The Philosopher's Pupil Read Online Free

he had killed Stella and then suddenly met her again alive and then realized that it was not her, but a twin sister of whose existence he had never known.
    How could I have done that, he thought, looking down. As on similar occasions in the past, he felt a cleavage between himself and the George who did things. Yet he was that person and felt easy with him, chiding him gently. What a damn stupid thing to do, he thought, now that he was in the land of consequences. I was fond of that car. What will the insurance people say, I wonder. God, if only we could have got away before the police came.
    Stella had started crying again when George arrived. She was very anxious indeed to stop. She regarded crying as a kind of rather shameful and unusual disease. It gave her no relief. She rolled her head about, trying to breathe slowly, but could not stop her lower lip from shuddering convulsively and her heart from racing. She put her hand to her damaged side and panted, turning her wet mouth away from her husband.
    â€˜How are you?’ said George.
    â€˜OK.’
    â€˜Are you feeling OK?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜You’ve got a black eye.’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜So have I, at least it’s swollen, can’t think how I got it.’
    â€˜Oh — yes — ’
    â€˜The people here seem nice, the nurse was nice to me.’
    â€˜Good.’
    â€˜You’re not in pain?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜That’s good.’
    â€˜I can’t stop crying.’
    â€˜Not to worry.’
    â€˜I suppose it’s hysterical. Not like me.’
    â€˜No. Gabriel got here early.’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜What did she say to you?’
    â€˜Nothing.’
    â€˜What did you say to her?’
    â€˜Nothing.’
    â€˜Nothing?’
    â€˜I told her nothing.’
    â€˜I can’t remember much about last night.’
    â€˜I’m glad you can’t, neither can I.’
    â€˜If you can’t remember, why are you glad I can’t?’
    â€˜It was a horrid accident, better to forget it.’
    â€˜We do a lot of forgetting. How long will you be in here?’
    â€˜I don’t know. You could ask matron.’
    â€˜Do you want anything, flowers or books or anything?’
    â€˜No, thanks.’
    â€˜I feel awfully tired.’
    â€˜You’re suffering from shock.’
    â€˜Yes, that’s it, I suppose I am.’
    â€˜Better go home and rest.’
    â€˜No, I think I’ll go swimming, that always does me good.’
    â€˜Yes, go swimming, that’ll do you good.’
    Pat-ball, thought George, pat-ball. It’s either this or rows. Stella can’t talk to me, that’s her trouble; she can’t make silly jokes or play about like other people, she can’t really talk to anyone, she’s cut off from the human race. She’s grand like royalty, I married a princess. I hate seeing her crying, it’s so unnatural, she looks like a wet pig. She hasn’t any soft warm being, no haven there, no safety. Oh God, how much fear I feel now, how much help I need, with him coming. Why must I always suffer so, this is hell. Familiar black resentment rose in his heart, in his gorge. I am poisoned, he thought.
    â€˜Here’s Alex,’ said Stella, and checked her weeping.
    George rose quickly and made for the door. His mother stood aside to let him pass. They exchanged a quick bright look but no words.

PRELUDE
    ii Our Town
    I am the narrator: a discreet and self-effacing narrator. This book is not about me. I knew, though not in most cases at all well, a number of the dramatis personae and I lived (and live) in the town where the events hereinafter recounted took place. For purposes of convenience, for instance so that my ‘characters’ may be able (very occasionally) to refer to me or address me, I shall call myself ‘N’. But as far as this drama is concerned I am a shadow, Nemo, not the masked presence or secret