Up with your hands! yelled a savage voice. A handsome, tough-looking boy of nine had popped up from behind the table and was menacing him with a toy automatic pistol, while his small sister, about two years younger, made the same gesture with a fragment of wood. Both of them were dressed in the blue shorts, grey shirts, and red neckerchiefs which were the uniform of the Spies. Winston raised his hands above his head, but with an uneasy feeling, so vicious was the boys demeanour, that it was not altogether a game. Youre a traitor! yelled the boy. Youre a thought-criminal! Youre a Eurasian spy! Ill shoot you, Ill vaporize you, Ill send you to the salt mines! Suddenly they were both leaping round him, shouting Traitor! and Thought-criminal! the little girl imitating her brother in every movement. It was somehow slightly frightening, like the gambolling of tiger cubs which will soon grow up into man-eaters. There was a sort of calculating ferocity in the boys eye, a quite evident desire to hit or kick Winston and a consciousness of being very nearly big enough to do so. It was a good job it was not a real pistol he was holding, Winston thought. Mrs Parsons eyes flitted nervously from Winston to the children, and back again. In the better light of the living-room he noticed with interest that there actually was dust in the creases of her face. They do get so noisy, she said. Theyre disappointed because they couldnt go to see the hanging, thats what it is. Im too busy to take them. and Tom wont be back from work in time. Why cant we go and see the hanging? roared the boy in his huge voice. Want to see the hanging! Want to see the hanging! chanted the little girl, still capering round. Some Eurasian prisoners, guilty of war crimes, were to be hanged in the Park that evening, Winston remembered. This happened about once a month, and was a popular spectacle. Children always clamoured to be taken to see it. He took his leave of Mrs Parsons and made for the door. But he had not gone six steps down the passage when something hit the back of his neck an agonizingly painful blow. It was as though a red-hot wire had been jabbed into him. He spun round just in time to see Mrs Parsons dragging her son back into the doorway while the boy pocketed a catapult. Goldstein! bellowed the boy as the door closed on him. But what most struck Winston was the look of helpless fright on the womans greyish face.
Posted on: Sat, 17 Jan 2015 21:30:29 +0000
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