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of death。 Like life it is plicated； so all the ponents are there。 The reason it can answer questions is because every question is a start looking for an end； and the Factory is about the End…death； no less。 Keep your entrails and sticks and dice and books and birds and voices and pendants and all the rest of that crap； I have the Factory； and it's about now and the future； not the past。
I lay in bed that night； knowing the Factory was primed and ready and waiting for the wasp that crawled and felt its way about the jar that lay by my bedside。 I thought of the Factory； above me in the loft； and I waited for the phone to ring。
The Wasp Factory is beautiful and deadly and perfect。 It would give me some idea of what was going to happen； it would help me to know what to do； and after I had consulted it I would try to contact Eric through the skull of Old Saul。 We are brothers； after all； even if only half so； and we are both men； even if I am only half so。 At some deep level we understand each other； even though he is mad and I am sane。 We even had that link I had not thought of until recently； but which might e in useful now： we have both killed； and used our heads to do it。
It occurred to me then； as it has before； that that is what men are really for。 Both sexes can do one thing specially well； women can give birth and men can kill。 We…I consider myself an honorary man…are the harder sex。 We strike out； push through； thrust and take。 The fact that it is only an analogue of all this sexual terminology I am capable of does not discourage me。 I can feel it in my bones； in my uncastrated genes。 Eric must respond to that。
Eleven o'clock came； then midnight and the time signal； so I turned the radio off and went to sleep。
8： The Wasp Factory
IN THE EARLY morning； while my father slept and the cold light filtered through the sharp overcast of young cloud； I rose silently； washed and shaved carefully； returned to my room； dressed slowly； then took the jar with the sleepy…looking wasp in it up to the loft； where the Factory waited。
I left the jar on the small altar under the window and made the last few preparations the Factory required。 Once that was done I took some of the green cleaning jelly from the pot by the altar and rubbed it well into my hands。 I looked at the Time； Tide and Distance Tables； the little red book that I kept on the other side of the altar； noting the time of high tide。 I set the two small wasp candles into the positions the tips of the hands of a clock would have occupied on the face of the Factory if showing the time of local high tide； then I slid the top off the jar a little and extracted the leaves and the small piece of orange peel； leaving the wasp in there alone。
I set the jar on the altar； which was decorated with various powerful things； the skull of the snake which killed Blyth （tracked down and sliced in half by his father； using a garden spade…I retrieved it from the grass and hid that front part of the snake in the sand before Diggs could take it away for evidence）； a fragment of the bomb which had destroyed Paul （the smallest bit I could find； there were lots）； a piece of tent fabric from the kite which had elevated Esmerelda （not a piece of the actual kite of course； but an off…cut） and a little dish containing some of the yellow； worn teeth of Old Saul （easily pulled）。
I held my crotch； closed my eyes and repeated my secret catechisms。 I could recite them automatically； but I tried to think of what they meant as I repeated them。 They contained my confessions； my dreams and hopes； my fears and hates； and they still make me shiver whenever I say them； automatic or not。 One tape recorder in the vicinity and the horrible truth about my three murders would be known。 For that reason alone they are very dangerous。 The catechisms also tell the truth about who I am； what I want and what I feel； and it can be unsettling to hear yourself described as you have thought of yourself in your most honest and abject moods； just as it is humbling to hear what you have thought about in your most hopeful and unrealistic moments。
Once I had gone through this I took the wasp without further ado to the underside of the Factory； and let it in。
The Wasp Factory covers an area of several square metres in an irregular and slightly ramshackle tangle of metal； wood； glass and plastic。 It is all based around the face of the old clock which used to hang over the door of the Royal Bank of Scotland in Porteneil。
The clock face is the most important thing I have ever recovered from the town dump。 I found it there during the Year of the Skull and rolled it home down the path to the island and rumbled it over the footbridge。 I stored it in the shed until my father was away for the day； then I strained and sweated all day to get it up into the loft。 It is made of metal and is nearly a metre in diameter； it is heavy and almost unblemished； the numerals are in roman script and it was made along with the rest of the clock in Edinburgh in 1864； one hundred years exactly before my birth。 Certainly not a coincidence。
Of course； as the clock looked both ways； there must have been another face； the other side of the clock； but； although I scoured the dump for weeks after I found the face I do have； I never did discover the other one； so that it； too； is part of the mystery of the Factory…a little Grail legend of its own。 Old Cameron in the ironmonger's shop in the town told me that he heard a scrap…metal dealer from Inverness took the workings of the clock； so perhaps the other face was melted down years ago； or now adorns the wall of some smart house on the Black Isle built from the profits of dead cars and the varying price of lead。 I'd rather the former。
There were a few holes in the face which I soldered up； but I left the hole in the dead centre where the mechanism connected with the hands； and it is through that the wasp is let into the Factory。 Once there it can wander about the face for as long as it likes； inspecting the tiny candles with its dead cousins buried inside if it likes； or ignoring them if it would rather。
Having made its way to the edge of the face； though； where I have sealed it with a wall of plywood two inches high； topped with a metre…circle of glass I had the glazier in the town make specially； the wasp can enter one of twelve corridors through little wasp…sized doors； one opposite each of those…to the wasp… vast numerals。 If the Factory so chooses； the weight of the wasp trips a delicate see…saw trigger made from thin pieces of tin can； thread and pins； and a tiny door closes behind the insect； confining it to the corridor it has chosen。 Despite the fact that I keep all the door mechanisms well oiled and balanced； and repair and test them until the slightest tremor sets them off…I have to tread very lightly when the Factory is doing its slow and deadly work…sometimes the Factory does not want the wasp in its first choice of corridor； and lets it crawl back out on to the face again。
Sometimes the wasps will fly； or crawl upside down on