Stanley Kubrick's A clockwork orange: based on the novel by Anthony Burgess (3 page)

pavement and then I treated them to the old boot-crush,

though they were hard bastards like, being made of some new

horrorshow plastic stuff.  The old veck began to make sort of

chumbling shooms - "wuf waf wof" - so Georgie let go of

holding his goobers apart and just let him have one in the

toothless rot with his ringy fist, and that made the old veck

start moaning a lot then, then out comes the blood, my

brothers, real beautiful.  So all we did then was to pull his

outer platties off, stripping him down to his vest and long

underpants (very starry; Dim smecked his head off near), and

then Pete kicks him lovely in his pot, and we let him go.  He

went sort of staggering off, it not having been too hard of a

tolchock really, going "Oh oh oh", not knowing where or

what was what really, and we had a snigger at him and then

riffled through his pockets, Dim dancing round with his

crappy umbrella meanwhile, but there wasn't much in them.

There were a few starry letters, some of them dating right

back to 1960 with "My dearest dearest" in them and all that

chepooka, and a keyring and a starry leaky pen.  Old Dim gave

up his umbrella dance and of course had to start reading one

of the letters out loud, like to show the empty street he could

read.  "My darling one," he recited, in this very high type

goloss, "I shall be thinking of you while you are away and

hope you will remember to wrap up warm when you go out

at night."  Then he let out a very shoomny smeck - "Ho ho ho"

- pretending to start wiping his yahma with it.  "All right," I

said.  "Let it go, O my brothers."  In the trousers of this starry

veck there was only a malenky bit of cutter (money, that is) -

not more than three gollies - so we gave all his messy little

coin the scatter treatment, it being hen-korm to the amount

of pretty polly we had on us already.  Then we smashed the

umbrella and razrezzed his platties and gave them to the

blowing winds, my brothers, and then we'd finished with the

starry teacher type veck.  We hadn't done much, I know, but

that was only like the start of the evening and I make no appy

polly loggies to thee or thine for that.  The knives in the milk

plus were stabbing away nice and horrorshow now.

The next thing was to do the sammy act, which was one

way to unload some of our cutter so we'd have more of an

incentive like for some shop-crasting, as well as it being a way

of buying an alibi in advance, so we went into the Duke of

New York on Amis Avenue and sure enough in the snug there

were three or four old baboochkas peeting their black and

suds on SA (State Aid).  Now we were the very good mal-

chicks, smiling good evensong to one and all, though these

wrinkled old lighters started to get all shook, their veiny old

rookers all trembling round their glasses, and making the suds

spill on the table.  "Leave us be, lads," said one of them, her

face all mappy with being a thousand years old, "we're only

poor old women."  But we just made with the zoobies, flash

flash flash, sat down, rang the bell, and waited for the boy to

come.  When he came, all nervous and rubbing his rookers on

his grazzy apron, we ordered us four veterans - a veteran

being rum and cherry brandy mixed, which was popular just

then, some liking a dash of lime in it, that being the Canadian

variation.  Then I said to the boy:

"Give these poor old baboochkas over there a nourishing

something.  Large Scotchmen all round and something to take

away."  And I poured my pocket of deng all over the table, and

the other three did likewise, O my brothers.  So double

firegolds were bought in for the scared starry lighters, and

they knew not what to do or say.  One of them got out

"Thanks, lads," but you could see they thought there was

something dirty like coming.  Anyway, they were each given a

bottle of Yank General, cognac that is, to take away, and I

gave money for them to be delivered each a dozen of black

and suds that following morning, they to leave their stinking

old cheenas' addresses at the counter.  Then with the cutter

that was left over we did purchase, my brothers, all the meat

pies, pretzels, cheese-snacks, crisps and chocbars in that

mesto, and those too were for the old sharps.  Then we said:

"Back in a minoota," and the old ptitsas were still saying:

"Thanks, lads," and "God bless you, boys," and we were going

out without one cent of cutter in our carmans.

"Makes you feel real dobby, that does," said Pete.  You could

viddy that poor old Dim the dim didn't quite pony all that,

but he said nothing for fear of being called gloopy and a

domeless wonderboy.  Well, we went off now round the

corner to Attlee Avenue, and there was this sweets and cancers

shop still open.  We'd left them alone near three months now

and the whole district had been very quiet on the whole, so

the armed millicents or rozz patrols weren't round there

much, being more north of the river these days.  We put our

maskies on - new jobs these were, real horrorshow, wonder-

fully done really; they were like faces of historical per-

sonalities (they gave you the names when you bought) and I

had Disraeli, Pete had Elvis Presley, Georgie had Henry VIII

and poor old Dim had a poet veck called Peebee Shelley; they

were a real like disguise, hair and all, and they were some very

special plastic veshch so you could roll it up when you'd done

with it and hide it in your boot - then three of us went in.

