发帖时间:2019-12-05 12:17:56

广州 法国生蚝工装工Chapter 3

裤女Chapter 26In 1969, the Inside-Outers were picking potatoes in Sabbatus. It was the third of November and the work was almost done. There was a guard named Henry Pugh - and he is no longer a member of our happy little family, believe me -sitting on the back bumper of one of the potato trucks and having his lunch with his carbine across his knees when a beautiful (or so it was told to me, but sometimes these things get exaggerated) ten-point buck strolled out of the cold early afternoon mist Pugh went after it with visions of just how that trophy would look mounted in his rec room, and while he was doing it, three of his charges just walked away. Two were recaptured in a Lisbon Falls pinball parlour. The third has not been found to this day. I suppose the most famous case of all was that of Sid Nedeau. This goes back to 1958, and I guess it will never be topped. Sid was out lining the ball-field for a Saturday intramural baseball game when the three o'clock inside whistle blew, signalling the shiftchange for the guards. The parking lot is just beyond the exercise yard, on the other side of the electrically-operated main gate. At three the gate opens and the guards coming on duty and those going off mingle. There's a lot of back-slapping and bullyragging, comparison of league bowling scores and the usual number of tired old ethnic jokes. Sid just trundled his lining machine right out through the gate, leaving a three-inch baseline all the way from third base in the exercise yard to the ditch on the far side of Route 6, where they found the machine overturned in a pile of lime. Don't ask me how he did it. He was dressed in his prison uniform, he stood six-feet-two, and he was billowing clouds of lime-dust behind him. All I can figure is that, it being Friday afternoon and all, the guards going off were so happy to be going off, and the guards coming on were so downhearted to be coming on, that the members of the former group never got their heads out of the clouds and those in the latter never got their noses off their shoetops ... and old Sid Nedeau just sort of slipped out between the two. So far as I know, Sid is still at large. Over the years, Andy Dufresne and I had a good many laughs over Sid Nedeau's great escape, and when we heard about that airline hijacking for ransom, the one where the guy parachuted from the back door of the airplane, Andy swore up and down that D B Cooper's real name was Sid Nedeau. 'And he probably had a pocketful of baseline lime in his pocket for good luck,' Andy said. 'That lucky son of a bitch.' But you should understand that a case like Sid Nedeau, or the fellow who got away clean from the Sabbatus potato-field crew, guys like that are winning the prison version of the Irish Sweepstakes. Purely a case of six different kinds of luck somehow jelling together all at the same moment. A stiff like Andy could wait ninety years and not get a similar break. Maybe you remember, a ways back, I mentioned a guy named Henley Backus, the washroom foreman in the laundry. He came to Shawshank in 1922 and died in the prison infirmary thirty-one years later. Escapes and escape attempts were a hobby of his, maybe because he never quite dared to take the plunge himself. He could tell you a hundred different schemes, all of them crackpot, and all of them had been tried in the Shank at one time or another. My favourite was the tale of Beaver Morrison, a convict who tried to build a glider from scratch in the plate-factory basement. The plans he was working from were in a circa-1900 book called The Modern Boy's Guide to Fun and Adventure. Beaver got it built without being discovered, or so the story goes, only to discover there was no door from the basement big enough to get the damned thing out. When Henley told that story, you could bust a gut laughing, and he knew a dozen - no, two dozen -just as funny. When it came to detailing Shawshank bust-outs, Henley had it down chapter and verse. He told me once that during his time there had been better than four hundred escape attempts that he knew of. Really think about that for a moment before you just nod your head and read on. Four hundred escape attempts! That comes out to 12.9 escape attempts for every year Henley Backus was in Shawshank and keeping track of them. The Escape Attempt of the Month Club. Of course most of them were pretty slipshod affairs, the sort of thing that ends up with a guard grabbing some poor, sidling slob's arm and growling, 'Where do you think you're going, you happy asshole?' Henley said he'd class maybe sixty of them as more serious attempts, and he included the 'prison break' of 1937, the year before I arrived at the Shank. The new administration wing was under construction then and fourteen cons got out, using construction equipment in a poorly locked shed. The whole of southern Maine got into a panic over those fourteen 'hardened criminals', most of whom were scared to death and had no more idea of where they should go than a jackrabbit does when it's headlight-pinned to the highway with a big truck bearing down on it. Not one of those fourteen got away. Two of them were shot dead - by civilians, not police officers or prison personnel -but none got away. How many had gotten away between 1938, when I came here, and that day in October when Andy first mentioned Zihuatanejo to me? Putting my information and Henley's together, I'd say ten. Ten that got away clean. And although it isn't the kind of thing you can know for sure, I'd guess that at least half of those ten are doing time in other institutions of lower learning like the Shank. Because you do get institutionalized. When you take away a man's freedom and teach him to live in a cell, he seems to lose his ability to think in dimensions. He's like that jackrabbit I mentioned, frozen in the oncoming lights of the truck that is bound to kill it. More often than not a con who's just out will pull some dumb job that hasn't a chance in hell of succeeding ... and why? Because it'll get him back inside. Back where he understands how things work. Andy wasn't that way, but I was. The idea of seeing the Pacific sounded good, but I was afraid that actually being there would scare me to death - the bigness of it. 