cb.damnationgame-第22部分

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us　chat　until　he　gave　up　in　despair　and　left。
　　〃Look；〃　she　said。　〃I　really　must　change。〃　〃Going　out？〃　〃Yes。〃　〃Oh。〃
　　〃…if　you'd　said；　Marty；　I　would　have　cleared　a　space。　Why　didn't　you　ring　me？〃　〃Maybe　we　could　go　out　for　a　meal　sometime？〃　he　suggested。
　　〃Maybe。〃　She　was　viciously　nonmittal。
　　〃…things　are　a　bit　hectic　just　at　the　moment。〃　〃I'd　like　a　chance　to　talk。　You　know；　properly。〃　She　was　getting　edgy：　he　knew　the　signs　well；　and　she　was　aware　of　his　scrutiny。　She　picked　up　the　coffee　mugs　and　took　them　to　the　sink。
　　〃I　really　must　dash；〃　she　said。　〃Make　yourself　some　more　coffee　if　you　want。　Stuff's　in　the…well；　you　know　where　it　is。　There's　a　lot　of　things　of　yours　here；　you　know。　Motorcycle　magazines　and　stuff。　I'll　sort　them　out　for　you。　Excuse　me。　I　have　to　change。〃　She　hurried…positively　raced；　he　thought…into　the　hallway；　and　went　upstairs。　He　heard　her　moving　about　heavily；　she　was　never　light…footed。　Water　was　running　in　the　bathroom。　The　toilet　flushed。　He　wandered　through　from　the　kitchen　into　the　back　room。　It　smelled　of　old　cigarettes；　and　the　ashtray　balanced　on　the　arm　of　the　new　sofa　was　brimming。　He　stood　in　the　doorway　and　stared　at　the　objects　in　the　room　rather　as　he　had　at　the　dirty　washing；　searching　for　something　familiar。　There　was　very　little。　The　clock　on　the　wall　was　a　wedding　present；　and　still　in　the　same　place。　The　stereo　in　the　corner　was　new；　a　flashy　model　that　Terry　had　probably　acquired　for　her。　Judging　by　the　dust　on　the　lid　it　was　seldom　used；　and　the　collection　of　records　haphazardly　stacked　alongside　was　as　small　as　ever。　Among　those　records　was　there　still　a　copy　of　Buddy　Holly　singing　〃True　Love　Ways〃？　They'd　played　that　so　often　it　must　have　been　worn　thin；　they'd　danced　to　it　together　in　this　very　room…not　danced　exactly；　but　used　the　music　as　an　excuse　to　hold　each　other；　as　if　excuses　were　needed。　It　was　one　of　those　love　songs　that　made　him　feel　romantic　and　unhappy　simultaneously…as　though　every　phrase　of　it　was　charged　with　loss　of　the　very　love　it　celebrated。　Those　were　the　best　kind　of　love　songs；　and　the　truest。
　　Unable　to　bear　the　room　any　longer；　he　went　upstairs。
　　She　was　still　in　the　bathroom。　There　was　no　lock　on　the　door；　she'd　been　locked　in　a　bathroom　as　a　small　child；　and　had　such　a　terror　of　the　same　thing　happening　again　she'd　always　insisted　there　be　no　locks　on　any　of　the　internal　doors　in　the　house。　You　had　to　whistle　on　the　toilet　if　you　wanted　to　stop　people　walking　in　on　you。　He　pushed　the　door　open。　She　was　dressed　only　in　her　panties；　arm　raised；　shaving　her　armpit。　She　caught　his　eye　in　the　mirror；　then　went　back　to　what　she　was　doing。
　　〃I　didn't　want　any　more　coffee；〃　he　said　lamely。
　　〃Got　used　to　the　expensive　stuff；　have　you？〃　she　said。
　　Her　body　was　a　few　feet　from　him；　and　he　felt　the　pull　of　it。　He　knew　every　mole　on　her　back；　knew　the　places　a　touch　would　make　her　laugh。　Such　familiarity　was　a　kind　of　ownership；　he　felt；　she　owned　him　for　the　same　reasons　if　she　would　just　exercise　her　right。　He　crossed　to　her　and　put　his　fingertips　on　her　lower　back；　and　ran　them　up　her　spine。
