ib.thewaspfactory-第37部分

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inst　the　unbroken　blue；　wheeling　and　spiralling　on　the　thermals；　turning　this　way　and　that。　Below　it　a　few　gulls　shifted；　their　wings　outstretched　and　their　white　necks　pointing　about　as　they　searched　for　something。　I　found　a　dead　frog　high　on　a　dune；　dried　and　bloody　on　its　back　and　stuck　with　sand；　and　wondered　how　it　had　got　up　there。　Probably　dropped　by　a　bird　。
　　
　　I　put　on　my　little　green　cap　eventually；　shielding　my　eyes　from　the　glare。　I　swung　down　over　the　path；　level　with　the　island　and　the　house。　I　kept　going；　still　stopping　now　and　again　to　use　the　binoculars。　Cars　and　trucks　glinted　through　the　trees；　a　mile　or　so　away　on　the　road。　A　helicopter　flew　over　once；　most　likely　heading　for　one　of　the　rig　yards　or　a　pipeline。
　　
　　I　reached　the　dump　just　after　noon；　ing　through　some　small　trees　to　it。　I　sat　down　in　the　shade　of　one　tree　and　inspected　the　place　with　the　glasses。　Some　gulls　were　there；　but　no　people。　A　little　smoke　drifted　up　from　a　fire　near　its　centre；　and　spread　around　it　was　all　the　debris　from　the　town　and　its　area：　cardboard　and　black　plastic　bags　and　the　gleaming；　battered　whiteness　of　old　washing　machines；　cookers　and　fridges。　Papers　picked　themselves　up　and　went　round　in　a　circle　for　a　minute　or　so　as　a　tiny　whirlwind　started；　then　dropped　again。
　　
　　I　picked　my　way　through　the　dump；　savouring　its　rotten；　slightly　sweet　smell。　I　kicked　at　some　of　the　rubbish；　turned　a　few　interesting　things　over　with　one　booted　foot；　but　could　see　nothing　worthwhile。　One　of　the　things　I　had　e　to　like　about　the　dump　over　the　years　was　the　way　that　it　never　stayed　the　same；　it　moved　like　something　huge　and　alive；　spreading　like　an　immense　amoeba　as　it　absorbed　the　healthy　land　and　the　collective　waste。　But　this　day　it　looked　tired　and　boring。　I　felt　impatient　with　it；　almost　angry。　I　threw　a　couple　of　aerosol　cans　into　the　weak　fire　bumming　in　the　middle；　but　even　they　provided　little　diversion；　popping　effetely　inside　the　pale　flames。　I　left　the　dump　and　headed　south　again。
　　
　　
　　Near　a　small　stream　about　a　kilometre　from　the　dump　there　was　a　large　bungalow；　a　holiday　home　looking　out　over　the　sea。　It　was　closed　up　and　deserted；　and　there　were　no　fresh　tracks　on　the　bumpy　trail　leading　down　to　it　and　past　it　to　the　beach。　It　was　down　that　track　that　Willie；　one　of　Jamie's　other　friends；　had　driven　us　in　his　old　Mini　van　to　race　along　the　sands　and　skid　about。
　　
　　I　looked　through　the　windows　at　the　empty　rooms；　the　old　unmatching　furniture　sitting　in　the　shadows　looking　dusty　and　neglected。　An　old　magazine　lay　on　a　table；　one　corner　yellowed　with　sunlight。　In　the　shade　of　the　gable　end　of　the　house　I　sat　down　and　finished　my　water；　took　off　my　cap　and　wiped　my　forehead　with　my　handkerchief。　In　the　distance　I　could　hear　muffled　explosions　from　the　range　farther　down　the　coast；　and　once　a　jet　came　tearing　in　over　the　calm　sea；　heading　due　west。
　　
　　Away　from　the　house　a　ridge　of　low　hills　started；　topped　with　whin　and　stunted　trees　shaped　by　the　wind。　I　trained　the　binoculars　on　them；　waving　flies　away；　my　head　starting　to　ache　just　a　little　and　my　tongue　dry　despite　the　warm　water　I　had　just　drunk。　When　I　lowered　the　glasses　and　put　the　Polaroids　back　down　I　heard　it。
　　
　　Something　howled。　Some　animal…my　God；　I　hoped　it　wasn't　a　human　making　that　noise…screamed　in　torment。　It　was　a　rising；　anguished　wail；　the　note　produced　only　by　an　animal　in　extremis；　the　noise　you　hope　no　living　thing　ever　has　to　make。
　　
　　I　sat　with　the　sweat　dripping　off　me；　parched　and　aching　with　the　baking　heat；　but　I　shivered。　I　shook　with　a　wave　of　cold　like　a　dog　shaking　itself　dry；　from　one　end　to　the　other。　The　hair　on　the　back　of　my　neck　unstuck　itself　from　the　sweat；　stood。　I　got　up　quickly；　hands　scrabbling　on　the　warm　wood　of　the　house　wall；　binoculars　bumping　on　my　chest。　The　scream　came　from　the　ridge。　I　pushed　the　Polaroids　back　up；　used　the　glasses　again；　bashing　them　on　the　bones　above　my　eyes　as　I　fought　with　the　focusing…wheel。　My　hands　shook。
　　