Pete keeping chasso without, not that there was anything to

worry about out there.  As soon as we launched on the shop

we went for Slouse who ran it, a big portwine jelly of a veck

who viddied at once what was coming and made straight for

the inside where the telephone was and perhaps his well-oiled

pooshka, complete with six dirty rounds.  Dim was round that

counter skorry as a bird, sending packets of snoutie flying and

cracking over a big cut-out showing a sharp with all her

zoobies going flash at the customers and her groodies near

hanging out to advertise some new brand of cancers.  What

you could viddy then was a sort of a big ball rolling into the

inside of the shop behind the curtain, this being old Dim and

Slouse sort of locked in a death struggle.  Then you could

slooshy panting and snoring and kicking behind the curtain

and veshches falling over and swearing and then glass going

smash smash smash.  Mother Slouse, the wife, was sort of

froze behind the counter.  We could tell she would creech

murder given one chance, so I was round that counter very

skorry and had a hold of her, and a horrorshow big lump she

was too, all nuking of scent and with flipflop big bobbing

groodies on her.  I'd got my rooker round her rot to stop her

belting out death and destruction to the four winds of

heaven, but this lady doggie gave me a large foul big bite on it

and it was me that did the creeching, and then she opened up

beautiful with a flip yell for the millicents.  Well, then she had

to be tolchocked proper with one of the weights for the

scales, and then a fair tap with a crowbar they had for opening

cases, and that brought the red out like an old friend.  So we

had her down on the floor and a rip of her platties for fun and

a gentle bit of the boot to stop her moaning.  And, viddying

her lying there with her groodies on show, I wondered should

I or not, but that was for later on in the evening.  Then we

cleaned the till, and there was flip horrorshow takings that

nochy, and we had a few packs of the very best top cancers

apiece, then off we went, my brothers.

"A real big heavy great bastard he was," Dim kept saying.  I

didn't like the look of Dim: he looked dirty and untidy, like a

veck who'd been in a fight, which he had been, of course, but

you should never look as though you have been.  His cravat

was like someone had trampled on it, his maskie had been

pulled off and he had floor-dirt on his litso, so we got him in

an alleyway and tidied him up a malenky bit, soaking our

tashtooks in spit to cheest the dirt off.  The things we did for

old Dim.  We were back in the Duke of New York very skorry

and I reckoned by my watch we hadn't been more than ten

minutes away.  The starry old baboochkas were still there on

the black and suds and Scotchmen we'd bought them, and we

said: "Hallo there, girlies, what's it going to be?"  They started

on the old "Very kind, lads, God bless you, boys," and so we

rang the collocol and brought a different waiter in this time

and we ordered beers with rum in, being sore athirst, my

brothers, and whatever the old ptitsas wanted.  Then I said to

the old baboochkas: "We haven't been out of here, have we?

Been here all the time, haven't we?"  They all caught on real

skorry and said:

"That's right, lads.  Not been out of our sight, you haven't.

God bless you, boys," drinking.

Not that it mattered much, really.  About half an hour went

by before there was any sign of life among the millicents, and

then it was only two very young rozzes that came in, very

pink under their big copper's shlemmies.  One said:

"You lot know anything about the happenings at Slouse's

shop this night?"

"Us?"  I said, innocent.  "Why, what happened?"

"Stealing and roughing.  Two hospitalizations.  Where've

you lot been this evening?"

"I don't go for that nasty tone," I said.  "I don't care much

for these nasty insinuations.  A very suspicious nature all this

betokeneth, my little brothers."

"They've been in here all night, lads," the old sharps started

to creech out.  "God bless them, there's no better lot of boys

living for kindness and generosity.  Been here all the time they

have.  Not seen them move we haven't."

"We're only asking," said the other young millicent.  "We've

got our job to do like anyone else."  But they gave us the nasty

warning look before they went out.  As they were going out

we handed them a bit of lip-music: brrrrzzzzrrrr.  But, myself, I

couldn't help a bit of disappointment at things as they were

those days.  Nothing to fight against really.  Everything as easy

as kiss-my-sharries.  Still, the night was still very young.

2

When we got outside of the Duke of New York we viddied by

the main bar's long lighted window, a burbling old pyahnitsa

or drunkie, howling away at the filthy songs of his fathers and

going blerp blerp in between as though it might be a filthy old

orchestra in his stinking rotten guts.  One veshch I could never

stand was that.  I could never stand to see a moodge all filthy

and rolling and burping and drunk, whatever his age might be,

but more especially when he was real starry like this one was.

He was sort of flattened to the wall and his platties were a