gns.cannibalcult-第3部分

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d　every　detail；　indelibly　imprinted　on　his　brain　from　the　one　occasion　when　he　had　met　Nevillon。　Maybe　the　intervening　years　had　changed　the　Frenchman　physically；　a　few　lines　here　and　there；　the　grey　slowly　turning　to　white；　but　the　man　himself　would　not　alter。　A　Grand　Master　of　the　Left　Hand　Path。　The　Beast　of　France。
　　
　　Sabat　sighed。　Such　powerful　evil　could　not　be　wiped　out　by　the　guillotine。　In　the　same　way　that　bullets　had　been　unable　to　destroy　Sabat's　own　brother；　Quentin；　that　day　when　Mark　Sabat　had　attempted　to　blast　him　into　oblivion　during　their　final　encounter　down　in　that　mountain　grave。*　The　dead　man's　soul　had　found　another　body…　his　own！　And　Sabat　had　harboured　Quentin's　evil　ever　since；　struggled　to　overe　it　but　it　had　only　been　subdued；　his　own　strength　and　faith　keeping　it　under　control。　One　momentary　flash　of　weakness　on　his　own　part　and　it　rose　up　again　like　a　deadly　snake；　spread　its　poison　through　him；　dominated　his　every　thought　and　action。　Quentin　still　lived。　Even　now；　he　could　hear　that　nasal；　mocking　laughter　in　the　recesses　of　his　own　brain；　whispered　taunting　words：　'They　didn't　kill　Louis　Nevillon；　He　lives　again'
　　
　　He　cleared　his　throat；　tried　to　get　rid　of　the　rasping　soreness　that　began　in　his　tonsils　and　seemed　to　travel　right　down　to　his　lungs。　He　shivered；　felt　suddenly　cold；　his　flesh　goosepimpling。　Damn　it；　he'd　got　a　chill。　Even　the　fittest　of　men；　and　Sabat　had　looked　after　his　body　since　his　ignominious　discharge　from　the　SAS；　picked　up　the　odd　infection。　Maybe　he　would　be　better　off　in　bed。　It　was　like　giving　in；　surrendering。　Quentin's　laughter　again；　sensing　any　weakness；　mental　or　physical；　a　lurking　inner　deadly　enemy。
　　
　　Sabat's　head　was　aching。　It　had　been　feeling　muzzy　ever　since　he　had　got　up　and　now　his　temples　were　throbbing　as　though　an　invisible　goblin　was　pounding　away　at　them　with　a　tiny　hammer。　His　eyes　smarted　and　there　was　a　dry；　sour　taste　in　his　mouth。　Bed　wis　definitely　the　best　place。
　　
　　It　was　an　effort　to　climb　the　stairs；　dragging　himself　up　a　step　at　a　time；　his　sweaty　hands　slipping　on　the　polished　oak　rail。　A　stiff　whisky　and　a　couple　of　aspirins；　he　would　be　OK　in　the　morning。
　　
　　He　shivered　uncontrollably　as　his　naked　flesh　came　into　contact　with　the　sheets；　cooling　his　body　temperature　fast　and　making　him　curl　himself　up　into　a　ball　in　an　attempt　to　generate　heat。　The　whisky　had　burned　his　throat；　he'd　had　difficulty　getting　those　aspirin　tablets　down。　He　felt　as　though　he　might　vomit　and　wondered　if　he　was　capable　of　making　it　across　to　the　bathroom。
　　
　　He　closed　his　eyes；　saw　Louis　Nevillon's　face　again；　smirking。　A　voice　somewhere；　he　couldn't　make　out　the　words　but　he　knew　it　was　Quentin's。　Nobody　was　bothering　much　about　the　murderer's　missing　decapitated　body　except　a　few　red…faced　prison　officials　whose　security　system　was　being　criticised。　They　didn't　realise；　they　couldn't　be　expected　to。　Somebody　had　to　。。。
　　
　　What　the　hell's　it　got　to　do　with　you；　Sabat？　Nothing。　It's　none　of　my　business。　Trying　to　find　a　reason　not　to　do　anything　about　it。　I'm　not　well　enough　to　go　to　Paris。　I　don't　have　the　time　anyway。　Jumbled　thoughts　which　emanated　from　that　open　clearing　in　the　wooded　mountains　and　travelled　incoherently。　A　beautiful　SAS　colonel's　wife　who　liked　to　whip　men　until　they　cringed　and　pleaded　for　mercy。　Lilith；　Goddess　of　Darkness；　reborn；　using　that　same　colonel　to　do　her　bidding；　indoctrinating　him　into　believing　that　he　was　a　reincarnation　of　Adolf　Hitler　and　that；　between　them；　the　world　was　theirs　for　the　taking　with　their　pseudo　vampire　army。　And　a　clergyman　who　also　thought　he　could　bring　the　world　to　its　knees；　a　takeover　by　the　dark　forces。
　　
　　And　so　it　would　have　been　were　it　not　for　your　meddling；　Sabat！
　　
　　Vicious　female　tones；　a　cry　of　hate　and　anguish　from　beyond　the　grave。　Laughter。　Sabat　wasn't　sure　whether　it　was　his　brother's　soul　or　the　insane　cacklings　of　Royston　Spode；　from　the　depths　of　that　crumbling　crypt　where　the　evil　churchman's　dreams　had　finally　been　buried。　They　were　all　trying　to　get　at　him　from　beyond　the　final　barrier。
