The Thousand Deaths of Mr Small Read Free Page A

of his is covered with black fluff: in the centre of the crown of it there is a boneless quadrilateral hot and soft, beneath which the brain, full of blood, throbs and grows. He is caught by the hard, round back part of his skull, and pushed, in spite of resistance, to the mountain. Hot milk is forced into his mouth. Charles Small must drink or suffocate. He drinks, and at last he is put to bed. He would keep that which was forced into him if he could, but he cannot: his overloaded stomach rejects the milk. Then he is comfortable and happy, and would gladly sleep. But the rough stuff about his loins and in his crutch has moistened itself again to lubricate its jagged teeth. It bites.
    Charles Small cries. The voice cries: “Oh my God, Oh God, he’s got convulsions!” Then he is picked up, pounded, rubbed, kissed, undressed, wiped, powdered, and pinned up again. After that the mountain comes to him out of a long white nightdress,and at last there is the dark. He sleeps a little and, awakening, sees nothing. He is alone. So he cries. Springs squeal. Someone moans. Still in the dark he feels the embrace of powerful arms, and inhales a familiar smell—which he hates. Still, it is better than nothing; and alone, Charles Small is nothing. Soothed, he allows himself to be put down again, and then, missing the protective warmth, he cries again. A flat paraffin-wax night-light makes a hole in the shadows—a hole no bigger than an orange-pip. “My little dolly! What do you want then? Let Mummy sleep a little, then!”
    Charles Small weeps desperately. The voice says: “ Sha ! … Sha! …” Out comes the mountain. As a man nibbles a blade of grass, chews a piece of gum, or smokes a cigarette—so he sucks. “… Was he hungry? There, little dolly, was it then? There then, there then….”
    … Charles Small starts out of a dyspeptic doze with a vile, sour taste in his mouth. He feels crop-full of curds and awash with a gurgling bilge of whey. “What a life, what a bloody life!” he says, grinding his teeth and tenderly pressing his throbbing temples. His head is neither aching nor not aching. He grips it hard in his damp hands, and shakes it until it rattles like a money-box, wishing that he could tear it off, dash it to the floor, and stamp on it. Damn you, ache or don’t ache — don’t threaten to ache! bellows the exasperated inaudible voice inside himself; and he hits himself hard on the forehead. The blow drives the indeterminate headache into some hole or corner in the fog. Obedient but always malignant, it slips into a secret passage, wriggles around his cheek-bone, and finds a back tooth, where it sits sulkily picking at the nerve, while it says:
    All right then, if you don’t want me I’ll go away!
    Damn you, damn you! Oh, if only I could get hold of you! screams the noiseless voice of Charles Small, and he snaps his jaws together, baring his teeth. At this the vague ache hunches its shoulders, curls up, and becomes a concentrated pain. Charles Small cries “Ow!”
    Smugly nodding, and sending home a new pang with every nod, the Pain says, with hypocritical bewilderment, strongly tinged with hysteria: W
hat’s the matter? What d’you want of me? Didn’t I do what you told me to do? Don’t I try to please you? Whatever I do is wrong. If I stay, that’s not good. If I go away, that’s not good. What am I to do? Die, to please you?
The Painbegins to cry: the nerve in the tooth seems to shudder, hiccup, and twitch. Charles Small strikes it with his fist; whereupon it cowers, and runs to a safe place, behind his left shoulder-blade, not far from the base of his neck, where it swells big and glows bright and says: Well, does this suit you?
    He groans aloud, and puts out his hand for something cold to drink. The sour curds inside him have become a great ball of soapy cheese floating in burning acid. His unsteady hand finds the glass his wife has put on the little table by the bed. Greedily, he swallows two