cb.booksofblood2-第12部分

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　Cameron's　body　was　pletely　incinerated　by　the　time　the　bicycle　careered　off　the　road　and　crashed　through　the　tailor's　shop　window；　where　it　lay　like　a　dummy；　face　down　amongst　the　ashen　suits。　He；　too；　had　looked　back。
　
　The　crowds　at　Trafalgar　Square　were　a　seething　mass　of　enthusiasm。　Cheers；　tears　and　flags。　It　was　as　though　this　little　race　had　bee　something　special　for　these　people：
　a　ritual　the　significance　of　which　they　could　not　know。　Yet　somewhere　in　them　they　understood　the　day　was　laden　with　sulphur；　they　sensed　their　lives　stood　on　tiptoe　to　reach　heaven。　Especially　the　children。　They　ran　along　the　route；　shouting　incoherent　blessings；　their　faces　squeezed　up　with　their　fears。　Some　called　his　name。
　'Joel！　Joel！'
　Or　did　he　imagine　that？　Had　he　imagined；　too；　the　prayer　from　Loyer's　lips；　and　the　signs　in　the　radiant　faces　of　the　babies　held　high　to　watch　the　runners　pass？
　As　they　turned　into　Whitehall　Frank　McCloud　glanced　confidentially　over　his　shoulder　and　Hell　took　him。
　It　was　sudden：　it　was　simple。
　He　stumbled；　an　icy　hand　in　his　chest　crushing　the　life　out　of　him。　Joel　slowed　as　he　approached　the　man。　His　face　was　purple：　his　lips　foamy。
　'McCloud；'　he　said；　and　stopped　to　stare　in　his　great　rival's　thin　face。
　McCloud　looked　up　at　him　from　behind　a　veil　of　smoke　that　had　turned　his　grey　eyes　ochre。　Joel　reached　down　to　help　him。
　'Don't　touch　me；'　McCloud　growled。　The　filament　vessels　in　his　eyes　bulged　and　bled。
　'Cramp？'　asked　Joel。　'Is　it　cramp？'
　'Run；　you　bastard；　run；'　McCloud　was　saying　at　him；　as　the　hand　in　his　innards　seized　his　life　out。　He　was　oozing
　
　blood　through　the　pores　on　his　face　now；　weeping　red　tears。　'Run。　And　don't　look　back。　For　Christ's　sake；　don't　look　back。'
　'What　is　it？'
　'Run　for　your　life！'
　The　words　weren't　requests　but　imperatives。
　Run。
　Not　for　gold　or　glory。　Just　to　live。
　Joel　glanced　up；　suddenly　aware　that　there　was　some　huge…headed　thing　at　his　back；　cold　breath　on　his　neck。
　He　picked　up　his　heels　and　ran。
　'…　Well；　things　aren't　going　so　well　for　the　runners　here；　Jim。　After　Loyer　going　down　so　sensationally；　now　Frank　McCloud　has　stumbled　too。　I've　never　seen　anything　quite　like　it。　But　he　seems　to　have　had　a　few　words　with　Joel　Jones　as　he　ran　past；　so　he　must　be　OK。'
　McCloud　was　dead　by　the　time　they　put　him　in　the　ambulance；　and　putrefied　by　the　following　morning。
　Joel　ran。　Jesus；　did　he　run。　The　sun　had　bee　ferocious　in　his　face；　washing　the　colour　out　of　the　cheering　crowds；　out　of　the　faces；　out　of　the　flags。　Everything　was　one　sheet　of　noise；　drained　of　humanity。
　Joel　knew　the　feeling　that　was　ing　over　him；　the　sense　of　dislocation　that　acpanied　fatigue　and　over…oxygenation。　He　was　running　in　a　bubble　of　his　own　consciousness；　thinking；　sweating；　suffering　by　himself；　for　himself；　in　the　name　of　himself。
　And　it　wasn't　so　bad；　this　being　alone。　Songs　began　to　fill　his　head：　snatches　of　hymns；　sweet　phrases　from　love　songs；　dirty　rhymes。　His　self　idled；　and　his　dream…mind；　unnamed　and　fearless；　took　over。
