cb.damnationgame-第51节

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ver　was　going　on　beyond　the　door…pursuit；　capture；　murder　even…she　needed　none　of　it。　She　turned　off　the　light　in　the　bathroom　in　case　it　spilled　under　the　door。　Somebody　ran　by；　calling　on　God：　now　there　was　desperation。　Feet　thudded　down　the　stairs；　somebody　fell。　Doors　slammed：　screams　mounted。
　　She　backed　away　from　the　door　and　sat　on　the　edge　of　the　bath。　There；　in　the　darkness；　she　started　to　sing　〃Abide　with　Me〃…or　what　little　she　could　remember　of　it…very　quietly。
　　
　　Marty　heard　the　screams　too；　though　he　didn't　want　to。　Even　at　such　a　distance；　they　carried　a　freight　of　blind　panic　that　made　him　clammy。
　　He　knelt　down　in　the　dirt　between　the　trees　and　stopped　his　ears。　The　earth　smelled　ripe　beneath　him；　and　his　mind　seethed　with　unwele　thoughts　of　lying　faceup　in　the　ground；　dead　perhaps；　but　anticipating　resurrection。　Like　a　sleeper　on　the　verge　of　waking；　nervous　of　the　day。
　　After　a　while　the　din　became　intermittent。　Soon；　he　told　himself；　he　must　open　his　eyes；　stand　up　and　go　back　to　the　house　to　see　the　hows　and　the　whys　of　all　this　motion。　Soon；　but　not　yet。
　　
　　When　the　noise　in　the　hallway　and　on　the　stairs　had　long　stopped；　Stephanie　crept　to　the　bathroom　door；　unlocked　it　and　peered　out。　The　corridor　was　in　plete　darkness　now。　The　lamps　had　either　been　turned　off　or　shattered。　But　her　eyes；　accustomed　to　the　blackness　of　the　bathroom；　soon　pierced　the　feeble　light　from　the　stairwell。　The　gallery　was　empty　in　both　directions。　There　was　just　a　smell　in　the　air　like　a　bad　butcher's　shop　on　a　hot　day。
　　She　slipped　off　her　shoes；　and　started　to　the　top　of　the　stairs。　The　contents　of　a　handbag　were　scattered　down　the　steps；　and　there　was　something　wet　underfoot。　She　looked　down：　the　carpet　was　stained：　either　wine　or　blood。　She　hurried　on　down　into　the　hallway。　It　was　chilly；　both　front　and　vestibule　doors　were　wide　open。　Again；　there　was　no　sign　of　life。　The　cars　had　gone　from　the　driveway；　the　downstairs　rooms…library；　reception　rooms；　kitchen…all　were　forsaken。　She　rushed　back　upstairs　to　collect　her　belongings　from　the　white　room　and　leave。
　　As　she　retraced　her　steps　along　the　gallery　she　heard　a　soft　padding　behind　her。　She　turned。　There　was　a　dog　at　the　top　of　the　stairs；　it　had　presumably　followed　her　up。　She　could　scarcely　make　it　out　in　the　bad　light；　but　she　wasn't　afraid。　〃Good　boy；〃　she　said；　glad　of　its　living　presence　in　the　abandoned　house。
　　It　didn't　growl；　nor　did　it　wag　its　tail；　it　simply　hobbled　towards　her。　Only　then　did　she　realize　her　error　in　weling　it。　The　butcher's　shop　was　here；　on　all　fours：　she　backed　off。
