gns.theplutopact-第20节

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　　
　　His　stomach　burned。　He　retched　and　vomited…the　spew　blowing　back　on　to　him。　But　still　he　kept　going；　not　daring　to　stop　even　though　his　instincts　told　him　to　abandon　the　machine；　and　crawl　away　into　one　of　the　adjacent　Forestry　mission　thickets。　Like　a　fox；　a　beast　of　the　chase；　licking　its　wounds　in　some　hole　before　it　finally　died　a　lingering　death。
　　
　　Lake　Windermere　on　his　right。　The　large　expanse　of　water　shimmering　in　the　moonlight　was　tempting。　It　would　cool　his　burning　body。　Death　by　drowning　was　said　to　be　pleasant。　Just　hallucinations；　one's　whole　life　returning　in　those　few　moments　。　。　。　Instead　he　increased　his　pressure　on　the　throttle。
　　
　　Dawn。　The　pain　was　no　worse。　No　better；　either。　Kendal。　He　rode　slowly　through　the　town；　passing　a　parked　police　patrol　car。　The　two　officers　were　enjoying　a　quiet　smoke。　They　scarcely　glanced　at　him。
　　
　　Full　daylight。　The　agony　was　not　so　intense　now；　though　it　was　spreading　to　other　parts　of　his　body。　He　felt　it　on　his　chest　and　back…bringing　back　memories　of　early　childhood　when　his　mother　had　rubbed　him　with　Vie　ointment。　An　unrelenting　smarting　sensation…only　this　time　it　came　from　within。　His　thoughts　turned　again　to　VD。　Surely　that　poxy　wench　couldn't　have　given　him　all　this。
　　
　　He　glanced　down　at　the　petrol　gauge。　More　than　half…full。　Got　to　keep　going。　Anywhere。　Just　keep　going…away　from　it　all。　He　thought　about　chancing　the　M6；　but　decided　against　it。　That　was　the　route　they'd　expect　him　to　take。
　　
　　Still　heading　south。　Not　much　traffic。　They　all　used　the　motorways　nowadays。　The　towns　presented　few　problems。　One　just　followed　the　main　roads　straight　through　them。　Too　many　traffic　lights；　mostly　he　found　them　on　red；　and　that　was　the　worst　part…the　waiting。
　　
　　The　day　was　clear；　dry　and　sunny。　No　spray　from　other　vehicles。　Lancaster。　Preston。　The　big　towns　attracted　him；　but　somehow　he　could　not　bring　himself　to　stop。　As　long　as　there　was　petrol　in　the　tank　。　。　。　Just　keep　going。
　　
　　The　pain　remained　constant…no　better；　no　worse…all　over　his　body。　Once；　whilst　he　waited　for　a　set　of　traffic　lights　to　change；　he　felt　his　face。　The　skin　was　rough；　like　emery　paper。　No　growth　of　beard；　though　he　had　not　shaved　for　the　past　two　days。
　　
　　Manchester。　On；　across　the　Ship　Canal。　Wigan。　He　had　often　wondered　about　the　mythical　pier；　but　this　was　certainly　no　time　to　investigate。　Warrington。　The　sun　was　well　past　its　zenith。　Under　normal　conditions　he　would　have　been　a　hundred　miles　further　on　by　now。　However；　time　had　ceased　to　matter　any　more。　And　30　m。p。h。　was　the　most　he　could　manage　with　one　good　eye。
　　
　　The　petrol　was　low　in　the　tank；　which　worried　him。　Now　he　began　to　think　seriously　about　the　ing　night。　Lichfield；　its　three　spired　cathedral　looming　on　his　left；　a　place　of　sanctuary。　He　cursed　himself　for　even　thinking　about　it。　He　wasn't　going　to　turn　back　to　God　now。　That　would　be　a　return　to　his　childhood；　the　enforced　church　services。　He'd　make　it　on　his　own；　but　now　all　thoughts　of　death　had　deserted　him。　A　fever　of　some　sort；　perhaps　not　even　the　clap。　His　spirits　rose。　But　he　had　killed　the　girl。　There　was　no　getting　away　from　that。
