It’s a Battlefield Read Online Free
Author: Graham Greene
effect of strength and stubbornness, of reliability and a gentle obtuseness. All his movements were gentle; when he picked up a book the large hands moved awkwardly, deprecatingly; they held the book for a while upside-down.
The secretary said: âYou know, I seem to know his face. I suppose he wasnât on Route 13?â
âNo. 10 A ,â the warder said.
âI suppose heâs a type,â the secretary murmured, and there passed through his mind a whole parade of large heavy-coated quiet men seated in glass cages, twisting a wheel a fraction this way, a fraction that, wrestling with it at sharp corners, in country lanes turning up their thumbs to other drivers homeward bound through the rain from Maidenhead.
âHeâs quiet,â the warder said, âwe try to cheer him up a bit but he donât rightly seem to know where he is. A bit stupid, I think. Some of his mates came and saw him the other day. He couldnât get it into his head at first that they couldnât hear if he spoke through the glass. Wanted to see anâ speak at the same time. But he had precious little to say for himself anyway. Got a bit interested when he heard that 10 A âs route was being changed. No,â said the chief warder, shaking his head, âheâs not easy to know. Anyway, heâll have to change now he shares with two of us. If he donât get a bit matey, itâll be no better than a funeral.â
They walked back across the asphalt yard; the warders paced up and down in the tower, and the grey-clothed men were coming out of the concert room and crossing to Block C. âHas his wife been here?â the secretary asked.
âSheâs quiet too,â the warder said. âTheyâre a pair of them for quietness.â
âPoor woman,â said the secretary heavily, and his thoughts turned to Lady Collins, whose husbandâs name had been called on the Stock Exchange before he went to prison for five years, and to the quiet and darkness of the house in Montague Square with the shutters up and the caretaker answering the telephone calls. But the Assistant Commissioner thought of the gossip in the fish-and-chip shops, the kind neighbours, and the pain of Monday mornings with the washing for one hung out in the back garden, and the voices calling to and fro over the wooden fences. This was not the worst pain, hope and fear in a cell, visits from the Chaplain; he had a dim memory that someone had once mapped hell in circles, and as the searchlight swooped and touched and passed, and the bell ceased clanging for Block C to go to their cells, he thought, âthis is only the outer circleâ. The great gate rolled back on its metal groove, and the car passed out. The secretary put his arm through the rest and said softly, with the chill of stone a little on his tongue: âYouâll tell us then, wonât you, what people think, what effect . . .â
The man who tears paper patterns and the male soprano were performing before the pit queues, the shutters of the shops had all gone up, the prostitutes were moving west. The feature pictures had come on the second time at the super-cinemas, and the taxi ranks were melting and re-forming. In the Café Français in Little Compton Street a man at the counter served two coffees and sold a packet of âWeightsâ. The match factory in Battersea pounded out the last ten thousand boxes, working overtime. The cars in the Oxford Street fun-fair rattled and bounced, and the evening papers went to press for the last edition â âThe Streatham Rape and Murder. Latest Developmentsâ, âMr MacDonald Flies to Lossiemouthâ, âDisarmament Conference Adjournsâ, âSpecial Service for Footballersâ, âFamily of Insured Couple Draw £10,000. Insure Todayâ. At each station on the Outer Circle a train stopped every two minutes.
2
C ONDER opened one of the sound-proof boxes
The secretary said: âYou know, I seem to know his face. I suppose he wasnât on Route 13?â
âNo. 10 A ,â the warder said.
âI suppose heâs a type,â the secretary murmured, and there passed through his mind a whole parade of large heavy-coated quiet men seated in glass cages, twisting a wheel a fraction this way, a fraction that, wrestling with it at sharp corners, in country lanes turning up their thumbs to other drivers homeward bound through the rain from Maidenhead.
âHeâs quiet,â the warder said, âwe try to cheer him up a bit but he donât rightly seem to know where he is. A bit stupid, I think. Some of his mates came and saw him the other day. He couldnât get it into his head at first that they couldnât hear if he spoke through the glass. Wanted to see anâ speak at the same time. But he had precious little to say for himself anyway. Got a bit interested when he heard that 10 A âs route was being changed. No,â said the chief warder, shaking his head, âheâs not easy to know. Anyway, heâll have to change now he shares with two of us. If he donât get a bit matey, itâll be no better than a funeral.â
They walked back across the asphalt yard; the warders paced up and down in the tower, and the grey-clothed men were coming out of the concert room and crossing to Block C. âHas his wife been here?â the secretary asked.
âSheâs quiet too,â the warder said. âTheyâre a pair of them for quietness.â
âPoor woman,â said the secretary heavily, and his thoughts turned to Lady Collins, whose husbandâs name had been called on the Stock Exchange before he went to prison for five years, and to the quiet and darkness of the house in Montague Square with the shutters up and the caretaker answering the telephone calls. But the Assistant Commissioner thought of the gossip in the fish-and-chip shops, the kind neighbours, and the pain of Monday mornings with the washing for one hung out in the back garden, and the voices calling to and fro over the wooden fences. This was not the worst pain, hope and fear in a cell, visits from the Chaplain; he had a dim memory that someone had once mapped hell in circles, and as the searchlight swooped and touched and passed, and the bell ceased clanging for Block C to go to their cells, he thought, âthis is only the outer circleâ. The great gate rolled back on its metal groove, and the car passed out. The secretary put his arm through the rest and said softly, with the chill of stone a little on his tongue: âYouâll tell us then, wonât you, what people think, what effect . . .â
The man who tears paper patterns and the male soprano were performing before the pit queues, the shutters of the shops had all gone up, the prostitutes were moving west. The feature pictures had come on the second time at the super-cinemas, and the taxi ranks were melting and re-forming. In the Café Français in Little Compton Street a man at the counter served two coffees and sold a packet of âWeightsâ. The match factory in Battersea pounded out the last ten thousand boxes, working overtime. The cars in the Oxford Street fun-fair rattled and bounced, and the evening papers went to press for the last edition â âThe Streatham Rape and Murder. Latest Developmentsâ, âMr MacDonald Flies to Lossiemouthâ, âDisarmament Conference Adjournsâ, âSpecial Service for Footballersâ, âFamily of Insured Couple Draw £10,000. Insure Todayâ. At each station on the Outer Circle a train stopped every two minutes.
2
C ONDER opened one of the sound-proof boxes
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