首发偶发空缺 (临时空缺)-第7部分

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day　morals；　they　lied；　misbehaved　and　cheated　routinely；　and　yet　their　fury　when　wrongly　accused　was　limitless　and　genuine。　Tessa　thought　she　recognized　this　as　authentic　outrage；　as　opposed　to　the　synthetic　kind　that　Krystal　was　adept　at　producing。　In　any　case；　the　squawk　Tessa　had　heard　during　assembly　had　struck　her　at　the　time　as　one　of　shock　and　dismay　rather　than　amusement；　Tessa　had　been　filled　with　dread　when　Colin　had　publicly　identified　it　as　laughter。

‘I　seen　Cubby—’

‘Krystal！—’

‘I　tole　your　fuckin’　’usband—’

‘Krystal；　for　the　last　time；　please　do　not　swear　at　me—’

‘I　told　’im　I　never　laughed；　I　told　’im！　An’　he’s　still　gave　me　fucking　detention！’

Tears　of　fury　gleamed　in　the　girl’s　heavily　pencilled　eyes。　Blood　had　flowed　into　her　face；　peony　pink；　she　glared　at　Tessa；　poised　to　run；　to　swear；　to　give　Tessa　the　finger　too。　Nearly　two　years　of　gossamer…fine　trust；　laboriously　spun　between　them；　was　stretching；　on　the　point　of　tearing。

‘I　believe　you；　Krystal。　I　believe　you　didn’t　laugh；　but　please　do　not　swear　at　me。’

Suddenly；　stubby　fingers　were　rubbing　the　smeary　eyes。　Tessa　pulled　a　wad　of　tissues　from　out　of　her　desk　drawer　and　handed　them　across　to　Krystal；　who　grabbed　them　without　thanks；　pressed　them　to　each　eye　and　blew　her　nose。　Krystal’s　hands　were　the　most　touching　part　of　her：　the　fingernails　were　short　and　broad；　untidily　painted；　and　all　her　hand　movements　were　as　naive　and　direct　as　a　small　child’s。

Tessa　waited　until　Krystal’s　snorting　breaths　had　slowed　down。　Then　she　said；　‘I　can　tell　you’re　upset　that　Mr　Fairbrother　has　died—’

‘Yer；　I　am；’　said　Krystal；　with　considerable　aggression。　‘So？’

Tessa　had　a　sudden　mental　image　of　Barry　listening　in　to　this　conversation。　She　could　see　his　rueful　smile；　she　heard　him；　quite　clearly；　saying　‘bless　her　heart’。　Tessa　closed　her　stinging　eyes；　unable　to　speak。　She　heard　Krystal　fidget；　counted　slowly　to　ten；　and　opened　her　eyes　again。　Krystal　was　staring　at　her；　arms　still　folded；　flushed　and　defiant…looking。

‘I’m　very　sorry　about　Mr　Fairbrother　too；’　said　Tessa。　‘He　was　an　old　friend　of　ours；　actually。　That’s　the　reason　Mr　Wall　is　a　bit—’

‘I　told　’im　I　never—’

‘Krystal；　please　let　me　finish。　Mr　Wall　is　very　upset　today；　and　that’s　probably　why　he　…　why　he　misinterpreted　what　you　did。　I’ll　speak　to　him。’

‘He　won’t　change　his　fuck—’

‘Krystal！’

‘Well；　he　won’。’

Krystal　banged　the　leg　of　Tessa’s　desk　with　her　foot；　beating　out　a　rapid　rhythm。　Tessa　removed　her　elbows　from　the　desk；　so　as　not　to　feel　the　vibration；　and　said；　‘I’ll　speak　to　Mr　Wall。’

She　adopted　what　she　believed　was　a　neutral　expression　and　waited　patiently　for　Krystal　to　e　to　her。　Krystal　sat　in　truculent　silence；　kicking　the　table　leg；　swallowing　regularly。

‘What　was　wrong　with　Mr　Fairbrother？’　she　said　at　last。

‘They　think　an　artery　burst　in　his　brain；’　said　Tessa。

‘Why　did　it？’

‘He　was　born　with　a　weakness　he　didn’t　know　about；’　said　Tessa。

Tessa　knew　that　Krystal’s　familiarity　with　sudden　death　was　greater　than　her　own。　People　in　Krystal’s　mother’s　circle　died　prematurely　with　such　frequency　that　they　might　have　been　involved　in　some　secret　war　of　which　the　rest　of　the　world　knew　nothing。　Krystal　had　told　Tessa　how；　when　she　was　six　years　old；　she　had　found　the　corpse　of　an　unknown　young　man　in　her　mother’s　bathroom。　It　had　been　the　catalyst　for　one　of　her　many　removals　into　the　care　of　her　Nana　Cath。　Nana　Cath　loomed　large　in　many　of　Krystal’s　stories　about　her　childhood；　a　strange　mixture　of　saviour　and　scourge。