一九六九年,长排外役监计划的内容是去沙巴塔斯挖马铃薯,长排那天是十一月三日,工作几乎快做完了。有个名叫亨利·浦格的警卫(他现在已不是我们这个快乐家庭的一员了)坐在马铃薯货车的后挡泥板上吃午餐,把卡宾枪放在膝上,这时候,一头漂亮的雄鹿(他们是这样告诉我的,但有时这些事情会加油添醋)从雾中缓缓走出来,浦格追过去 ,想象着战利品摆在家里康乐室的样子,结果他看守的三个囚犯乘机溜走,其中有两个人在另一个镇的弹子房被逮着 ,另外一个始终没找到。我想最有名的越狱犯是锡德·尼都。他在一九五八年越狱,我猜以后很难有人超越他。由于星期六监狱将举行球赛,因此锡德当时正在球场划界线。三点钟一到 ,哨声响起,代表警卫要换班了。运动场再过去一点就是停车场,和电动大门恰好位于监狱的两端。三点钟一到,大门开了,来换班的警卫和下班的警卫混在一起,互相拍肩膀 ,打招呼,比较保龄球赛的战绩,开开玩笑。而锡德推着他的划线机,不动声色地从大门走出去,三英寸宽的白线一路从棒球场的本垒板一直画到公路旁的水沟边,他们后来发现划线机翻倒在那里 。别问我他是怎么出去的 ,他有六英尺二英寸高,穿着囚衣,推着划线机走过去时,还会扬起阵阵白灰,竟然就堂而皇之地从大门走出去了。只能说,大概因为正逢星期五下午,要下班的警卫因为即将下班太过兴奋,而来换班的警卫又因为要来换班而太过沮丧 ,前者得意地把头抬得高高的,后者则垂头丧气,视线始终没离开过鞋尖……锡德就这么趁隙逃跑了。就我所知,锡德到现在还逍遥法外。多年来,安迪和我还常常拿锡德的逃亡过程来当笑话讲。后来当我们听说了古柏一九七一年十一月,一个自称古柏的人登上了从波特兰到西雅图的客机,威胁要炸掉飞机,向航空公司勒赎二十万美元。他在西雅图机场拿到赎金,于飞机再度起飞后,从高空跳伞逃脱,从此不见踪影,成为美国历史上一大谜团。劫机勒赎的事,也就是劫机犯从飞机后舱门跳伞逃走的故事 ,安迪坚持那个叫古柏的劫机犯真名一定叫锡德·尼都。“好个幸运的龟儿子,”安迪说。“搞不好他为了讨个吉利,整个口袋都装满了用来划线的白灰粉呢 。”但是你应该明白,锡德和那个在沙巴塔斯马铃薯田逃走的家伙只是少数中了头彩的幸运儿,仿佛所有的运气刹那间全聚集在他们身上。像安迪这么一板一眼的人,可能等上九十年也逃不出去。也许你还记得,我曾经提过有个洗衣房工头名叫韩利·巴克斯 ,他在一九二二年被关到肖申克来,三十一年后死于监狱的医务室。他简直把研究越狱当作嗜好,或许原因就在于他自己从来不敢亲身尝试。他可以告诉你一百种不同的越狱方法,每一种都很疯狂,而且肖申克的犯人都尝试过。我最喜欢的是毕佛·莫里森的故事,这家伙竟然试图在车牌工厂的地下室建造一架滑翔机。他是照着一九〇〇年出版的《现代男孩玩乐与冒险指南》上面的说明来造飞机,而且一直没有被发现 ,只是直到最后他才发现地下室的门都太小了 ,根本没法子把那架该死的滑翔机搬出去。每次韩利说这个故事时,都会引起一阵爆笑,而他还知道一二十个同样好笑的故事 。有一次韩利告诉我,在他服刑期间,他知道的企图越狱案就有四百多件。在你点点头往下读之前,先停下来好好想一想。四百多次越狱尝试!等于韩利在肖申克监狱服刑期间,每年平均有十二点九次企图越狱事件。当然,大多数越狱行动都还满随便的,结局不外乎某个鬼鬼祟祟的可怜虫、糊涂蛋被警卫一把抓住 ,痛骂:“你以为你要上哪儿去呀,混蛋!”韩利说,比较认真策划的越狱行动大概只有六十件,其中包括一九三七年的“大逃亡”,那是我入狱前一年发生的事情。当时肖申克正在盖新的行政大楼,有十四名囚犯从没有锁好的仓库中拿了施工的工具,越狱逃跑。整个缅因州南部都因为这十四个“顽强的罪犯”陷入恐慌,但其实这十四个人大都吓得半死 ,完全不知该往哪儿逃,就好像误闯公路的野兔,被迎面而来的大卡车车头灯一照,就动弹不得。结果,十四个犯人没有一个真正逃脱,有两个人被枪射死——但他们是死在老百姓的枪下 ,而不是被警官或监狱警卫逮着,没有一个人成功逃脱。从一九三八年我入狱以来,到安迪第一次和我提到齐华坦尼荷那天为止,究竟有多少人逃离肖申克?把我和韩利听说的加起来,大概十个左右。只有十个人彻彻底底逃脱了。虽然我没有办法确定,但是我猜十个人当中,至少有五个人目前在其他监狱服刑 。因为一个人的确会受到监狱环境制约,当你剥夺了某人的自由、教他如何在牢里生存后,他似乎就失去了多面思考的能力,变得好像我刚刚提到的野兔,看着迎面而来、快撞上它的卡车灯光,却僵在那里动弹不得。许多刚出狱的囚犯往往会做一些绝不可能成功的蠢罪案,为什么呢?因为如此一来,他就可以回到牢里 ,回到他所熟悉了解的地方。安迪不是这样的人,但我是。眺望太平洋的念头听起来很棒,但是我害怕有朝一日,我真的到了那里时,浩瀚的太平洋会把我吓得半死。

行榜装裤Chapter 27Anyhow, the day of that conversation about Mexico, and about Mr Peter Stevens ... that was the day I began to believe that Andy had some idea of doing a disappearing act. I hoped to God he would be careful if he did, and still, I wouldn't have bet money on his chances of succeeding. Warden Norton, you see, was watching Andy with a special close eye. Andy wasn't just another deadhead with a number to Norton; they had a working relationship, you might say. Also, he had brains and he had heart Norton was determined to use the one and crush the other. As there are honest politicians on the outside - ones who stay bought - there are honest prison guards, and if you are a good judge of character and if you have some loot to spread around, I suppose it's possible that you could buy enough look-the-other-way to make a break. I'm not the man to tell you such a thing has never been done, but Andy Dufresne wasn't the man who could do it because, as I've said, Norton was watching. Andy knew it, and the screws knew it, too. Nobody was going to nominate Andy for the Inside-Out programme, not as long as Warden Norton was evaluating the nominations. And Andy was not the kind of man to try acasual Sid Nedeau type of escape. If I had been him, the thought of that key would have tormented me endlessly. I would have been lucky to get two hours' worth of honest shuteye a night. Buxton was less than thirty miles from Shawshank. So near and yet so far. I still thought his best chance was to engage a lawyer and try for the retrial. Anything to get out from under Norton's thumb. Maybe Tommy Williams could be shut up by nothing more than a cushy furlough programme, but I wasn't entirely sure. Maybe a good old Mississippi hardass lawyer could crack him ... and maybe that lawyer wouldn't even have to work that hard. Williams had honestly liked Andy. Every now and then I'd bring these points up to Andy, who would only smile, his eyes far away, and say he was thinking about it. Apparently he'd been thinking about a lot of other things, as well. In 1975, Andy Dufresne escaped from Shawshank. He hasn't been recaptured, and I don't think he ever will be. In fact, I don't think Andy Dufresne even exists anymore. But I think there's a man down in Zihuatanejo, Mexico named Peter Stevens. Probably running a very new small hotel in this year of our Lord 1977. I'll tell you what I know and what I think; that's about all I can do, isn't it? On 12 March 1975, the cell doors in Cellblock 5 opened at 6.30 a.m., as they do every morning around here except Sunday. And as they do every day except Sunday, the inmates of those cells stepped forward into the corridor and formed two lines as the cell doors slammed shut behind them. They walked up to the main cellblock gate, where they were counted off by two guards before being sent on down to the cafeteria for a breakfast of oatmeal, scrambled eggs, and fatty bacon. All of this went according to routine until the count at the cellblock gate. There should have been twenty-nine. Instead, there were twenty-eight. After a call to the Captain of the Guards, Cellblock 5 was allowed to go to breakfast. The Captain of the Guards, a not half-bad fellow named Richard Gonyar, and his assistant, a jolly prick named Dave Burkes, came down to Cellblock 5 right away. Gonyar reopened the cell doors and he and Burkes went down the corridor together, dragging their sticks over the bars, their guns out. In a case like that what you usually have is someone who has been taken sick in the night, so sick he can't even step out of his cell in the morning. More rarely, someone has died... or committed suicide. But this time, they found a mystery instead of a sick man or a dead man. They found no man at all. There were fourteen cells in Cellblock 5, seven to a side, all fairly neat restriction of visiting privileges is the penalty for a sloppy cell at Shawshank - and all very empty. Gonyar's first assumption was that there had been a miscount or a practical joke. So instead of going off to work after breakfast, the inmates of Cellblock 5 were sent back to their cells, joking and happy. Any break in the routine was always welcome. Cell doors opened; prisoners stepped in; cell doors closed. Some clown shouting, 'I want my lawyer, I want my lawyer, you guys run this place just like a frigging prison.' Burkes: 'Shut up in there, or I'll rank you.' The clown: 'I ranked your wife, Burkie,' Gonyar: 'Shut up, all of you, or you'll spend the day in there.' He and Burkes went up the line again, counting noses. They didn't have to go far. 