cb.booksofblood2-第7节

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other　lying　on　the　floor　of　a　kitchen　beside　a　dead　baby。
　This　man　collected　pictures　of　dead　people　and　axes；　which　Steve　thought　was　strange。
　That　was　his　last　thought　before　the　too…familiar　scent　of　chloroform　filled　his　head　and　he　lost　consciousness。
　
　The　sordid　doorway　smelt　of　old　urine　and　fresh　vomit。　It　was　his　own　vomit；　it　was　all　over　the　front　of　his　shirt。　He　tried　to　stand　up；　but　his　legs　felt　wobbly。　It　was　very　cold。　His　throat　hurt。
　Then　he　heard　footsteps。　It　sounded　like　the　Mouse　was　ing　back。　Maybe　he'd　take　him　home。
　'Get　up；　son。'
　It　wasn't　the　Mouse。　It　was　a　policeman。
　'What　are　you　doing　down　there？　I　said　get　up。'
　
　Bracing　himself　against　the　crumbling　brick　of　the　doorway　Steve　got　to　his　feet。　The　policeman　shone　his　torch　at　him。
　'Jesus　Christ；'　said　the　policeman；　disgust　written　over　his　face。　'You're　in　a　right　fucking　state。　Where　do　you　live？'
　Steve　shook　his　head；　staring　down　at　his　vomit…soaked　shirt　like　a　shamed　schoolboy。
　'What's　your　name？'
　He　couldn't　quite　remember。
　'Name；　lad？'
　He　was　trying。　If　only　the　policeman　wouldn't　shout。
　'e　on；　take　a　hold　of　yourself。'
　The　words　didn't　make　much　sense。　Steve　could　feel　tears　pricking　the　backs　of　his　eyes。
　'Home。'
　Now　he　was　blubbering；　sniffing　snot；　feeling　utterly　forsaken。　He　wanted　to　die：　he　wanted　to　lie　down　and　die。
　The　policeman　shook　him。
　'You　high　on　something？'　he　demanded；　pulling　Steve　into　the　glare　of　the　streetlights　and　staring　at　his　tear…stained　face。
　'You'd　better　move　on。'
　'Mama；'　said　Steve；　'I　want　my　Mama。'
　The　words　changed　the　encounter　entirely。
　Suddenly　the　policeman　found　the　spectacle　more　than　disgusting；　more　than　pitiful。　This　little　bastard；　with　his　bloodshot　eyes　and　his　dinner　down　his　shirt　was　really　getting　on　his　nerves。　Too　much　money；　too　much　dirt　in　his　veins；　too　little　discipline。
　'Mama'　was　the　last　straw。　He　punched　Steve　in　the　stomach；　a　neat；　sharp；　functional　blow。　Steve　doubled　up；　whimpering。
　
　'Shut　up；　son。'
　Another　blow　finished　the　job　of　crippling　the　child；　and　then　he　took　a　fistful　of　Steve's　hair　and　pulled　the　little　druggy's　face　up　to　meet　his。
　'You　want　to　be　a　derelict；　is　that　it？'
　'No。　No。'
　Steve　didn't　know　what　a　derelict　was；　he　just　wanted　to　make　the　policeman　like　him。
　'Please；'　he　said；　tears　ing　again；　'take　me　home。'　The　policeman　seemed　confused。　The　kid　hadn't　started　fighting　back　and　calling　for　civil　rights；　the　way　most　of　them　did。　That　was　the　way　they　usually　ended　up：　on　the　ground；　bloody…nosed；　calling　for　a　social　worker。　This　one　just　wept。　The　policeman　began　to　get　a　bad　feeling　about　the　kid。　Like　he　was　mental　or　something。　And　he'd　beaten　the　shit　out　of　the　little　snot。　Fuck　it。　Now　he　felt　responsible。　He　took　hold　of　Steve　by　the　arm　and　bundled　him　across　the　road　to　his　car。
　'Get　in。'
　'Take　me　…'
　'I'll　take　you　home；　son。　I'll　take　you　home。'
　
