Authors: Anthony Burgess
Just as he was finishing the oblique down-stroke of the last letter, the warder returned with a clank and grind. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘is a new pal for you. One of
your
sort, not a gentleman like the last one you had. In, you.’ It was a saturnine-looking man with eyes deep in charcoal caves, a vermilion beak, a small sulky Stuart mouth. The loose grey sack-garment of shame suited him, seeming to suggest the habit of a monk.
‘Here,’ said Tristram, ‘I think we’ve met before.’
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ said the warder. ‘An old pals’ reunion.’ He left the cell, locked the door and grinned sardonically through the bars. Then he clanked off.
‘We met,’ said Tristram, ‘in the Montague. The police beat you up a bit.’
‘Did they? Did we?’ said the man vaguely. ‘So many things, so many people, so many affronts and buffetings. As to my Master, so to me.’ He surveyed the cell with very dark eyes, nodding. Then he said, conversationally, ‘If I forget thee, 0 Jerusalem, let my right hand lose her cunning, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth if I remember not Jerusalem above my chief joy.’
‘What are you in for?’ asked Tristram.
‘They caught me saying mass,’ said the man. ‘Unfrocked as I am, I still have the power. There has been a demand lately, a growing demand. Fear breeds faith, never doubt that. Quite a fair congregation can be assembled, believe me, these days.’
‘Where?’
‘It is a return to the catacombs,’ said the man with satisfaction. ‘Disused underground tunnels. Underground platforms. Even underground trains. Mass in motion, I call that. Yes,’ he said, ‘the fear is growing. Famine, that dread horseman, rides abroad. God asks an acceptable sacrifice, a placation of His anger. And, under one kind, wine being outlawed, it is offered to
Him. Ah,’ he said, sqwntmg at Tristram’s graffiti, ‘lapidary inscriptions, eh? Something to pass the time.’ He was a very different man from the one Tristram remembered from that brief violent occasion in the Montague. He was tranquil, measured of speech, and he examined Tristram’s carved obscenities as if they were in an unknown tongue. But ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘I see that you have inscribed the name of your Maker several times. You mark my words, everybody is coming back to God. You will see, we shall all see.’
‘I used the word,’ said Tristram brutally, ‘as a gesture of defiance. It’s just a dirty word, that’s all.’
‘Exactly,’ said the unfrocked with quiet joy. ‘All dirty words are fundamentally religious. They are all concerned with fertility and the processes of fertility and the organs of fertility. God, we are taught, is love.’
As if in derision of that statement, the big loudspeakers, set like doomsday trumpets at the imagined corners of each round tiered gallery, blasted a noise of eructation that fell into the empty belly of the well. ‘Attention,’ they said, and the word (‘Attention-tensionension-shun’) bounced like a ball, the call of the farthest speakers overlapping the call of the nearest. ‘Pay great attention. This is the Governor speaking.’ It was the tired refined voice of ancient royalty. ‘I am instructed by the Home Secretary to read out the following, which is being read out also at this moment in the schools, hospitals, offices and factories of the kingdom. It is a prayer devised by the Ministry of Propaganda.’
‘Do you hear that?’ danced the unfrocked priest in awed jubilation. ‘God be praised, thirigs are going our way. Alleluia.’
‘Here it is,’ said the tired voice. It coughed and then went into a hypnotic singsong. ‘ “It is conceivable that the forces of death which at present are ravaging the esculent life of this planet have intelligence, in which case we beseech them to leave off. If we have done wrong – allowing in our blindness natural impulse to overcome reason – we are, of course, heartily sorry. But we submit that we have already suffered sufficiently for this wrong and we firmly resolve never to sin again. Amen.” ’ The voice of the Governor collapsed into loud coughing and, before crackling out, muttered, ‘Lot of damned nonsense.’ The mutterings were at once taken up all around the gallery of cells.
Tristram’s cell-mate looked ashen. ‘God forgive us all,’ he said, deeply shocked, crossing himself, ‘they’re going the other way. They’re praying to the powers of evil, God help us.’
But Tristram was elated. ‘Don’t you see what this means?’ he cried. ‘It means the Interphase is coming to an end. The shortest on record. The State’s reached the limit of despair. Sin, they’re talking about sin. We’ll be out soon, any day now.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘Oh, Derek, Derek,’ he growled. ‘I can hardly wait.’
Three
A
UTUMN
passed into winter, and that prayer, of course, was not answered. Nobody, of course, had ever seriously, of course, thought that it would be. As far as H.M.