　　〃Charmaine。〃　She　looked　at　him　in　the　mirror　again…the　first　unswerving　look　she'd　granted　him　since　he'd　arrived　at　the　house…and　he　knew　that　any　hope　of　physicality　between　them　was　a　lost　cause。
　　〃I'm　not　available；　Marty；〃　she　said　plainly。
　　〃We're　still　married。〃　〃I　don't　want　you　to　stay。　I'm　sorry。〃　That's　how　she'd　begun　this　meeting：　with　〃I'm　sorry。〃　Now　she　wanted　to　finish　it　in　the　same　way；　no　genuine　apology　intended；　just　a　polite　brush…off。
　　〃I've　thought　about　this　so　often；〃　he　said。
　　〃So　have　I；〃　she　replied。　〃But　I　stopped　thinking　about　it　five　years　ago。　It　won't　do　any　good；　you　know　that　as　well　as　I　do。〃　His　fingers　were　now　on　her　shoulder。　He　was　sure　there　was　a　charge　in　their　contact；　a　buzz　of　excitement　exchanged　between　her　flesh　and　his。　Her　nipples　had　hardened；　perhaps　the　draft　from　the　landing；　perhaps　his　touch。
　　〃I'd　like　you　to　go；〃　she　said　very　quietly；　looking　down　into　the　sink。　There　was　a　tremor　in　her　voice　that　could　easily　bee　tears。　He　wanted　tears　from　her；　shameful　as　it　was。　If　she　wept　he'd　kiss　her　to　console　her；　and　his　consolation　would　harden　as　she　softened；　and　they'd　finish　up　in　bed；　he　knew　it。　That　was　why　she　was　fighting　so　hard　to　show　nothing；　knowing　the　scenario　as　well　as　he　did；　and　determined　not　to　leave　herself　open　to　his　affection。
　　〃Please；〃　she　said　again；　with　indisputable　finality。　His　hand　dropped　from　her　shoulder。　There　was　no　spark　between　them；　it　was　all　in　his　mind。　All　ancient　history。
　　〃Maybe　some　other　time。〃　He　muttered　the　cliché　as　if　it　were　poisoned。
　　〃Yes；〃　she　said；　pleased　to　sound　a　note　of　conciliation；　however　lame。　〃Ring　me　first　though。〃　〃I'll　let　myself　out。〃
　　
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　　He　wandered　around　for　an　hour；　dodging　hordes　of　schoolchildren　returning　home；　picking　fights　and　noses　as　they　went。　There　were　signs　of　spring；　even　here。　Nature　could　scarcely　be　bountiful　in　such　restraining　circumstances；　but　it　did　its　best。　In　tiny　front　gardens；　and　in　window　boxes；　flowers　blossomed；　the　few　saplings　that　had　survived　vandalism　showed　sweet　green　leaves。　If　they　survived　a　few　more　seasons　of　frost　and　malice　they　might　grow　large　enough　for　birds　to　nest　in。　Nothing　exotic：　brawling　starlings　at　best；　probably。　But　they'd　offer　shade　in　high　summer；　and　places　for　the　moon　to　sit　if　you　looked　out　your　bedroom　window　one　night。　He　found　himself　full　of　such　inappropriate　thoughts…moon　and　starlings…like　an　adolescent　first　in　love。　ing　back　here　had　been　a　mistake；　it　had　been　a　self…inflicted　cruelty　that　had　hurt　Charmaine　too。　Useless　to　go　back　and　apologize；　that　would　only　make　matters　messier。　He'd　ring　her；　as　she'd　suggested；　and　ask　her　out　to　one　farewell　dinner。　Then　he'd　tell　her；　whether　it　was　true　or　not；　that　he　was　ready　for　them　to　part　permanently；　and　he　hoped　he'd　see　her　once　in　a　while；　and　they'd　say　goodbye　in　a　civilized　fashion；　without　enmity；　and　she'd　go　back　to　whatever　life　she　was　making　for　herself；　and　he'd　go　to　his。　To　Whitehead；　to　Carys。　Yes；　to　Carys。