　Ahead；　washed　by　the　same　white　rain　of　light；　was　Voight。　That　was　the　enemy；　that　was　the　thing　to　be　surpassed。　Voight；　with　his　shining　crucifix　rocking　in　the　sun。　He　could　do　it；　as　long　as　he　didn't　look；　as　long　as　he　didn't　look　…Behind　him。
　
　Burgess　opened　the　door　of　the　Mercedes　and　climbed　in。　Time　had　been　wasted：　valuable　time。　He　should　be　at　the　Houses　of　Parliament；　at　the　finishing　line；　ready　to　wele　the　runners　home。　There　was　a　scene　to　play；　in　which　he　would　pretend　the　mild　and　smiling　face　of　democracy。　And　tomorrow？　Not　so　mild。
　His　hands　were　clammy　with　excitement；　and　his　pin…stripe　suit　smelt　of　the　goat…skin　coat　he　was　obliged　to　wear　in　the　room。　Still；　nobody　would　notice；　and　even　if　they　did　what　English…man　would　be　so　impolite　to　mention　that　he　smelt　goaty？
　He　hated　the　Lower　Chamber；　the　perpetual　ice；　that　damn　yawning　hole　with　its　distant　sound　of　loss。　But　all　that　was　over　now。　He'd　made　his　oblations；　he'd　shown　his　utter　and　ceaseless　adoration　of　the　pit；　now　it　was　time　to　reap　the　rewards。
　As　they　drove；　he　thought　of　his　many　sacrifices　to　ambition。　At　first；　minor　stuff：　kittens　and　cockerels。　Later；　he　was　to　discover　how　ridiculous　they　thought　such　gestures　were。　But　at　the　beginning　he'd　been　innocent：
　not　knowing　what　to　give　or　how　to　give　it。　They　began　to　make　their　requirements　clear　as　the　years　went　by；　and　he；　in　time；　learnt　to　practice　the　etiquette　of　selling　his　soul。　His　self　mortifications　were　studiously　planned　and　immaculately　staged；　though　they　had　left　him　without　nipples　or　the　hope　of　children。　It　was　worth　the　pain；　though：　the　power　came　to　him　by　degrees。　A　triple　first　at　Oxford；　a　wife　endowed　beyond　the　dreams　of　priapism；　　a　seat　in　Parliament；　and　soon；　soon　enough；　the　country　itself。
　The　cauterized　stumps　of　his　thumbs　ached；　as　they　often　did　when　he　was　nervous。　Idly；　he　sucked　on　one。
　
　'…　Well　we're　now　in　the　closing　stages　of　what　really　has　been　one　hell　of　a　race；　eh；　Jim？'
　'Oh　yes；　it's　really　been　a　revelation；　hasn't　it？　Voight　is　really　the　outsider　of　the　field；　and　here　he　is　streaking　away　from　the　petition　without　much　effort。　Of　course；　Jones　made　the　unselfish　gesture　of　checking　with　Frank　McCloud　that　he　was　indeed　all　right　after　that　bad　fall　of　his；　and　that　put　him　behind。'
　'It's　lost　the　race　for　Jones　really；　hasn't　it？'
　'I　think　that's　right。　I　think　it　lost　the　race　for　him。'
　'This　is　a　charity　race；　of　course。'
　'Absolutely。　And　in　a　situation　like　this　it's　not　whether　you　win　or　lose　…'
　'It's　how　you　play　the　game。'
　'Right。'
　'Right。'
　'Well　they're　both　in　sight　of　the　Houses　of　Parliament　now　as　they　e　round　the　bend　of　Whitehall。　And　the　crowds　are　cheering　their　boy　on；　but　I　really　think　it's　a　lost　cause　…'
　'Mind　you；　he　brought　something　special　out　of　the　bag　in　Sweden。'
　'He　did。　He　did。'
　'Maybe　he'll　do　it　again。'
　
　Joel　ran；　and　the　gap　between　himself　and　Voight　was　beginning　to　close。　He　concentrated　on　the　man's　back；　his　eyes　boring　into　his　shirt；　learning　his　rhythm；　looking　for　weaknesses。
