ib.thewaspfactory-第13部分

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　　'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　from　farts　he　can　tell　not　only　what　people　have　eaten　or　drunk；　but　also　the　sort　of　person　they　are；　what　they　ought　to　eat；　whether　they　are　emotionally　unstable　or　upset；　whether　they　are　keeping　secrets；　laughing　at　you　behind　your　back　or　trying　to　ingratiate　themselves　with　you；　and　even　what　they　are　thinking　about　at　the　precise　moment　they　issue　the　fart　（this　largely　from　the　sound）。　All　total　nonsense。
　　
　　'H'm；'　I　said；　non…mittal　to　a　fault。
　　
　　'Oh；　I　can；'　he　said　as　I　finished　my　meal　and　leaned　back；　wiping　my　mouth　on　the　back　of　my　hand；　more　to　annoy　him　that　anything　else。　He　kept　nodding。　'I　know　when　you've　had　Heavy；　or　Lager。　And　I've　smelt　Guinness　off　you；　too。'
　　
　　'I　don't　drink　Guinness；'　I　lied；　secretly　impressed。　'I'm　afraid　of　getting　athlete's　throat。'
　　
　　This　witticism　was　lost　on　him　apparently；　for　without　a　pause　he　continued：　'It's　just　money　down　the　drain；　you　know。　Don't　expect　me　to　finance　your　alcoholism。'
　　
　　'Oh；　you're　being　silly；'　I　said；　and　stood　up。
　　
　　'I　know　what　I'm　talking　about。　I've　seen　better　men　than　you　think　they　could　handle　the　drink　and　end　up　in　the　gutter　with　a　bottle　of　the　fortified　wine。'　If　that　last　sally　was　intended　to　go　below　the　belt；　it　failed；　the　'better　men　than　you'　line　was　worked　out　long　ago。
　　
　　'Well；　it's　my　life；　isn't　it？'　I　said　and；　putting　my　plate　in　the　sink；　left　the　kitchen。　My　father　said　nothing。
　　
　　That　night　I　watched　television　and　did　some　paperwork；　amending　the　maps　to　include　the　newly　named　Black　Destroyer　Hill；　writing　a　brief　description　of　what　I'd　done　to　the　rabbits　and　logging　both　the　effects　of　the　bombs　that　I'd　used　and　the　manufacture　of　the　latest　batch。　I　determined　to　keep　the　Polaroid　with　the　War　Bag　in　future；　for　low…risk　punitive　expeditions　like　that　against　the　rabbits　it　would　more　than　repay　the　extra　weight　and　the　amount　of　time　consumed　using　it。　Of　course；　for　serious　devilry　the　War　Bag　has　to　go　by　itself；　and　a　camera　would　just　be　a　liability；　but　I　haven't　had　a　real　threat　for　a　couple　of　years；　since　the　time　some　big　boys　in　the　town　took　to　bullying　me　in　Porteneil　and　ambushing　me　on　the　path。
　　
　　I　thought　things　were　going　to　get　pretty　heavy　for　a　while；　but　they　never　did　escalate　the　way　I　thought　they　might。　I　threatened　them　with　my　knife　once；　after　they　stopped　me　on　my　bike　and　started　pushing　me　around　and　demanding　money。　They　backed　off　that　time；　but　a　few　days　later　they　tried　to　invade　the　island。　I　held　them　off　with　steelies　and　stones；　and　they　fired　back　with　air…guns；　and　for　a　while　it　was　quite　exciting；　but　then　Mrs　Clamp　came　with　the　weekly　messages　and　threatened　to　call　the　police；　and　after　calling　her　a　few　nasty　names　they　left。
　　
　　I　started　the　cache　system　then；　building　up　supplies　of　steelies；　stones；　bolts　and　lead　fishing…weights　buried　in　plastic　bags　and　boxes　at　strategic　points　around　the　island。　I　also　set　up　snares　and　trip…wires　linked　to　glass　bottles　in　the　grass　on　the　dunes　over　the　creek；　so　that　if　anybody　tried　to　sneak　up　they　would　either　catch　themselves　or　snag　the　wire；　pulling　the　bottle　out　of　its　hole　in　the　sand　and　down　on　to　a　stone。　I　sat　up　for　the　next　few　nights；　my　head　poking　out　of　the　back　skylight　of　the　loft；　my　ears　straining　for　the　tinkle　of　glass　breaking　or　muffled　curses；　or　the　more　usual　signal　of　the　birds　being　disturbed　and　taking　flight；　but　nothing　more　happened。　I　just　avoided　the　boys　in　the　town　for　a　while；　only　going　in　with　my　father　or　at　times　when　I　knew　they　would　be　in　school。
　　
　　The　cache　system　survives；　and　I've　even　added　a　couple　of　petrol　bombs　to　one　or　two　of　the　secret　stores；　where　a　likely　avenue　of　attack　es　in　over　terrain　the　bottles　would　smash　on；　but　the　trip…wires　I've　dismantled　and　left　in　the　shed。　My　Defence　Manual；　which　contains　things　like　maps　of　the　island　with　the　caches　marked；　likely　attack　routes；　a　summary　of　tactics；　a　list　of　weapons　I　have　or　might　make；　includes　within　this　last　category　quite　a　few　unpleasant　things　like　trip…wires　and　snares　set　a　body…length　away　from　a　concealed　broken　bottle　sticking　up　in　the　grass；　electrically　detonated　mines　made　from　pipe…bombs　and　small　nails；　all　buried　in　the　sand；　and　a　few　interesting；　if　unlikely；　secret　weapons；　like　frisbees　with　razors　embedded　in　the　edge。
　　
　　Not　that　I　want　to　kill　anybody　now；　but　it　is　all　for　defence　rather　than　offence；　and　it　does　make　me　feel　a　lot　more　secure。　Soon　I'll　have　enough　money　for　a　really　powerful　crossbow；　and　that　I'm　certainly　looking　forward　to；　it'll　help　make　up　for　the　fact　that　I've　never　been　able　to　persuade　my　father　to　buy　a　rifle　or　a　shotgun　that　I　could　use　sometimes。　I　have　my　catapults　and　slings　and　air…rifle；　and　they　could　all　be　lethal　in　the　right　circumstances；　but　they　just　don't　have　the　long…range　hitting　power　I　really　hanker　after。　The　pipebombs　are　the　sam