Cruelty

by Roald Dahl

  ‘That sounds very fair. Why don’t you come with me when I collect it?’

  Mrs Bixby was about to say yes to this, but caught herself just in time. She had no wish to be greeted like an old customer by the pawnbroker in her husband’s presence.

  ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘I don’t think I will. You see, it’ll be even more thrilling if I stay behind and wait. Oh, I do hope it isn’t going to be something that neither of us wants.’

  ‘You’ve got a point there,’ he said. ‘If I don’t think it’s worth fifty dollars, I won’t even take it.’

  ‘But you said it would be worth five hundred.’

  ‘I’m quite sure it will. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Oh, Cyril, I can hardly wait! Isn’t it exciting?’

  ‘It’s amusing,’ he said, slipping the ticket into his waistcoat pocket. ‘There’s no doubt about that.’

  Monday morning came at last, and after breakfast Mrs Bixby followed her husband to the door and helped him on with his coat.

  ‘Don’t work too hard, darling,’ she said.

  ‘No, all right.’

  ‘Home at six?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Are you going to have time to go to that pawnbroker?’ she asked.

  ‘My God, I forgot all about it. I’ll take a cab and go there now. It’s on my way.’

  ‘You haven’t lost the ticket, have you?’

  ‘I hope not,’ he said, feeling in his waistcoat pocket. ‘No, here it is.’

  ‘And you have enough money?’

  ‘Just about.’

  ‘Darling,’ she said, standing close to him and straightening his tie, which was perfectly straight. ‘If it happens to be something nice, something you think I might like, will you telephone me as soon as you get to the office?’

  ‘If you want me to, yes.’

  ‘You know, I’m sort of hoping it’ll be something for you, Cyril. I’d much rather it was for you than for me.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you, my dear. Now I must run.’

  About an hour later, when the telephone rang, Mrs Bixby was across the room so fast she had the receiver off the hook before the first ring had finished.

  ‘I got it!’ he said.

  ‘You did! Oh, Cyril, what was it? Was it something good?’

  ‘Good!’ he cried. ‘It’s fantastic! You wait till you get your eyes on this! You’ll swoon!’

  ‘Darling, what is it? Tell me quick!’

  ‘You’re a lucky girl, that’s what you are.’

  ‘It’s for me, then?’

  ‘Of course it’s for you. Though how in the world it ever got to be pawned for only fifty dollars I’ll be damned if I know. Someone’s crazy.’

  ‘Cyril! Stop keeping me in suspense! I can’t bear it!’

  ‘You’ll go mad when you see it.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Try to guess.’

  Mrs Bixby paused. Be careful, she told herself. Be very careful now.

  ‘A necklace,’ she said.

  ‘Wrong.’

  ‘A diamond ring.’

  ‘You’re not even warm. I’ll give you a hint. It’s something you can wear.’

  ‘Something I can wear? You mean like a hat?’

  ‘No, it’s not a hat,’ he said, laughing.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Cyril! Why don’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because I want it to be a surprise. I’ll bring it home with me this evening.’

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort!’ she cried. ‘I’m coming right down there to get it now!’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t do that.’

  ‘Don’t be so silly, darling. Why shouldn’t I come?’

  ‘Because I’m too busy. You’ll disorganize my whole morning schedule. I’m half an hour behind already.’

  ‘Then I’ll come in the lunch hour. All right?’

  ‘I’m not having a lunch hour. Oh well, come at one thirty then, while I’m having a sandwich. Good-bye.’

  At half past one precisely, Mrs Bixby arrived at Dr Bixby’s place of business and rang the bell. Her husband, in his white dentist’s coat, opened the door himself.

  ‘Oh, Cyril, I’m so excited!’

  ‘So you should be. You’re a lucky girl, did you know that?’ He led her down the passage and into the surgery.

  ‘Go and have your lunch, Miss Pulteney,’ he said to the assistant, who was busy putting instruments into the sterilizer. ‘You can finish that when you come back.’ He waited until the girl had gone, then he walked over to a closet that he used for hanging up his clothes and stood in front of it, pointing with his finger. ‘It’s in there,’ he said. ‘Now – shut your eyes.’

