More Pricks Than Kicks by Samuel Beckett

enquiry could provide: Greek and Roman reasons, Sturm und Drang reasons, reasons metaphysical, aesthetic, erotic, anterotic and chemical, Empedocles of Agrigentum and John of the Cross reasons, in short all but the true reasons, which did not exist, at least not for the purposes of conversation. Ruby, flattened by this torrent of incentive, was obliged to admit that this was not, as she had inclined to suspect, a greenhorn yielding to the spur of a momentary pique, but an adult desperado of fixed and even noble purpose, and from this concession passed to a state almost of joy. She was done in any case, and here was a chance to end with a fairly beautiful bang. So the thing was arranged, the needful measures taken, the date fixed in the spring of the year and a site near by selected, Venice in October having been rejected as alas impracticable. Now the fateful day had come and Ruby, in the posture of Philosopher Square behind Molly Seagrim's arras, sat winding herself up, while Belacqua, in a swagger sports roadster chartered at untold gold by the hour, trod on the gas for Irishtown.
    So fiercely indeed did he do this, though so far from being insured against third-party risks he was not even the holder of a driving-licence, that he scored a wake of objurgation as he sped through the traffic. The better-class pedestrians and cyclists turned and stared after him. “These stream-lined Juggernauts” they said, shaking their heads, “are a positive menace.” Civic Guards at various points of the city and suburbs took his number. In Pearse Street he smote off the wheel of a growler as cleanly as Peter Malchus's ear after the agony, but did not stop. Further on, in some lowly street or other, the little children playing beds and ball and other games were scattered like chaff. But before the terrible humped Victoria Bridge, its implacable bisection, in a sudden panic at his own temerity he stopped the car, got out and pushed her across with the help of a bystander. Then he drove quietly on through the afternoon and came in due course without further mishap to the house of his accomplice.
    Mrs Tough flung open wide the door. She was all over Belacqua, with his big pallid gob much abused with imagined debauches.
    “Ruby” she sang, in a third, like a cuckoo, “Rubee! Rubee!”
    But would she ever change her tune, that was the question.
    Ruby dangled down the stairs, with the marks of her teeth in her nether lip where she could persuade no bee to sting her any more.
    “Get on your bonnet and shawl” said Belacqua roughly “and we'll be going.”
    Mrs Tough recoiled aghast. This was the first time she had ever heard such a tone turned on her Ruby. But Ruby got into a coat like a lamb and seemed not to mind. It became only too clear to Mrs Tough that she was not going to be invited.
    “May I offer you a little refreshment” she said in an icy voice to Belacqua “before you go?” She could not bear to be idle.
    Ruby thought she had never heard anything quite so absurd. Refreshment before they went! It was if and when they returned that they would be in need of refreshment.
    “Really mother” she said, “can't you see we must be off.”
    Belacqua chimed in with a heavy lunch at the Bailey. The truth was not in him.
    “Off where?” said Mrs Tough.
    “Off” cried Ruby, “just off.”
    What a strange mood she is in to be sure, thought Mrs Tough. However. At least they could not prevent her from going as far as the gate.
    “Where did you raise the car?” she said.
    If you had seen the car you would agree that this was the most natural question.
    Belacqua mentioned a firm of motor engineers.
    “Oh indeed” said Mrs Tough.
    Mr Tough crept to the window and peeped out from behind the curtain. He had worked himself to the bone for his family and he could only afford a safety-bicycle. A bitter look stole over his cyanosis.
    Belacqua got in a gear at last, he had no very clear idea himself which, after much clutch-burning,