The Complete Enderby by Anthony Burgess Read Free Book Online Page B

Touch them at your peril.’
    ‘Peril, indeed,’ scoffed Mrs Meldrum. ‘And I don’t like the sound of that at all, continental papers in
my
bathroom.’ Meanwhile Enderby wrapped his muffler on and fought his way – as if towards the light – into his overcoat. ‘I never heard of such a thing, and that’s a fact,’ said Mrs Meldrum, ‘and I’ve been in the business a fair amount of time. I’ve heard of coals in the bath with some of them slummy people, though I thank the Almighty God I’ve never harboured any of them in
my
bosom. You’re going out like that, Mr Enderby, with bits of paper stuck all over your face. I can read a word there, just by your nose:
epileptical
, or something. You’re not doing yourself or me or any of the other tenants any good at all, Mr E, going out in that state. Peril, indeed.’
    Enderby dithered out, doubtful. He had not reckoned on having to search for new lodgings, not in the middle of
The Pet Beast
. And this town was becoming more and more a dormitory for bald young men from London. In one pub he had met the head of a news-reel company, a lavish gin-man with a light, fast voice. And there had been a processed-cheese executive heard, loud and unabashed, somewhere else. London was crawling southward to the Channel.
    Enderby crawled northward to the station, picking off odd words from his razor-cuts. The snow had been trodden already, by people rushing earlier with insincere eagerness to get to work in London. Enderby teetered in tiny gavotte-steps, afraid of slipping, his rump still aching from last night’s fall. Work-trains, stenographer-trains, executive-trains. Big deals over the telephone, fifty guineas nothing to them. Golfball-money. But, thought Enderby, that would provide for half a year’s rent increase.
    Looking up at the zinc sky he saw a gull or two flapping inland. He had neglected to feed the gulls for two days now; he was becoming careless. Perhaps, he thought vaguely, he could make it up to them by buying some special treat at the Army and Navy Stores. He passed a block of bright posters. One of them extolled domestic gas: a smiling toy paraclete called Mr Therm presided over a sort of warm Holy Family. Pentecostal therm; pentecostal sperm. Two men in dyed army overcoats marched, as in retreat, from the station, with demoralized thug faces. One said to the other, ‘Can’t make up its bleeding mind. Rain one day, snow the next. Be pissing down again tomorrow.’ Enderby had to stop, short of breath, his heart martelling away as though he had just downed a half-bottle of brandy, his left hand clutching a snowcapped privet-hedge for support.
The pentecostal sperm came pissing down
. No, no, no.
Hissing down
. The line was dealt to him, like a card from a weighing-machine. He had a sudden image of the whole poem like a squat evil engine, weighing, waiting. The Holy Family, the Virgin Mary, the pentecostal sperm. He heard a train-whistle and had to rush.
    Panting, he entered the little booking-hall and dug out his wallet from his right breast. There was still a Christmas tree by the bookstall. That was wrong: Twelfth Night was over, St Distaff ’s Day had set the working year spinning again. Enderby approached the stern shirt-sleeves behind the
guichet
. ‘A day return to London, please,’ he begged. He picked up his change with his ticket and sent a shilling over the floor. ‘Don’t lose that, mister,’ said a lively old woman in black. ‘Need that for the gas.’ She cackled as Enderby chased the shining monocycle to the barrier. The ticket-collector flapped a heavy boot on to it, trapped. ‘Thank you,’ said Enderby. Rising from picking it up his eyes misted, and he saw a very clear and blue picture of the Virgin Mary at a spinning-wheel, a silver queen set in baby blue. This had nothing to do with
The Pet Beast
and its Mary-Pasiphae. This had something to do with his stepmother.
     
In this spinning womb, reduced to a common noun,
The pentecostal