gns.theplutopact-第14节

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　　Richard　leapt　to　his　feet；　fists　clenched　and　raised。　Coyle　realised　his　tactlessness。　His　feelings　had　e　to　the　boil。　Now　it　was　going　to　be　tough。　Well；　he　would　just　have　to　prove　that　he　was　the　tougher　of　the　two…physically；　if　necessary。
　　
　　'Don't　you　talk　to　me　like　that　in　my　own　house。　I　merely　came　in　here　to　ask　you　a　civil　question。'
　　
　　'Well；　it　doesn't　seem　that　bloody　way　to　me。　If　I　don't　want　to　go　to　work；　I　won't。　Don't　worry；　I　won't　be　sponging　for　cash。'
　　
　　'You　haven't　been　to　work　because　you　were　laid　off。　Sent　home。'
　　
　　'If　you　know　all　the　answers；　why　bother　asking　me？'
　　
　　'I　want　to　know　why　you　were　laid　off。'
　　
　　'Ah；　I　get　it。　Using　me；　eh？　You　need　a　spy　inside　Oxide　Reprocessing。　Well；　you　do　your　own　dirty　work。　Ask　Dyne？　Maybe　he'll　tell　you。　Or　see　if　you　can　get　one　of　my　workmates　to　part　with　the　information　for　a　tenner。　Me；　I　don't　take　bribes。'
　　
　　Coyle　could　contain　himself　no　longer。　Every　nerve　in　his　body　shook；　his　vision　was　momentarily　blurred。　A　split…second　memory　crossed　his　brain；　from　three　years　ago。　His　son's　fist　smashing　into　his　jaw。　This　same　room。　The　posters　。。。　all　this　same　teenage　crap　spinning　around　him。
　　
　　His　reaction；　his　provocation；　powered　the　blow　almost　before　he　realised　it。　Knuckles　met　unresisting　bone　and　flesh；　just　below　the　right　eye。　For　perhaps　a　fraction　of　a　second　Richard　was　airborne；　his　calves　catching　on　the　side　of　the　bed　and　propelling　him　backwards　in　a　half…somersault。　A　soft　landing　except　for　the　jarring　of　the　back　of　his　skull　as　it　struck　the　headboard。
　　
　　Coyle　fell　forward；　checked　himself；　and　retained　his　balance。　Remorse　threatened　to　swamp　his　anger。　Forcefully　he　rejected　it。　It　was　too　late　to　turn　back　now。　He　had　waited　three　years　to　strike　that　blow；　a　father's　revenge　against　a　son。　The　score　was　even　now。　All　he　wanted　were　some　answers　to　his　questions；　and　he　had　been　forced　to　fight　for　them。
　　
　　'You　bastard！'
　　
　　Richard　rubbed　his　face　just　below　his　eye。　He　wondered　if　the　cheekbone　was　broken。　Already　the　swelling　was　beginning。　'You　bastard！'
　　
　　'Yes；　I'm　a　bastard；'　Coyle　tried　to　hide　his　regret　in　a　flood　of　bitterness。　'Remember　the　time　you　did　that　to　me？'
　　
　　An　uneasy　silence。　Heavy　breathing。　Coyle　heard　hesitant　footsteps　on　the　stairs。　They　receded。　Jane　or　Sarah；　whichever　of　them　it　was；　had　decided　not　to　intervene。
　　
　　'Why　were　you　laid　off？　There's　plenty　of　work　up　there。'
　　
　　'How　the　hell　should　I　know？'
　　
　　'Every　worker　in　any　industry　is　informed　why　he's　been　laid　off。　The　bloody　unions　see　to　that。　Maybe　this　time　they're　content　to　hush　it　up。'
　　
　　'Just　a　technical　hitch。'　There　was　a　faint　note　of　concession　in　Richard's　voice。　His　eye　was　swelling　up；　and　already　the　bruise　was　fully　evident。
　　
　　'What　sort　of　technical　hitch？　A　breakdown　in　machinery？　There's　certainly　no　shortage　of　waste　being　brought　in　for　disposal。'
　　