　　
　　Then　he　saw　the　signs　for　Birmingham。　He　had　been　there　once　before；　and　they　shone　like　weling　beacons。　The　teeming　masses；　and　young　people　sleeping　rough　in　the　subways。　He　would　simply　be　another　drop…out。　He'd　make　it。　It　would　be　much　the　same　as　London。
　　
　　The　last　lap　was　the　most　difficult。　The　ing　dusk；　the　sprawling　suburbs；　the　blindness　in　one　eye　and　the　burning　in　his　body。
　　
　　He　recognised　Spaghetti　Junction；　but　was　forced　to　skirt　it。　It　would　be　ironical　to　be　picked　up　by　the　law　now。　He　branched　off　to　the　left…towards　Aston。　Some　youths　were　idling　on　the　pavement。　West　Indians。　They　shouted　something　at　him。　He　yelled　back　viciously；　but　the　Norton　drowned　his　stream　of　abuse。
　　
　　A　huge　roundabout。　Confusing。　He　went　round　twice；　then　chanced　his　exit。　He　knew　he　was　lost　now。　Another　island。　His　engine　coughed；　spluttered；　picked　up　again。　He　took　an　inconspicuous　side　road。　A　Salvation　Army　hostel　on　his　left；　an　office…cleaning　firm　next…door；　then　a　small　car　park。　No　barrier　or　gate；　the　attendant's　hut　boarded　up。　Two　cars　were　parked　over　on　the　far　side。　They　probably　belonged　to　businessmen　staying　late　at　the　office　for　the　sole　purpose　of　screwing　their　secretaries；　he　decided。　It　reminded　him　of　his　father；　and　he　laughed　aloud。　Then　the　engine　petered　out　altogether。
　　
　　He　began　wheeling　his　machine　on　to　the　tract　of　open　ground。　It　was　as　much　as　he　could　do　to　move　it；　as　though　every　vestige　of　strength　had　deserted　his　burning　body。　He　leaned　up　against　the　wall；　fighting　for　his　breath；　surveying　his　surroundings　in　the　falling　darkness。
　　
　　He　did　not　relish　the　idea　of　approaching　the　Salvation　Army。　Then　his　gaze　was　drawn　towards　a　church…like　building　on　the　opposite　side　of　the　road。　He　watched　two　nuns　cross　towards　it；　their　dark　robes　swishing　as　they　moved。　Some　rough　ground　adjoining　the　building；　long　grass　pressed　flat　by　the　bodies　that　lazed　their　days　and　nights　away　amidst　the　strewn　litter。　A　narrow　lighted　entrance　in　the　old　stone　wall　further　up。　A　queue…some　young；　some　old。　Others　sitting　on　the　ground；　eating。
　　
　　Then　realisation　dawned　upon　him。　A　nuns'　free　hand…out　centre。　Charity。　Something　he　had　always　despised。　Up　until　now　he　had　not　realised　just　how　hungry　he　was。　Thirsty；　too。　He　had　never　been　governed　by　principles。　Only　one：　you　took　everything　you　could　get　your　hands　on。　Nuns　or　no；　he　was　determined　to　eat　and　drink。
　　
　　Unsteadily　he　crossed　the　road；　and　gained　the　pavement　opposite。　A　hiccough　and　a　curse　from　the　shadows。　Irish　without　a　doubt。　Just　another　drunk　in　a　city　teeming　with　them；　seeking　oblivion　in　their　own　way：　whisky　on　Thursdays　when　they　drew　their　social　security；　meths　the　rest　of　the　week。
　　