'Who belongs in this cell?' Gonyar asked the rightside night guard. 'Andrew Dufresne,' the rightside answered, and that was all it took. Everything stopped being routine right then. The balloon went up. In all the prison movies I've seen, this wailing horn goes off when there's been a break. That never happens at Shawshank. The first thing Gonyar did was to get in touch with the warden. The second thing was to get a search of the prison going. The third was to alert the State Police in Scarborough to the possibility of a breakout. That was the routine. It didn't call for them to search the suspected escapee's cell, and so no one did. Not then. Why would they? It was a case of what you see is what you get. It was a small square room, bars on the window and bars on the sliding door. There was a toilet and an empty cot. Some pretty rocks on the windowsill. And the poster, of course. It was Linda Ronstadt by then. The poster was right over his bunk. There had been a poster there, in that exact same place, for twenty-six years. And when someone - it was Warden Norton himself, as it turned out, poetic justice if there ever was any - looked behind it, they got one hell of a shock. But that didn't happen until 6.30 that night, almost twelve hours after Andy had been reported missing, probably twenty hours after he had actually made his escape. Norton hit the roof. I have it on good authority - Chester, the trustee, who was waxing the hall floor in the Admin Wing that day. He didn't have to polish any keyplates with his ear that day; he said you could hear the warden clear down to Records & Files as he chewed on Rich Gonyar's ass. 总而言之,女长自从那天安迪谈到墨西哥和彼得·斯蒂芬以后,女长我开始相信安迪有逃亡的念头。我只能祈祷上帝,让他谨慎行事,但是我不会把赌注押在他身上。典狱长诺顿特别注意他的一举一动,安迪不是普通囚犯。可以这么说 ,他们之间有密不可分的工作关系。安迪很有头脑,但也很有心 ,诺顿下定决心要利用他的头脑,同时也击溃他的心。就好像外面有一些你永远可以买通的诚实政客一样,监狱里也有一些诚实的警卫 ,如果你很懂得看人 ,手头上也有一些钱可以撒的话,我猜你确实有可能买通几个警卫,他们故意放水,眼睛注视着其他地方,让你有机会逃脱。过去不是没有人做过这样的事情,但是安迪没有办法这么做 ,因为正如我刚才所说,诺顿紧紧盯着他,安迪知道这点,狱卒也都知道这点。只要诺顿还继续审核外役监名单,就没有人会提名安迪参加外役监计划,而安迪也不像锡德,他绝不会那么随随便便地展开逃亡行动。如果我是他,外面那把钥匙会使我痛苦万分,彻夜难眠。巴克斯登距离肖申克不到三十英里,却可望而不可及。我仍然认为找律师要求重新审判的成功机会最大,只要能脱离诺顿的掌握就好。或许他们只不过多给汤米一些休假,就让他封口,我并不确定。或许那些律师神通广大,可以让汤米开口,甚至不用费太大的劲,因为汤米很钦佩安迪 。每次我向安迪提出这些意见时,他总是微笑着,目光飘向远方,嘴里说他会考虑考虑 。看来他同时在考虑的事情还不少 。一九七五年,安迪从肖申克逃走了,他一直都没被逮到,我相信他永远也不会被逮到。事实上,我想 ,安迪早已不在这个世上了,而一九七六年这一年,在墨西哥的齐华坦尼荷,有一个叫彼得·斯蒂芬的人正在经营一家小旅馆。我会把我所知道的和我猜想的全都告诉你,我也只能做到这样了,不是吗?一九七五年三月十二日。当警卫在早上六点半打开第五区牢房的大门时,所有犯人都从自己的房间走出来,站到走廊上,排成两列,牢门砰的一声在他们身后关起 。他们走到第五区大门时,会有两个警卫站在门口数人头,算完后便到餐厅去吃麦片、炒蛋和油腻的培根。直到数人头之前,一切都是例行公事。第五区牢房的犯人应该有二十七个,但那天早上数来数去都只有二十六个人,于是警卫去报告队长,并先让第五区的囚犯去吃早餐。警卫队长名叫理查·高亚 ,不是个很坏的人,他和助手戴夫·勃克一起来到第五区牢房 。高亚打开大门,和勃克一起走进两排牢房中间的走道,手上拿着警棍和枪。像这种情形,通常都是有人在半夜病了,而且因为病得太重,早上根本没有力气走出牢房。更罕见的状况是他根本已经病死了 ,或自杀了。但这次却出现了一个大谜团,他们既没有看到病人,也没有看到死人,里面根本空无一人。第五区共有十四间牢房,每边各七间,全都十分整洁——在肖申克 ,对牢房太过脏乱的惩罚是禁止会客——而且全都空荡荡的。高亚第一个反应是警卫算错人数了,要不就是有人恶作剧,因此他叫第五区的所有囚犯吃完早餐后,都先回到牢房去。那些犯人一面开玩笑,一面高兴地跑回去,任何打破常规的事,他们都觉得很新鲜。牢门再度打开 ,犯人一一走进去,牢门关起。爱开玩笑的犯人故意叫着:“我要找律师,我要找律师,你们怎么可以把监狱管理得像他妈的监狱一样!”勃克叫道:“闭嘴,否则我会要你好看 。”那人喊道:“我操你老婆。”高亚说:“你们全都闭嘴,否则今天一整天都待在这里,不准出去 。”他和勃克一间间检查,一个个数着,没走多远。“这间是谁住的?”高亚问值夜班的警卫。“安迪·杜佛尼。”守卫答道。立刻,整个日常作息都乱掉了。监狱里一片哗然。在我所看过的监狱电影里面,每当有人逃狱时,就会响起号角的哭号声,但是在肖申克,从来没有这回事 。高亚做的第一件事是立刻联络典狱长,第二件事是派人搜索整个监狱,第三件事则是打电话警告州警,可能有人越狱了。例行的做法就是如此,标准作业程序没有要求他们检查逃犯的牢房,因此也没有人这么做。何必如此呢?明明就亲眼看到人不在里面。这是个四方形的小房间,窗子上装了铁栅栏,门上也有铁栅栏,此外就是一套卫生设备和空荡荡的床 。窗台上还有一些漂亮的石头。当然还有那张海报。这时候已经换上了琳达·朗斯黛的海报 ,海报就贴在他的床头。二十六年来,同一个位置上一直都贴着海报 。但是当有人查看海报后面时——结果是诺顿自己发现的,真是因果报应——简直魂飞魄散。发现海报后面另有文章,已经是当晚六点半的事了,距离发现安迪失踪足足有十二小时,距离他真正逃亡的时间说不定有二十小时。诺顿暴跳如雷 。我后来是从老柴士特口中知道的,他那天正在行政大楼为地板打蜡,事发当天他不必再把耳朵贴在钥匙孔上,因为他可以把诺顿的咆哮听得一清二楚。

排名Chapter 28'What do you mean, you're "satisfied he's not on the prison grounds"? What does that mean? It means you didn't find him! You better find him! You better! Because I want him! Do you hear me? I want him!' Gonyar said something. 'Didn't happen on your shift? That's what you say. So far as I can tell, no one knows when it happened. Or how. Or if it really did. Now, I want him in my office by three o'clock this afternoon, or some heads are going to roll. I can promise you that, and I always keep my promises.' Something else from Gonyar, something that seemed to provoke Norton to even greater rage. 'No? Then look at this! Look at this! You recognize it? Last night's tally for Cellblock 5. Every prisoner accounted for! Dufresne was locked up last night at nine and it is impossible for him to be gone now! It is impossible! Now you find him!" But at six that evening Andy was still among the missing, Norton himself stormed down to Cellblock 5, where the rest of us had been locked up all of that day. Had we been questioned? We had spent most of that long day being questioned by harried screws who were feeling the breath of the dragon on the backs of their necks. We all said the same thing: we had seen nothing, heard nothing. And so far as I know, we were all telling the truth. I know that I was. All we could say was that Andy had indeed been in his cell at the time of the lock-in, and at lights-out an hour later. One wit suggested that Andy had poured himself out through the keyhole. The suggestion earned the guy four days in solitary. They were uptight. So Norton came down - stalked down - glaring at us with blue eyes nearly hot enough to strike sparks from the tempered steel bars of our cages. He looked at us as if he believed we were all in on it. Probably he did believe it. He went into Andy's cell and looked around. It was just as Andy had left it, the sheets of his bunk turned back but without looking slept-in. Rocks on the windowsill... but not all of them. The ones he liked best he took with him. 