cb.booksofblood2-第14部分

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　'Not　at　the　moment；　if　you　don't　mind。'
　Burgess　kept　walking；　steady　step　upon　steady　step。　Keep　it　calm；　keep　it　rational。
　'Look　at　me；　please；'　Hell　cooed。
　'Later；　sir。'
　'I'm　only　asking　you　to　look　at　me。　A　little　respect　would　be　appreciated。'
　'I　will。　I　will；　really。　Later。'
　The　corridor　divided　here。　Burgess　took　the　left…hand　fork。　He　thought　the　symbolism　might　flatter。　It　was　a　cul…de…sac。
　Burgess　stood　still　facing　the　wall。　The　cold　air　was　in　his　marrow；　and　the　stumps　of　his　thumbs　were　really　giving　him　jip。　He　took　off　his　gloves　and　sucked；　hard。
　'Look　at　me。　Turn　and　look　at　me；'　said　the　courteous　voice。
　What　was　he　to　do　now？　Back　out　of　the　corridor　and　find　another　way　was　best；　presumably。　He'd　just　have　to　walk　around　and　around　in　circles　until　he'd　argued　his　point　sufficiently　well　for　his　pursuer　to　leave　him　be。
　As　he　stood；　juggling　the　alternatives　available　to　him；　he　felt　a　slight　ache　in　his　neck。
　'Look　at　me；'　the　voice　said　again。
　And　his　throat　was　constricted。　There　was；　strangely；　a　grinding　in　his　head；　the　sound　of　bone　rasping　bone。　It　felt　like　a　knife　was　lodged　in　the　base　of　his　skull。
　'Look　at　me；'　Hell　said　one　final　time；　and　Burgess'　head　turned。
　Not　his　body。　That　stayed　standing　facing　the　blank　wall　of　the　cul…de…sac。
　But　his　head　cranked　around　on　its　slender　axis；　dis…regarding　reason　and　anatomy。　Burgess　choked　as　his　gullet　twisted　on　itself　like　a　flesh　rope；　his　vertebrae　screwed　to　powder；　his　cartilage　to　fibre　mush。　His　eyes　bled；　his　ears　popped；　and　he　died；　looking　at　that　sunless；　unbegotten　face。
　'I　told　you　to　look　at　me；'　said　Hell；　and　went　its　bitter　way；　leaving　him　standing　there；　a　fine　paradox　for　the　democrats　to　find　when　they　came；　bustling　with　words；　into　the　Palace　of　Westminster。
　
　JACQUELINE　ESS：
　HER　WILL　AND　TESTEMENT
　
　MY　GOD；　SHE　thought；　this　can't　be　living。　Day　in；　day　out：　the　boredom；　the　drudgery；　the　frustration。
　My　Christ；　she　prayed；　let　me　out；　set　me　free；　crucify　me　if　you　must；　but　put　me　out　of　my　misery　
　In　lieu　of　his　euthanasian　benediction；　she　took　a　blade　from　Ben's　razor；　one　dull　day　in　late　March；　locked　herself　in　the　bathroom；　and　slit　her　wrists。
　Through　the　throbbing　in　her　ears；　she　faintly　heard　Ben　outside　the　bathroom　door。
　'Are　you　in　there；　darling？'
　'Go　away；'　she　thought　she　said。
　'I'm　back　early；　sweetheart。　The　traffic　was　light。'
　'Please　go　away。'
　The　effort　of　trying　to　speak　slid　her　off　the　toilet　seat　and　on　to　the　white…tiled　floor；　where　pools　of　her　blood　were　already　cooling。
　'Darling？'
　'Go。'
　'Darling。'
　'Away。'
　'Are　you　all　right？'
　Now　he　was　rattling　at　the　door；　the　rat。　Didn't　he　realize　she　couldn't　open　it；　wouldn't　open　it？
　'Answer　me；　Jackie。'
　She　groaned。　She　couldn't　stop　herself。　The　pain　wasn't　as　terrible　as　she'd　expected；　but　there　was　an　ugly　feeling；　as　though　she'd　been　kicked　in　the　head。　Still；　he　couldn't　catch　her　in　time；　not　now。　Not　even　if　he　broke　the　door　down。
