cb.booksofblood2-第10部分

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en　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　lighter　flickered　as　an　icy　air　blew　it　out。
　'Shit；'　said　Cameron　as　he　was　plunged　into　darkness。　Whether　the　word　alerted　the　trio　outside；　or　whether　God　deserted　him　totally　at　that　moment　and　invited　them　to　open　the　door；　he　would　never　know。　But　as　the　door　swung　wide　it　pushed　Cameron　off　his　feet。　Too　numb　and　too　frozen　to　prevent　his　fall　he　collapsed　to　the　ice　floor　as　the　smell　of　the　goat　wafted　into　the　room。
　
　Cameron　half　turned。　Voight's　double　was　at　the　door；　as　was　the　chauffeur；　and　the　third　man　in　the　Mercedes。　He　wore　a　coat　apparently　made　of　several　goat…skins。　The　hooves　and　the　horns　still　hung　from　it。　The　blood　on　its　fur　was　brown　and　gummy。
　'What　are　you　doing　here；　Mr　Cameron？'　asked　the　goat…coated　man。
　Cameron　could　barely　speak。　The　only　feeling　left　in　his　head　was　a　pin…point　of　agony　in　the　middle　of　his　forehead。
　'What　the　hell　is　going　on？'　he　said；　through　lips　almost　too　frozen　to　move。
　'Precisely　that；　Mr　Cameron；'　the　man　replied。　'Hell　is　going　on。'
　
　As　they　ran　past　St　Mary…le…Strand；　Loyer　glanced　behind　him；　and　stumbled。　Joel；　a　full　three　metres　behind　the　leaders；　knew　the　man　was　giving　up。　So　quickly　too；　there　was　something　amiss。　He　slackened　his　pace；　letting　McCloud　and　Voight　pass　him。　No　great　hurry。　Kinderman　was　quite　a　way　behind；　unable　to　pete　with　these　fast　boys。　He　was　the　tortoise　in　this　race；　for　sure。　Loyer　was　overtaken　by　McCloud；　then　Voight；　and　finally　Jones　and　Kinderman。　His　breath　had　suddenly　deserted　him；　and　his　legs　felt　like　lead。　Worse；　he　was　seeing　the　tarmac　under　his　running　shoes　creaking　and　cracking；　and　fingers；　like　loveless　children；　seeking　up　out　of　the　ground　to　touch　him。　Nobody　else　was　seeing　them；　it　seemed。　The　crowds　just　roared　on；　while　these　illusory　hands　broke　out　of　their　tarmac　graves　and　secured　a　hold　on　him。　He　collapsed　into　their　dead　arms　exhausted；　his　youth　broken　and　his　strength　spent。　The　enquiring　fingers　of　the　dead　continued　to　pluck　at　him；　long　after　the　doct