Government was concerned, it was a mere sop to the irrational: nobody could now possibly say that H.M. Government had not tried everything.
‘It all shows you, though,’ said Shonny in December, ‘how everything leads back to the Almighty.’ He was far more optimistic than Tristram’s cell-companion. ‘Liberalism means conquest of environment and conquest of environment means science and science means a heliocentric outlook and a heliocentric outlook means an open mind about there being forms of intelligence other than human and –’ He took a deep breath and swigged some plum wine ‘– and, well, you see, if you accept the possibility of that, then you concede the possibility of superhuman intelligence and so you get back to God.’ He beamed at his sister-in-law. In the kitchen his wife was trying to make sense of the pitiful rations.
‘Superhuman intelligence might be evil, though,’ objected Beatrice-Joanna. ‘That wouldn’t be God, would it?’
‘If you have evil,’ said Shonny, ‘you’ve got to have good.’ He was unshakable. Beatrice-Joanna smiled her confidence in him. In another two months she would be relying on Shonny a great deal. The life inside her kicked; she was swollen but very well. There were many worries, though she was happy enough. Guilt about Tristram pricked her, she was exercised by the problems of keeping her long secret. When visitors came or farmworkers looked in, she had to dart to the lavatory, as fast as her bulk would allow. She had to take exercise furtively, after dark, walking with Mavis between ruined hedgerows, by fields of blasted wheat and barley. The children were good, long conditioned to not talking in
school or out of it about the dangerous blasphemies of their parents; quiet about God, they were also quiet about their aunt’s pregnancy. They were sensible handsome country-looking children, though thinner than was right, Dymphna seven and Llewelyn nine. They sat today, Christmas a day or two off, cutting bits of cardboard into silhouettes of holly leaves, all the natural holly being stricken by the blight. ‘We’ll do our best for Christmas again,’ said Shonny. ‘I’ve plum wine still and a sufficiency of ale. And there are those four poor old hens sitting in the icebox. Time enough to contemplate the uncontemplatable future when Christmas has come and gone.’
Dymphna, steering her scissors, her tongue-tip out with concentration, said, ‘Dad.’
‘Yes, my dear?’
‘What’s Christmas really about?’ They were as much the children of the State as of their parents.
‘You know what it’s about. You know as well as I do what it’s
all
about. Llewelyn, you tell her what it’s about.’
‘Oh,’ said Llewelyn, cutting, ‘this chap was born, you see. Then he was killed by being hung up on a tree, and then he was eaten.’
‘Now, for a start,’ said Shonny, ‘He wasn’t a chap.’
‘A man, then,’ said Llewelyn. ‘But a man’s a chap.’
‘The Son of God,’ said Shonny, banging the table. ‘God and man. And He wasn’t eaten when He was killed. He went straight up to heaven. Now, you’re half-right about the eating, God bless your heart, but it’s ourselves that do the eating. When we have mass we eat His body and drink His blood. But they’re disguised – do you see,
are you listening to what I’m telling you?–as bread and wine.’
‘When He comes again,’ said Llewelyn, snipping, ‘will He be eaten properly?’
‘What, now,’ asked Shonny, ‘would you be meaning by that strange statement?’
‘Eaten,’ said Llewelyn, ‘like Jim Whittle was eaten.’ He started cutting out a new leaf, intent on it. ‘Will it be like that, Dad?’
‘What’s all this?’ said Shonny, agitated. ‘What’s all this you’re saying about somebody being eaten? Come on now, speak up, child.’ He shook the boy’s shoulder, but Llewelyn went on cutting calmly.
‘He didn’t come to school,’ he said. ‘His mother and dad cut him up and ate him.’
‘How do you know this? Where did you get that outrageous story from? Who’s been telling you these wicked things?’
‘It’s true, Dad,’ said Dymphna. ‘Is that all right?’ she asked, showing her cardboard leaf.
‘Never mind about that,’ said her father impatiently. ‘Tell me about this, come on now. Who’s been telling this horrible tale to you?’
‘It’s not a horrible tale,’ pouted Llewelyn. ‘It’s true. A lot of us went by their house coming home from school and it was true. They had a big pan sort of thing on the stove and it was bubbling away like anything. Some of the other kids went in and they saw.’ Dymphna giggled.
‘God forgive everybody,’ said Shonny. ‘This is a shocking and terrible thing, and all you can do is laugh about it. Tell me –’ He shook both his children. ‘– Are you speaking the truth, now? Because, by the Holy Name,
if you’re just making a joke out of a horrible thing like that I promise you, by the Lord Jesus Christ, I’ll give both of you the father and mother of a beating.’