　　〃No　。　。　。〃　she　said；　〃I　don't　。　。　。　oh；　Christ　。　。　。　leave　me　alone。〃　Still　it　came；　and　with　every　step　it　took　toward　her　she　saw　more　of　its　condition。　The　innards　that　looped　from　its　underside。　The　decayed　face；　all　teeth　and　putrescence。　She　headed　toward　the　white　room；　but　it　covered　the　distance　between　them　in　three　strides。　Her　hands　slid　on　its　body　as　it　leaped　at　her；　and　to　her　disgust　fur　and　flesh　separated；　her　grasp　skinning　the　creature's　flanks。　She　fell　back；　it　advanced；　head　rocking　uneasily　on　its　scrappy　neck；　its　jaws　closing　around　her　throat　and　shaking　her。　She　couldn't　scream…it　was　devouring　her　voice…but　her　arm　thrust　up　into　the　cold　body　and　found　its　spine。　Instinct　made　her　grasp　the　column；　muscle　dividing　in　slimy　threads；　and　the　beast　let　her　go；　arching　back　as　her　grip　snapped　one　vertabrae　from　the　next。　It　let　out　a　prolonged　hiss　as　she　dragged　her　arm　out。　Her　other　hand　cupped　her　throat：　blood　was　hitting　the　carpet　with　thudding　sounds：　she　must　get　help　or　bleed　to　death。
　　She　started　to　crawl　back　toward　the　top　of　the　stairs。　Miles　away　from　her；　somebody　opened　a　door。　Light　fell　across　her。　Too　numb　to　feel　pain；　she　looked　around。　Whitehead　was　silhouetted　in　a　distant　doorway。　Between　them　stood　the　dog。　Somehow；　it　had　got　up；　or　rather　its　front　portion　had；　and　it　was　dragging　itself　across　the　shining　carpet　toward　her；　most　of　its　bulk　useless　now；　its　head　barely　raised　from　the　ground。　But　still　moving；　as　it　would　move　until　its　resurrector　granted　it　rest。
　　She　raised　her　arm　to　signal　her　presence　to　Whitehead。　If　he　saw　her　in　the　gloom　he　made　no　sign。
　　She　had　reached　the　top　of　the　stairs。　She　had　no　strength　lift　in　her。　Death　was　ing　quickly。　Enough；　her　body　said；　enough。　Her　will　conceded；　and　she　slumped　down；　the　blood；　loosed　from　her　wounded　neck；　flowing　down　the　stairs　as　her　darkening　eyes　watched。　One　step；　two　steps。
　　Counting　games　were　a　perfect　cure　for　insomnia。
　　Three　steps；　four。
　　She　didn't　see　the　fifth　step；　or　any　other　in　the　creeping　descent。
　　
　　Marty　was　loath　to　go　back　into　the　house；　but　whatever　had　happened　there　was　surely　over；　and　he　was　getting　chilly　where　he　knelt。　His　expense…account　suit　was　dirtied　beyond　reclamation；　his　shirt　was　stained　and　torn；　his　immaculate　shoes　clay…caked。　He　looked　like　a　derelict。　The　thought　almost　pleased　him。
　　He　meandered　back　across　the　lawn。　He　could　see　the　lights　of　the　house　somewhere　ahead。　They　burned　reassuringly；　though　he　knew　such　reassurance　was　delusion。　Not　every　house　was　a　refuge。　Sometimes　it　was　safer　to　be　out　in　the　world；　under　the　sky；　where　no　one　could　e　knocking　and　looking　for　you；　where　no　roof　could　fall　on　your　trusting　head。
　　Halfway　between　house　and　trees　a　jet　growled　overhead；　high　up；　its　lights　twin　stars。　He　stood　and　watched　it　pass　over　him　at　his　zenith。　Perhaps　it　was　one　of　the　monitoring　planes　that　he'd　read　passed　perpetually　over　Europe…one　American；　one　Russian…their　electric　eyes　scanning　the　sleeping　cities；　judgmental　twins　upon　whose　benevolence　the　lives　of　millions　depended。　The　sound　of　the　jet　diminished　to　a　murmur；　and　then　to　silence。　Gone　to　spy　on　other　heads。　The　sins　of　England　would　not　prove　fatal　tonight；　it　seemed。
　　He　began　to　walk　toward　the　house　with　fresh　resolution；　taking　a　route　that　would　lead　him　around　to　the　front　and　into　the　false　day　of　the　floodlights。　As　he　crossed　the　stage　toward　the　front　door　the　European　stepped　out　of　the　house。