　　By　the　time　he　had　climbed　the　low　wall　and　mounted　the　litter…strewn　bank　he　was　breathing　even　more　heavily。　The　burning　was　in　his　lungs　now。　Everything　around　him　was　in　shadow。　Twice　he　almost　fell　over　inert　forms；　men　already　bedded　down　for　the　night；　but　he　didn't　fancy　sleeping　outside　in　the　autumnal　atmosphere。　Then　he　noticed　the　underpass　opposite…it　would　be　warmer　in　there。　Already　others　seemed　to　have　the　same　idea。　He　joined　the　end　of　the　queue；　and　hoped　he　would　not　have　long　to　wait。　The　scramble　for　bedding…down　places　was　already　in　progress。
　　
　　Several　in　front　of　him　were　quarrelling。　Three　youths　were　pushing　an　old　man　about。　The　latter　slipped　to　the　ground；　and　lay　there；　cursing　them。　The　others　stepped　over　him。　Richard　followed　them。　It　was　clearly　a　case　of　dog…eat…dog　here。　The　old　man　clutched　at　Richard's　foot；　and　received　a　weakened　kick；　which　sent　the　vagrant　flat　on　his　back。
　　
　　Laughter。　Richard　leaned　against　the　wall。　He　must　not　let　them　know　how　weak　he　was。　Otherwise　his　own　place　in　the　queue　would　be　in　jeopardy。
　　
　　God；　he　could　barely　stand！
　　
　　'Next　please。'
　　
　　The　Sister　of　Mercy　was　ladling　broth　into　a　tin　mug。　She　pushed　it　across　the　scrubbed　trestle　table　towards　him；　her　other　hand　reaching　for　thick　chunk　of　bread。
　　
　　Their　eyes　met。　His　were　glazed；　expressionless。　Hers　showed　disbelief；　horror！　She　recoiled；　her　scream　already　rising　to　a　shrill　pitch；　her　hand　clutching　the　mug　and　knocking　it　over。　Another　nun　came　running　down　the　passage。　She；　too；　stopped　abruptly；　her　hand　going　to　her　mouth　to　stifle　her　wail　of　terror。
　　
　　Richard　stepped　back；　half　turned。　A　dozen　men　blocked　his　flight　back　down　the　narrow　stone　passage。　Young　men；　old　men；　drop…outs；　drug…addicts；　meths…drinkers；　the　scum　of　the　city。　Some　of　them　would　willingly　have　murdered　for　a　fivepence　piece。
　　
　　But　not　this　time。　The　light　from　the　single　hanging　bulb　fell　full　upon　his　features；　the　pain…distorted　face；　the　weeping　rashes；　the　puffed　eye；　the　blazing　hatred　for　his　fellow　creatures。
　　
　　'Tis　a　demon　from　hell！'　a　drunken　Irishman　muttered；　sprawling　headlong　over　the　prostrate　old　man　in　his　own　attempt　at　flight。
　　
　　'The　fuckin'　plague！'
　　
　　'Mother　O'God！'
　　
　　One　of　the　nuns　was　still　screaming。　The　other　had　fallen　to　the　ground　in　a　faint。　Fear　lent　new　strength　to　Richard's　ailing　body。　Those　blocking　his　escape　route　parted　only　too　readily　to　let　him　pass；　crossing　themselves　fervently；　eyes　closed　lest　they　might　be　gazing　upon　the　Evil　One　himself。
　　
　　His　progress　was　unimpeded　across　the　litter…strewn　forecourt；　screams　and　wails　ringing　in　his　burning　ears。
　　
　　He　fell　rather　than　climbed　over　the　wall　which　separated　St　Chad's　Convent　from　the　maze　of　underpasses。　Dimly…lit　passages　faced　him；　lighting　long　smashed　by　vandals。
　　
　　His　breath　came　in　fiery　gulps；　searing　his　own　face。　He　fled　blindly；　though　there　was　no　pursuit。　Only　footsteps　ing　towards　him；　sneaker　pumps　padding　frenziedly。　The　two　parties　met　at　an　unlit　junction。
　　
　　Three　youths：　two　of　them　carrying　home…made　coshes。　The　third　held　an　open　flick…kn