‘Our　crew’ll　be　fucked　now；’　said　Krystal。

‘No；　it　won’t；’　said　Tessa。　‘And　don’t　swear；　Krystal；　please。’

‘It　will；’　said　Krystal。

Tessa　wanted　to　contradict　her；　but　the　impulse　was　squashed　by　exhaustion。　Krystal　was　right；　anyway；　said　a　disconnected；　rational　part　of　Tessa’s　brain。　The　rowing　eight　would　be　finished。　Nobody　except　Barry　could　have　brought　Krystal　Weedon　into　any　group　and　kept　her　there。　She　would　leave；　Tessa　knew　it；　probably　Krystal　knew　it　herself。　They　sat　for　a　while　without　speaking；　and　Tessa　was　too　tired　to　find　words　that　might　have　changed　the　atmosphere　between　them。　She　felt　shivery；　exposed；　skinned　to　the　bone。　She　had　been　awake　for　over　twenty…four　hours。

（Samantha　Mollison　had　telephoned　from　the　hospital　at　ten　o’clock；　just　as　Tessa　was　emerging　from　a　long　soak　in　the　bath　to　watch　the　BBC　news。　She　had　scrambled　back　into　her　clothes　while　Colin　made　inarticulate　noises　and　blundered　into　the　furniture。　They　had　called　upstairs　to　tell　their　son　where　they　were　going；　then　run　out　to　the　car。　Colin　had　driven　far　too　fast　into　Yarvil；　as　though　he　might　bring　Barry　back　if　he　could　do　the　journey　in　record　time；　outstrip　reality　and　trick　it　into　rearranging　itself。）

‘If　you　ain’　gonna　talk　to　me；　I’ll　go；’　said　Krystal。

‘Don’t　be　rude；　please；　Krystal；’　said　Tessa。　‘I’m　very　tired　this　morning。　Mr　Wall　and　I　were　at　the　hospital　last　night　with　Mr　Fairbrother’s　wife。　They’re　good　friends　of　ours。’

（Mary　had　unravelled　pletely　when　she　had　seen　Tessa；　flinging　her　arms　around　her；　burying　her　face　in　Tessa’s　neck　with　a　dreadful　wailing　shriek。　Even　as　Tessa’s　own　tears　began　to　splatter　down　Mary’s　narrow　back；　she　thought　quite　distinctly　that　the　noise　Mary　was　making　was　called　keening。　The　body　that　Tessa　had　so　often　envied；　slim　and　petite；　had　quaked　in　her　arms；　barely　able　to　contain　the　grief　it　was　being　asked　to　bear。

Krystal　was　chewing　on　the　tips　of　her　fingers。

‘He　were　gonna　get　me　talkin’　to　the　paper；’　she　said　abruptly。

‘What’s　that？’　asked　Tessa；　confused。

‘Mr　Fairbrother　wuz。　He　wuz　gonna　get　me　interviewed。　On　me　own。’

There　had　once　been　a　piece　in　the　local　paper　about　the　Winterdown　rowing　eight　ing　first　in　the　regional　finals。　Krystal；　whose　reading　was　poor；　had　brought　a　copy　of　the　paper　in　to　show　Tessa；　and　Tessa　had　read　the　article　aloud；　inserting　exclamations　of　delight　and　admiration。　It　had　been　the　happiest　guidance　session　she　had　ever　known。

‘Were　they　going　to　interview　you　because　of　rowing？’　asked　Tessa。　‘The　crew　again？’

‘No；’　said　Krystal。　‘Other　stuff。’　Then；　‘When’s　his　funeral？’

‘We　don’t　know　yet；’　said　Tessa。

Krystal　gnawed　at　her　nails；　and　Tessa　could　not　summon　the　energy　to　break　the　silence　that　solidified　around　them。

X
The　announcement　of　Barry’s　death　on　the　Parish　Council　website　sank　with　barely　a　ripple；　a　tiny　pebble　into　the　teeming　ocean。　All　the　same；　the　telephone　lines　in　Pagford　were　busier　than　usual　this　Monday；　and　little　knots　of　pedestrians　kept　congregating　on　the　narrow　pavements　to　check；　in　shocked　tones；　the　exactness　of　their　information。

As　the　news　travelled；　an　odd　transmutation　took　place。　It　happened　to　the　signature　dotting　the　files　in　Barry’s　office　and　to　the　emails　littering　inboxes　of　his　enormous　acquaintance；　which　began　to　take　on　the　pathos　of　the　crumb　trail　of　a　lost　boy　in　a　forest。　These　rapid　scribbles；　the　pixels　arranged　by　fingers　henceforth　forever　still；　acquired　the　macabre　aspect　of　husks。　Gavin　was　already　a　little　repelled　by　the　sight　of　his　dead　friend’s　texts　on　his　phone；　and　one　of　the　girls　from　the　rowing　eight；　still　crying　as　she　walked　back　from　assembly；　found　a　form　that　Barry　had　signed　in　her　school　bag；　and　became　almost　hysterical。