  Mrs Bixby did as she was told. Then she took a deep breath and held it, and in the silence that followed she could hear him opening the cupboard door and there was a soft swishing sound as he pulled out a garment from among the other things hanging there.

  ‘All right! You can look!’

  ‘I don’t dare to,’ she said, laughing.

  ‘Go on. Take a peek.’

  Coyly, beginning to giggle, she raised one eyelid a fraction of an inch, just enough to give her a dark blurry view of the man standing there in his white overalls holding something up in the air.

  ‘Mink!’ he cried. ‘Real mink!’

  At the sound of the magic word she opened her eyes quick, and at the same time she actually started forward in order to clasp the coat in her arms.

  But there was no coat. There was only a ridiculous little fur neckpiece dangling from her husband’s hand.

  ‘Feast your eyes on that!’ he said, waving it in front of her face.

  Mrs Bixby put a hand up to her mouth and started backing away. I’m going to scream, she told herself. I just know it. I’m going to scream.

  ‘What’s the matter, my dear? Don’t you like it?’ He stopped waving the fur and stood staring at her, waiting for her to say something.

  ‘Why yes,’ she stammered. ‘I … I … think it’s … it’s lovely … really lovely.’

  ‘Quite took your breath away for a moment there, didn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it did.’

  ‘Magnificent quality,’ he said. ‘Fine colour, too. You know something, my dear? I reckon a piece like this would cost you two or three hundred dollars at least if you had to buy it in a shop.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it.’

  There were two skins, two narrow mangy-looking skins with their heads still on them and glass beads in their eye sockets and little paws hanging down. One of them had the rear end of the other in its mouth, biting it.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Try it on.’ He leaned forward and draped the thing round her neck, then stepped back to admire. ‘It’s perfect. It really suits you. It isn’t everyone who has mink, my dear.’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘Better leave it behind when you go shopping or they’ll all think we’re millionaires and start charging us double.’

  ‘I’ll try to remember that, Cyril.’

  ‘I’m afraid you mustn’t expect anything else for Christmas. Fifty dollars was rather more than I was going to spend anyway.’

  He turned away and went over to the basin and began washing his hands. ‘Run along now, my dear, and buy yourself a nice lunch. I’d take you out myself but I’ve got old man Gorman in the waiting-room with a broken clasp on his denture.’

  Mrs Bixby moved towards the door.

  I’m going to kill that pawnbroker, she told herself. I’m going right back there to the shop this very minute and I’m going to throw this filthy neckpiece right in his face and if he refuses to give me back my coat I’m going to kill him.

  ‘Did I tell you I was going to be late home tonight?’ Cyril Bixby said, still washing his hands.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’ll probably be at least eight thirty the way things look at the moment. It may even be nine.’

  ‘Yes, all right. Good-bye.’ Mrs Bixby went out, slamming
the door behind her.

  At that precise moment, Miss Pulteney, the secretary-assistant, came sailing past her down the corridor on her way to lunch.

  ‘Isn’t it a gorgeous day?’ Miss Pulteney said as she went by, flashing a smile. There was a lilt in her walk, a little whiff of perfume attending her, and she looked like a queen, just exactly like a queen in the beautiful black mink coat that the Colonel had given to Mrs Bixby.

  The Swan

  First published in The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar (1977)

  Ernie had been given a .22 rifle for his birthday. His father, who was already slouching on the sofa watching the telly at nine thirty on this Saturday morning, said, ‘Let’s see what you can pot, boy. Make yourself useful. Bring us back a rabbit for supper.’

  ‘There’s rabbits in that big field the other side of the lake,’ Ernie said. ‘I seen ’em.’

  ‘Then go out and nab one,’ the father said, picking breakfast from between his front teeth with a split matchstick. ‘Go out and nab us a rabbit.’

  ‘I’ll get yer two,’ Ernie said.

  ‘And on the way back,’ the father said, ‘get me a quart bottle of brown ale.’

  ‘Gimme the money, then,’ Ernie said.

  The father, without taking his eyes from the TV screen, fished in his pocket for a pound note. ‘And don’t try pinchin’ the change like you did last time,’ he said. ‘You’ll get a thick ear if you do, birthday or no birthday.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Ernie said.

