— although he didn’t care for the way they marched through areas where immigrants lived, to insult them: that was behaving like militant students. Militant! That meant to be like a soldier, but soldiers were on the side of law and order — not at all like students. Still, you couldn’t blame the movement for marching: they wouldn’t need to if people stayed in their own countries and behaved themselves instead of indulging in filthy practices in public lavatories.
There wouldn’t have been a Hitler if there had been fewer Jews in Germany. The movement ought to get itself into the government, as he had.
He lay in bed, imagining the man with his light and his notices groping through the concrete maze. What could he hope to achieve by such furtiveness? Yet Horridge felt a little guilty. At least the man was trying to do something positive.
* * *
Chapter VII
When he woke, Horridge knew what he ought to do.
As he washed, he stared at himself in the mirror. He simply didn’t look capable of carrying out such a plan. Sometimes when he looked in the mirror, he felt as though he couldn’t recognise himself. Except for his slightly protruding ears, he would pass himself by unrecognised in a crowd. He flapped deodorant away from his face, afraid of inhaling the chemical.
He must buy milk. The bottle in the bucket of cold water beneath the sink was empty. He walked towards the shops near the bus terminus. Everywhere were fences, head-height, ankle-height, as though nobody knew how to behave unless they were made to. Maybe the fences had been put up for vandals to scribble on with paint; the world was mad enough. Amid one tangle of graffiti he read KILLER.
Like his flat, the shopping street was L-shaped. Hardly a path in Cantril Farm ran visibly straight for more than a few yards; the walks sank into concrete valleys, or plunged straight through the hearts of tenements. The whole place reminded him of the mazes with which scientists tormented rats.
Above the shops three tiers of flats were stacked, a layer cake of concrete. Over the heavy metal mesh that protected the windows of the Trustee Savings Bank, iron bars were set — not so trusting, he thought wryly. A child was parked in the doorway of a betting shop, beside a sign LEADERS IN LEISURE. Puddles gathered litter in depressions in the concrete walk.
The walk was loud with shoppers. Let them babble if it did them any good. They’d rather chatter like monkeys than do anything constructive. But could he do more?
Yes, by God. He wouldn’t be dragged down by Cantril Farm. He’d proved that he could act so long as he didn’t hesitate. He felt dwindled by the tenements, but that wouldn’t sap him.
Dull music trickled through the supermarket. Let it mumble — it wouldn’t lull him. He bought a tin of corned beef to replace the one he’d used up for his Christmas dinner. You couldn’t trust many foods now, not with all this experimenting with chemicals, all these amino acids he’d heard they put in foods. God only knew what foreign foods contained.
He hurried towards his flat. KILLER. There it was again, in a different place. No doubt they thought it clever to write such things. Television had a lot to answer for. But at the same time the word seemed addressed to him, urging him to act.
He drowned the bottle of milk in the bucket, and went out. For once he didn’t fear losing his way; most of the walks led eventually to bus stops. Cantril Farm was constructed to herd people in the directions the planners wanted them to follow.
He waited opposite a post-box inscribed savagely as a totem pole. Above the tower blocks, the sky was featureless as whitewash. Nearby was a phone box — but he mustn’t use one so close to home; they might trace him. Craig and the police didn’t yet know where he lived; otherwise, why had they done nothing since trying to scare him outside Craig’s house?
The bus was stuffed with a Saturday crowd. Among shopping bags on
There wouldn’t have been a Hitler if there had been fewer Jews in Germany. The movement ought to get itself into the government, as he had.
He lay in bed, imagining the man with his light and his notices groping through the concrete maze. What could he hope to achieve by such furtiveness? Yet Horridge felt a little guilty. At least the man was trying to do something positive.
* * *
Chapter VII
When he woke, Horridge knew what he ought to do.
As he washed, he stared at himself in the mirror. He simply didn’t look capable of carrying out such a plan. Sometimes when he looked in the mirror, he felt as though he couldn’t recognise himself. Except for his slightly protruding ears, he would pass himself by unrecognised in a crowd. He flapped deodorant away from his face, afraid of inhaling the chemical.
He must buy milk. The bottle in the bucket of cold water beneath the sink was empty. He walked towards the shops near the bus terminus. Everywhere were fences, head-height, ankle-height, as though nobody knew how to behave unless they were made to. Maybe the fences had been put up for vandals to scribble on with paint; the world was mad enough. Amid one tangle of graffiti he read KILLER.
Like his flat, the shopping street was L-shaped. Hardly a path in Cantril Farm ran visibly straight for more than a few yards; the walks sank into concrete valleys, or plunged straight through the hearts of tenements. The whole place reminded him of the mazes with which scientists tormented rats.
Above the shops three tiers of flats were stacked, a layer cake of concrete. Over the heavy metal mesh that protected the windows of the Trustee Savings Bank, iron bars were set — not so trusting, he thought wryly. A child was parked in the doorway of a betting shop, beside a sign LEADERS IN LEISURE. Puddles gathered litter in depressions in the concrete walk.
The walk was loud with shoppers. Let them babble if it did them any good. They’d rather chatter like monkeys than do anything constructive. But could he do more?
Yes, by God. He wouldn’t be dragged down by Cantril Farm. He’d proved that he could act so long as he didn’t hesitate. He felt dwindled by the tenements, but that wouldn’t sap him.
Dull music trickled through the supermarket. Let it mumble — it wouldn’t lull him. He bought a tin of corned beef to replace the one he’d used up for his Christmas dinner. You couldn’t trust many foods now, not with all this experimenting with chemicals, all these amino acids he’d heard they put in foods. God only knew what foreign foods contained.
He hurried towards his flat. KILLER. There it was again, in a different place. No doubt they thought it clever to write such things. Television had a lot to answer for. But at the same time the word seemed addressed to him, urging him to act.
He drowned the bottle of milk in the bucket, and went out. For once he didn’t fear losing his way; most of the walks led eventually to bus stops. Cantril Farm was constructed to herd people in the directions the planners wanted them to follow.
He waited opposite a post-box inscribed savagely as a totem pole. Above the tower blocks, the sky was featureless as whitewash. Nearby was a phone box — but he mustn’t use one so close to home; they might trace him. Craig and the police didn’t yet know where he lived; otherwise, why had they done nothing since trying to scare him outside Craig’s house?
The bus was stuffed with a Saturday crowd. Among shopping bags on
Similar Books