　　And　suddenly　tears　were　on　him　like　a　fury；　tearing　him　to　pieces；　and　he　was　standing　in　the　middle　of　some　street　he　didn't　recognize；　blinded　by　them。　Schoolchildren　buffeted　him　as　they　ran　past；　some　turning；　some　seeing　his　anguish　and　yelling　obscenities　at　him　as　they　went。　This　is　ridiculous；　he　told　himself；　but　no　amount　of　name…calling　would　halt　the　flow。　So　he　wandered；　hand　to　face；　into　an　alley；　and　stayed　there　till　the　bout　passed。　Part　of　him　felt　quite　removed　from　this　burst　of　emotion。　It　looked　down；　this　untouched　part；　on　his　sobbing　self；　and　shook　its　head　in　contempt　for　his　weakness　and　confusion。　He　hated　to　see　men　cry；　it　embarrassed　him；　but　there　was　no　gainsaying　it。　He　was　lost；　that　was　all　there　was　to　it；　lost　and　afraid。　That　was　worth　crying　for。
　　When　the　flow　stopped　he　felt　better；　but　shaky。　He　wiped　his　face；　and　stayed　in　the　backwater　of　the　alley　until　he'd　regained　his　posure。
　　It　was　four…forty。　He'd　already　been　to　Holborn　and　picked　up　the　strawberries；　that　was　his　first　duty　when　he　drove　into　town。　Now；　with　that　done；　and　Charmaine　seen；　the　rest　of　the　night　sprawled　in　front　of　him；　waiting　to　be　pleasured。　But　he'd　lost　a　lot　of　his　enthusiasm　for　a　night　of　adventure。　In　a　while　the　pubs　would　open；　and　he　could　get　a　couple　of　whiskies　inside　him。　That　would　help　rid　him　of　the　twitches　in　his　stomach。　Maybe　it　would　also　whet　his　appetite　again；　but　he　doubted　it。
　　To　occupy　the　time　before　opening；　he　wandered　down　to　the　shopping　precinct。　It　had　been　opened　two　years　before　he　was　put　inside；　a　soulless　warren　of　white　tiles；　plastic　palms；　and　flashy；　up…market　shops。　Now；　almost　a　decade　after　it　was　built；　it　looked　about　ready　for　demolition。　It　was　scarred　with　graffiti；　its　tunnels　and　stairways　filthy；　many　of　its　shops　closed　up；　others　so　bereft　of　charm　or　custom　surely　the　only　option　open　to　the　owners　was　to　fire　them　one　of　these　nights；　collect　the　insurance　and　run　for　the　hills。　He　found　a　small　newsstand　manned　by　a　forlorn　Pakistani；　bought　a　packet　of　cigarettes　and　retraced　his　steps　to　The　Eclipse。
　　It　was　just　past　opening　time；　and　the　pub　was　almost　deserted。　A　couple　of　skinheads　were　playing　darts；　in　the　lounge　bar　somebody　was　celebrating：　an　off…key　chorus　of　〃Happy　Birthday；　Dear　Maureen；〃　drifted　through。　The　television　had　been　turned　up　for　the　early…evening　news；　but　he　couldn't　catch　much　of　it　over　the　noise　of　the　celebrants；　and　wasn't　that　interested　anyway。　Collecting　a　whisky　from　the　bar　he　went　to　sit　down；　and　began　to　smoke　his　way　through　the　pack　of　cigarettes　he'd　bought。　He　felt　drained。　The　liquor；　instead　of　putting　some　spark　into　him；　only　made　his　limbs　more　leaden。
　　His　thoughts　drifted。　Free　association　of　ideas　brought　images　into　peculiar　munion。　Carys；　and　him；　and　Buddy　Holly。　That　song；　〃True　Love　Ways；〃　playing　in　the　dovecote；　while　he　danced　with　the　girl　in　the　chilly　air。
　　When　he　shook　the　pictures　from　his　head　there　were　new　customers　at　the　bar；