1984

           Therewasalittlepileofplasterlyingonthepavementaheadofhim,andinthemiddleofithecouldseeabrightredstreak. Whenhegotuptoithesawthatitwasahumanhandseveredatthewrist. Apartfromthebloodystump,thehandwassocompletelywhitenedastoresembleaplastercast. 

           Hekickedthethingintothegutter,andthen,toavoidthecrowd,turneddownaside-streettotheright. Withinthreeorfourminuteshewasoutoftheareawhichthebombhadaffected,andthesordidswarminglifeofthestreetswasgoingonasthoughnothinghadhappened. Itwasnearlytwentyhours,andthedrinking-shopswhichtheprolesfrequented(‘pubs’,theycalledthem)werechokedwithcustomers. Fromtheirgrimyswingdoors,endlesslyopeningandshutting,therecameforthasmellofurine,sawdust,andsourbeer. Inanangleformedbyaprojectinghouse-frontthreemenwerestandingveryclosetogether,themiddleoneofthemholdingafolded-upnewspaperwhichtheothertwowerestudyingoverhisshoulder. Evenbeforehewasnearenoughtomakeouttheexpressionontheirfaces,Winstoncouldseeabsorptionineverylineoftheirbodies. Itwasobviouslysomeseriouspieceofnewsthattheywerereading. Hewasafewpacesawayfromthemwhensuddenlythegroupbrokeupandtwoofthemenwereinviolentaltercation. Foramomenttheyseemedalmostonthepointofblows. 

           ‘Can’tyoubleedingwelllistentowhatIsay? Itellyounonumberendinginsevenain’twonforoverfourteenmonths!’ 

           ‘Yes,it’as,then!’ 

           ‘No,it’asnot! Back’omeIgotthe’olelotof’emforovertwoyearswrotedownonapieceofpaper. Itakes’emdownreg’larastheclock. An’Itellyou,nonumberendinginseven——’