'Rocks,' Norton hissed, and swept them off the window-ledge with a clatter. Gonyar, already four hours overtime, winced but said nothing. Norton's eyes fell on the Linda Ronstadt poster. Linda was looking back over her shoulder, her hands tucked into the back pockets of a very tight pair of fawn-coloured slacks. She was wearing a halter and she had a deep California tan. It must have offended the hell out of Norton's Baptist sensibilities, that poster. Watching him glare at it, I remembered what Andy had once said about feeling he could almost step through the picture and be with the girl. In a very real way, that was exactly what he did - as Norton was only seconds from discovering. 'Wretched thing!' he grunted, and ripped the poster from the wall with a single swipe of his hand. And revealed the gaping, crumbled hole in the concrete behind it. Gonyar wouldn't go in. Norton ordered him - God, they must have heard Norton ordering Rich Gonyar to go in there all over the prison - and Gonyar just refused him, point-blank. 'I'll have your job for this!' Norton screamed. He was as hysterical as a woman having a hot-flush. He had utterly blown his cool. His neck had turned a rich, dark red, and two veins stood out, throbbing, on his forehead. 'You can count on it, you ... you Frenchman! I'll have your job and I'll see to it that you never get another one in any prison system in New England!' Gonyar silently held out his service pistol to Norton, butt first. He'd had enough. He was four hours overtime, going on five, and he'd just had enough. It was as if Andy's defection from our happy little family had driven Norton right over the edge of some private irrationality that had been there for a long time ... certainly he was crazy that night. I don't know what that private irrationality might have been, of course. But I do know that there were twenty-eight cons listening to Norton's little dust-up with Rich Gonyar that evening as the last of the light faded from a dull late winter sky, all of us hard-timers and long-line riders who had seen the administrators come and go, the hard-asses and the candy-asses alike, and we all knew that Warden Samuel Norton had just passed what the engineers like to call 'the breaking strain'. And by God, it almost seemed to me that somewhere I could heard Andy Dufresne laughing. Norton finally got a skinny drink of water on the night shift to go into that hole that had been behind Andy's poster of Linda Ronstadt. The skinny guard's name was Rory Tremont, and he was not exactly a ball of fire in the brains department. Maybe he thought he was going to win a Bronze Star or something. As it turned out, it was fortunate that Norton got someone of Andy's approximate height and build to go in there; if they had sent a big-assed fellow - as most prison guards seem to be - the guy would have stuck in there is sure as God made green grass ... and he might be there still. Tremont went in with a nylon filament rope, which someone had found in the trunk of his car, tied around his waist and a big six-battery flashlight in one hand. By then Gonyar, who had changed his mind about quitting and who seemed to be the only one there still able to think clearly, had dug out a set of blueprints. I knew well enough what they showed him - a wall which looked, in cross-section, like a sandwich. The entire wall was ten feet thick. The inner and outer sections were each about four feet thick. In the centre was two feet of pipe-space, and you want to believe that was the meat of the thing ... in more ways than one. Tremont's voice came out of the hole, sounding hollow and dead. 'Something smells awful in here, Warden.' 'Never mind that! Keep going.' Tremont's lower legs disappeared into the hole. A moment later his feet were gone, too. His light flashed dimly back and forth. 'Warden, it smells pretty damn bad.' 'Never mind, I said!' Norton cried. Dolorously, Tremont's voice floated back: 'Smells like shit. Oh God, that's what it is, it's shit, oh my God lemme outta here I'm gonna blow my groceries oh shit it's shit oh my Gawwwwwd - And then came the unmistakable sound of Rory Tremont losing his last couple of meals. Well, that was it for me. I couldn't help myself. The whole day - hell no, the last thirty years - all came up on me at once and I started laughing fit to split, alaugh such as I'd never had since I was a free man, the kind of laugh I never expected to have inside these grey walls. And oh dear God didn't it feel good! “你是什么意思?你是什么意思?他不在监狱里 ,推荐表示你没有找到他?这样你就觉得满意了吗?你最好找到他!推荐因为我要把他逮到!你听见了吗 ?我要逮到他!”高亚嘴里咕哝了几句。“不是在你值班的时候发生的?那是你自说自话,就我所知,没有人知道他是什么时候逃出去的 ,或怎么逃出去的,或他是不是真的逃出去了。我不管,我限你在今天下午三点以前把他带回我的办公室,否则就有人要人头落地了。我说到做到,我一向说到做到。”高亚不知又说了什么,使得诺顿更加震怒 。“没有?看看这个 !看看这个!你认得这个吗?这是昨天晚上第五区的点名记录,每个囚犯都在牢房里。昨天晚上九点钟的时候,杜佛尼还被关在牢房里,他不可能就这样不见了!不可能!立刻去把他找到!”到了那天下午三点,安迪仍然在失踪名单上。过了几小时后,诺顿自己冲入第五区牢房 。那天第五区所有犯人都被关在自己的牢房里,被那些神色仓皇的狱卒盘问了一整天。我们的答案都一样:我们什么也没看见,什么也没听见。就我所知,大家说的都是实话,我知道我没说谎,我们只能说,昨晚所有的犯人回房时,安迪确实进了他的牢房,而且一小时后熄灯时,他也还在。有个机灵鬼猜测 ,安迪可能是从钥匙孔钻出去了,结果这句话为他招惹来四天的单独监禁,这些警卫全都绷得很紧。于是诺顿亲自来查房 ,用他那一对蓝眼睛狠狠瞪着我们,在他的注视下,牢笼的铁栅栏仿佛快冒出火星了。他的眼神流露着怀疑 ,也许他真的认为我们都是共犯 。他走进安迪的囚房,到处查看。牢房里还是安迪离开时的样子,床上的被褥看起来不像有人睡过,石头放在窗台上……,不过并非所有的石头都在,他带走了最喜欢的几颗石头。“石头 。”诺顿悻悻道,把石头哗啦啦地统统从窗台上扫下来,高亚缩在一旁,噤若寒蝉。诺顿的目光落在琳达·朗斯黛的海报上。琳达双手插进后裤袋中,回眸一笑,上身穿了件露背的背心,皮肤晒成古铜色。身为浸信会教徒的诺顿看到这张海报一定很生气,我看到他狠狠盯着海报 ,想起安迪曾经说过,他常觉得似乎可以一脚踩进去,和海报上的女孩在一起。他确确实实就这么做了,几秒钟后 ,诺顿也发现了。诺顿一把撕下海报来 。“邪门玩意!”他吼道。海报后面的水泥墙上出现了一个洞 。高亚不肯进去 。诺顿命令他,声音之大,整个监狱一定都听得一清二楚 。但是高亚不肯进去。“你想丢掉饭碗吗 ?”诺顿尖叫着,歇斯底里地像个更年期热潮红的女人一样。他早已失去了平日的冷静,脖子胀成深红色,额前两条青筋毕露,不停跳动。“我说到做到,你……你这该死的法国佬!你今天非进去不可,否则就别想再吃这行饭了,以后也休想在新英格兰任何一个监狱找到工作!”高亚默默掏出手枪,枪柄对着诺顿,把枪交给他。他受够了,已经过了下班时间两个小时,眼看就快超时工作三个小时。那天晚上,诺顿真是气得发狂,仿佛安迪的叛逃终于揭开他长久以来不为人知的非理性的一面。当然,我没有看到他非理性的那一面,但是我知道那天晚上,当暮冬的昏暗天色逐渐变得漆黑一片时,二十六个在肖申克经历过多次改朝换代的长期犯一直在侧耳倾听,我们都知道诺顿正在经历工程师所说的“断裂应变”。我仿佛可以听见安迪·杜佛尼正躲在某处窃笑不已 。诺顿终于找到一个值夜班的瘦小警卫来钻进海报后面的洞里,他的名字叫洛睿·崔门。他平常并不是个聪明人,或许他以为将因此获颁铜星勋章。算诺顿运气好,居然碰巧找到一个身材和安迪差不多的人。大多数监狱警卫都是大块头,如果他们派了个大块头来,一定爬到一半就卡在那里,直到现在还出不来。崔门进去时把尼龙绳绑在腰上,手上拿了一支装了六个干电池的大手电筒。这时高亚已经改变心意,不打算辞职了 ,而他似乎是现场惟一头脑还清醒的人,找来了一组监狱的蓝图。从剖面图看来,监狱的墙就像个三明治,整堵墙足足有十英尺厚,内墙、外墙各有四英尺厚,中间的两英尺空隙是铺设管线的通道,就好像三明治的肉馅一样 。崔门的声音从洞中传出来,听起来有种空洞和死亡的感觉 。“典狱长 ,里面味道很难闻。”“不管它 ,继续爬。”崔门的腿消失在洞口,一会儿,连脚也看不见了,只看到手电筒的光微弱地晃动。“典狱长,里面的味道实在很糟糕。”“我说不要管它。”诺顿叫道。崔门的声音哀戚地飘过来。“闻起来像大便,哦!天哪!真的是大便,哇!是大便!我的天哪,我快吐了,哇……”然后可以清楚地听到崔门把当天吃的所有东西都吐出来了。现在轮到我了 ,我再也忍不住 ,这一整天——喔,不,过去这三十年来的压抑终于爆发了,我开始大笑,笑得抑制不住,自从失去自由后,我还从未这么开怀地笑过。我从来不曾期望困在灰墙中的我还能笑得这么开心,真是过瘾极了。