　　There　was　no　way　to　avoid　being　seen。　Marty　stood；　rooted　to　the　spot；　while　Breer　emerged；　and　the　two　unlikely　panions　moved　away　from　the　house。　Whatever　job　they'd　e　to　do　was　clearly　pleted。
　　A　few　steps　across　the　gravel　Mamoulian　glanced　around。　His　eyes　found　Marty　immediately。　For　a　long　moment　the　European　simply　stared　across　the　expanse　of　bright　grass。　Then　he　nodded；　a　short；　sharp　nod　that　was　simply　acknowledgment。　I　see　you；　it　said；　and　look！　I　do　you　no　harm。　Then　he　turned　and　walked　away；　until　he　and　the　gravedigger　were　obscured　by　the　cypresses　that　lined　the　drive。
　　
　　
　　
　　Part　Four　THE　THIEF'S　TALE
　　
　　Civilisations　do　not　degenerate　through　fear；　but　because　they　forget　that　fear　exists。
　　…FREYA　STARK；　Perseus　in　the　Wind
　　
　　
　　48
　　Marty　stood　in　the　hallway　and　listened　for　footsteps　or　voices。　There　were　neither。　The　women　had　obviously　gone；　as　had　Ottaway；　Curtsinger　and　the　Troll…King。　Perhaps　the　old　man　too。
　　Few　lights　burned　in　the　house。　Those　that　did　rendered　the　place　almost　two…dimensional。　Power　had　been　unleashed　here。　Its　remnants　skittered　in　the　metalwork；　the　air　had　a　bluish　tinge。　He　made　his　way　upstairs。　The　second　floor　was　in　darkness；　but　he　found　his　way　along　it　by　instinct；　his　feet　kicking　the　porcelain　shards…some　smashed　treasure　or　other…as　he　went。　There　was　more　than　porcelain　underfoot。　Things　damp；　things　torn。　He　didn't　look　down；　but　made　his　way　toward　the　white　room；　anticipation　mounting　with　every　step。
　　The　door　was　ajar；　and　a　light；　not　electric　but　candle；　burned　inside。　He　stepped　over　the　threshold。　The　single　flame　offered　a　panicky　illumination…his　very　presence　had　it　jumping…but　he　could　see　that　every　bottle　in　the　room　had　been　smashed。　He　stepped　into　a　swamp　of　broken　glass　and　spilled　wine：　the　room　was　pungent　with　the　dregs。　The　table　had　been　overturned　and　several　of　the　chairs　reduced　to　match…wood。
　　Old　Man　Whitehead　was　standing　in　the　corner　of　the　room。　There　were　spatters　of　blood　on　his　face；　but　it　was　difficult　to　be　certain　if　it　was　his。　He　looked　like　a　man　pictured　in　the　aftermath　of　an　earthquake：　shock　had　bled　his　features　white。
　　〃He　came　early；〃　he　said；　disbelief　in　every　hushed　syllable。　〃Imagine　that。　I　thought　he　believed　in　covenants。　But　he　came　early　to　catch　me　out。〃　〃Who　is　he？〃　He　wiped　tears　from　his　cheeks　with　the　heel　of　his　hand；　smearing　the　blood。　〃The　bastard　lied　to　me；〃　he　said。
　　〃Are　you　hurt？〃　〃No。〃　Whitehead　said；　as　if　the　question　were　utterly　ridiculous。　〃He　wouldn't　lay　a　hand　on　me。　〃He　knows　better　than　that。　He　wants　me　to　go　willingly；　you　see？〃　Marty　didn't。
　　〃There's　a　body　in　the　hallway；〃　Whitehead　observed　matter…of…factly。　〃I　moved　her　off　the　stairs。〃　〃Who？〃　〃Stephanie。〃　〃He　killed　her？〃　〃Him？　No。　His　hands　are　clean。　You　could　drink　milk　from　them。〃　〃I'll　call　the　police。〃　〃No！〃　Whitehead　took　several　ill…advised　steps　through　the　glass　to　catch　Marty's　arm。
　　〃No！　No　police。〃　〃But　somebody's　dead。〃　〃Forget　her。　You　can　hide　her　away