　He　broke　the　door　down。
　She　looked　up　at　him　through　an　air　grown　so　thick　with　death　you　could　have　sliced　it。
　'Too　late；'　she　thought　she　said。
　But　it　wasn't。
　
　My　God；　she　thought；　this　can't　be　suicide。　I　haven't　died。　The　doctor　Ben　had　hired　for　her　was　too　perfectly　benign。　Only　the　best；　he'd　promised；　only　the　very　best　for　my　Jackie。
　'It's　nothing；'　the　doctor　reassured　her；　'that　we　can't　put　right　with　a　little　tinkering。'
　Why　doesn't　he　just　e　out　with　it？　she　thought。　He　doesn't　give　a　damn。　He　doesn't　know　what　it's　like。
　'I　deal　with　a　lot　of　these　women's　problems；'　he　confided；　fairly　oozing　a　practiced　passion。　'It's　got　to　epidemic　proportions　among　a　certain　age…bracket。'
　She　was　barely　thirty。　What　was　he　telling　her？　That　she　was　prematurely　menopausal？
　'Depression；　partial　or　total　withdrawal；　neuroses　of　every　shape　and　size。　You're　not　alone；　believe　me。'
　Oh　yes　I　am；　she　thought。　I'm　here　in　my　head；　on　my　own；　and　you　can't　know　what　it's　like。
　'We'll　have　you　right　in　two　shakes　of　a　lamb's　tail。'　I'm　a　lamb；　am　I？　Does　he　think　I'm　a　lamb？
　Musing；　he　glanced　up　at　his　framed　qualifications；　then　at　his　manicured　nails；　then　at　the　pens　on　his　desk　and　notepad。　But　he　didn't　look　at　Jacqueline。　Anywhere　but　at　Jacqueline。
　'I　know；'　he　was　saying　now；　'what　you've　been　through；　and　it's　been　traumatic。　Women　have　certain　needs。　If　they　go　unanswered　…'
　What　would　he　know　about　women's　needs？
　You're　not　a　woman；　she　thought。
　'What？'　he　said。
　Had　she　spoken？　She　shook　her　head：　denying　speech。　He　went　on；　finding　his　rhythm　once　more：　'I'm　not　going　to　put　you　through　interminable　therapy…sessions。　You　don't　want　that；　do　you？　You　want　a　little　reassurance；　and　you　want　something　to　help　you　sleep　at　nights。'
　He　was　irritating　her　badly　now。　His　condescension　was　so　profound　it　had　no　bottom。　All…knowing；　all…seeing　Father；　that　was　his　performance。　As　if　he　were　blessed　with　some　miraculous　insight　into　the　nature　of　a　woman's　soul。
　'Of　course；　I've　tried　therapy　courses　with　patients　in　the　past。　But　between　you　and　me　…'
　He　lightly　patted　her　hand。　Father's　palm　on　the　back　of　her　hand。　She　was　supposed　to　be　flattered；　reassured；　maybe　even　seduced。
　'…　between　you　and　me　it's　so　much　talk。　Endless　talk。　Frankly；　what　good　does　it　do？　We've　all　got　problems。　You　can't　talk　them　away；　can　you？'
　You're　not　a　woman。　You　don't　look　like　a　woman；　you　don't　feel　like　a　woman　…'Did　you　say　something？'　She　shook　her　head。
　'I　thought　you　said　something。　Please　feel　free　to　be　honest　with　me。'
　She　didn't　reply；　and　he　seemed　to　tire　of　pretending　intimacy。　He　stood　up　and　went　to　the　window。
　'I　think　the　best　thing　for　you　…'
　He　stood　against　the　light：　darkening　the　room；　obs…curing　the　view　of　the　cherry　trees　on　the　lawn　through　the　window。　She　stared　at　his　wide　shoulders；　at　his　narrow　hips。　A　fine　figure　of　a　man；　as　Ben　would　have　called　him。　No　child…bearer　he。　Made　to　remake　the　world；　a　body　like　that。　If　not　the　world；　remaking　minds　would　have　to　do。