工装工Chapter 29

'Get that man out of here!' Warden Norton was screaming, and I was laughing so hard I didn't know if he meant me or Tremont I just went on laughing and kicking my feet and holding onto my belly. I couldn't have stopped if Norton had threatened to shoot me dead-bang on the spot. 'Get him OUT!' Well, friends and neighbours, I was the one who went straight down to solitary, and there I stayed for fifteen days. A long shot. But every now and then I'd think about poor old not-too-bright Rory Tremont bellowing oh shit it's shit, and then I'd think about Andy Dufresne heading south in his own car, dressed in a nice suit, and I'd just have to laugh. I did that fifteen days in solitary practically standing on my head. Maybe because half of me was with Andy Dufresne, Andy Dufresne who had waded in shit and came out clean on the other side, Andy Dufresne, headed for the Pacific. I heard the rest of what went on that night from half a dozen sources. There wasn't all that much, anyway. I guess that Rory Tremont decided he didn't have much left to lose after he'd lost his lunch and dinner, because he did go on. There was no danger of falling down the pipe-shaft between the inner and outer segments of the cellblock wall; it was so narrow that Tremont actually had to wedge himself down. He said later that he could only take half-breaths and that he knew what it would be like to be buried alive. What he found at the bottom of the shaft was a master sewer-pipe which served the fourteen toilets in Cellblock 5, a porcelain pipe that had been laid thirty-three years before. It had been broken into. Beside the jagged hole in the pipe, Tremont found Andy's rock-hammer. Andy had gotten free, but it hadn't been easy. The pipe was even narrower than the shaft Tremont had just descended; it had a two-foot bore. Rory Tremont didn't go in, and so far as I know, no one else did, either. It must have been damn near unspeakable. A rat jumped out of the pipe as Tremont was examining the hole and the rock-hammer, and he swore later that it was nearly as big as a cocker spaniel pup. He went back up the crawlspace to Andy's cell like a monkey on a stick. Andy had gone into that pipe. Maybe he knew that it emptied into a stream five hundred yards beyond the prison on the marshy western side. I think he did. The prison blueprints were around, and Andy would have found a way to look at them. He was a methodical cuss. He would have known or found out that the sewerpipe running out of Cellblock 5 was the last one in Shawshank not hooked into the new waste-treatment plant, and he would have known it was do it by mid-1975 or do it never, because in August they were going to switch us over to the new waste-treatment plant, too. Five hundred yards. The length of five football fields. Just shy of a mile. He crawled that distance, maybe with one of those small Penlites in his hand, maybe with nothing but a couple of books of matches. He crawled through foulness that I either can't imagine or don't want to imagine. Maybe the rats scattered in front of him, or maybe they went for him the way such animals sometimes will when they've had a chance to grow bold in the dark. He must have had just enough clearance at the shoulders to keep moving, and he probably had to shove himself through the places where the lengths of pipe were joined. If it had been me, the claustrophobia would have driven me mad a dozen times over. But he did it. At the far end of the pipe they found a set of muddy footprints leading out of the sluggish, polluted creek the pipe fed into. Two miles from there a search party found his prison uniform - that was a day later. The story broke big in the papers, as you might guess, but no one within a fifteen-mile radius of the prison stepped forward to report a stolen car, stolen clothes, or a naked man in the moonlight. There was not so much as a barking dog in a farmyard. He came out of the sewerpipe and he disappeared like smoke. But I am betting he disappeared in the direction of Buxton. Three months after that memorable day, Warden Norton resigned. He was a broken man, it gives me great pleasure to report. The spring was gone from his step. On his last day he shuffled out with his head down like an old con shuffling down to the infirmary for his codeine pills. It was Gonyar who took over, and to Norton that must have seemed like the unkindest cut of all. For all I know, Sam Norton is down there in Eliot now, attending services at the Baptist church every Sunday, and wondering how the hell Andy Dufresne ever could have gotten the better of him. I could have told him; the answer to the question is simplicity itself. Some have got it, Sam. And some don't, and never will. That's what I know; now I'm going to tell you what I think. I may have it wrong on some of the specifics, but I'd be willing to bet my watch and chain that I've got the general outline down pretty well. Because, with Andy being the sort of man that he was, there's only one or two ways that it could have been. And every now and then, when I think it out, I think of Normaden, that half-crazy Indian. 'Nice fella,' Normaden had said after celling with Andy for six or eight months. 'I was glad to go, me. All the time cold. He don't let nobody touch his things. That's okay. Nice man, never make fun. But big draught.' Poor crazy Normaden. He knew more than all the rest of us, and he knew it sooner. And it was eight long months before Andy could get him out of there and have the cell to himself again. If it hadn't been for the eight months Normaden had spent with him after Warden Norton first came in, I do believe that Andy would have been free before Nixon resigned. I believe now that it began in 1949, way back then - not with the rock-hammer, but with the Rita Hayworth poster. I told you how nervous he seemed when he asked for that, nervous and filled with suppressed excitement. At the time I thought it was just embarrassment, that Andy was the sort of guy who'd never want someone else to know that he had feet of clay and wanted a woman ... even if it was only a fantasy -woman. But I think now that I was wrong. I think now that Andy's excitement came from something else altogether. What was responsible for the hole that Warden Norton eventually found behind the poster of a girl that hadn't even been born when that photo of Rita Hayworth was taken? Andy Dufresne's perseverance and hard work, yeah - I don't take any of that away from him. But there were two other elements in the equation: a lot of luck, and WPA concrete. “把这个人弄出去 !