Read Online Imago Bird by Nicholas Mosley - Free Book Online Page B

was a sad, quiet man. I thought—I should try to reassure him?
    I wanted to say—Well I won’t tell anyone.
    I thought I could explain—It’ll be all right for both of us, won’t it, if it’s the fact after all that you’re fixing up the hole in Uncle Bill’s ceiling —
    I said ‘The hole—’
    He said ‘The hole.’
    Then—‘Yes.’
    When he looked at me he had absolutely nothing behind his eyes; or behind his words, or his inflexions.
    I thought—If he were in a film, wouldn’t he be wondering whether or not to kill me?
    Then—Of course I am not really frightened.
    He said ‘You’re here at weekends?’
    I said ‘Yes.’
    He said ‘What do you do?’
    I said ‘Philosophy.’
    He frowned.
    I thought—Well, according to the Sceptics, is not one answer as good as another?
    Then—But am I not the person who knows something is going on behind the stage; and so in a different dimension?
    He said ‘Look, if they knew I was there, I’d lose my job.’
    I still wanted to say—Well I won’t tell anyone.
    Dr Anders would say—Well why didn’t you?
    I said ‘You mean you don’t want me to tell anyone?’
    He said ‘Right.’
    Dr Anders might say—You really did think he might dosomething to you?
    I thought—No! Then—Am I not trying to help him?
    The man said ‘Those cows! They call it information!’
    Then he went back into the attic.
    There still had been no intelligible messages coming from behind his eyes.
    I went down the stairs. I was still carrying my clothes. I had no shoes. I thought I might go into Uncle Bill’s bedroom and borrow his slippers.
    I could have said to the man—Let’s say you’re a plumber—if a plumber had not been a man fixing electronic surveillance.
    I was putting on my clothes on the landing outside Uncle Bill’s bedroom. I thought I might take the opportunity to go and look at his floors and ceilings.
    I could say to Dr Anders—But what else could the man have been doing? Other than mending a hole in the ceiling?
    And if this were true, it was true they would not want it known —
    â€” Or could he be my white horse to divert me from my beloved!
    I was going on down the staircase.
    On the pavement, outside the front door, there was one of the policemen put on to guard Uncle Bill. I could go up to him and say—There is a man who might be a plumber or a masturbator in the attic —
    But Uncle Bill would not want even a policeman to know, if there was someone mending a hole in his ceiling.
    I thought—Perhaps we inoculate ourselves with these hideous images to save ourselves from more simple pornography.
    I was shuffling along the pavement towards Victoria Street. I could not quite remember how I had got there. I was wearing Uncle Bill’s bedroom slippers. I had looked into Uncle Bill’s bedroom and study briefly, but there had not seemed to be any holes in floors or ceilings. I had not spoken to the policeman at the front door, who had smiled at me.
    I could explain to Dr Anders—But still, there is some sense in all this: I am out in the air: perhaps it is true that the mental health of the Sceptics is in not expecting to be able to judgebetween this and that explanation —
    I was moving parallel to Victoria Street, between it and the river. It was a bright windy day. People in the street were going past like leaves blown from Andromeda.
    There were some pornographic bookshops at the back of Victoria Station.
    I thought—For God’s sake, if I could hold out a crucifix at you, fart at you, would you stop following me?
    Dr Anders would say—I thought you were on your way to your beloved —
    â€” That dark horse, to drag me down, like a child at the skirts of its mother.
    The man with crinkly hair had been so terrible! He had had such a life: his