　　'How　the　hell　should　I　know？　They　told　us　it　might　be　a　couple　of　days；　even　a　week　or　a　fortnight。　Report　back　Monday。'
　　
　　'You　went　through　the　decontamination　chamber　before　leaving？'
　　
　　'Everybody　does；　every　day。　It's　a　rule。　Your　protective　clothing　is　removed；　and　you're　given　a　new　suit　the　next　day。'
　　
　　Go…operation…and　it　had　taken　a　straight　left　to　bring　it　about。　Coyle　knew　that　his　son　would　be　unable　to　tell　him　any　more；　even　had　he　wished　to。
　　
　　'I'm　。　。　。　sorry　。　。　。　about　that；'　the　newspaperman　turned　back　to　the　door；　his　eyes　resting　on　the　floor。
　　
　　'Just　leave　me　be。'
　　
　　The　apology　had　been　rejected。　That　made　him　feel　a　thousand　times　worse。　Slowly　he　descended　the　stairs。　Jane　and　Sarah　were　standing　together　in　the　living…room　with　strained　expressions；　their　eyes　boring　into　him。　Explanations　would　be　futile。　They　had　undoubtedly　heard　it　all。
　　
　　Sarah　was　obviously　on　the　point　of　going　out。　She　was　wearing　a　brand…new　sheepskin　coat。　Brandon；　the　best　quality；　with　leather…lined　trims。　Coyle　hated　it。　He　hated　Houston。　Maybe　one　day　he'd　hit　him；　too；　only　when　that　happened　he　would　have　no　regrets。
　　
　　'You　bloody　bully。'
　　
　　Coyle　winced　at　his　daughter's　words；　but　did　not　reply。　There　was　nothing　more　to　be　said。　He　was　relieved　when　she　turned　her　back　abruptly　on　him；　and　went　out；　banging　the　front　door　behind　her。
　　
　　'Did　you　have　to　hit　him？'　A　mother's　instinct　to　protect　her　son。　'Sarah　hates　you　for　it。　She's　hated　you　for　some　time　now。'
　　
　　'I　know。'
　　
　　Bob　Coyle　attempted　to　take　her　in　his　arms；　but　she　pushed　him　away。
　　
　　'Just　look　at　what　you've　done　to　this　household。　Just　when　things　were　beginning　to　e　right　between　us。'
　　
　　That　made　him　think　of　Anne。　Sooner　or　later　he　would　have　to　tell　his　wife。　Maybe　this　new　family　rift　would　make　it　all　the　easier。　He　threw　himself　on　to　the　settee；　and　picked　up　the　Sun。　Some　guy　owning　a　pack　of　vicious　dogs　had　refused　to　have　them　destroyed。　It　had　made　the　headlines。　Oxide　reprocessing　had　virtually　disappeared　from　the　papers　these　days。　Even　his　own…but　that　wasn't　his　fault。　He　turned　the　pages。　A　bird　with　boobs　which　reminded　him　of　Anne。　He　couldn't　concentrate。　Tomorrow　there　would　be　an　awful　lot　to　do。　Somehow；　something　had　to　be　brought　to　a　head。　But　how？
　　
　　He　regretted　that　he　wasn't　seeing　Anne　that　night。　She　would　have　understood。　Jane　had　promised　her　support　that　night　she　had　taken　him；　but　it　had　not　materialised…not　that　he　was　aware　of；　anyway。　His　whole　family　was　opposed　to　him。　That　resulted　from　a　culmination　of　events　totally　beyond　his　control。　Perhaps　he　had　got　it　all　wrong　。　。　。　perhaps　he　was　under　the　illusion　that　he　was　the　only　soldier　in　the　whole　regiment　who　was　marching　in　step。　It　was　a　possibility…but　he　didn't　think　so。
　　
