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第40部分（第2页）

〃You　guysre　forgetting　one　thing；〃　Dean　said。　〃I　know　Coffeys　been　pretty　quiet　ever　since　he　came　on　the　block；　doesnt　do　much　but　lay　there　on　his　bunk　and　leak　from　the　eyes；　but　hes　a　murderer。　Also；　hes　huge。　If　he　decided　he　wanted　to　escape　out　of　the　back　of　Harrys　truck；　the　only　way　we　could　stop　him　would　be　to　shoot　him　dead。　And　a　guy　like　that　would　take　a　lot　of　killing；　even　with　a　。45。　Suppose　we　werent　able　to　put　him　down？　And　suppose　he　killed　someone　else？　Id　hate　losing　my　job；　and　Id　hate　going　to　jail　…　I　got　a　wife　and　kids　depending　on　me　to　put　bread　in　their　mouths　…　but　I　dont　think　Id　hate　either　of　those　things　near　as　much　as　having　another　dead　little　girl　on　my　conscience。〃

〃That　wont　happen；〃　I　said。

〃How　in　Gods　name　can　you　be　so　sure　of　that？〃

I　didnt　answer。　I　didnt　know　just　how　to　begin。　I　had　known　this　would　e　up；　of　course　I　did；　but　I　still　didnt　know　how　to　start　telling　them　what　I　knew。　Brutal　helped　me。

〃You　dont　think　he　did　it；　do　you；　Paul？〃　He　looked　incredulous。　〃You　think　that　big　lug　is　innocent。〃

〃Im　positive　hes　innocent；〃　I　said。

〃How　in　the　name　of　Jesus　can　you　be？〃

〃There　are　two　things；〃　I　said。　〃One　of　them　is　my　shoe。〃　I　leaned　forward　over　the　table　and　began　talking。

Part　Five：

Night　Journey

1。

Mr。　H。　G。　Wells　once　wrote　a　story　about　a　man　who　invented　a　time　machine；　and　I　have　discovered　that；　in　the　writing　of　these　memoirs；　I　have　created　my　own　time　machine。　Unlike　Wellss；　it　can　only　travel　into　the　past　…　back　to　1932；　as　a　matter　of　fact；　when　I　was　the　bull…goose　screw　in　E　Block　of　Cold　Mountain　State　Penitentiary　…　but　its　eerily　efficient；　for　all　that。　Still；　this　time　machine　reminds　me　of　the　old　Ford　I　had　in　those　days：　you　could　be　sure　that　it　would　start　eventually；　but　you　never　knew　if　a　turn　of　the　key　would　be　enough　to　fire　the　motor；　or　if　you　were　going　to　have　to　get　out　and　crank　until　your　arm　practically　fell　off。

Ive　had　a　lot　of　easy　starts　since　I　started　telling　the　story　of　John　Coffey；　but　yesterday　I　had　to　crank。　I　think　it　was　because　Id　gotten　to　Delacroixs　execution；　and　part　of　my　mind　didnt　want　to　have　to　relive　that。　It　was　a　bad　death；　a　terrible　death；　and　it　happened　the　way　it　did　because　of　Percy　Wetmore；　a　young　man　who　loved　to　b　his　hair　but　couldnt　stand　to　be　laughed　at　…　not　even　by　a　half　bald　little　Frenchman　who　was　never　going　to　see　another　Christmas。

As　with　most　dirty　jobs；　however；　the　hardest　part　is　just　getting　started。　It　doesnt　matter　to　an　engine　whether　you　use　the　key　or　have　to　crank；　once　you　get　it　going；　itll　usually　run　just　as　sweet　either　way。　Thats　how　it　worked　for　me　yesterday。　At　first　the　words　came　in　little　bursts　of　phrasing；　then　in　whole　sentences；　then　in　a　torrent。　Writing　is　a　special　and　rather　terrifying　form　of　remembrance；　Ive　discovered　…　there　is　a　totality　to　it　that　seems　almost　like　rape。　Perhaps　I　only　feel　that　way　because　Ive　bee　a　very　old　man　（a　thing　that　happened　behind　my　own　back；　I　sometimes　feel）；　but　I　dont　think　so。　I　believe　that　the　bination　of　pencil　and　memory　creates　a　kind　of　practical　magic；　and　magic　is　dangerous。　As　a　man　who　knew　John　Coffey　and　saw　what　he　could　do　…　to　mice　and　to　men　…　l　feel　very　qualified　to　say　that。

Magic　is　dangerous。

In　any　case；　I　wrote　all　day　yesterday；　the　words　simply　flooding　out　of　me；　the　sunroom　of　this　glorified　old　folks　home　gone；　replaced　by　the　storage　room　at　the　end　of　the　Green　Mile　where　so　many　of　my　problem　children　took　their　last　sit…me…downs　and　the　bottom　of　the　stairs　which　led　to　the　tunnel　under　the　road。　That　was　where　Dean　and　Harry　and　Brutal　and　I　confronted　Percy　Wetmore　over　Eduard　Delacroixs　smoking　body　and　made　Percy　renew　his　promise　to　put　in　for　transfer　to　the　Briar　Ridge　state　mental　facility。

