ib.thewaspfactory-第11节

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ke；　which　he　said　he　would　buy　me　when　I　was　a　bit　older。　I　suggested　that　it　might　be　a　good　idea　to　get　it　in　midsummer　so　that　I　could　get　plenty　of　practice　in　before　the　skiddy　weather　set　in；　but　he　thought　there　might　be　too　much　tourist　traffic　going　through　the　town　and　on　the　roads　around　it　in　the　middle　of　the　summer。　I　think　he　just　wants　to　keep　putting　it　off；　he　might　be　frightened　of　me　gaining　too　much　independence；　or　he　might　simply　be　scared　that　I'll　kill　myself　the　way　a　lot　of　youths　seem　to　when　they　get　a　bike。　I　don't　know；　I　never　know　exactly　how　much　he　really　feels　for　me。　e　to　think　of　it；　I　never　know　exactly　how　much　I　really　feel　for　him。
　　
　　I　had　rather　been　hoping　that　I　might　see　somebody　I　knew　while　I　was　in　the　town；　but　the　only　people　I　saw　were　old　Mackenzie　in　the　gun　and　tackle　shop　and　Mrs　Stuart　in　the　cafe；　yawning　and　fat　behind　her　Formica　counters　and　reading　a　Mills　&　Boon。　Not　that　I　know　all　that　many　people　anyway；　I　suppose；　Jamie　is　my　only　real　friend；　though　through　him　I　have　met　a　few　people　of　about　my　own　age　I　regard　as　acquaintances。　Not　going　to　school；　and　having　to　pretend　I　didn't　live　on　the　island　all　the　time；　has　meant　that　I　didn't　grow　up　with　anybody　of　my　own　age　（except　Eric；　of　course；　but　even　he　was　away　for　a　long　time）；　and　about　the　time　I　was　thinking　of　venturing　further　afield　and　getting　to　know　more　people　Eric　went　crazy；　and　things　got　a　bit　unfortable　in　the　town　for　a　while。
　　
　　Mothers　told　their　children　to　behave　or　Eric　Cauldhame　would　get　them　and　do　horrible　things　to　them　with　worms　and　maggots。　As　I　suppose　was　inevitable；　the　story　gradually　became　that　Eric　would　set　fire　to　them；　not　just　their　pet　dogs；　and；　as　was　probably　also　inevitable；　a　lot　of　kids　started　to　think　that　I　was　Eric；　or　that　I　got　up　to　the　same　tricks。　Or　perhaps　their　parents　guessed　about　Blyth；　Paul　and　Esmerelda。　Whatever；　they　would　run　from　me；　or　shout　rude　things　from　a　distance；　so　I　kept　a　low　profile　and　restricted　my　brief　visits　to　the　town　to　a　taciturn　minimum。　I　get　the　odd　funny　look　to　this　day；　from　children；　youths　and　adults；　and　I　know　some　mothers　tell　their　children　to　behave　or　'Frank'll　get　you；'　but　it　doesn't　bother　me。　I　can　take　it。
　　
　　I　got　on　my　bike　and　went　back　to　the　house　a　bit　recklessly；　shooting　through　puddles　on　the　path　and　taking　the　Jump…a　bit　on　the　path　where　there's　a　long　downhill　on　a　dune　and　then　a　short　uphill　where　it's　easy　to　leave　the　ground…at　a　good　forty　kilometres　per　hour；　landing　with　a　muddy　thump　that　nearly　had　me　in　the　whin　bushes　and　left　me　with　a　very　sore　bum；　making　me　want　to　keep　opening　my　mouth　with　the　feeling　of　it。　But　I　got　back　safely。　I　told　my　father　I　was　all　right　and　I'd　be　in　for　my　dinner　in　an　hour　or　so；　then　went　back　to　the　shed　to　wipe　Gravel　down。　After　I'd　done　that　I　made　up　some　new　bombs　to　replace　the　ones　I'd　used　the　day　before；　and　a　few　extra　besides。　I　put　the　old　electric　fire　on　in　the　shed；　not　so　much　to　warm　me　as　to　keep　the　highly　hygroscopic　mixture　from　absorbing　moisture　out　of　a　damp　air。