　　A　black　shape　shot　out　of　the　whins；　trailing　smoke。　It　raced　down　the　slope　over　the　yellow…spangled　grass；　under　a　fence。　My　hands　bounced　the　view　around　as　I　tried　to　pan　the　binoculars　to　follow　it。　The　keen　wail　sounded　over　the　air；　thin　and　terrible。　I　lost　the　thing　behind　some　bushes；　then　saw　it　again；　burning　as　it　ran　and　jumped　over　grass　and　reed；　raising　spray。　My　mouth　dried　pletely；　I　couldn't　swallow；　I　was　choking；　but　I　tracked　the　animal　as　it　skidded　and　turned；　yelping　high；　bounding　into　the　air；　falling；　seeming　to　leap　on　the　spot。　Then　it　disappeared；　a　few　hundred　metres　from　me　and　about　as　much　down　from　the　ridge　of　the　hill。
　　
　　I　swept　the　glasses　quickly　back　up　to　look　at　the　top　of　the　ridge　again；　scanned　along　it；　back；　down；　back　up；　along　again；　stopped　to　stare　intently　at　a　bush；　shook　my　head；　scanned　the　length　again。　Some　irrelevant　part　of　my　brain　thought　about　how　in　films；　when　people　look　through　binoculars　and　you　see　what　they　are　supposed　to　be　seeing；　it's　always　a　sort　of　figure…of…eight　on　its　side　that　you　see；　but　whenever　I　look　through　them　I　see　more　or　less　a　perfect　circle。　I　brought　the　glasses　down；　looked　about　quickly；　saw　nobody；　then　I　sprinted　out　of　the　shadow　of　the　house；　leaped　the　small　wire　fence　that　marked　the　garden；　and　ran　towards　the　ridge。
　　
　　
　　On　the　ridge　I　stood　for　a　moment；　head　down　to　my　knees；　gasping　for　breath；　letting　the　perspiration　drip　off　my　hair　and　on　to　the　bright　grass　at　my　feet。　My　T…shirt　stuck　to　me。　I　put　my　hands　on　my　knees　and　lifted　my　head；　straining　my　eyes　to　look　along　the　line　of　whin　and　trees　on　the　ridge's　top。　I　looked　down　the　far　side　and　over　the　fields　beyond　to　the　next　line　of　whin；　which　marked　the　cutting　the　railway　line　ran　through。　I　jogged　along　the　ridge；　head　sweeping　to　and　fro；　until　I　found　a　little　patch　of　burning　grass。　I　stamped　it　out；　looked　for　tracks　and　found　them。　I　ran　faster；　despite　my　protesting　throat　and　lungs；　found　some　more　burning　grass　and　a　whin　bush　just　catching。　I　beat　them　out；　went　on。
　　
　　Down　in　a　small　hollow　on　the　land　side　of　the　ridge　some　trees　had　grown　almost　normally；　only　their　tops；　sticking　out　over　the　lee　of　the　line　of　small　hills；　leaned　out　from　the　sea；　twisted　by　the　wind。　I　ran　into　the　grassy　hollow；　into　the　moving　pattern　of　shade　provided　by　the　slowly　swaying　leaves　and　branches。　There　was　a　circle　of　stones　around　a　blackened　centre。　I　looked　around；　saw　a　piece　of　flattened　grass。　I　stopped；　calmed　myself；　looked　around　again；　at　the　trees　and　the　grass　and　the　ferns；　but　could　see　nothing　else。　I　went　to　the　stones；　felt　them　and　the　ashes　in　their　circle。　They　were　hot；　too　hot　to　keep　my　hands　on　them；　though　they　were　in　shade。　I　could　smell　petrol。
　　
　　I　climbed　out　of　the　hollow　and　up　a　tree；　steadied　myself　and　slowly　inspected　the　whole　area；　using　my　binoculars　when　I　had　to。　Nothing。
　　
　　I　climbed　down；　stood　for　a　second；　then　took　a　deep　breath　and　ran　down　the　sea…facing　side　of　the　hills；　heading　across　diagonally　to　where　I　knew　the　animal　had　been。　I　changed　course　once；　to　beat　out　another　small　fire。　I　surprised　a　cropping　sheep；　jumped　right　over　it　as　it　startled　and　bounced　away；　baaing。
　　
　　The　dog　lay　in　the　stream　leading　out　of　the　marsh。　It　was　still　alive；　but　most　of　its　black　coat　was　gone；　and　the　skin　underneath　was　livid　and　seeping。　It　quivered　in　the　water；　making　me　shiver；　too。　I　stood　on　the　bank　and　looked　at　it。　It　could　only　see　with　one　unburned　eye　as　it　raised　its　shaking　head　out　of　the　water。　In　the　little　pool　around　it　floated　bits　of　clotted；　half…burned　fur。　I　caught　a　hint　of　the　smell　of　burned　meat；　and　felt　a　weight　settle　in　my　neck；　just　below　my　Adam's　apple。
　　
　　I　took　out　my　bag　of　steelies；　brought　one　to　the　sling　of　the　catapult　as　I　unhooked　it　from　my　belt；　stretched　my　arms　out；　one　hand　by　my　face；　where　it　was　wetted　by　sweat；　then　released。
　　
　　The　dog's　head　jerked　out　of　the　water；　splashing　down　then　up；　sending　the　animal　away　from　me；　and　over　on　one　side。　It　floated　downstream　a　little；　then　bumped；　ca