The　twenty…three…year…old　journalist　at　the　Yarvil　and　District　Gazette　had　no　idea　that　Barry’s　once　busy　brain　was　now　a　heavy　handful　of　spongy　tissue　on　a　metal　tray　in　South　West　General。　She　read　through　what　he　had　emailed　her　an　hour　before　his　death；　then　called　his　mobile　number；　but　nobody　answered。　Barry’s　phone；　which　he　had　turned　off　at　Mary’s　request　before　they　left　for　the　golf　club；　was　sitting　silently　beside　the　microwave　in　the　kitchen；　along　with　the　rest　of　his　personal　effects　that　the　hospital　had　given　her　to　take　home。　Nobody　had　touched　them。　These　familiar　objects　–　his　key　fob；　his　phone；　his　worn　old　wallet　–　seemed　like　pieces　of　the　dead　man　himself；　they　might　have　been　his　fingers；　his　lungs。

Onwards　and　outwards　the　news　of　Barry’s　death　spread；　radiating；　halo…like；　from　those　who　had　been　at　the　hospital。　Onwards　and　outwards　as　far　as　Yarvil；　reaching　those　who　knew　Barry　only　by　sight　or　reputation　or　by　name。　Gradually　the　facts　lost　form　and　focus；　in　some　cases　they　became　distorted。　In　places；　Barry　himself　was　lost　behind　the　nature　of　his　ending；　and　he　became　no　more　than　an　eruption　of　vomit　and　piss；　a　twitching　pile　of　catastrophe；　and　it　seemed　incongruous；　even　grotesquely　ical；　that　a　man　should　have　died　so　messily　at　the　smug　little　golf　club。

So　it　was　that　Simon　Price；　who　had　been　one　of　the　first　to　hear　about　Barry’s　death；　in　his　house　on　top　of　the　hill　overlooking　Pagford；　met　a　rebounding　version　at　the　Harcourt…Walsh　printworks　in　Yarvil　where　he　had　worked　ever　since　leaving　school。　It　was　borne　to　him　on　the　lips　of　a　young；　gum…chewing　forklift　driver；　whom　Simon　found　skulking　beside　his　office　door；　after　a　late…afternoon　return　from　the　bathroom。

The　boy　had　not　e；　in　the　first　place；　to　discuss　Barry　at　all。

The　boy　chewed　vigorously；　Simon　could　hear　his　saliva　working。　Gum…chewing　was　one　of　Simon’s　many　pet　hates。

‘It’s　the　proper　thing；　though；　is　it？’　Simon　demanded。　‘Not　some　knock…off　piece　of　crap？’

‘e　straight　from　the　warehouse；’　said　the　boy；　shifting　his　feet　and　his　shoulders。　‘Real　thing；　still　boxed　up。’

‘All　right；　then；’　said　Simon。　‘Bring　it　in　Wednesday。’

‘What；　here？’　The　boy　rolled　his　eyes。　‘Nah；　not　to　work；　mate　…　Where　d’you　live？’

‘Pagford；’　said　Simon。

‘Where’bouts　in　Pagford？’

Simon’s　aversion　to　naming　his　home　bordered　on　the　superstitious。　He　not　only　disliked　visitors　–　invaders　of　his　privacy　and　possible　despoilers　of　his　property　–　but　he　saw　Hilltop　House　as　inviolate；　immaculate；　a　world　apart　from　Yarvil　and　the　crashing；　grinding　printworks。

‘I’ll　e　and　pick　it　up　after　work；’　said　Simon；　ignoring　the　question。　‘Where　are　you　keeping　it？’

The　boy　did　not　look　happy。　Simon　glared　at　him。

‘Well；　I’d　need　the　cash　upfront；’　the　forklift　driver　temporized。

‘You　get　the　money　when　I’ve　got　the　goods。’

‘Dun’　work　like　that；　mate。’

Simon　thought　he　might　be　developing　a　headache。　He　could　not　dislodge　the　horrible　idea；　implanted　by　his　careless　wife　that　morning；　that　a　tiny　bomb　might　tick　undetected　for　ages　inside　a　man’s　brain。　The　steady　clatter　and　rumble　of　the　printing　press　beyond　the　door　was　surely　not　good　for　him；　its　relentless　battery　might　have　been　thinning　his　artery　walls　for　years。

‘All　right；’　he　grunted；　and　rolled　over　in　his　chair　to　extract　his　wallet　from　his　back　pocket。　The　boy　stepped　up　to　the　desk；　his　hand　out。

‘D’yeh　live　anywhere　near　Pagford　golf　course？’　he　asked；　as　Simon　counted　out　tenners　into　his　palm。　‘Mate　o’　mine　was　up　there　las’　night；　an’　saw　a　bloke　drop　dead。　Jus’　fuckin’　puked　an’　keeled　over　an’　died　in　the　car　park。’

‘Yeah；　I　heard；’　said　Simon；　massaging　the　last　n