cb.booksofblood-第29部分

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is　groin　even　as　his　mind　formed　the　unthinkable　thought：　She's　dead。
　　She　has　me　in　her　mouth；　in　her　cold　mouth；　and　she's　dead。　That's　why　she'd　e　back；　got　up　off　her　mortuary　slab　and　e　back。　She　was　eager　to　finish　what　she'd　started；　no　longer　caring　about　the　play；　or　her　usurper。　It　was　this　act　she　valued；　this　act　alone。　She'd　chosen　to　perform　it　for　eternity。
　　Galloway　could　do　nothing　with　the　realization　but　stare　down　like　a　damn　fool　while　this　corpse　gave　him　head。
　　Then　it　seemed　she　sensed　his　horror。　She　opened　her　eyes　and　looked　up　at　him。　How　could　he　ever　have　mistaken　that　dead　stare　for　life？　Gently；　she　withdrew　his　shrunken　manhood　from　between　her　lips。
　　〃What　is　it？〃　she　asked；　her　fluting　voice　still　affecting　life。
　　〃You。　。　。　you're　not。　。　。　breathing。〃　Her　face　fell。　She　let　him　go。
　　〃Oh　darling；〃　she　said；　letting　all　pretence　to　life　disappear；　〃I'm　not　so　good　at　playing　the　part；　am　I？〃　Her　voice　was　a　ghost's　voice：　thin；　forlorn。　Her　skin；　which　he　had　thought　so　flatteringly　pale　was；　on　second　view；　a　waxen　white。
　　〃You　are　dead？〃　he　said。
　　〃I'm　afraid　so。　Two　hours　ago：　in　my　sleep。　But　I　had　to　e；　Terry；　so　much　unfinished　business。　I　made　my　choice。　You　should　be　flattered。　You　are　flattered；　aren't　you？〃　She　stood　up　and　reached　into　her　handbag；　which　she'd　left　beside　the　mirror。　Galloway　looked　at　the　door；　trying　to　make　his　limbs　work；　but　they　were　inert。　Besides；　he　had　his　trousers　round　his　ankles。　Two　steps　and　he'd　fall　flat　on　his　face。
　　She　turned　back　on　him；　with　something　silver　and　sharp　in　her　hand。　Try　as　he　might；　he　couldn't　get　a　focus　on　it。　But　whatever　it　was；　she　meant　it　for　him。
　　
　　Since　the　building　of　the　new　Crematorium　in　1934；　one　humiliation　had　e　after　another　for　the　cemetery。　The　tombs　had　been　raided　for　lead　coffin…linings；　the　stones　overturned　and　smashed；　it　was　fouled　by　dogs　and　graffiti。　Very　few　mourners　now　came　to　tend　the　graves。　The　generations　had　dwindled；　and　the　small　number　of　people　who　might　still　have　had　a　loved　one　buried　there　were　too　infirm　to　risk　the　throttled　walkways；　or　too　tender　to　bear　looking　at　such　vandalism。
　　It　had　not　always　been　so。　There　were　illustrious　and　influential　families　interred　behind　the　marble　fa？ades　of　the　Victorian　mausoleums。　Founder　fathers；　local　industrialists　and　dignitaries；　any　and　all　who　had　done　the　town　proud　by　their　efforts。　The　body　of　the　actress　Constantia　Lichfield　had　been　buried　here　（'Until　the　Day　Break　and　the　Shadows　Flee　Away'）；　though　her　grave　was　almost　unique　in　the　attention　some　secret　admirer　still　paid　to　it。
　　