　　
　　What　I'd　really　like；　of　course；　is　not　to　have　to　bother　with　lugging　kilo　bags　of　sugar　and　tins　of　weed　killer　back　from　the　town　to　stuff　into　electrical…conduit　piping　which　Jamie　the　dwarf　gets　for　me　from　the　building　contractor's　where　he　works　in　Porteneil。　With　a　cellar　full　of　enough　cordite　to　wipe　half　the　island　off　the　map　it　does　seem　a　bit　daft；　but　my　father　won't　let　me　near　the　stuff。
　　
　　It　was　his　father；　Colin　Cauldhame；　who　got　the　cordite　from　the　ship…breaking　yard　there　used　to　be　down　the　coast。　One　of　his　relations　worked　there；　and　had　found　some　old　warship　with　one　magazine　still　loaded　with　the　explosive。　Colin　bought　the　cordite　and　used　it　to　light　fires　with。
　　
　　Uncontained；　cordite　makes　a　very　good　firelighter。　Colin　bought　enough　to　last　the　house　about　two　hundred　years；　even　if　his　son　had　continued　using　it；　so　perhaps　he　was　thinking　of　selling　it。　I　know　that　my　father　did　use　it　for　a　while；　lighting　the　stove　with　it；　but　he　hasn't　for　a　while。　God　knows　how　much　there　still　is　down　there；　I've　seen　great　stacks　and　bales　of　it　still　with　the　Royal　Navy　markings　on　it；　and　I've　dreamed　up　any　number　of　ways　of　getting　at　it；　but　short　of　tunnelling　in　from　the　shed　and　taking　the　cordite　out　from　the　back；　so　that　the　bales　looked　untouched　from　the　inside　of　the　cellar；　I　don't　see　how　I　could　do　it。　My　father　checks　the　cellar　every　few　weeks；　going　nervously　down　with　a　torch；　counting　the　bales　and　sniffing；　and　looking　at　the　thermometer　and　hygrometer。
　　
　　It's　nice　and　cool　inside　the　cellar；　and　not　damp；　though　I　guess　it　can　only　be　just　above　the　water　table；　and　my　father　seems　to　know　what　he's　doing　and　is　confident　that　the　explosive　hasn't　bee　unstable；　but　I　think　he's　nervous　about　it　and　has　been　ever　since　the　Bomb　Circle。　（Guilty　again；　that　was　my　fault；　too。　My　second　murder；　the　one　when　I　think　some　of　the　family　started　to　suspect。）　If　he's　that　frightened；　though；　I　don't　know　why　he　doesn't　just　throw　it　out。　But　I　think　he's　got　his　own　little　superstition　about　the　cordite。　Something　about　a　link　with　the　past；　or　an　evil　demon　we　have　lurking；　a　symbol　for　all　our　family　misdeeds；　waiting；　perhaps；　one　day；　to　surprise　us。
　　
　　Anyway；　I　have　no　access　to　it；　and　have　to　cart　metres　of　black　metal　piping　back　from　the　town　and　sweat　and　labour　over　it；　bending　it　and　cutting　it　and　boring　it　and　crimping　it　and　bending　it　again；　straining　with　it　in　the　vice　until　the　bench　and　shed　creak　with　my　efforts。　I　suppose　it's　a　craft　in　some　ways；　and　certainly　it　is　quite　skilled；　but　I　get　bored　with　it　sometimes；　and　only　thinking　of　the　use　I'll　put　those　little　black　torpedoes　to　keeps　me　heaving　and　bending　away。
　　
　　I　tidied　everything　away　and　cleaned　the　shed　up　after　my　bomb…making　activity；　then　went　in　for　dinner。
　　