裤女”诺顿尖叫着,裤女由于我笑得太厉害了,根本不知道他指的是我,还是崔门。我只是捧腹顿脚,拼命大笑,简直一发不可收拾,即使诺顿威胁要枪毙我,我也没有办法停下来。“把他弄出去!”好吧!各位亲朋好友,结果他指的是我。他们把我一路拖到禁闭室去,我在那儿单独监禁了十五天,尽管长日漫漫,但我并不感到无聊,我经常会想起那个不太聪明的可怜鬼崔门大喊“是大便”的声音,然后又想到安迪正开着新车、西装笔挺地直奔南方,就忍不住又开怀大笑起来。在那十五天里,我笑口常开,或许是因为我的心已经飞到安迪那里。安迪·杜佛尼曾经在粪坑中挣扎着前进,但是他出污泥而不染,清清白白地从另外一端爬出来,奔向蔚蓝的太平洋。那天后来发生的事,我是从六七个人那儿听来的。我猜当崔门那天把中饭和晚饭都吐出来之后,他觉得反正不会再有什么损失 ,于是决定继续爬下去。他不用担心会从内外墙中间的通道掉落下来,因为那里实在太窄了,崔门得费好大力气才能推挤前进。他后来说他几乎得屏住呼吸才下得去 ,而且他到这时候才晓得被活埋是什么滋味。他在通道末端发现一个主排水管,那是通往第五区牢房十四个马桶的污水管 ,是三十三年前装置的瓷管,已经被打破了,崔门在管子的锯齿状缺口旁发现了安迪的石锤。安迪终于自由了,但这自由得来不易。这管子比崔门爬行的通道还要窄。崔门没有进去,就我所知,其他人也没有进去,我想情况一定糟糕得几乎难以形容。当崔门在检查管子上的缺口和那把石锤时,一只老鼠就从管子里跳了出来,崔门后来发誓那只老鼠跟一头小猎犬一样大。他像猴子爬柱子一样,慢慢爬回安迪的牢房。安迪是从那根管子逃出去的 。也许他知道污水管是通往离监狱五百码外的一条小溪,因为很多地方都找得到监狱的蓝图,安迪一定想办法看过蓝图。他是个讲求方法的怪胎,他一定已经发现,整个监狱只有第五区的污水管还没有接到新的废水处理厂,而且他也知道,此时不逃,以后就没机会,因为到了一九七五年八月,连我们这区的污水管都要接到新的废水处理厂了。五百码,足足有五个美式足球场那么长,绵延将近半英里。他爬过这么远的距离 ,也许手上拿着一支小手电筒,也许什么都没有,只有几盒火柴,我简直不愿想象,也无法想象,他爬过的地方有多么肮脏,还有吱吱乱叫的肥老鼠在前面跑来跑去,甚至老鼠因为在黑暗中胆子特别大,还会攻击他。通道中几乎无法容身,可能只有非常狭小的空隙足以让他挤过去,在管子接口的地方,或许还得拼命推挤身体才过得去。换作是我,那种幽闭恐惧的气氛准会让我疯掉,但他却成功逃脱了。他们在污水管尽头找到一些泥脚印子,泥脚印一路指向监狱排放污水的溪流,搜索小组在距离那里两英里外的地方找到了安迪的囚衣,而那已经是第二天的事了。这件事在报上喧腾一时,但在方圆十五英里内,没有任何人向警局报案说车子被偷或丢了衣服,或看到有人裸体在月光下奔跑,更没听见农庄上的狗吠声。安迪从污水管爬出来后,就像一缕轻烟似的失去踪影。但我敢说他一定是消失在往巴克斯登的方向 。那个值得纪念的日子过了三个月后,诺顿典狱长辞职了。我很乐意报告一下 ,他像只斗败的公鸡,走起路来一点劲也没有。他垂头丧气地离开了肖申克,就像个有气无力地到医务室讨药吃的老囚犯。接替他的是高亚,对诺顿而言,这或许是最冷酷的打击吧 。他回到老家,每个星期日上浸信会教堂做礼拜,他一定常常纳闷,安迪到底是怎么打败他的。我可以告诉他,答案在于“单纯”。有些人就是有这种本领,典狱长,有些人就是没有,而且永远也学不来。以上是我所知道的经过;现在我要告诉你我的想法。或许我在细节部分说得不尽正确,不过我敢打赌,就事情的大概应该八九不离十。因为安迪这样的人会采用的办法不出这一两种。每当我思索这件事时,我总会想起那个疯疯癫癫的印第安人诺曼登所说的话。诺曼登在与安迪同住八个月后说:“他是好人。我很高兴离开那儿。那牢房空气太坏了,而且很冷。他不让任何人随便碰他的东西,那也没关系。他人很好,从不乱开玩笑,但是空气太坏了。”可怜的诺曼登,他比任何人知道的都多,知道的时间也更早。安迪足足花了八个月的时间,才设法让诺曼登转到其他牢房,恢复单独监禁。如果不是诺曼登和他同住了八个月,我相信早在尼克松辞职前,安迪就逃之夭夭了。我相信 ,安迪是在一九四九年开始他的计划,不是托我买石锤时,而是托我买丽塔·海华丝的海报时。我告诉过你当时他似乎很着急 ,一副坐立难安的样子,兴奋得不得了。那时我还以为他难为情,不愿让别人知道他想女人,特别是梦幻性感女神 ,但现在我才发现我想错了 ,他的兴奋是别有原因的。监狱当局在海报女郎背后发现的那个洞(现在海报上的那个女孩在第一任海报女郎丽塔·海华丝拍摄那张照片时,甚至还没出生呢) ,究竟是怎么来的?当然,最主要的原因是安迪·杜佛尼的毅力和苦工,但是还有另外两个不可忽略的因素:幸运之神眷顾和WPA混凝土WPA是指美国在一九三〇年代罗斯福新政时期成立的工作改进总署(WorksProgressAdministration),当时联邦政府采取以工代赈的方法,在公共工程领域提供了八百万个工作机会给失业人口。。长排Chapter 7

'You could plant an item like that rock-hammer in somebody's skull,' I remarked. 'I have no enemies here,' he said quietly. 'No?' I smiled. 'Wait awhile.' 'If there's trouble, I can handle it without using a rock-hammer.' 'Maybe you want to try an escape? Going under the wall? Because if you do -' He laughed politely. When I saw the rock-hammer three weeks later, I understood why. "You know,' I said, 'if anyone sees you with it, they'll take it may. If they saw you with a spoon, they'd take it away. if you going to do, just sit down here in the yard and 3' away?' "Oh, I believe I can do a lot better than that.' I nodded. That part of it really wasn't my business, anyway. A man engages my services to get him something. Whether he can keep it or not after I get it is his business. 'How much would an item like that go for?' I asked. I was beginning to enjoy his quiet, low-key style. When you've spent ten years in stir, as I had then, you can get awfully tired of the bellowers and the braggarts and the loud-mouths. Yes, I dink it would be fair to say I liked Andy from the first. 'Eight dollars in any rock-and-gem shop,' he said, 'but I realize that in a business like yours you work on a cost-plus basis-' 'Cost plus ten per cent is my going rate, but I have to go up some on a dangerous item. For something like the gadget you're talking about, it takes a little more goose-grease to get the wheels turning. Let's say ten dollars.' 'Ten it is' I looked at him, smiling a little. 'Have you got ten dollars?' 'I do,' he said quietly. A long time after, I discovered that he had better than five hundred. He had brought it in with him. When they check you in at this hotel, one of the bellhops is obliged to bend you over and take a look up your works - but there are a lot of works, and, not to put too fine a point on it, a man who is really determined can get a fairly large item quite a ways up them - far enough to be out of sight, unless the bellhop you happen to draw is in the mood to pull on a rubber glove and go prospecting. 'That's fine,' I said. 'You ought to know what I expect if you get caught with what I get you.' 'I suppose I should,' he said, and I could tell by the slight change in his grey eyes that he knew exactly what I was going to say. It was a slight lightening, a gleam of his special ironic humour. 'If you get caught, you'll say you found it. That's about the long and short of it. They'll put you in solitary for three or four weeks ... plus, of course, you'll lose your toy and you'll get a black mark on your record. If you give them my name, you and I will never do business again. Not for so much as a pair of shoelaces or a bag of Bugler. And I'll send some fellows around to lump you up. I don't like violence, but you'll understand my position. I can't allow it to get around that I can't handle myself. That would surely finish me.' 'Yes. I suppose it would, I understand, and you don't need to worry.' 'I never worry,' I said. 