　　Nobody　was　watching　that　night；　it　was　too　bitter　for　lovers。　Nobody　saw　Charlotte　Hancock　open　the　door　of　her　sepulchre；　with　the　beating　wings　of　pigeons　applauding　her　vigour　as　she　shambled　out　to　meet　the　moon。　Her　husband　Gerard　was　with　her；　he　less　fresh　than　she；　having　been　dead　thirteen　years　longer。　Joseph　Jardine；　en　famille；　was　not　far　behind　the　Hancocks；　as　was　Marriott　Fletcher；　and　Anne　Snell；　and　the　Peacock　Brothers；　the　list　went　on　and　on。　In　one　corner；　Alfred　Crawshaw　（Captain　in　the　17th　Lancers）；　was　helping　his　lovely　wife　Emma　from　the　rot　of　their　bed。　Everywhere　faces　pressed　at　the　cracks　of　the　tomb　lids…was　that　not　Kezia　Reynolds　with　her　child；　who'd　lived　just　a　day；　in　her　arms？　and　Martin　van　de　Linde　（the　Memory　of　the　Just　is　Blessed）　whose　wife　had　never　been　found；　Rosa　and　Selina　Goldfinch：　upstanding　women　both；　and　Thomas　Jerrey；　and…Too　many　names　to　mention。　Too　many　states　of　decay　to　describe。　Sufficient　to　say　they　rose：　their　burial　finery　fly　born；　their　faces　stripped　of　all　but　the　foundation　of　beauty。　Still　they　came；　swinging　open　the　back　gate　of　the　cemetery　and　threading　their　way　across　the　wasteland　towards　the　Elysium。　In　the　distance；　the　sound　of　traffic。　Above；　a　jet　roared　in　to　land。　One　of　the　Peacock　brothers；　staring　up　at　the　winking　giant　as　it　passed　over；　missed　his　footing　and　fell　on　his　face；　shattering　his　jaw。　They　picked　him　up　fondly；　and　escorted　him　on　his　way。　There　was　no　harm　done；　and　what　would　a　Resurrection　be　without　a　few　laughs？
　　
　　So　the　show　went　on。
　　〃If　music　be　the　food　of　love；　play　on；　Give　me　excess　of　it；　that；　surfeiting；　The　appetite　may　sicken　and　so　die…〃　Galloway　could　not　be　found　at　Curtain；　but　Ryan　had　instructions　from　Hammersmith　（through　the　ubiquitous　Mr　Lichfield）　to　take　the　show　up　with　or　without　the　Director。
　　〃He'll　be　upstairs；　in　the　Gods；〃　said　Lichfield。　〃In　fact；　I　think　I　can　see　him　from　here。〃
　　〃Is　he　smiling？〃　asked　Eddie。
　　〃Grinning　from　ear　to　ear。〃
　　〃Then　he's　pissed。〃　The　actors　laughed。　There　was　a　good　deal　of　laughter　that　night。　The　show　was　running　smoothly；　and　though　they　couldn't　see　the　audience　over　the　glare　of　the　newly…installed　footlights　they　could　feel　the　waves　of　love　and　delight　pouring　out　of　the　auditorium。　The　actors　were　ing　off　stage　elated。
　　〃They're　all　sitting　in　the　Gods；〃　said　Eddie；　〃but　your　friends；　Mr　Lichfield；　do　an　old　ham　good。　They're　quiet　of　course；　but　such　big　smiles　on　their　faces。〃　Act　I；　Scene　II；　and　the　first　entrance　of　Constantia　Lichfield　as　Viola　was　met　with　spontaneous　applause。　Such　applause。　Like　the　hollow　roll　of　snare　drums；　like　the　brittle　beating　of　a　thousand　sticks　on　a　thousand　stretched　skins。　Lavish；　wanton　applause。
　　And；　my　God；　she　rose　to　the　occasion。　She　began　the　play　as　she　meant　to　go　on；　giving　her　whole　heart　to　the　role；　not　needing　physicality　to　municate　the　depth　of　her　feelings；　but　speaking　the　poetry　with　such　intelligence　and　passion　the　merest　flutter　of　her　hand　was　worth　more　than　a　hundred　grander　gestures。　After　that　first　scene　her　every　entrance　was　met　with　the　same　applause　from　the　audience；　followed　by　almost　reverential　silence。
　　Backstage；　a　kind　of　buoyant　confidence　had　set　in。　The　whole　pany　sniffed　the　success；　a　success　which　had　been　snatched　miraculously　from　the　jaws　of　disaster。
　　There　again！　Applause！　Applause！
　　
