cb.booksofblood2-第2部分
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an its own heartbeat。'
One of Quaid's favourite baiting…victims was another Philosophy and Eng。 Lit。 student； Cheryl Fromm。 She would rise to his more outrageous remarks like fish to rain； and while the two of them took knives to each other's arguments Steve would sit back and watch the spectacle。 Cheryl was； in Quaid's phrase； a pathological optimist。
'And you're full of shit；' she'd say when the debate had warmed up a little。 'So who cares if you're afraid of your own shadow？ I'm not。 I feel fine。'
She certainly looked it。 Cheryl Fromm was wet dream material； but too bright for anyone to try making a move on her。
'We all taste dread once in a while；' Quaid would reply to her； and his milky eyes would study her face intently； watching for her reaction； trying； Steve knew； to find a flaw in her conviction。
'I don't。'
'No fears？ No nightmares？'
'No way。 I've got a good family； don't have any skeletons in my closet。 I don't even eat meat； so I don't feel bad when I drive past a slaughterhouse。 I don't have any shit to put on show。 Does that mean I'm not real？'
'It means；' Quaid's eyes were snake…slits； 'it means your confidence has something big to cover。'
'Back to nightmares。'
'Big nightmares。'
'Be specific： define your terms。'
'I can't tell you what you fear。'
'Tell me what you fear then。'
Quaid hesitated。 'Finally；' he said； 'it's beyond analysis。'
'Beyond analysis； my ass！'
That brought an involuntary smile to Steve's lips。 Cheryl's ass was indeed beyond analysis。 The only response was to kneel down and worship。
Quaid was back on his soap…box。
'What I fear is personal to me。 It makes no sense in a larger context。 The signs of my dread； the images my brain uses； if you like； to illustrate my fear； those signs are mild stuff by parison with the real honor that's at the root of my personality。'
'I've got images；' said Steve。 'Pictures from childhood that make me think of …' He stopped； regretting this confessional already。
'What？' said Cheryl。 'You mean things to do with bad experiences？ Falling off your bike； or something like that？'
'Perhaps；' Steve said。 'I find myself； sometimes； think…ing of those pictures。 Not deliberately； just when my concentration's idling。 It's almost as though my mind went to them automatically。'
Quaid gave a little grunt of satisfaction。 'Precisely；' he said。
'Freud writes on that；' said Cheryl。
'What？'
'Freud；' Cheryl repeated； this time making a perf…ormance of it； as though she were speaking to a child。 'Sigmund Freud： you may have heard of him。'
Quaid's lip curled with unrestrained contempt。 'Mother fixations don't answer the problem。 The real terrors in me； in all of us； are pre…personality。 Dread's there before we have any notion of ourselves as individuals。 The thumb…nail； curled up on itself in the womb； feels fear。'
'You remember do you？' said Cheryl。
'Maybe；' Quaid replied； deadly serious。
'The womb？'
Quaid gave a sort of half…smile。 Steve thought the smile said： 'I have knowledge you don't。'
It was a weird； unpleasant smile； one Steve wanted to wash off his eyes。
'You're a liar；' said Cheryl； getting up from her seat； and looking down her nose at Quaid。
'Perhaps I am；' he said； suddenly the perfect gentleman。
After that the debates stopped。
No more talking about nightmares； no more debating the things that go bump in the night。 Steve saw Quaid irregularly for the next month； and when he did Quaid was invariably in the pany of Cheryl Fromm。 Quaid was polite with her； even deferential。 He no longer wore his leather jacket； because she hated the smell of dead animal matter。 This sudden change in their relationship confounded Stephen； but he put it down to his primitive understanding of sexual matters。 He wasn't a virgin； but women were still a mystery to him： contradictory and puzzling。
He was also jealous； though he wouldn't entirely admit that to himself。 He resented the fact that the wet dream genius was taking up so much of Quaid's time。
There was another feeling； a curious sense he had that Quaid was courting Cheryl for his own strange reasons。 Sex was not Quaid's motive； he felt sure。 Nor was it respect for Cheryl's intelligence that made him so attentive。 No； he was cornering her somehow； that was Steve's instinct。 Cheryl Fromm was being rounded up for the kill。
Then； after a month； Quaid let a remark about Cheryl drop in conversation。
'She's a vegetarian；' he said。
'Cheryl？'
'Of course； Cheryl。'
'I know。 She mentioned it before。'
