at once. He wasn’t satisfied. Somebody was up to no good nearby. He groped his way among the furniture, and peered between the curtains.
Outside, on the walk which passed his apology for a yard, was a light where no light should be. It was feeling its way along the fence on the opposite side of the walk. The figure that carried the torch was patting an object on the fence: a notice, where none had been when Horridge had come home.
What the devil was the fellow doing? What did the notice say? Surely it couldn’t be Craig, not unless he had some mad plan to scare Horridge. But Horridge meant to find out what the man was up to. He felt his way back to the bedroom, and groped into his overcoat and shoes.
He eased open the outer door. His L-shaped flat walled off two sides of his meagre yard: hardly even a yard, more a stray patch of concrete onto which the door opened. Over his door, stone steps led from the yard to the upstairs flat. He couldn’t be brought any lower in the world than living below stairs.
Now, for once, he welcomed the stairs. They concealed him while he peered out. In his pocket he held the razor ajar and ready. He was nervously eager for action.
At first he could see nothing. All around him, concrete made the night massive and claustrophobic. Then he glimpsed a flickering. A passage led the walk past his outer wall and beneath the bridging upper floor. The torchlight was in that passage.
He limped rapidly yet stealthily to the end of his wall. The man was sticking a notice to the wall of the passage. Horridge gripped the handle in his pocket. “What are you doing?” he said loudly.
The man whirled; his hand dragged the notice awry. The torch-beam poked at Horridge’s face, dazzling him. Then the man relaxed, or decided not to be intimidated. “You aren’t blind, are you?” he demanded and gestured at the notice with the light.
Above a caricature of a Negro family, the notice said SAY NO TO A BLACK BRITAIN! As Horridge squinted at him, the man’s face emerged from the dazzle: eyes swollen out of proportion by thick spectacles, a withdrawn chin. He’d seen this man sometimes, reading the newspapers in Cantril Farm Library.
The man must have observed his approval of the notice, for he said “Don’t you think we should get rid of all these foreigners?”
Horridge nodded curtly. It wasn’t the man’s place to interrogate him. But the man continued “Don’t you think we ought to do something about all these layabouts sponging on the welfare state?”
Horridge didn’t quite trust him. It was like brainwashing, this rapid stream of questions that demanded only agreement. They didn’t sound like the man’s own questions; Horridge suspected he’d learned them by rote. He couldn’t think for himself.
A cold breeze made the cuffs of Horridge’s pyjama trousers shiver. All this was getting him nowhere. Why couldn’t the fellow stand up and say what he knew was right, instead of skulking about under cover of darkness? Before the man could interrogate him further, Horridge demanded “And what about homosexuals?”
The man’s enormous eyes fluttered in their glass bowls, like startled fish. “I don’t like them,” he said.
Horridge pointed at the notice. “How is that sort of thing going to get rid of them?”
“ Have you got a better way?”
Horridge had trapped himself. Though the man’s triumphant stare enraged him, he couldn’t reply. The man said “Shall I take your name and address for some of our literature?”
“ No, thank you. I’m quite capable of thinking for myself.”
He stared until the man moved away. The torch-beam wavered on mud spiky with grass; it grew vague, and vanished. No, Horridge didn’t want their pamphlets drawing attention to him — not while he had to decide what to do about Craig.
He locked himself into his flat. He knew of the movement which printed the notices. He might have joined that movement, if he had believed in belonging to groups
Outside, on the walk which passed his apology for a yard, was a light where no light should be. It was feeling its way along the fence on the opposite side of the walk. The figure that carried the torch was patting an object on the fence: a notice, where none had been when Horridge had come home.
What the devil was the fellow doing? What did the notice say? Surely it couldn’t be Craig, not unless he had some mad plan to scare Horridge. But Horridge meant to find out what the man was up to. He felt his way back to the bedroom, and groped into his overcoat and shoes.
He eased open the outer door. His L-shaped flat walled off two sides of his meagre yard: hardly even a yard, more a stray patch of concrete onto which the door opened. Over his door, stone steps led from the yard to the upstairs flat. He couldn’t be brought any lower in the world than living below stairs.
Now, for once, he welcomed the stairs. They concealed him while he peered out. In his pocket he held the razor ajar and ready. He was nervously eager for action.
At first he could see nothing. All around him, concrete made the night massive and claustrophobic. Then he glimpsed a flickering. A passage led the walk past his outer wall and beneath the bridging upper floor. The torchlight was in that passage.
He limped rapidly yet stealthily to the end of his wall. The man was sticking a notice to the wall of the passage. Horridge gripped the handle in his pocket. “What are you doing?” he said loudly.
The man whirled; his hand dragged the notice awry. The torch-beam poked at Horridge’s face, dazzling him. Then the man relaxed, or decided not to be intimidated. “You aren’t blind, are you?” he demanded and gestured at the notice with the light.
Above a caricature of a Negro family, the notice said SAY NO TO A BLACK BRITAIN! As Horridge squinted at him, the man’s face emerged from the dazzle: eyes swollen out of proportion by thick spectacles, a withdrawn chin. He’d seen this man sometimes, reading the newspapers in Cantril Farm Library.
The man must have observed his approval of the notice, for he said “Don’t you think we should get rid of all these foreigners?”
Horridge nodded curtly. It wasn’t the man’s place to interrogate him. But the man continued “Don’t you think we ought to do something about all these layabouts sponging on the welfare state?”
Horridge didn’t quite trust him. It was like brainwashing, this rapid stream of questions that demanded only agreement. They didn’t sound like the man’s own questions; Horridge suspected he’d learned them by rote. He couldn’t think for himself.
A cold breeze made the cuffs of Horridge’s pyjama trousers shiver. All this was getting him nowhere. Why couldn’t the fellow stand up and say what he knew was right, instead of skulking about under cover of darkness? Before the man could interrogate him further, Horridge demanded “And what about homosexuals?”
The man’s enormous eyes fluttered in their glass bowls, like startled fish. “I don’t like them,” he said.
Horridge pointed at the notice. “How is that sort of thing going to get rid of them?”
“ Have you got a better way?”
Horridge had trapped himself. Though the man’s triumphant stare enraged him, he couldn’t reply. The man said “Shall I take your name and address for some of our literature?”
“ No, thank you. I’m quite capable of thinking for myself.”
He stared until the man moved away. The torch-beam wavered on mud spiky with grass; it grew vague, and vanished. No, Horridge didn’t want their pamphlets drawing attention to him — not while he had to decide what to do about Craig.
He locked himself into his flat. He knew of the movement which printed the notices. He might have joined that movement, if he had believed in belonging to groups
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