　　In　his　office；　Hammersmith　dimly　registered　the　brittle　din　of　adulation　through　a　haze　of　booze。
　　He　was　in　the　act　of　pouring　his　eighth　drink　when　the　door　opened。　He　glanced　up　for　a　moment　and　registered　that　the　visitor　was　that　upstart　Calloway。　e　to　gloat　I　daresay；　Hammersmith　thought；　e　to　tell　me　how　wrong　I　was。
　　〃What　do　you　want？〃　The　punk　didn't　answer。　From　the　corner　of　his　eye　Hammersmith　had　an　impression　of　a　broad；　bright　smile　on　Galloway's　face。　Self…satisfied　half…wit；　ing　in　here　when　a　man　was　in　mourning。
　　〃I　suppose　you've　heard？〃　The　other　grunted。
　　〃She　died；〃　said　Hammersmith；　beginning　to　cry。　〃She　died　a　few　hours　ago；　without　regaining　consciousness。　I　haven't　told　the　actors。　Didn't　seem　worth　it。〃　Galloway　said　nothing　in　reply　to　this　news。　Didn't　the　bastard　care？　Couldn't　he　see　that　this　was　the　end　of　the　world？　The　woman　was　dead。　She'd　died　in　the　bowels　of　the　Elysium。　There'd　be　official　enquiries　made；　the　insurance　would　be　examined；　a　post…mortem；　an　inquest：　it　would　reveal　too　much。
　　He　drank　deeply　from　his　glass；　not　bothering　to　look　at　Galloway　again。
　　〃Your　career'll　take　a　dive　after　this；　son。　It　won't　just　be　me：　oh　dear　no。〃　Still　Galloway　kept　his　silence。
　　〃Don't　you　care？〃　Hammersmith　demanded。
　　There　was　silence　for　a　moment；　then　Galloway　responded。　〃I　don't　give　a　shit。〃
　　〃Jumped　up　little　stage…manager；　that's　all　you　are。　That's　all　any　of　you　fucking　directors　are！　One　good　review　and　you're　God's　gift　to　art。　Well　let　me　set　you　straight　about　that…〃　He　looked　at　Galloway；　his　eyes；　swimming　in　alcohol；　having　difficulty　focussing。　But　he　got　there　eventually。
　　Galloway；　the　dirty　bugger；　was　naked　from　the　waist　down。　He　was　wearing　his　shoes　and　his　socks；　but　no　trousers　or　briefs。　His　self…exposure　would　have　been　ical；　but　for　the　expression　on　his　face。　The　man　had　gone　mad：　his　eyes　were　rolling　around　uncontrollably；　saliva　and　snot　ran　from　mouth　and　nose；　his　tongue　hung　out　like　the　tongue　of　a　panting　dog。
　　Hammersmith　put　his　glass　down　on　his　blotting　pad；　and　looked　at　the　worst　part。　There　was　blood　on　Galloway's　shirt；　a　trail　of　it　which　led　up　his　neck　to　his　left　ear；　from　which　protruded　the　end　of　Diane　Duvall's　nail…file。　It　had　been　driven　deep　into　Galloway's　brain。　The　man　was　surely　dead。
　　But　he　stood；　spoke；　walked。
　　From　the　theatre；　there　rose　another　round　of　applause；　muted　by　distance。　It　wasn't　a　real　sound　somehow；　it　came　from　another　world；　a　place　where　emotions　ruled。　It　was　a　world　Hammersmith　had　always　felt　excluded　from。　He'd　never　been　much　of　an　actor；　though　God　knows　he'd　tried；　and　the　two　plays　he'd　penned　were；　he　knew；　execrable。　Book…keeping　was　his　forte；　and　he'd　used　it　to　stay　as　close　to　the　stage　as　he　could；　hating　his　own　lack　of　art　as　much　as　he　resented　that　skill　in　others。
　　The　applause　died；　and　as　if　taking　a　cue　from　an　unseen　prompter；　Calloway　came　at　him。　The　mask　he　wore　was　neither　ic　nor　tragic；　it　was　blood　and　laughter　together。　Cowering；　Hammersmith　was　cornered　behind　his　desk。　Galloway　leapt　on　to　it　（he