'Yes； but it isn't a fad with her。 She's passionate about it。 Can't even bear to look in a butcher's window。 She won't touch meat； smell meat …'
'Oh。' Steve was stumped。 Where was this leading？
'Dread； Steve。'
'Of meat？'
'The signs are different from person to person。 She fears meat。 She says she's so healthy； so balanced。 Shit！ I'll find
'Find what？'
'The fear； Steve。'
'You're not going to 。 。 。？' Steve didn't know how to voice his anxiety without sounding accusatory。
'Harm her？' said Quaid。 'No； I'm not going to harm her in any way。 Any damage done to her will be strictly self…inflicted。'
Quaid was staring at him almost hypnotically。 'It's about time we learnt to trust one another；' Quaid went on。 He leaned closer。 'Between the two of us …'
'Listen； I don't think I want to hear。'
'We have to touch the beast； Stephen。'
'Damn the beast！ I don't want to hear！'
Steve got up； as much to break the oppression of Quaid's stare as to finish the conversation。
'We're friends； Stephen。'
'Yes。。。'
'Then respect that。'
〃What？'
'Silence。 Not a word。'
Steve nodded。 That wasn't a difficult promise to keep。 There was nobody he could tell his anxieties to without being laughed at。
Quaid looked satisfied。 He hurried away； leaving Steve feeling as though he had unwillingly joined some secret society； for what purpose he couldn't begin to tell。 Quaid had made a pact with him and it was unnerving。
For the next week he cut all his lectures and most of his seminars。 Notes went un…copied； books unread； essays unwritten。 On the two occasions he actually went into the university building he crept around like a cautious mouse； praying he wouldn't collide with Quaid。
He needn't have feared。 The one occasion he did see Quaid's stooping shoulders across the quadrangle he was involved in a smiling exchange with Cheryl Fromm。 She laughed； musically； her pleasure echoing off the wall of the History Department。 The jealousy had left Steve altogether。 He wouldn't have been paid to be so near to Quaid； so intimate with him。
The time he spent alone； away from the bustle of lectures and overfull corridors； gave Steve's mind time to idle。 His thoughts returned； like tongue to tooth； like fingernail to scab； to his fears。
And so to his childhood。
At the age of six； Steve had been struck by a car。 The injuries were not particularly bad； but concussion left him partially deaf。 It was a profoundly distressing experience for him； not understanding why he was suddenly cut off from the world。 It was an inexplicable torment； and the child assumed it was eternal。
One moment his life had been real； full of shouts and laughter。 The next he was cut off from it； and the external world became an aquarium； full of gaping fish with grotesque smiles。 Worse still； there were times when he suffered what the doctors called tinnitus； a roaring or ringing sound in the ears。 His head would fill with the most outlandish noises； whoops and whistlings； that played like sound…effects to the flailings of the outside world。 At those times his stomach would churn； and a band of iron would be wrapped around his forehead； crushing his thoughts into fragments； dissociating head from hand； intention from practice。 He would be swept away in a tide of panic； pletely unable to make sense of the world while his head sang and rattled。
But at night came the worst terrors。 He would wake； sometimes； in what had been （before the accident） the reassuring womb of his bedroom； to find the ringing had begun in his sleep。
His eyes would jerk open。 His body would be wet with sweat。 His mind would be filled with the most raucous din； which he was locked in with； beyond hope of reprieve。 Nothing could silence his head； and nothing； it seemed； could bring the world； the speaking； laughing； crying world back to him。
He was alone。
That was the beginning； middle and end of the dread。 He was absolutely alone with his cacophony。 Locked in this house； in this room； in this body； in this head； a prisoner of deaf； blind flesh。
It was almost unbearable。 In the night the boy would sometimes cry out； not knowing he was making any sound； and the fish who had been his parents would turn on the light and e to try and help him； bending over his bed making faces； their soundless mouths forming ugly shapes in their attempts to help。 Their touches would calm him at last； with time his mother learned the trick of soothing away the panic that swept over him。
A week before his seventh birthday his hearing returned； not perfectly； but well enough for it to seem like a miracle。 The world snapped back into focus； and life began afresh。
It took several mont
