Children of Men, The by James P. D

Author:James, P. D. [James, P. D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Dystopia, Fantasy, Fiction, Novel
ISBN: 9780517153345
Publisher: Vintage
Published: 1992-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

17

Monday 15 March 2021

Today I had a visit from two members of the State Security Police. The fact that I am able to write this shows that I wasn’t arrested and that they didn’t find the diary. Admittedly they didn’t search for it; they didn’t search for anything. God knows the diary is incriminating enough to anyone interested in moral deficiencies and personal inadequacy, but their minds were on more tangible malefactions. As I said, there were two of them, a young man, obviously an Omega—extraordinary how one can always tell—and a senior officer, a little younger than I, who was carrying a raincoat and a black leather attaché case. He introduced himself as Chief Inspector George Rawlings and his companion as Sergeant Oliver Cathcart. Cathcart was saturnine, elegant, expressionless, a typical Omega. Rawlings, thick-set, a little clumsy in his movements, had a disciplined thatch of thick grey-white hair, which looked as if it had been expensively cut to emphasize the crimped waves at the side and back. His face was strong-featured with narrow eyes, so deep-set that the irises were invisible, and a long mouth with the upper lip arrow-shaped, sharp as a beak. Both were in civilian clothes, their suits extremely well cut. In other circumstances, I might have been tempted to inquire whether they went to the same tailor.

It was eleven o’clock when they arrived. I showed them into the ground-floor sitting-room and asked whether they would like coffee. They refused. Offered seats, Rawlings settled himself comfortably in a chair by the fireplace while Cathcart, after a moment’s hesitation, sat opposite him, sitting stiffly upright. I took the swivel chair at the desk and swung round to face them.

Rawlings said: “A niece of mine, my sister’s youngest, she just missed Omega by one year, attended your little talks on Victorian Life and Times. She’s not a very intelligent woman, you probably won’t remember her. But, then, of course, you might. Marion Hopcroft. It was a small class, she said, and got smaller by the week. People have no persistence. They take up enthusiasms but quickly tire, particularly if their interest isn’t continually stimulated.”

In a few sentences he had reduced the lectures to boring talks for a dwindling number of the unintelligent. The ploy had not been subtle but, then, I doubt whether he dealt in subtlety. I said: “The name is familiar but I can’t recall her.”

“Victorian Life and Times. I thought the word ‘times’ was redundant. Why not just Victorian Life? Or you could have advertised Life in Victorian England.”

“I didn’t choose the title of the course.”

“Didn’t you? That’s odd. I should have thought that you did. I think you should insist on choosing the title for your own talks.”

I made no reply. I had little doubt that he knew perfectly well that I had taken the course for Colin Seabrook, but if he didn’t I had no intention of enlightening him.

After a moment’s silence which neither he nor Cathcart seemed to find embarrassing, he went on: “I thought I might take one of these adult courses myself.

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