　　'They're　searching　for　him；'　my　father　said　suddenly；　in　between　mouthfuls　of　cabbage　and　soya　chunks。　His　dark　eyes　flickered　at　me　like　a　long　sooty　flame；　then　he　looked　down　again。　I　drank　some　of　the　beer　I　had　opened。　The　new　batch　of　home…brew　tasted　better　than　the　last　lot；　and　stronger。
　　
　　'Eric？'
　　
　　'Yes；　Eric。　They're　looking　for　him　on　the　moors。'
　　
　　'On　the　moors？'
　　
　　'They　think　he　might　be　on　the　moors。'
　　
　　'Yes；　that　would　account　for　them　looking　for　him　there。'
　　
　　'Indeed；'　my　father　nodded。　'Why　are　you　humming？'
　　
　　I　cleared　my　throat　and　kept　on　eating　my　burgers；　pretending　I　hadn't　heard　him　properly。
　　
　　'I　was　thinking；'　he　said；　then　spooned　some　more　of　the　green…brown　mixture　into　his　face　and　chewed　for　a　long　time。　I　waited　to　hear　what　he　was　going　to　say　next。　He　waved　his　spoon　slackly；　pointing　it　vaguely　upstairs；　then　said：　'How　long　would　you　say　the　flex　on　the　telephone　is？'
　　
　　'Loose　or　stretched？'　I　said　quickly；　putting　down　my　glass　of　beer。　He　grunted　and　said　nothing　else；　going　back　to　his　plate　of　food；　apparently　satisfied　if　not　pleased。　I　drank。
　　
　　'Is　there　anything　special　you'd　like　me　to　order　from　the　town？'　he　said　eventually；　as　he　rinsed　his　mouth　with　real　orange　juice。　I　shook　my　head；　drank　my　beer。
　　
　　'No；　just　the　usual；'　I　shrugged。
　　
　　'Instant　potatoes　and　beefburgers　and　sugar　and　mince　pies　and　cornflakes　and　junk　like　that；　I　suppose。'　My　father　sneered　slightly；　though　it　was　said　evenly　enough。
　　
　　I　nodded。　'Yes；　that'll　do　fine。　You　know　my　likes。'
　　
　　'You　don't　eat　properly。　I　should　have　been　more　strict　with　you。'
　　
　　I　didn't　say　anything；　but　kept　on　eating　slowly。　I　could　tell　that　my　father　was　looking　at　me　from　the　other　end　of　the　table；　swilling　his　juice　round　in　his　glass　and　staring　at　my　head　as　I　bent　over　my　plate。　He　shook　his　head　and　got　up　from　the　table；　taking　his　plate　to　the　sink　to　rinse　it。　'Are　you　going　out　tonight？'　he　asked；　turning　on　the　tap。
　　
　　'No。　I'II　stay　in　tonight。　Go　out　tomorrow　night。'
　　
　　'I　hope　you　won't　be　getting　steaming　drunk　again。　You'll　be　arrested　some　night　and　then　where　will　we　be？'　He　looked　at　me。　'Eh？'
　　
　　'I　don't　go　getting　steaming　drunk；'　I　assured　him。　'I　just　have　a　drink　or　two　to　be　sociable　and　that's　all。'
　　
　　'Well；　you're　very　noisy　when　you　e　back　for　somebody　who's　only　been　sociable；　so　you　are。'　He　looked　at　me　darkly　again　and　sat　down。
　　
　　I　shrugged。　Of　course　I　get　drunk。　What　the　hell's　the　point　of　drinking　if　you　don't　get　drunk？　But　I'm　careful；　I　don't　want　to　cause　any　plications。
　　

　　'Well；　just　you　be　careful；　then。　I　always　know　how　much　you've　had　from　your　farts。'　He　snorted；　as　though　imitating　one。
　　
　　My　father　has　a　theory　about　the　link　between　mind　and　bowel　being　both　crucial　and　very　direct。　It's　another　of　his　ideas　which　he　keeps　trying　to　interest　people　in；　he　has　a　manuscript　on　the　subject　（'The　State　of　the　Fart'）　which　he　also　sends　away　to　London　to　publishers　now　and　again　and　which　they　of　course　send　back　by　return。　He　has　variously　claimed　that　fro