“Who is this?” I said. “Why can’t he speak up? What’s going on in here?”

“This is Joe,” said my mum. “He lives here now. The lodger, that’s what he is. Oh, dear dear dear,” she went.

“You,” said this Joe. “I’ve heard all about you, boy. I know what you’ve done, breaking the hearts of your poor grieving parents. So you’re back, eh? Back to make life a misery for them once more, is that it? Over my dead corpse you will, because they’ve let me be more like a son to them than like a lodger.” I could nearly have smecked loud at that if the old razdraz within me hadn’t started to wake up the feeling of wanting to sick, because this veck looked about the same age as my pee and em, and there he was like trying to put a son’s protecting rooker round my crying mum, O my brothers.

“So,” I said, and I near felt like collapsing in all tears myself. “So that’s it, then. Well, I give you five large minootas to clear all your horrible cally veshches out of my room.” And I made for this room, this veck being a malenky bit too slow to stop me. When I opened the door my heart cracked to the carpet, because I viddied it was no longer like my room at all, brothers. All my flags had gone off the walls and this veck had put up pictures of boxers, also like a team sitting smug with folded rookers and silver like shield in front. And then I viddied what else was missing. My stereo and my disc-cupboard were no longer there, nor was my locked treasure-chest that contained bottles and drugs and two shining clean syringes.

“There’s been some filthy vonny work going on here,” I creeched. “What have you done with my own personal veshches, you horrible bastard?” This was to this Joe, but it was my dad that answered, saying:

“That was all took away, son, by the police. This new regulation, see, about compensation for the victims.”

I found it very hard not to be very ill, but my gulliver was aching shocking and my rot was so dry that I had to take a skorry swig from the milk-bottle on the table, so that this Joe said: “Filthy piggish manners.” I said:

“But she died. That one died.”

“It was the cats, son,” said my dad like sorrowful, “that were left with nobody to look after them till the will was read, so they had to have somebody in to feed them. So the police sold your things, clothes and all, to help with the looking after of them. That’s the law, son. But you were never much of a one for following the law.”

I had to sit down then, and this Joe said: “Ask permission before you sit, you mannerless young swine,” so I cracked back skorry with a “Shut your dirty big fat hole, you,” feeling sick. Then I tried to be all reasonable and smiling for my health’s sake like, so I said: “Well, that’s my room, there’s no denying that. This is my home also. What suggestions have you, my pee and em, to make?” But they just looked very glum, my mum shaking a bit, her litso all lines and wet with like tears, and then my dad said:

“All this needs thinking about, son. We can’t very well just kick Joe out, not just like that, can we? I mean, Joe’s here doing a job, a contract it is, two years, and we made like an arrangement, didn’t we, Joe? I mean son, thinking you were going to stay in prison a long time and that room going begging.” He was a bit ashamed, you could viddy that from his litso. So I just smiled and like nodded, saying:

“I viddy all. You got used to a bit of peace and you got used to a bit of extra pretty polly. That’s the way it goes. And your son has just been nothing but a terrible nuisance.” And then, my brothers, believe me or kiss my sharries, I started to like cry, feeling very like sorry for myself. So my dad said:

“Well, you see, son, Joe’s paid next month’s rent already. I mean, whatever we do in the future we can’t say to Joe to get out, can we, Joe?” This Joe said:

“It’s you two I’ve got to think of, who’ve been like a father and mother to me. Would it be right or fair to go off and leave you to the tender mercies of this young monster who has been like no real son at all? He’s weeping now, but that’s his craft and artfulness. Let him go off and find a room somewhere. Let him learn the error of his ways and that a bad boy like he’s been doesn’t deserve such a good mum and dad as what he’s had.”

“All right,” I said, standing up in all like tears still. “I know how things are now. Nobody wants or loves me. I’ve suffered and suffered and suffered and everybody wants me to go on suffering. I know.”

“You’ve made others suffer,” said this Joe. “It’s only right you should suffer proper. I’ve been told everything that you’ve done, sitting here at night round the family table, and pretty shocking it was to listen to. Made me real sick a lot of it did.”

“I wish,” I said, “I was back in the prison. Dear old Staja as it was. I’m ittying off now,” I said. “You won’t ever viddy me no more. I’ll make my own way, thank you very much. Let it lie heavy on your consciences.” My dad said:

“Don’t take it like that, son,” and my mum just went boo hoo hoo, her litso all screwed up real ugly, and this Joe put his rooker round her again, patting her and going there there there like bezoomny. And so I just sort of staggered to the door and went out, leaving them to their horrible guilt, O my brothers.

2

Ittying down the street in a like aimless sort of a way brothers, in these night platties which lewdies like stared at as I went by, cold too, it being a bastard cold winter day, all I felt I wanted was to be away from all this and not have to think any more about any sort of veshch at all. So I got the autobus to Center, then walked back to Taylor Place, and there was the disc-bootick ‘MELODIA’—I had used to favour with my inestimable custom, O my brothers, and it looked much the same sort of mesto as it always had, and walking in I expected to viddy old Andy there, that bald and very very thin helpful little veck from whom I had kupetted discs in the old days. But there was no Andy there now, brothers, only a scream and a creech of nadsat (teenage, that is) malchicks and ptitsas slooshying some new horrible popsong and dancing to it as well, and the veck behind the counter not much more than a nadsat himself, clicking his rooker-bones and smecking like bezoomny. So I went up and waited till he like deigned to notice me, then I said:

“I’d like to hear a disc of the Mozart Number Forty.” I don’t know why that should have come into my gulliver, but it did.

The counter-veck said:

“Forty what, friend?”

I said: “Symphony. Symphony Number Forty in G Minor.”

“Ooooh,” went one of the dancing nadsats, a malchick with his hair all over his glazzies, “seemfunnah. Don’t it seem funny? He wants a seemfunnah.”

I could feel myself growing all razdraz within, but I had to watch that, so I like smiled at the veck who had taken over Andy/s place and at all the dancing and creeching nadsats. This counter-veck said: “You go into that listen-booth over there, friend, and I’ll pipe something through.”

So I went over to the malenky box where you could slooshy the discs you wanted to buy, and then this veck put a disc on for me, but it wasn’t the Mozart Forty, it was the Mozart ‘Prague’—he seemingly having just picked up any Mozart he could find on the shelf—and that should have started making me real razdraz and I had to watch that for fear of the pain and sickness, but what I’d forgotten was something I shouldn’t have forgotten and now made me want to snuff it. It was that these doctor bratchnies had so fixed things that any music that was like for the emotions would make me sick just like viddying or wanting to do violence. It was because all those violence films had music with them. And I remembered especially that horrible Nazi film with the Beethoven Fifth, last movement. And now here was lovely Mozart made horrible. I dashed out of the shop with these nadsats smecking after me and the counter-veck creeching: “Eh eh eh!” But I took no notice and went staggering almost like blind across the road and round the corner to the Korova Milkbar. I knew what I wanted.