'In a place like this there's no percentage in it.' He nodded and walked away. Three days later he walked up beside me in the exercise yard during the laundry's morning break. He didn't speak or even look my way, but pressed a picture of the Hon. Alexander Hamilton into my hand as neatly as a good magician does a card-trick. He was a man who adapted fast. I got him his rock-hammer. I had it in my cell for one night, and it was just as he described it. It was no tool for escape (it would have taken a man just about six hundred years to tunnel under the wall using that rock-hammer, I figured), but I still felt some misgivings. If you planted that pickaxe end in a man's head, he would surely never listen to Fibber McGee and Molly on the radio again. And Andy had already begun having trouble with the sisters. I hoped it wasn't them he was wanting the rock-hammer for. In the end, I trusted my judgment. Early the next morning, twenty minutes before the wake-up horn went off, I slipped the rock-hammer and a package of Camels to Ernie, the old trusty who swept the Cellblock 5 corridors until he was let free in 1956. He slipped it into his tunic without a word, and I didn't see the rock-hammer again for seven years. The following Sunday Andy walked over to me in the exercise yard again. He was nothing to look at that day, I can tell you. His lower lip was swelled up so big it looked like a summer sausage, his right eye was swollen half-shut, and there was an ugly washboard scrape across one cheek. He was having his troubles with the sisters, all right, but he never mentioned them. 'Thanks for the tool,' he said, and walked away. I watched him curiously. He walked a few steps, saw in the dirt, bent over, and picked it up. It was a small rock. Prison fatigues, except for those worn by mechanics when they're on the job, have no pockets. But there are ways to get around that. The little pebble disappeared up Andy's sleeve and didn't come down. I admired that... and I admired him. In spite of the problems he was having, he was going on with his life. There are thousands who don't or won't or can't, and plenty of them aren't in prison, either. And I noticed that, although his face still looked as if a twister had happened to it, his hands were still neat and clean, the nails well-kept. I didn't see much of him over the next six months; Andy spent a lot of that time in solitary. A few words about the sisters. In a lot of pens they are known as bull queers or jailhouse susies - just lately the term in fashion is 'killer queens'. But in they were always the sisters. I don't know why, but other than the name I guess there was no difference. “你可以把锤子插进某人的脑袋中。”我评论道。“我在这儿没有敌人。”他静静地说。“没有?”我微笑道,行榜“再等一阵子吧。”“如果有麻烦的话,行榜我不会用锤子来解决。”“也许你想越狱?在墙下挖地道?因为如果你——”他温文有礼地笑了起来。等到我三个星期后亲眼见到了那把石锤时,我就明白他为什么笑了。“你知道,”我说,“如果有人看见你带着这玩意儿,他们会把它拿走。他们连看到你有个汤匙,都会把它拿走。你要怎么弄呢?就蹲在这儿敲敲打打吗?”“噢,我会想出更好的办法的。”我点点头,反正那部分确实不关我的事 。我只负责供应东西,至于他能否保住那个东西,完全是他的事情。“像这样一个玩意儿,要多少钱 ?”我问,我开始享受他安静低调的态度。如果你像我一样 ,已经度过了十年的牢狱生涯,你会极端厌倦那些爱大声咆哮 、好吹牛、还有大嘴巴的人。所以,可以这么说,我从初次见面就很喜欢安迪。“任何卖石头和玉石的店都可以买到,要八块钱,”他说,“不过当然我明白,你经手的东西都还要加一点佣金——”“平常是加百分之十,不过我必须把危险物品的价格再提高一点。你要的东西比较不那么容易弄到手,所以就算十块钱好了 。”“那就十块钱。”我看着他,微微一笑。“你有十块钱吗?”“有。”他平静地说。过了很久,我才发现他至少有五百元,是他入狱时就带进来的钱。每个人入狱时都要先经过一番检查,他们会强迫你弯下腰来,然后仔细查看你的某个部位 。不过那部位空间不少,有决心的人想瞒天过海还是有办法,东西直往内塞,表面上甚至看不出来 ,除非碰巧检查你的那个人居然有心情戴上橡皮手套,往里面猛掏 。“很好,”我说,“你应该知道万一我给你的东西被发现了,该怎么办吧?”“我想我应该知道。”我可以从他的眼神转变中看出,他早已猜到我要说什么了。他的眼神中闪现一丝他特有的带着嘲讽的幽默。“如果你被逮着了,你要说是你自己找到的。他们会关你三或四个星期的禁闭……还有,当然啰,你的玩具自然也会被没收 ,还会在你的记录上留下一个污点。但是如果你说出我的名字 ,以后就甭想再和我做生意了,连一双鞋带或一包香烟都甭想我卖给你。我也会派人给你一点颜色瞧瞧 。我不喜欢暴力,但你要了解我的处境 ,我可不能随便给人摆了道儿 ,这样我往后就混不下去了?”“我懂,你不用担心。”“我从来不担心,”我说 ,“在这种地方,担心于事无补。”他点点头走开了。三天后,趁早上洗衣服的休息空档,他走向我。他没跟我说话,甚至没看我,不过神不知鬼不觉地塞给我一张摺得整整齐齐的钞票,手法就像魔术师玩扑克牌戏法一样利落。这家伙学得很快。我给他弄了一把锤子,正是他形容的尺寸和样子。我把锤子藏在我的牢房中一个晚上,这种锤子不像逃亡工具,我猜如果想用这样一把锤子挖地道逃出去,大约要六百年,但我还是有点不放心。因为万一把这玩意插在某人的脑袋中,他就再也别想听电台播放的流行歌了,而安迪一向跟那些同性恋处不好,我希望他们并非他真正想锤的对象。最后,我还是相信自己的判断 。第二天一早,起床号还没有响起,我就把锤子藏在香烟盒中拿给厄尼 ,厄尼是模范囚犯,他在一九五六年出狱前,一直负责打扫第五区的走道。他一句话也没说,就飞快地把锤子塞进上衣里,此后十九年 ,我不曾再看过那把锤子,等我再看到它时,那把锤子早已磨损得没法用了 。接下来那个星期日,安迪在运动场上又走向我 。他的样子惨不忍睹 ,下嘴唇肿得像香肠,右眼也肿得张不开,脸颊有一连串刮伤。他又跟那些“姊妹”起冲突了,但他从来不提这件事。“多谢你的工具。”他说,说完便走了。我好奇地看着他 。他走了几步,在地上看见什么东西,弯下腰去捡起来。那是块小石头。囚衣是没有口袋的(惟有担任技工的囚犯在工作场合中穿的工作服例外),但是总有办法可想,因此那块小石头消失在安迪的袖子中,而且一直没有掉下来,手法真叫人佩服……我也很佩服他,尽管他碰到不少麻烦,还是继续过他的日子,但世界上其他成千上万的人却办不到,他们不愿意或没有能力这么做,其中许多人根本没有被关在牢里,却还是不懂得过日子。我还注意到,尽管安迪的脸孔透露出他碰到麻烦了,但是他的双手仍然干净得一如往常,指甲也修剪得整整齐齐的 。接下来六个月,我甚少看见他。安迪有好一阵子都被单独关在禁闭室里。说到这里 ,我想先谈谈关于“姊妹”的一些事情。这类人有许多不同的名称 ,像“公牛怪胎”或“牢房苏茜”等等——最近流行的说法是“杀手皇后” ,但在肖申克,大家总是称他们为“姊妹”。我不知道为什么,不过除了名称不同之外,我猜其他没有什么不一样。装裤Chapter 8

It comes as no surprise to most these days that there's a lot of buggery going on inside the walls - except to some of the new fish, maybe, who have the misfortune to be young, slim, good-looking, and unwary - but homosexuality, like straight sex, comes in a hundred different shapes and forms. There are men who can't stand to be without sex of some kind and turn to another man to keep from going crazy. Usually what follows is an arrangement between two fundamentally "Heterosexual men, although I've sometimes wondered if they are quite as heterosexual as they thought they were going to be when they get back to their wives or their girlfriends. There are also men who get 'turned' in prison. In the current parlance they 'go gay', or 'come out of the closet'. Mostly (but not always) they play the female, and their favours are competed for fiercely. And then there are the sisters. They are to prison society what the rapist is to the society outside the walls. They're usually long-timers, doing hard bullets for brutal crimes. Their prey is the young, the weak, and the inexperienced ... or, as in the case of Andy Dufresne, the weak-looking. Their hunting grounds are the showers, the cramped, tunnel-like area way behind the industrial washers in the laundry, sometimes the infirmary. On more than one occasion rape has occurred in the closet-sized projection booth behind the auditorium. Most often what the sisters take by force they could have had for free, if they wanted it; those who have been turned always seem to have 'crushes' on one sister or another, like teenage girls with their Sinatras, Presleys, or Redfords. But for the sisters, the joy has always been in taking it by force... and I guess it always will be. Because of his small size and fair good looks (and maybe also because of that very quality of self-possession I had admired), the sisters were after Andy from the day he walked in. If this was some kind of fairy story, I'd tell you that Andy fought the good fight until they left him alone. I wish I could say that, but I can't. Prison is no fairy-tale world. The first time for him was in the shower less than three days after he joined our happy