  ‘And if you want to practise and get your eye in with that gun,’ the father said, ‘birds is best. See ’ow many spadgers you can knock down, right?’

  ‘Right,’ Ernie said. ‘There’s spadgers all the way up the lane in the ’edges. Spadgers is easy.’

  ‘If you think spadgers is easy,’ the father said, ‘go get yourself a jenny wren. Jenny wrens is ’alf the size of spadgers and they never sit still for one second. Get yourself a jenny wren before you start shootin’ yer mouth off about ’ow clever you is.’

  ‘Now, Albert,’ his wife said, looking up from the sink. ‘That’s not nice, shootin’ little birds in the nestin’ season. I don’t mind rabbits, but little birds in the nestin’ season is another thing altogether.’

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ the father said. ‘Nobody’s askin’ your opinion. And listen to me, boy,’ he said to Ernie. ‘Don’t go waving that thing about in the street because you ain’t got no licence. Stick it down your trouser-leg till you’re out in the country, right?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Ernie said. He took the gun and the box of bullets and went out to see what he could kill. He was a big lout of a boy, fifteen years old this birthday. Like his truck-driver father, he had small slitty eyes set very close together near the top of the nose. His mouth was loose, the lips often wet. Brought up in a household where physical violence was an everyday occurrence, he was himself an extremely violent person. Most Saturday afternoons, he and a gang of friends travelled by train or bus to football matches, and if they didn’t manage to get into a bloody fight before they returned home, they considered it a wasted day. He took great pleasure in catching small boys after school and twisting their arms behind their backs. Then he would order them to say insulting and filthy things about their own parents.

  ‘Ow! Please don’t, Ernie! Please!’

  ‘Say it or I’ll twist your arm off!’

  They always said it. Then he would give the arm an extra twist and the victim would go off in tears.

  Ernie’s best friend was called Raymond. He lived four doors away, and he, too, was a big boy for his age. But while Ernie was heavy and loutish, Raymond was tall, slim and muscular.

  Outside Raymond’s house, Ernie put two fingers in his mouth and gave a long shrill whistle. Raymond came out. ‘Look what I got for me birthday,’ Ernie said, showing the gun.

  ‘Cripes!’ Raymond said. ‘We can have some fun with that!’

  ‘Come on, then,’ Ernie said. ‘We’re goin’ up to the big field the other side of the lake to get us a rabbit.’

  The two boys set off. This was a Saturday morning in May, and the countryside was beautiful around the small village where the boys lived. The chestnut trees were in full flower and the hawthorn was white along the hedges. To reach the big rabbit field, Ernie and Raymond had first to walk down a narrow hedgy lane for half a mile. Then they must cross the railway line, and go round the big lake where wild ducks and moorhens and coots and ring-ouzels lived. Beyond the lake, over the hill and down the other side, lay the rabbit field. This was all private land belonging to Mr Douglas Highton and the lake itself was a sanctuary for waterfowl.

  All the way up the lane, they took turns with the gun, potting at small birds in the hedges. Ernie got a bullfinch and a hedge-sparrow. Raymond got a second bullfinch, a whitethroat and a yellowhammer. As each bird was killed, they tied it by the legs to a line of string. Raymond never went anywhere without a big ball of string in his jacket pocket, and a knife. Now they had five little birds dangling on the line of string.

  ‘You know something,’ Raymond said. ‘We can eat these.’

  ‘Don’t talk so daft,’ Ernie said. ‘There’s not enough meat on one of those to feed a woodlouse.’

  ‘There is, too,’ Raymond said. ‘The Frenchies eat ’em and so do the Eyeties. Mr Sanders told us about it in class. He said the Frenchies and the Eyeties put up nets and catch ’em by the million and then they eat ’em.’

  ‘All right, then,’ Ernie said. ‘Let’s see ’ow many we can get. Then we’ll take ’em ’ome and put ’em in the rabbit stew.’

  As they progressed up the lane, they shot at every little bird they saw. By the time they got to the railway line, they had fourteen small birds dangling on the line of string.

