'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
AUTUMN 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.'
'Oh, come on now, do you see,' said the captain impatiently. 'You said she was to have a child. We can check easily enough, of course, do you see, that she's pregnant. What I want to know is, when is she to have the child? When did she, by your calculation. conceive?'
'No idea.' Tristram shook his head in gloom and apathy. 'No idea at all:
The captain took from one of his tunic pockets something in rustling yellow paper. 'Perhaps you're hungry,' he said. 'Perhaps a little synthechoc would help.' He unwrapped the bar and held it out. The Blessed Ambrose Bayley was quicker than Tristram; he darted like a ray and snatched the bar, drooling. Tristram was on to him, and the two snarled, clawed, tore. Finally each got about half. Three seconds were enough to wolf the brown sticky stuff down. 'Come on now,' said the captain sharply. 'When was it?'
'En oz ot?' Tristram was licking round his palate and sucking his fingers. 'Oh, that,' he said at last. 'It must have been in May. I know when it was. It was at the beginning of the Interphase. Have you any more of that stuff?'
'What do you mean?' asked the captain patiently. 'What is the Interphase?'
'Of course,' said Tristram, 'you're not a historian, are you? Of the science of historiography you know nothing. You're just a hired thug with pockets crammed tight with synthechoc.' He belched and then looked sick. 'When all you hired thugs began to swagger through the streets. Give me more of that, blast you.' He then turned savagely on his cell-mate. 'That was mine and you ate it. It was meant for me, blast you.' He weakly belaboured the Blessed Ambrose Bayley who, hands joined and eyes swooning upwards, said, 'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.' Tristram gave up, panting.
'Good,' said the captain. 'Well, then, we know when to take action. You can look forward, do you see, to the final disgracing of your brother and the punishment of your wife.'
'What do you mean? What are you talking about? Punishment? What punishment? If it's my wife you're going to go for, you leave that bitch alone, do you hear? She's my wife, not yours. I'll deal with my wife in my own way.' He sank without shame into snivelling. 'Oh, Beattie, Beattie,' he whined, 'why don't you get me out of here?'
'You realize, of course,' said the captain, 'that you're in here because of your brother?'
'Less talk from. you,' sneered Tristram, 'and more synthechoc, you gutsy hypocrite. Come on, hand over:'
'Sustenance, for the love of heaven,' fluted the Blessed Ambrose Bayley. 'Do not forget the servitors of the Lord in the days of your fatness.' He fell on to his knees and clung to the captain's shins, nearly bringing him over.
'Warder !' called the captain.
'And,' said Tristram, 'you leave my child alone. It's my child, you infanticidal maniac.' He started. with feeble fists, to hammer on the captain like a door. 'My child, you swine. My protest, my dirty word to the dirty world, you robber.' He began to frisk the captain for synthechoc with the quick long hands of a monkey. 'Warder!' called the captain, fighting him off. The Blessed Ambrose Bayley relaxed his hold and crawled, dispirited, back to his bench-bunk. 'Five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys,' he said perfunctorily, 'today and tomorrow in honour of the Little Flower. Go in peace and God bless you.'
The warder came, saying cheerfully, 'Not given you any trouble, have they, sir? That's right: Tristram's arms, too weak for further frisking, had dropped to his sides. 'Him,' pointed the warder. 'A proper little terror he was, when he first came here. Couldn't get no sense out of him, one of the real criminal class. Much tamer now, he is,' he said, with a touch of pride. Tristram slumped in his corner, muttering, 'My child, my child, my child.' With those spondees in his ears, the captain, grinning nervously, left.
Five
LATE December, in Bridgwater, Somerset, Western Province, a middle - aged man named Thomas Wharton, going home from work shortly after midnight, was set upon by youths. These knifed him, stripped him, spitted him, basted him, carved him, served him - all openly and without shame in one of the squares of the town. A hungry crowd clamoured for hunks and slices, kept back - that the King's Peace might not be broken - by munching and dripping greyboys. In Thirsk, North Riding, three lads - Alfred Pickles, David Ogden and Jackie Priestley - were struck dead with a hammer in a dark ginnel and dragged into a terraced house by way of the backyard. The street was gay for two nights with the smoke of barbecues. In Stoke-on-Trent the carcase of a woman (later identified as Maria Bennett, spinster, aged twenty-eight) grinned up suddenly - several good clean cuttings off her - from under a bank of snow. In Gillingham, Kent, Greater London, a shady back-street eating-shop opened, grilling nightly, and members of both police forces seemed to patronize it. In certain unregenerate places on the Suffolk coast there were rumours of big crackling Christmas dinners.
In Glasgow, on Hogmanay, a bearded sect professing worship of Njal offered a multiple human sacrifice. reserving the entrails for the deified burnt advocate, the flesh for themselves. Kirkcaldy, less subtle, saw a number of private ceilidhs with meat sandwiches. The New Year commenced with stories of timid anthropophagy from Maryport, Runcorn, Burslem, West Bromwich and Kidderminster. Then the metropolis flashed its own sudden canines: a man called Amis suffered savage amputation of an arm off Kingsway; S. R. Coke, journalist, was boiled in an old copper near Shepherd's Bush; Miss Joan Waine, a teacher, was fried in segments.
Those were the stories, anyway. There was no real way of check
ing the truth of them; they might well have been the delirious fantasies of extreme hunger. One story in particular was so incredible that it cast doubt on the others. It was reported from Brodick on the Isle of Arran that a vast communal nocturnal gorge of manflesh had been followed by a heterosexual orgy in the ruddy light of the fat-spitting fires and that, the morning after, the root known as salsify was seen sprouting from the pressed earth. That could not, by any manner of means or stretch of the organ of credulity, possibly be believed.
Six
BEATRICE-JOANNA'S pains were starting.
'Poor old girl,' said Shonny. 'Poor, poor old lady.' He and his wife and sister-in-law were standing, this bright snappy forenoon in February, by the sty of Bessie, the ailing sow. Bessie, all the slack grey deadweight of her, lay snorting feebly, a great ruin of flesh, on her side. Her uppermost flank, curiously mottled, heaved as in a dream of hunting. Shonny's Panceltic eyes filled with tears. 'Worms a yard long,' he grieved, 'horrible live worms. Why should a worm have life and she none? Poor, poor, poor old lady.'
'Oh, stop it, Shonny,' Mavis sniffed. 'We've got to make ourselves hard-hearted. She's only a pig, after all.'
'Only a pig? Only a pig?' Shonny was indignant. 'She's grown up with the children, God bless the old girl. She's been a member of the family. She's given her piglings unstintingly that we might be decently fed. She shall, the Lord keep her soul, be given a Christian burial.'
Beatrice-Joanna could sympathize with his tears; she was, in many ways, closer to Shonny than Mavis was. But she had other things on her mind now. The pains had started. A fair balance today: death of a pig, birth of a man. She was not afraid, she had confidence in Shonny and Mavis, especially Shonny; her pregnancy had run a healthy conventional course, subject only to certain frustrations: a strong desire for pickled gherkins had had to go unsatisfied, an urge to rearrange the furniture of the farmhouse had been stamped on by Mavis. Sometimes in the night an overwhelming longing for the comforting arms not, strangely, of Derek but of—