The Wanting Seed by Anthony Burgess Read Free Book Online Page A

back. But he was too lazy to move.
    ‘I should think it’s about five-thirty,’ said Beatrice-Joanna. ‘You can check with the telly, if you like.’ His free arm was able, quite comfortably, to click the switch by the bedhead. A light curtain came down over the window, shutting out just enough of the day, and in a second or so synthetic music came gurgling and wailing gently from the ceiling. Unblown, unplucked, unbeaten music, like that heard distractedly by alc-drinking Tristram at that very moment. Here were oscillating valves, tap-water, ships’ sirens, thunder, marching feet, vocalizations into a throat-mike – crabbed and inverted to create a brief symphony designed to please rather than excite. The screen above their heads glowed whitely, then erupted into a coloured stereoscopic image of the statue that crowned Government Building. The stone eyes, above a baroque beard, a nose strong to break the wind, glared out defiantly; clouds moved behind as if in a hurry; the sky was the colour of school ink.
    ‘There he is,’ said Derek, ‘whoever he is–our patron saint. St Pelagius, St Augustine, or St Anonymous–which? We shall know tonight.’
    The saint’s image faded. Then bloomed an imposing ecclesiastical interior – venerable grey nave, ogee arches. From the altar marched down two plump male figures dressed snowily like hospital housemen. ‘The Sacred Game,’ announced a voice. ‘Cheltenham Ladies against West Bromwich Males. Cheltenham Ladies have won the toss and elected to bat first.’ The plump white figures came down to inspect the wicket in the nave. Derek switched off. The stereoscopic image lost a dimension, then died.
    ‘It’s just after six, then,’ said Derek. ‘I’d better be going.’ He eased his numb arm from under his mistress’sshoulder-blades, then swung himse1f off the bed.
    ‘There’s plenty of time,’ yawned Beatrice-Joanna.
    ‘Not any more.’ Derek drew on his narrow trousers. He strapped his microradio to his wrist, glancing at the watch-face. ‘Twenty past,’ he said. Then, ‘The Sacred Game, indeed. The last ritual of civilized Western Man.’ He snorted. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘we’d better not see each other for a week or so. Whatever you do, don’t come looking for me in the Ministry. I’ll get in touch with you somehow. Somehow,’ he said vaguely, muffied by his shirt. ‘Would you be an angel,’ he said, putting on the homosexual mask with his jacket, ‘and just peep out and see if there’s anybody on the corridor? I don’t want to be seen leaving.’
    ‘All right.’ Beatrice-Joanna sighed, got off the bed, put on her dressing-gown, and went to the door. She looked left and right, like a child practising kerb-drill, came back in and said, ‘Nobody there.’
    ‘Thank Dog for that.’ He pronounced the final plosive too sibilantly, petulantly.
    ‘There’s no need to put on that homo act with me, Derek.’
    ‘Every good actor,’ he minced, ‘starts acting in the wings.’ He gave her a butterfly kiss on the left cheek. ‘Good-bye, dearest.’
    ‘Good-bye.’ He undulated down the corridor towards the lift, the satyr in him put to sleep till next time, whenever that would be.

Twelve
    S TLL somewhat shaken, despite two more glasses of alc in a drinking-cellar nearer home, Tristram entered Spurgin Building. Even here, in the large vestibule, there were laughing grey uniforms. He didn’t like it, he didn’t like it one bit. Waiting at the lift-gates were neighbours of the fortieth floor – Wace, Durtnell and Visser; Mrs Hamper and young Jack Phoenix; Miss Wallis, Miss Runting, Arthur Spragg; Phipps, Walker-Meredith, Fred Ramp, the octogenarian Mr Earthrowl. The lift-indicators flashed yellow: 47 – 46 – 45. ‘I saw a rather terrible thing,’ said Tristram to old Mr Earthrowl. ‘Eh?’ said Mr Earthrowl. 38 – 37 – 36. ‘A special emergency regulation,’ said Phipps of the Ministry of Labour. ‘They’ve all been ordered back to