　There　was　a　slowing　there。　The　man　was　not　as　fast　as　he　had　been。　An　unevenness　had　crept　into　his　stride；　a　sure　sign　of　fatigue。
　He　could　take　him。　With　courage；　he　could　take　him。
　And　Kinderman。　He'd　forgotten　about　Kinderman。　Without　thinking；　Joel　glanced　over　his　shoulder　and　looked　behind　him。
　Kinderman　was　way　back；　still　keeping　his　steady　marathon　runner's　pace　unchanged。　But　there　was　some…thing　else　behind　Joel：　another　runner；　almost　on　his　heels；　ghostly；　vast。
　He　averted　his　eyes　and　stared　ahead；　cursing　his　stupidity。
　He　was　gaining　on　Voight　with　every　pace。　The　man　was　really　running　out　of　steam；　quite　clearly。　Joel　knew　he　could　take　him　for　certain；　if　he　worked　at　it。　Forget　his　pursuer；　whatever　it　was；　forget　everything　except　overtaking　Voight。
　But　the　sight　at　his　back　wouldn't　leave　his　head。
　'Don't　look　back'：　McCloud's　words。　Too　late；　he'd　done　it。　Better　to　know　then　who　this　phantom　was。
　He　looked　again。
　At　first　he　saw　nothing；　just　Kinderman　jogging　along。　And　then　the　ghost　runner　appeared　once　more　and　he　knew　what　had　brought　McCloud　and　Loyer　down。
　It　was　no　runner；　living　or　dead。　It　wasn't　even　human。　A　smoky　body；　and　yawning　darkness　for　its　head；　it　was　Hell　itself　that　was　pressing　on　him。
　'Don't　look　back。'
　Its　mouth；　if　mouth　it　was；　was　open。　Breath　so　cold　it　made　Joel　gasp　swirled　around　him。　That　was　why　Loyer　had　muttered　prayers　as　he　ran。　Much　good　it　had　done　him；　death　had　e　anyway。
　Joel　looked　away；　not　caring　to　see　Hell　so　close；　trying　to　ignore　the　sudden　weakness　in　his　knees。
　Now　Voight；　too；　was　glancing　behind　him。　The　look　on　his　face　was　dark　and　uneasy：　and　Joel　knew　somehow　that　he　belonged　to　Hell；　that　the　shadow　behind　him　was　Voight's　master。
　'Voight。　Voight。　Voight。　Voight…'　Joel　expelled　the　word　with　every　stride。
　Voight　heard　his　name　being　spoken。
　'Black　bastard；'　he　said　aloud。
　Joel's　stride　lengthened　a　little。　He　was　within　two　metres　of　Hell's　runner。
　'Look。。　。　Behind。　。　。　You；'　said　Voight。
　'I　see　it。'
　'It's。　。　。　e。　。　。　for。　。　。　you。'
　The　words　were　mere　melodrama：　two…dimensional。　He　was　master　of　his　body　wasn't　he？　And　he　was　not　afraid　of　darkness；　he　was　painted　in　it。　Wasn't　that　what　made　him　less　than　human　as　far　as　so　many　people　were　concerned？　Or　more；　more　than　human；　bloodier；　sweatier；　fleshier。　More　arm；　more　leg；　more　head。　More　strength；　more　appetite。　What　could　Hell　do？　Eat　him？　He'd　taste　foul　on　the　palate。　Freeze　him？　He　was　too　hot…blooded；　too　fast；　too　living。
　Nothing　would　take　him；　he　was　a　barbarian　with　the　manners　of　a　gentleman。
　Neither　night　nor　day　entirely。
　Voight　was　suffering：　his　pain　was　in　his　torn　breath；　in　the　gangling　rags　of　his　stride。　They　were　just　fifty　metres　from　the　steps　and　the　finishing　line；　but　Voight's　lead　was　being　steadily　eroded；　each　step　brought　the　runners　closer。
　
　Then　the　bargains　began。
　'Listen。　…。　to。　。　。　me。'
　'What　are　you？'
　'Power。　。　。　I'll　get　you　power。　。　。　just。　。　。　let。　。