　'I　think　the　best　thing　for　you　…'
　What　did　he　know；　with　his　hips；　with　his　shoulders？　He　was　too　much　a　man　to　understand　anything　of　her。
　'I　think　the　best　thing　for　you　would　be　a　course　of　sedatives　…'
　Now　her　eyes　were　on　his　waist。
　'…　and　a　holiday。'
　Her　mind　had　focused　now　on　the　body　beneath　the　veneer　of　his　clothes。　The　muscle；　bone　and　blood　beneath　the　elastic　skin。　She　pictured　it　from　all　sides；　sizing　it　up；　judging　its　powers　of　resistance；　then　closing　on　it。　She　thought：
　Be　a　woman。
　Simply；　as　she　thought　that　preposterous　idea；　it　began　to　take　shape。　Not　a　fairy…tale　transformation；　unfortunately；　his　flesh　resisted　such　magic。　She　willed　his　manly　chest　into　making　breasts　of　itself　and　it　began　to　swell　most　fetchingly；　until　the　skin　burst　and　his　sternum　flew　apart。
　
　His　pelvis；　teased　to　breaking　point；　fractured　at　its　centre；　unbalanced；　he　toppled　over　on　to　his　desk　and　from　there　stared　up　at　her；　his　face　yellow　with　shock。　He　licked　his　lips；　over　and　over　again；　to　find　some　wetness　to　talk　with。　His　mouth　was　dry：　his　words　were　still…born。　It　was　from　between　his　legs　that　all　the　noise　was　ing；　the　splashing　of　his　blood；　the　thud　of　his　bowel　on　the　carpet。
　She　screamed　at　the　absurd　monstrosity　she　had　made；　and　withdrew　to　the　far　corner　of　the　room；　where　she　was　sick　in　the　pot　of　the　rubber　plant。
　My　God；　she　thought；　this　can't　be　murder。　I　didn't　so　much　as　touch　him。
　
　What　Jacqueline　had　done　that　afternoon；　she　kept　to　herself。　No　sense　in　giving　people　sleepless　nights；　thinking　about　such　peculiar　talent。
　The　police　were　very　kind。　They　produced　any　number　of　explanations　for　the　sudden　departure　of　Dr　Blandish；　though　none　quite　described　how　his　chest　had　erupted　in　that　extraordinary　fashion；　making　two　handsome　（if　hairy）　domes　of　his　pectorals。
　It　was　assumed　that　some　unknown　psychotic；　strong　in　his　insanity；　had　broken　in；　done　the　deed　with　hands；　hammers　and　saws；　and　exited；　locking　the　innocent　Jacqueline　Ess　in　an　appalled　silence　no　interrogation　could　hope　to　penetrate。
　Person　or　persons　unknown　had　clearly　dispatched　the　doctor　to　where　neither　sedatives　nor　therapy　could　help　him。
　
　She　almost　forgot　for　a　while。　But　as　the　months　passed　it　came　back　to　her　by　degrees；　like　a　memory　of　a　secret　adultery。　It　teased　her　with　its　forbidden　delights。　She　forgot　the　nausea；　and　remembered　the　power。　She　forgot　sordidity；　and　remembered　strength。　She　forgot　the　guilt　that　had　seized　her　afterwards　and　longed；　longed　to　do　it　again。
　Only　better。
　
　'Jacqueline。'
　Is　this　my　husband；　she　thought；　actually　calling　me　by　my　name？　Usually　it　was　Jackie；　or　Jack；　or　nothing　at　all。
　'Jacqueline。'
　He　was　looking　at　her　with　those　big　baby　blues　of　his；　like　the　college…boy　she'd　loved　at　first　sight。　But　his　mouth　was　harder　now；　and　his　kisses　tasted　like　stale　bread。
　'Jacqueline。'
　'Yes。'
　'I've　got　something　I　want　to　speak　to　you　about。'
　A　conversation？　she　thought；　it　must　be　a　public　holiday。
　'I　don't　know　how　to　tell　y