Shawshank family. Just a lot of slap and tickle that time, I understand. They like to size you up before they make their real move, like jackals finding out if the prey is as weak and hamstrung as it looks. Andy punched back and bloodied the lip of a big, hulking sister named Bogs Diamond - gone these many years since to who knows where. A guard broke it up before it could go any further, but Bogs promised to get him - and Bogs did. The second time was behind the washers in the laundry. A lot has gone on in that long, dusty, and narrow space over the years; the guards know about it and just let it be. It's dim and littered with bags of washing and bleaching compound, drums of Hexlite catalyst, as harmless as salt if your hands are dry, murderous as battery acid if they're wet. The guards don't like to go back there. There's no room to manoeuvre, and one of the first things they teach them when they come to work in a place like this is to never let the cons get you in a place where you can't back up. Bogs wasn't there that day, but Henry Backus, who had been washroom foreman down there since 1922, told me that four of his friends were. Andy held them at bay for a while with a scoop of Hexlite, threatening to throw it in their eyes if they came any closer, but he tripped trying to back around one of the big Washex four-pockets. That was ail it took. They were on him. I guess the phrase gang-rape is one that doesn't change much from one generation to the next. That's what they did to him, those four sisters. They bent him over a gearbox and one of them held a Phillips screwdriver to his temple while they gave him the business. It rips you up some, but not bad - am I speaking from personal experience, you ask? - I only wish I weren't. You bleed for a while. If you don't want some clown asking you if you just started your period, you wad up a bunch of toilet paper and keep it down the back of your underwear until it stops. The bleeding really is like a menstrual flow; it keeps up for two, maybe three days, a slow trickle. Then it stops. No harm done, unless they've done something even more unnatural to you. No physical harm done - but rape is rape, and eventually you have to look at your face in the mirror again and decide what to make of yourself. Andy went through that alone, the way he went through everything alone in those days. He must have come to the conclusion that others before him had come to, namely, that there are only two ways to deal with the sisters: fight them and get taken, or just get taken. He decided to fight When Bogs and two of his buddies came after him a week or so after the laundry incident ('I heard ya got broke in,' Bogs said, according to Ernie, who was around at the time), Andy slugged it out with them. He broke the nose of a fellow named Rooster MacBride, a heavy-gutted farmer who was in for beating his stepdaughter to death. Rooster died in here, I'm happy to add. They took him, all three of them. When it was done, Rooster and the other egg - it might have been Pete Verness, but I'm not completely sure - forced Andy down to his knees. Bogs Diamond stepped in front of him. He had a pearl-handled razor in those days with the words Diamond Pearl engraved on both sides of the grip. He opened it and said, I'm gonna open my fly now, mister man, and you're going to swallow what I give you to swallow. And when you done swallowed mine, you're gonna swallow Rooster's. I guess you done broke his nose and I think he ought to have something to pay for it' Andy said, 'Anything of yours that you stick in my mouth, you're going to lose it.' Bogs looked at Andy like he was crazy, Ernie said. 'No,' he told Andy, talking to him slowly, like Andy was a stupid kid. 'You didn't understand what I said. You do anything like that and I'll put all eight inches of this steel into your ear. Get it?' 'I understand what you said. I don't think you understand me. I'm going to bite whatever you stick into my mouth. You can put that razor in my brain, I guess, but you should know that a sudden serious brain injury causes the victim to simultaneously urinate, defecate... and bite down.' 大多数人对监狱中发生鸡奸早已见怪不怪了,女长或许只有一些新进犯人除外,女长尤其是那些不幸长得苗条俊秀 、又缺乏警觉的年轻犯人。但是同性恋和异性恋一样,也有几百种不同的形式。有的人因为无法忍受无性的生活,因此在狱中转而结交男人,免得自己发疯。通常接下来原本是异性恋的两个男人之间就会有某种安排 ,虽然我常常怀疑,当他们有朝一日回到妻子和女友身边时,是否真能像自己所说的一样恢复为异性恋者。也有一些人在狱中“转变”性倾向。现在流行的说法是,他们变成同性恋者,或是“出柜”了。而这些男同性恋者大多数扮演女性的角色 ,而且大受欢迎。于是就有了这群“姊妹” 。他们之于监狱这个小型社会,就好像强暴犯之于墙外的大型社会一样。他们往往是罪大恶极的长期犯 ,而他们的猎物则是一些年轻、瘦弱和没经验的囚犯……或者,就安迪的情况而言,看起来很柔弱的囚犯。淋浴间、洗衣机后面的狭窄通道,有时候甚至医务室,都成为他们的狩猎场。其中不止一次,强暴案也发生于礼堂后面只有衣橱大小的电影放映室中。很多时候,他们其实不必使用暴力也可以得逞,因为入狱后转为同性恋的囚犯似乎总是会迷上其中一位“姊妹”,就好像十来岁的少女迷恋明星或歌星偶像一样。但是对这些姊妹而言,其中的乐趣正在于使用暴力……而我猜这部分永远都不会改变。由于安迪长得比较矮小 ,生就一张俊脸,或许也因为他那特有的泰然自若的神态,他一进来就被那批姊妹看上了。如果我说的是童话故事 ,我会告诉你安迪一直奋勇抵抗,直到他们罢手为止。我很希望能这么说,但我不能。监狱原本就不是童话世界 。第一次出事是在他加入我们肖申克快乐家庭还不到三天的时候,在浴室里。就我所知,那次只是一连串的挑逗和侮辱。那些人喜欢在采取真正的行动前,先捉弄一下猎物,就像胡狼想测试看猎物是否真的像外表那么软弱。安迪狠狠反击,而且把那个叫博格斯·戴蒙德的大块头嘴唇给打裂了,警卫及时冲进来 ,才制止住双方进一步的动作,但博格斯发誓非逮到安迪不可,他果然说到做到。第二次则发生在洗衣房后面。多年来,那条狭长肮脏的通道发生了不少事情,警卫全都知道,却放任不管 。那里很暗,散置着一袋袋洗衣剂、漂白剂和一桶桶HexliteHexlite为复合材料界巨头——美国赫氏公司(Hexcel)的一个商标。催化剂,如果你的手是干的 ,碰到也不会怎么样,但是如果弄湿了,这些化学药剂就会像电池的酸液一样害你送命。监狱的警卫都不喜欢来这里,也警诫新人不要到这儿来,因为如果被囚犯困在这个地方,你可没有后退之路,连搏斗的空间都不够。博格斯当时不在场,但从一九二二年起便在洗衣房当工头的亨利·拜克告诉我,博格斯的四个朋友都在那儿 。安迪起先手里拿着一碗Hexlite,让他们不敢靠近,他威胁着如果他们再走近一步,就要把催化剂往他们的眼睛丢过去。但是安迪往后退时,不小心跌倒了,结果他们就一拥而上。我想“轮暴”这个名词的意义是永远不会改变的,那正是这四姊妹对他做的事。他们把安迪按在齿轮箱上,拿着螺丝起子对准他的太阳穴,逼他就范。被强暴后会有一点伤口,但不是太严重。你问,这是我的经验之谈吗?——但愿并非如此。之后你会流几天血,如果不希望有些无聊小丑问你是不是月经来了,就在裤子里多垫几张卫生纸。通常血流个两、三天就停了,除非他们用更不自然的方式对待你 。不过虽然身体没有什么大损伤,强暴终归是强暴,事后你照镜子瞧自己的脸时,会想到日后该怎么看待自己。安迪孤独地经历了这些事情,就像他在那段日子里,孤零零地经历了其他所有事情一样 。他一定就像之前许多人那样,得到了这个结论:要对付这群姊妹只有两种方法,要不就是力拼之后不敌,要不就是从一开始就认了。他决定跟他们力拼。当博格斯和两个同党一星期后尾随安迪时,安迪猛烈还击,当时厄尼刚好在附近。根据厄尼的说法,博格斯当时说:“我听说你已破身了。”安迪打破了一个叫卢斯特的家伙的鼻子,那家伙是个粗壮的农夫,因为打死继女而被关进牢中。我很乐于告诉你 ,他后来死在这里。他们三个人联手制伏他,轮流强暴他,之后再强迫安迪跪下来 。博格斯站在他面前,他那时有一把珍珠柄的剃刀,刀柄上刻了“戴蒙德珍珠”的字样。他打开剃刀说:“我现在要解开拉链啦,男人先生,我要你咽下什么东西,你就得给我咽下 。等你咽完了我给你的东西,你就得咽下卢斯特的东西,你把他的鼻子打破了,应该要对他有所补偿。”安迪说:“如果你把任何东西塞进我的嘴里,你就会失掉那个东西。”厄尼说,博格斯看着安迪,以为他疯了。“不对,”他慢慢对着安迪说,好像安迪是个笨孩子,“你没听懂我说的话。如果你胆敢这样做的话,我会把这柄八英寸长的玩意从你耳朵全插进去,懂吗 ?”“我明白你在说什么,但是我想你没听懂我的话。只要你把任何东西塞进我的嘴巴里,我就会把它咬断。你可以把刀子插进我的脑袋里,不过你应该明白 ,当一个人脑部突然受到严重创伤时,他会同时撒尿拉屎……和大力咬下去。”排名Chapter 9