There　are　always　fresh　flowers　in　the　sunroom；　but　by　noon　yesterday　all　I　could　smell　was　the　noxious　aroma　of　the　dead　mans　cooked　flesh。　The　sound　of　the　power　mower　on　the　lawn　down　below　had　been　replaced　by　the　hollow　plink　of　dripping　water　as　it　seeped　slowly　through　the　tunnels　curved　roof。　The　trip　was　on。　I　had　travelled　back　to　1932；　in　soul　and　mind；　if　not　body。

I　skipped　lunch；　wrote　until　four　oclock　or　so；　and　when　I　finally　put　my　pencil　down；　my　hand　was　aching。　I　walked　slowly　down　to　the　end　of　the　second…floor　corridor。　Theres　a　window　there　that　looks　out　on　the　employee　parking　lot。　Brad　Dolan；　the　orderly　who　reminds　me　of　Percy　…　and　the　one　who　is　altogether　too　curious　about　where　I　go　and　what　I　do　on　my　walks　…　drives　an　old　Chevrolet　with　a　bumper　sticker　that　says　I　HAVE　SEEN　GOD　AND　HIS　NAME　IS　NEWT。　It　was　gone；　Brads　shift　was　over　and　hed　taken　himself　off　to　whatever　garden　spot　he　calls　home。　I　envision　an　Airstream　trailer　with　Hustler　gatefolds　Scotch…taped　to　the　walls　and　Dixie　Beer　cans　in　the　corners。

I　went　out　through　the　kitchen；　where　dinner　preparations　were　getting　started。　〃What　you　got　in　that　bag；　Mr。　Edgebe？〃　Norton　asked　me。

〃Its　an　empty　bottle；〃　I　said。　〃Ive　discovered　the　Fountain　of　Youth　down　there　in　the　woods。　I　pop　down　every　afternoon　about　this　time　and　draw　a　little。　I　drink　it　at　bedtime。　Good　stuff；　I　can　tell　you。〃

〃May　be　keepin　you　young；〃　said　George；　the　other　cook；　〃but　it　aint　doin　shit　for　your　looks。…〃

We　all　had　a　laugh　at　that；　and　I　went　out。　I　found　myself　looking　around　for　Dolan　even　though　his　car　was　gone；　called　myself　a　chump　for　letting　him　get　so　far　under　my　skin；　and　crossed　the　croquet　course。　Beyond　it　is　a　scraggy　little　putting　green　that　looks　ever　so　much　nicer　in　the　Georgia　Pines　brochures；　and　beyond　that　is　a　path　that　winds　into　the　little　copse　of　woods　east　of　the　nursing　home。　There　are　a　couple　of　old　sheds　along　this　path；　neither　of　them　used　for　anything　these　days。　At　the　second；　which　stands　close　to　the　high　stone　wall　between　the　Georgia　Pines　grounds　and　Georgia　Highway　47；　I　went　in　and　stayed　for　a　little　while。

I　ate　a　good　dinner　that　night；　watched　a　little　TV；　and　went　to　bed　early。　On　many　nights　Ill　wake　up　and　creep　back　down　to　the　TV　room；　where　I　watch　old　movies　on　the　American　Movie　Channel。　Not　last　night；　though；　last　night　I　slept　like　a　stone；　and　with　none　of　the　dreams　that　have　so　haunted　me　since　I　started　my　adventures　in　literature。　All　that　writing　must　have　worn　me　out；　Im　not　as　young　as　I　used　to　be；　you　know。

When　I　woke　and　saw　that　the　patch　of　sun　which　usually　lies　on　the　floor　at　six　in　the　morning　had　made　it　all　the　way　up　to　the　foot　of　my　bed；　I　hit　the　deck　in　a　hurry；　so　alarmed　I　hardly　noticed　the　arthritic　flare　of　pain　in　my　hips　and　knees　and　ankles。　I　dressed　as　fast　as　I　could；　then　hurried　down　the　hall　to　the　window　that　overlooks　the　employees　parking　lot；　hoping　the　slot　where　Dolan　parks　his　old　Chevrolet　would　still　be　empty。　Sometimes　hes　as　much　as　half　an　hour　late　…

No　such　luck。　The　car　was　there；　gleaming　rustily　in　the　morning　sun。　Because　Mr。　Brad　Dolan　has　something　to　arrive　on　time　for　these　days；　doesnt　he？　Yes。　Old　Paulie　Edgebe　goes　somewhere　in　the　early　mornings；　old　Paulie　Edgebe　is　up　to　something；　and　Mr。　Brad　Dolan　intends　to　find　out　what　it　is。　What　do　you　do　down　there；　Paulie？　Tell　me。　He　would　likely　be　watching　for　me　already。　It　would　be　smart　to　stay　right　where　I　was　。。。　except　I　cou