　　
　　Sabat's　body　burned。　With　every　ounce　of　strength　he　could　muster　he　threw　the　bedclothes　back；　kicked　them　clear　of　his　overheated　flesh；　basked　in　the　cooling　sensations　brought　on　by　a　chill　night　atmosphere；　one　that　was　falling　rapidly。
　　
　　It　was　dark。　He　tried　to　work　out　how　long　he　had　been　in　bed。　It　had　been　fully　daylight　when　he　had　e　upstairs　and　that　seemed　only　a　matter　of　minutes　ago。　He　attempted　to　identify　the　puterised　illuminated　digits　on　the　radio　alarm　clock；　but　the　fingers　swam　and　merged　into　meaningless　hieroglyphics。　He　raised　himself　up　on　to　an　elbow　but　fell　back　on　to　the　pillow；　heard　the　wheezings　of　his　own　breaths。　Christ；　he'd　never　been　so　weak　before！
　　
　　You're　weak　now；　Sabat。　Helpless。　You　can't　fight　anymore！
　　
　　He　tensed；　recognised　the　husky　dominant　tones　of　Catriona　Lealan。　But　that　was　impossible；　he　had　destroyed　her　utterly；　body　and　soul！　Somebody　was　mimicking　her；　but　it　had　the　same　effect。　Just　thinking　about　her　as　she　used　to　be　in　those　far…off　days　was　doing　things　to　him　。。。
　　
　　Sabat　tried　to　check　the　feeling；　tried　to　think　of　other　things；　but　it　was　futile。　His　pulses　raced　and　his　fevered　body　demanded　satisfaction；　ordered　him　to　pay　homage　to　the　memory　of　one　who　had　once　loved　him　with　a　sadistic　viciousness。
　　
　　Somehow　his　sweaty　fingers　found　the　strength　to　do　what　his　erection　was　screaming　out　for。　He　tensed；　shuddered；　cast　off　the　feeling　of　guilt　and　felt　it　replaced　by　one　of　unbelievable　euphoria。　To　hell　with　everybody！　Watch　me　if　you　want　to；　you　bastards；　because　I　like　you　watching　me。
　　
　　His　nakedness　was　bathed　in　sweat；　every　nerve　afive　and　responding。　He　wasn't　ill　after　all；　just　experiencing　pent…up　frustration　because　he　hadn't　had　a　woman　for　a　long　time　now。　And　in　the　darkened　room　they　were　willing　him　to　do　the　next　best　thing；　urging　him　to　confess　his　past　secret　pleasures。
　　
　　Sabat's　voice　seemed　to　echo　in　the　darkness　to　the　acpaniment　of　hollow　whispered　laughter　which　might　have　been　Catriona's。　Or　Vince　Lealan's。　Or　Royston　Spode's。
　　
　　Or　Quentin's！
　　
　　Sabat　told　them　everything　they　wanted　to　hear。　They　knew　it　already；　so　it　didn't　matter。　They　just　wanted　to　listen　to　it　ing　from　his　own　lips。　He　told　them　of　that　occasion　in　his　adolescence　when　he　had　let　another　of　his　own　sex　do　what　he'd　wanted　to　do。　How　he　had　enjoyed　it。　He'd　felt　guilty　afterwards　because　convention　had　dominated；　driven　him　in　a　fit　of　cowardice　to　seek　refuge　in　priesthood。　Sabat　cringed　at　the　memory；　blasphemed。　The　SAS　had　been　his　salvation；　taught　him　the　real　pleasures　of　life　。。。　taught　him　how　to　kill　amongst　other　things。
　　
　　Have　you　ever　taken　human　life；　Sabat？
　　
　　You　know　fucking　well　I　have。　That　terrorist。。。　Sabat　winced；　heard　the　deafening　reports　of　his　own　pistol　in　the　confined　space；　the　screams　of　his　victim　as　he　writhed　like　a　helpless　landed　fish；　arms　and　legs　shattered；　pleading　for　death　and　being　denied　it。　Laughter　again　。。。　Sabat's。
　　
　　Women。　Jealous　naked　bodies　materialising　out　of　the　past；　fighting　amongst　themselves；　clamouring　for　him；　displaying　themselves　lewdly。　Fuck　me；　Sabat；　the　way　you　used　to。　Fingers　that　were　not　his　own　taking　over；　speeding　up；　a　million　sensations　blending　into　one　mind…blowing　explosion　of　mind　and　body。
　　
　　Sabat　was　convulsing；　floating　in　a　void；　but　they　wouldn't　let　up　on　him；　a　forest　of　frenzied　arms　and　legs　that　grabbed　and　pulled　and　squeezed　him　until　he　was　crying　out　for　them　to　stop。　The　laughter　was　louder　now；　hurting　his　throbbing　head。　He　tore　his　hands　free；　pressed　them　to　his　ears　but　he　could　not　shut　out　the　noise。　You're　too　weak　to　resist；　Sabat。
　　
　　He　was　back　on　the　bed　in　a　splayed　heap；　shivering　uncontrollably；　groping　blindly　for　the　bedclothes　but　they　were　gone。　So　cold；　so　frightening　Cringing。　There's　nothing　to　be　afraid　of。　You're　not　Mark　Sabat…you　're　Quentin。　One　of　us！
　　
　　The　dreaded　reversal；　one　soul　overing　anot