  ‘Hey!’ whispered Ernie, pointing with a long arm. ‘Look over there!’

  There was a group of trees and bushes alongside the railway line, and beside one of the bushes stood a small boy. He was looking up into the branches of an old tree through a pair of binoculars.

  ‘You know who that is?’ Raymond whispered back. ‘It’s that little twerp Watson.’

  ‘You’re right!’ Ernie whispered. ‘It’s Watson, the scum of the earth!’

  Peter Watson was always the enemy. Ernie and Raymond detested him because he was nearly everything that they were not. He had a small frail body. His face was freckled and he wore spectacles with thick lenses. He was a brilliant pupil, already in the senior class at school although he was only thirteen. He loved music and played the piano well. He was no good at games. He was quiet and polite. His clothes, although patched and darned, were always clean. And his father did not drive a truck or work in a factory. He worked in the bank.

  ‘Let’s give the little perisher a fright,’ Ernie whispered.

  The two bigger boys crept up close to the small boy, who didn’t see them because he still had binoculars to his eyes.

  ‘ ’Ands up!’ shouted Ernie, pointing the gun.

  Peter Watson jumped. He lowered the binoculars and stared through his spectacles at the two intruders.

  ‘Go on!’ Ernie shouted. ‘Stick ’em up!’

  ‘I wouldn’t point that gun if I were you,’ Peter Watson said.

  ‘We’re givin’ the orders round ’ere!’ Ernie said.

  ‘So stick ’em up,’ Raymond said, ‘unless you want a slug in the guts!’

  Peter Watson stood quite still, holding the binoculars in front of him with both hands. He looked at Raymond. Then he looked at Ernie. He was not afraid, but he knew better than to play the fool with these two. He had suffered a good deal from their attentions over the years.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

  ‘I want you to stick ’em up!’ Ernie yelled at him. ‘Can’t you understand English?’

  Peter Watson didn’t move.

  ‘I’ll count to five,’ Ernie said. ‘And if they’re not up by then, you get it in the guts. One … Two … Three …’

&nbs
p; Peter Watson raised his arms slowly above his head. It was the only sensible thing to do. Raymond stepped forwards and snatched the binoculars from his hands. ‘What’s this?’ he snapped. ‘Who you spyin’ on?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Don’t lie, Watson. Them things is used for spyin’! I’ll bet you was spyin’ on us! That’s right, ain’t it? Confess it!’

  ‘I certainly wasn’t spying on you.’

  ‘Give ’im a clip over the ear,’ Ernie said. ‘Teach ’im not to lie to us.’

  ‘I’ll do that in a minute,’ Raymond said. ‘I’m just workin’ meself up.’

  Peter Watson considered the possibility of trying to escape. All he could do would be to turn and run, and that was pointless. They’d catch him in seconds. And if he shouted for help, there was no one to hear him. All he could do, therefore, was to keep calm and try to talk his way out of the situation.

  ‘Keep them ’ands up!’ Ernie barked, waving the barrel of the gun gently from side to side the way he had seen it done by gangsters on the telly. ‘Go on, laddie, reach!’

  Peter did as he was told.

  ‘So ’oo was you spyin’ on?’ Raymond asked. ‘Out with it!’

  ‘I was watching a green woodpecker,’ Peter said.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘A male green woodpecker. He was tapping the trunk of that old dead tree, searching for grubs.’

  ‘Where is ’ee?’ Ernie snapped, raising his gun. ‘I’ll ’ave ’im!’

  ‘No, you won’t,’ Peter said, looking at the string of tiny birds slung over Raymond’s shoulder. ‘He flew off the moment you shouted. Woodpeckers are extremely timid.’

  ‘What you watchin’ ’im for?’ Raymond asked suspiciously. ‘What’s the point? Don’t you ’ave nothin’ better to do?’

  ‘It’s fun watching birds,’ Peter said. ‘It’s a lot more fun than shooting them.’

  ‘Why, you cheeky little bleeder!’ Ernie cried. ‘So you don’t like us shootin’ birds, eh? Is that what you’re sayin’?’

  ‘I think it’s absolutely pointless.’

  ‘You don’t like anything we do, isn’t that right?’ Raymond said.