　At　the　Night　Hostel　they　searched　Steve's　clothes　for　some　kind　of　identification；　found　none；　then　scoured　his　body　for　fleas；　his　hair　for　nits。　The　policeman　left　him　then；　which　Steve　was　relieved　about。　He　hadn't　liked　the　man。　The　people　at　the　Hostel　talked　about　him　as　though　he　wasn't　in　the　room。　Talked　about　how　young　he　was；　discussed　his　mental…age；　his　clothes；　his　appearance。　Then　they　gave　him　a　bar　of　soap　and　showed　him　the　showers。　He　stood　under　the　cold　water　for　ten　minutes　and　dried　himself　with　a　stained　towel。　He　didn't　shave；　though　they'd　lent　him　a　razor。　He'd　forgotten　how　to　do　it。
　
　Then　they　gave　him　some　old　clothes；　which　he　liked。　They　weren't　such　bad　people；　even　if　they　did　talk　about　him　as　though　he　wasn't　there。　One　of　them　even　smiled　at　him；　a　burly　man　with　a　grizzled　beard。　Smiled　as　he　would　at　a　dog。
　They　were　odd　clothes　he　was　given。　Either　too　big　or　too　small。　All　colours：　yellow　socks；　dirty　white　shirt；　pin…stripe　trousers　that　had　been　made　for　a　glutton；　a　thread…bare　sweater；　heavy　boots。　He　liked　dressing　up；　putting　on　two　vests　and　two　pairs　of　socks　when　they　weren't　looking。　He　felt　reassured　with　several　thicknesses　of　cotton　and　wool　wrapped　around　him。
　Then　they　left　him　with　a　ticket　for　his　bed　in　his　hand；　to　wait　for　the　dormitories　to　be　unlocked。　He　was　not　impatient；　like　some　of　the　men　in　the　corridors　with　him。　They　yelled　incoherently；　many　of　them；　their　accusations　laced　with　obscenities；　and　they　spat　at　each　other。　It　frightened　him。　All　he　wanted　was　to　sleep。　To　lie　down　and　sleep。
　At　eleven　o'clock　one　of　the　warders　unlocked　the　gate　to　the　dormitory；　and　all　the　lost　men　filed　through　to　find　themselves　an　iron　bed　for　the　night。　The　dormitory；　which　was　large　and　badly…lit；　stank　of　disinfectant　and　old　people。
　Avoiding　the　eyes　and　the　flailing　arms　of　the　other　derelicts；　Steve　found　himself　an　ill…made　bed；　with　one　thin　blanket　tossed　across　it；　and　lay　down　to　sleep。　All　around　him　men　were　coughing　and　muttering　and　weeping。　One　was　saying　his　prayers　as　he　lay；　staring　at　the　ceiling；　on　his　grey　pillow。　Steve　thought　that　was　a　good　idea。　So　he　said　his　own　child's　prayer。
　'Gentle　Jesus；　meek　and　mild；
　Look　upon　this　little　child；
　Pity　my。。。　…What　was　the　word？
　Pity　my　…　simplicity；
　Suffer　me　to　e　to　thee。'
　That　made　him　feel　better；　and　the　sleep；　a　balm；　was　blue　and　deep。
　
　Quaid　sat　in　darkness。　The　terror　was　on　him　again；　worse　than　ever。　His　body　was　rigid　with　fear；　so　much　so　that　he　couldn't　even　get　out　of　bed　and　snap　on　the　light。　Besides；　what　if　this　time；　this　time　of　all　times；　the　tenor　was　true？　What　if　the　axe…man　was　at　the　door　in　flesh　and　blood？　Grinning　like　a　loon　at　him；　dancing　like　the　devil　at　the　top　of　the　stairs；　as　Quaid　had　seen　him；　in　dreams；　dancing　and　grinning；　grinning　and　dancing。
　Nothing　moved。　No　creak　of　the　stair；　no　giggle　in　the　shadows。　It　wasn't　him；　after　all。　Quaid　would　live　'til　morning。
　His　body　had　relaxed　a　little　now。　He　swung　his　legs　out　of　bed　and　switched　on　the　light。　The　room　was　indeed　empty。　The　house　was　silent。　Through　the　open　door　he　could　see　the　top　of　the　stairs。　There　was　no　axe…man；　of　course。