　　He　made　a　mental　note　of　tomorrow's　phone…calls　in　order　of　priority。　Dyne；　a　rebuff；　even　if　he　succeeded　in　getting　through　to　him。　Eric　Stafford；　local　representative　of　British　Nuclear　Fuels；　honest　but　unsure　of　himself；　he　relied　too　much　on　Dyne。　Tyler；　of　Britain's　Hazardous　Materials　Group；　a　man　with　a　conscience。　Possibly　he　could　be　persuaded　to　give　some　hint；　but　not　over　the　phone。　Kent。　The　thought　of　speaking　to　his　former　colleague　made　him　feel　a　lot　better。　Kent　was　a　born　'stirrer'；　a　sensationalist；　who　overdid　it　at　times；　cost　his　paper　a　packet　on　one　occasion；　an　article　concerning　a　cabinet　minister。　They　hadn't　sacked　Kent；　though；　simply　because　they　knew　it　had　been　true。　Just　lack　of　conclusive　evidence；　or　rather；　too　many　falsely　substantiated　lies　from　those　in　power。　That　was　how　it　went。　Coyle　wished　that　he　had　Kent　there　with　him　now。　The　short　fair…haired　man　was　an　army　in　himself；　a　terrier　that　could　not　be　dislodged　once　he　had　a　hold。
　　
　　The　door　slammed　loudly　and　they　heard　Richard's　footsteps　heading　upstairs。　Tonight　he　would　not　be　going　anywhere　except　to　bed。　Maybe　he　had　decided　to　sleep　his　humiliation　off。
　　
　　Jane　came　back　into　the　room　and　switched　on　the　television。　That　was　the　best　thing　that　had　happened　all　evening。。
　　
　　The　sound　of　voices　stirred　Richard　Coyle　from　a　deep　slumber；　angry　voices；　chanting；　boots　scraping　on　hard　ground；　the　tinkle　of　breaking　glass。　A　slow　emergence　from　sleep　into　a　shocked　awakening；　sitting　up　in　bed；　throwing　back　the　bedclothes；　aware　that　it　was　still　dark　outside　except　for　the　orange　glow　of　streetlamps。
　　
　　He　ran　to　the　window；　snagged　the　curtains　back；　and　stared　with　disbelief　at　what　he　saw　in　the　street　below：　a　crowd　of　some　fifty　people；　maybe　more；　pushing　and　shoving　across　the　width　of　two　pavements。　Looking　up　at　the　window；　seeing　him；　yelling　obscenities。　。　'e　on　down；　Coyle。　We　want　you！'
　　
　　Fear　had　his　pyjama…clad　figure　trembling　violently。　Disbelief。　He　tried　to　make　his　confused　brain　work。　The　townspeople…and　probably　some　of　his　own　workmates。　A　frenzied　mob；　incensed　because　his　father　was　fighting　to　get　the　recycling　plant　closed　down…something　that　would　cost　them　their　jobs　and　throw　them　back　into　the　dole　queues。　Their　rage　was　understandable　。　。　。　except　that　Richard　was　one　of　them；　on　their　side。
　　
　　'It's　not　me　you　want；'　he　shouted　into　the　din　through　the　partly　open　window。　'It's　my　father。'
　　
　　'We　want　you；　Richard　Coyle！'
　　
　　He　stepped　back　as　a　jagged　half…brick　bounced　off　the　window…sill。　And　in　that　instant　his　terror　rose　to　a　climax。　This　was　no　ordinary　group　of　protesting　workers。　And　the　light　which　reflected　the　ugly　scene　did　not　e　from　electric　standards　。　。　。　The　eerie；　flickering　orange　glow　came　from　a　dozen　or　more　burning　torches　held　aloft；　now　revealing　the　uplifted　faces　in　detail。　Squat；　almost　inhuman　features；　grimed　with　filth　and　caked　with　dried　blood。　Mouths　wide；　with　animal…like　fangs。　Clothing　that　was　crude　and　ill…fitting…hand…sewn　garments　of　some　thick　unfamiliar　material。　They　were　people　who　had　no　right　to　exist　in　this　modern　day　and　age！
　　
　　And　where　were　all　the　other　houses？　Just　a　stre