The Parasite Person Read Online Free PDF Page A

felt obscurely affronted by the fact that Beatrice wasn’t here to—well, not to greet him, that was ridiculous —but, well, to do, or be, something. To acknowledge his presence , even if only by refusing to speak to him. Something. It was his right, somehow.
    *
    Whistling to keep himself company, Martin set off up the stairs and entered the spare room, which for many months preceding his final departure had served him as bedroom as well as study. By his own request, most of his personal belongings had by now been stacked in this room ready for removal to Helen’s; and now, standing at the door and contemplating his massed goods and chattels, he found himself once again gripped by an inexplicable sense of outrage.
    Inexplicable, because he himself had ordained that this was where they were to be; had, indeed, transported several of the objects with his own hands from various parts of the house. Why, then, was the sight of them all here, all together, so infuriating?
    Collecting them together in one place had been a good idea. It had been his idea. How could he have guessed that his most treasured possessions—his books, his filing cabinet, his hi-fi equipment , even his brand-new dinner-jacket—would look, in the mass, like the remnants of a church jumble sale?
    Cardboard boxes bursting through their lids with bits and pieces: piles of shoes, piles of sweaters, of pyjamas, of underwear—could he really ever have been the owner of all these garments which Beatrice (at his behest) had sullenly unearthed from all the drawers and cupboards in the house?
    And his expensive, ultra-modern reading-lamp, too. He’d only bought it recently, and now here it was slumped drunkenly against some packing-cases, for all the world like a derelict on the Embankment . And his pictures likewise, his framed photographs of school and University cricket teams; there they all were, bundledtogether, with string round them. Even his new divan had been dismantled, the base upended against the wall, and the sprung mattress lashed around with rope into a great sullen roly-poly blocking out half the window.
    It was awful. It was monstrous. Martin stood there almost in a state of shock, as if he had come home and found the place vandalised. And the fact that it had all come about in accordance with his own instructions alleviated the horror of it not one whit.
    “Beatrice!” he nearly screamed again, because somebody must bloody do something : but of course it was useless. Bloody Beatrice wasn’t bloody here.
    *
    Past seven o’clock. Helen would have been expecting him for quite a while now, and he was anxious, if possible, not to have to mention to her this visit home—to 16, Hadley Gardens, that is. Not that she would be anything other than sweet and understanding about it, but all the same …
    The shirts must be somewhere. Beatrice wouldn’t have washed them herself, of course, she’d have sent them to the laundry, and so what he must look for was a slithery blue plastic parcel with Sunfresh Laundry printed on it, and a bill for God-knew- how-much pinned on. Irritably, he began picking around among the clutter, shoving piles of clothing this way and that.
    *
    A door slammed downstairs. The front door it was, propelling a blast of cold air right through the house, and reverberating like a shot from a cannon. For a moment, Martin crouched immobile, like a criminal caught red-handed. Then, cautiously, he straightened up and tiptoed to the door. If it was Beatrice—and of course it was Beatrice, who else could it be?—then it was better that he should give her a shock by creeping downstairs than that she should give him one by creeping up. This would establish the correct order of precedence in the ensuing quarrel.
    Well, of course there would be a quarrel. There always was. Trust Beatrice to think up something.
    And now there came another sound. A laugh this time, a woman’s laugh, loud and slightly mocking; and then, echoing