　When；　eventually；　he　was　confronted　with　the　truth　about　his　wife's　infidelity　（he　found　them　screwing　in　the　bath）　he　couldn't　bring　himself　to　be　hurt　or　humiliated。
　　〃These　things　happen；〃　he　said　to　himself；　backing　out　of　the　bathroom　to　let　them　finish　what　they'd　started。
　　〃Che　sera；　sera。〃　Che　sera；　sera。　The　man　muttered　that　damn　phrase　with　monotonous　regularity。　He　seemed　to　live　by　that　philosophy　of　fatalism；　letting　attacks　on　his　manhood；　ambition　and　dignity　slide　off　his　ego　like　rain…water　from　his　bald　head。
　　The　Yattering　had　heard　Polo's　wife　confess　all　to　her　husband　（it　was　hanging　upside　down　from　the　light…fitting；　invisible　as　ever）　and　the　scene　had　made　it　wince。　There　was　the　distraught　sinner；　begging　to　be　accused；　bawled　at；　struck　even；　and　instead　of　giving　her　the　satisfaction　of　his　hatred；　Polo　had　just　shrugged　and　let　her　say　her　piece　without　a　word　of　interruption；　until　she　had　no　more　to　embosom。　She'd　left；　at　length；　more　out　of　frustration　and　sorrow　than　guilt；　the　Yattering　had　heard　her　tell　the　bathroom　mirror　how　insulted　she　was　at　her　husband's　lack　of　righteo