　
　Steve　woke　to　shouting。　It　was　still　dark。　He　didn't　know　how　long　he'd　been　asleep；　but　his　limbs　no　longer　ached　so　badly。　Elbows　on　his　pillow；　he　half…sat　up　and　stared　down　the　dormitory　to　see　what　all　the　motion　was　about。　Four　bed…rows　down　from　his；　two　men　were　fighting。　The　bone　of　contention　was　by　no　means　clear。　They　just　grappled　with　each　other　like　girls　（it　made　Steve　laugh　to　watch　them）；　screeching　and　puffing　each　other's　hair。　By　moonlight　the　blood　on　their　faces　and　hands　was　black。
　
　One　of　them；　the　older　of　the　two；　was　thrust　back　across
　his　bed；　screaming：　'I　will　not　go　to　the　Finchley　Road！
　You　will　not　make　me。　Don't　strike　me！　I'm　not　your　man！
　I'm　not！'
　The　other　was　beyond　listening；　he　was　too　stupid；　or　too　mad；　to　understand　that　the　old　man　was　begging　to　be　left　alone。　Urged　on　by　spectators　on　every　side；　the　old　man's　assailant　had　taken　off　his　shoe　and　was　belabouring　his　victim　with　it。　Steve　could　hear　the　crack；　crack　of　his　blows：　heel　on　head。　There　were　cheers　acpanying　each　strike；　and　lessening　cries　from　the　old　man。
　Suddenly；　the　applause　faltered；　as　somebody　came　into　the　dormitory。　Steve　couldn't　see　who　it　was；　the　mass　of　men　crowded　around　the　fight　were　between　him　and　the　door。
　He　did　see　the　victor　toss　his　shoe　into　the　air　however；　with　a　final　shout　of　'Fucker！'
　The　shoe。
　Steve　couldn't　take　his　eyes　off　the　shoe。　It　rose　in　the　air；　turning　as　it　rose；　then　plummeted　to　the　bare　boards　like　a　shot　bird。　Steve　saw　it　clearly；　more　clearly　than　he'd　seen　anything　in　many　days。
　It　landed　not　far　from　him。
　It　landed　with　a　loud　thud。
　It　landed　on　its　side。　As　his　shoe　had　landed。　His　shoe。　The　one　he　kicked　off。　On　the　grid。　In　the　room。　In　the　house。　In　Pilgrim　Street。
　
　Quaid　woke　with　the　same　dream。　Always　the　stairway。　Always　him　looking　down　the　tunnel　of　the　stairs；　while　that　ridiculous　sight；　half…joke；　half…horror；　tip…toed　up　towards　him；　a　laugh　on　every　step。
　
　He'd　never　dreamt　twice　in　one　night　before。　He　swung　his　hand　out　over　the　edge　of　the　bed　and　fumbled　for　the　bottle　he　kept　there。　In　the　dark　he　swigged　from　it；　deeply。
　
　Steve　walked　past　the　knot　of　angry　men；　not　caring　about　their　shouts　or　the　old　man's　groans　and　curses。　The　warders　were　having　a　hard　time　dealing　with　the　disturbance。　It　was　the　last　time　Old　Man　Crowley　would　be　let　in：　he　always　invited　violence。　This　had　all　the　marks　of　a　near…riot；　it　would　take　hours　to　settle　them　down　again。
　Nobody　questioned　Steve　as　he　wandered　down　the　corridor；　through　the　gate；　and　into　the　vestibule　of　the　Night　Hostel。　The　swing　doors　were　closed；　but　the　night　air；　bitter　before　dawn；　smelt　refreshing　as　it　seeped　in。
　The　pokey　reception　office　was　empty；　and　through　the　door　Steve　could　see　the　fire…extinguisher　hanging　on　the　wall。　It　was　red　and　bright：　Beside　it　was　a　long　black　hose；　curled　up　on　a　red　drum　like　a　sleeping　snake。　Beside　that；　sitting　in　two　brackets　on　the　wall；