‘It’s true,’ wailed Llewelyn. ‘We saw, we both did. She had a big spoon and she was putting it on two plates and it was all steaming hot and some of the other kids asked for some because they were hungry, but Dymphna and me were frightened because they said that Jim Whittle’s father and mother are not right in the head, so we ran home quick but we were told to say nothing about it.’
‘Who told you to say nothing about it?’
‘They did. Some of the big boys did. Frank Bamber said he’d hit us if we told.’
‘If you told what?’
Llewelyn hung his head. ‘What Frank Bamber did.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He had a big piece in his hand, but he said he was hungry. But we were hungry too, but we didn’t have any. We just ran home.’ Dymphna giggled. Shonny let his hands drop. He said:
‘God Almighty.’
‘Because it was stealing, see, Dad,’ said Llewelyn. ‘Frank Bamber grabbed it in his hand and ran out and they shouted at him.’
Shonny looked green, Beatrice-Joanna felt it. ‘What a horrible, horrible thing,’ she panted.
‘But if you eat this chap who’s God,’ said Llewelyn stoutly, ‘how can it be horrible? If it’s all right to eat God why is it horrible to eat Jim Whittle?’
‘Because,’ said Dymphna reasonably, ‘if you eat God there’s always plenty left. You can’t eat
God up because God just goes on and on and on and God can’t ever be finished. You silly clot,’ she added and then went on cutting holly leaves.
Four
‘A VISITOR for you,’ said the warder to Tristram. ‘But if you curse and blind at him as you have done at me, then you’re really for it and no error, Mister Foulmouth. This way, sir,’ he said to the corridor. A black-uniformed figure marched up, eggs bursting on its lapels. ‘Neither of these will do you any harm, sir, so there’s no call to be nervous. I’ll come back in about ten minutes, sir.’ And the warder went off.
‘Look, I know you,’ said Tristram, thin, weak, wellbearded.
The captain smiled. He took off his cap, disclosing short straight oiled rust-coloured hair and, still smiling, smoothed one wing of his moustache. ‘You should know me,’ he smiled. ‘We had a very pleasant but, 1 fear, as it turned out, not very profitable drinking session together, do you see, at the Metropole, do you see, a couple of months ago.’
‘Yes, 1 know you all right,’ said Tristram fiercely. ‘1 never forget a face. That’s where being a teacher comes in. Well, have you got an order for my release? Are the times of trial over at last?’
The unfrocked priest, who lately had insisted on being called the Blessed Ambrose Bayley, looked up light-
headedly and said, ‘Come, there’s a mile of penitents outside. Kneel down quickly and make your confession.’ The captain grinned foolishly.
‘I’ve merely come to tell you,’ he said, ‘where your wife is.’
Tristram looked sullen and blockish. ‘Haven’t got a wife,’ he muttered. ‘1 put her away.’
‘Nonsense, do you see,’ said the captain. ‘You most certainly have a wife, and at the moment, do you see, she’s staying with her sister and brother-in-law near Preston. State Farm NW 313 is the address.’
‘So,’ said Tristram evilly. ‘So that’s where the bitch is.’
‘Yes,’ said the captain, ‘your wife is there, awaiting her illegal though legitimate, do you see, child.’
The unfrocked priest, weary of waiting for the captain to kneel down and begin, was now hearing, with much head-rolling and groaning, the confession of someone unseen and unknown. ‘A foul sin,’ he said, ‘fornication. How many times?’
‘At least,’ said the captain, ‘one presumes that. She has been left alone, do you see, she has remained unmolested by any of our people in that corner of Northern Province. 1 received the information of her whereabouts from our Travel Control Branch. Now,’ he said, ‘you may be wondering, do you see, why we do not pounce. Perhaps you have been wondering that.’
‘Ah, bloody nonsense,’ snarled Tristram. ‘1 don’t wonder anything because I don’t know anything. Stuck in here starving, no news of the outside world, no letters. Nobody comes to see me.’ He was ready to revert to the old Tristram, to start to snivel, but he took a grip on
himself and growled, ‘I don’t care, damn you. I don’t care for any of the damned lot of you, get it?’
‘Very well,’ said the captain. Time is short, do you see. I want to know when, by your computation, she will be having the child.’
‘What child? Who said anything about a child?’ growled Tristram.
‘Go in peace and God bless you,’ said the Blessed Ambrose Bayley. And then, ‘I forgive my tormentors. Through the light of these consuming flames I see the everlasting light of the hereafter.’