John Wyndham - The Day of the Triffids

“Very well. That’s the answer. Eat it up now, and we’ll go and find something more substantial.”

She still held the orange in her hand, head bent down as though she were looking at it.

“All the same, it don’t seem right,” she said again, but there was less conviction in her tone.

Presently she put the child down and began to peel the orange…

Piccadilly Circus was the most populous place I had found so far. It seemed crowded after the rest, though there were probably less than a hundred people there, all told. Mostly they were wearing queer, ill-assorted clothes and were prowling restlessly around as though still semi dazed. Occasionally a mishap would bring an outburst of profanity and futile rage—rather alarming to hear, because it was itself the product of fright, and childish in temper. But with one exception there was little talk and little noise. It seemed as though their blindness had shut people into themselves.

The exception had found himself a position out on one of the traffic islands. He was a tall, elderly, gaunt man with a bush of wiry gray hair, and he was holding forth emphatically about repentance, the wrath to come, and the uncomfortable prospects for sinners. Nobody was paying him any attention; for most of them the day of wrath had already arrived.

Then, from a distance, came a sound which caught every-ones attention: a gradually swelling chorus:

Dreary and untuneful, it slurred through the empty streets, echoing dismally back and forth. Every head in the Circus was turning now left, now right, trying to place its direction. The prophet of doom raised his voice against the competition. The song wailed discordantly closer:

and as an accompaniment to it there was the shuffle of feet more or less in step.

From where I stood I could see them come in single file out of a side street into Shaftesbury Avenue and turn toward the Circus. The second man had his hands on the shoulders of the leader, the third on his, and so on, to the number of twenty-five or thirty. At the conclusion of that song somebody started “Beer, Beer, Glorious Beer!” pitching it in such a high key that it petered out in confusion.

They trudged steadily on until they reached the center of the Circus, then the leader raised his voice, It was a considerable voice, with parade-ground quality:

“Companee-ee-ee—HALT!”

Everybody else in the Circus was now struck motionless, all with their faces turned toward him, nil trying to guess what was afoot. The leader raised his voice again, mimicking the manner of a professional guide:

“‘Ere we are, gents one an’ all. Piccabloodydilly Circus. The Center of the World. The ‘Ub of the Universe. Where all the nobs had their wine, women, and song.”

He was not blind, far from it. His eyes were ranging round, taking stock as he spoke, His sight must have been saved by some such accident as mine, but he was pretty drunk, and so were the men behind him.

“An’ we’ll ‘ave it too,” he added. “Next stop, the well-known Caffy Royal—an’ all drinks on the house,”

“Yus—but what abaht the women?” asked a voice, and there was a laugh.

“Oh, women. ‘S’ that what you want?” said the leader.

He stepped forward and caught a girl by the arm. She screamed as he dragged her toward the man who had spoken, but he took no notice of that.

“There y’are, chum. An’ don’t say I don’t treat you right. It’s a peach, a smasher—if that makes any difference to you.”

“Hey, what about mc?” said the next man.

“You, mate? Well, let’s see. Like ‘em blond or dark?”

Considered later, I suppose I behaved like a fool. My head was still full of standards and conventions that had ceased to apply. It did not occur to me that if there was to be any survival, anyone adopted by this gang would stand a far better chance than she would on her own. Fired with a mixture of schoolboy heroics and noble sentiments, I waded in. He didn’t see me coming until I was quite close, and then I slogged for his jaw. Unfortunately he was a little quicker.

When I next took an interest in things I found myself lying in the road. The sound of the gang was diminishing into the distance, and the prophet of doom, restored to eloquence, was sending threatful bolts of damnation, hell-fire, and a brimstone gehenna hurtling after them.

With a bit of sense knocked into me, I became thankful that the affair had not fallen out worse. Had the result been reversed, I could scarcely have escaped making myself responsible for the men he had been leading. After all, and whatever one might feel about his methods, he was the eyes of that party, and they’d be looking to him for food as well as for drink. And the women would go along too, on their own account as soon as they got hungry enough. And now I came to look around me, I felt doubtful whether any of the women hereabouts would seriously mind anyway. What with one thing and another, it looked as if I might have had a lucky escape from promotion to gang leadership.

Remembering that they had been headed for the Café Royal, I decided to revive myself and clear my head at the Regent Palace Hotel. Others appeared to have thought of that before me, but there were quite a lot of bottles they had not found.

I think it was while I was sitting there comfortably with a brandy in front of me and a cigarette in my hand that I at last began to admit that what I had seen was all real—and decisive. There would be no going back—ever. It was finish to all I had known…

Perhaps it had needed that blow to drive it home. Now I came face to face with the fact that my existence simply had no focus any longer. My way of life, my plans, ambitions, every expectation I had had, they were all wiped out at a stroke, along with the conditions that had formed them. I suppose that had I had any relatives or close attachments to mourn I should have felt suicidally derelict at that moment but what had seemed at times a rather empty existence turned out now to be lucky. My mother and father were dead, my one attempt to marry had miscarried some years before, and there was no particular person dependent on me. And, curiously, what I found that I did feel—with a consciousness that it was against what I ought to be feeling—was release…

It wasn’t just the brandy, for it persisted. I think it may have come from the sense of facing something quite fresh and new to me. All the old problems, the stale ones, both personal and general, had been solved by one mighty slash. Heaven alone knew as yet what others might arise—and it looked as though there would be plenty of them—but they would be new. I was emerging as my own master, and no longer a cog. It might well be a world full of horrors and dangers that I should have to face, but I could take my own steps to deal with it—I would no longer be shoved hither and thither by forces and interests that I neither understood nor cared about.

No, it wasn’t altogether the brandy, for even now, years afterward, I can still feel something of it—though possibly the brandy did oversimplify things a little just then.

Then there was, too, the little question of what to do next: how and where to start on this new life. But I did not let that worry me a lot for the present. I drank up and went out of the hotel to see what this strange world had to offer.

In order to give a reasonable berth to the Caf6 Royal mob I struck up a side street into Soho, intending to cut back to Regent street higher up.