Read Online Brighton Rock by Graham Greene - Free Book Online Page B

a microphone on a long black movable stand. He held it tenderly as if it were a woman, swinging it gently this way and that, wooing it with his lips while from the loudspeaker under the gallery his whisper reverberated hoarsely over the hall, like a dictator announcing victory, like the official news following a long censorship. ‘It gets you,’ the Boy said, ‘it gets you,’ surrendering himself to the huge brazen suggestion.
    ‘Music talks, talks of our love.
    The starling on our walks, talks, talks of our love.
    The taxis tooting,
    The last owl hooting,
    The tube train rumbling,
    Busy bee bumbling,
    Talk of our love.
    Music talks, talks of our love,
    The west wind on our walks, talks, talks of our love.
    The nightingale singing,
    The postmen ringing,
    Electric drill groaning,
    Office telephoning,
    Talk of our love.’
    The Boy stared at the spotlight: music, love, nightingale, postmen: the words stirred in his brain like poetry: one hand caressed the vitriol bottle in his pocket, the other touched Rose’s wrist. The inhuman voice whistled round the gallery and the Boy sat silent. It was he this time who was being warned; life held the vitriol bottle and warned him: I’ll spoil your looks. It spoke to him in the music, and when he protested that he for one would never get mixed up, the music had its own retort at hand: ‘You can’t always help it. It sort of comes that way.’
    ‘The watchdog on our walks, talks, talks of our love.’
    The crowd stood at attention six deep behind the tables (there wasn’t enough room on the floor for so many). They were dead quiet. It was like the anthem on Armistice Day when the King has deposited his wreath, the hats off, and the troops turned to stone. It was love of a kind, music of a kind, truth of a kind they listened to.
    ‘Gracie Fields funning,
    The gangsters gunning,
    Talk of our love.’
    The music pealed on under the Chinese lanterns and the pink spotlight featured the singer holding the microphone closer to his starched shirt. ‘You been in love?’ the Boy asked sharply and uneasily.
    ‘Oh yes,’ Rose said.
    The Boy retorted with sudden venom, ‘You would have been. You’re green. You don’t know what people do.’ The music came to an end and in the silence he laughed aloud. ‘You’re innocent.’ People turned in their chairs and looked at them: a girl giggled. His fingers pinched her wrist. ‘You’re green,’ he said again. He was working himself into a little sensual rage, as he had done with the soft kids at the council school. ‘You don’t know anything,’ he said, with contempt in his nails.
    ‘Oh no,’ she protested. ‘I know a lot.’
    The Boy grinned at her, ‘Not a thing,’ pinching the skin of her wrist until his nails nearly met. ‘You’d like me for your boy, eh? We’ll keep company?’
    ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I’d love it.’ Tears of pride and pain pricked behind her lids. ‘If you like doing that,’ she said, ‘go on.’
    The Boy let go. ‘Don’t be soft,’ he said. ‘Why should I like it? You think you know too much,’ he complained. He sat there, anger like a live coal in his belly, as the music came on again: all the good times he’d had in the old days with nails and splinters: the tricks he’d learnt later with a razor blade: what would be the fun if people didn’t squeal? He said furiously, ‘We’ll be going. I can’t stand this place,’ and obediently Rose began to pack her handbag, putting back her Woolworth compact and her handkerchief. ‘What’s that?’ the Boy said when something clinked in her bag; she showed him the end of a string of beads.
    ‘You a Roman?’ the Boy asked.
    ‘Yes,’ Rose said.
    ‘I’m one too,’ the Boy said. He gripped her arm and pushed her out into the dark dripping street. He turned up the collar of his jacket and ran as the lightning flapped and the thunder filled the air. They ran from doorway to doorway until they were back on the parade in one of the empty glass