Free Pincher Martin by William Golding

interested in heaven either. Let me get you a drink.”
    “No, thanks.”
    Nathaniel uncoiled from the chair and stood with his arms out on either side, hands bent up. He looked, first at nothing, then round the room. He went to the wall and perched himself absurdly high up with his bony rump on the top of a shelf. He pushed his incredible legs out and splayed them apart till he was held insecurely by the friction of the soles of his feet. He looked up at the reference book again.
    “You could call it a talk on the technique of dying.”
    “You’ll die a long time before me. It’s a cold night—and look how you’re dressed!”
    Nathaniel peered at the laughing window then down at himself.
    “Is it? Yes. I suppose I am.”
    “And I’m going to have a damned long life and get what I’m after.”
    “And that is——?”
    “Various things.”
    “But you’re not happy.”
    “Why do you spill this over me, of all people?”
    “There’s a connection between us. Something will happen to us or perhaps we were meant to work together. You have an extraordinary capacity to endure.”
    “To what end?”
    “To achieve heaven.”
    “Negation?”
    “The technique of dying into heaven.”
    “No thanks. Be your age, Nat.”
    “You could, you know. And I——”
    Nat’s face was undergoing a change. It turned towards him again. The flush on the cheeks was painful. The eyes loomed and impended.
    “—And I, have a feeling. Don’t laugh, please—but I feel—you could say that I know.” Below the eyes the breath came out in a little gasp. Feet scraped.
    “—You could say that I know it is important for you personally to understand about heaven—about dying—because in only a few years——”
    For a while there was silence, a double shock—for the bells ceased to toll beyond the windows of the room as though they had stopped with the voice. A vicious sting from his cigarette whipped along the arm into the globe so that he flicked it away and cried out. Then he was flat on the floor, fumbling for the stub under the armchair and the undulations of the floor were a discomfort to the body. Lying there, the words pursued him, made his ears buzz, set up a tumult, pushed his heart to thump with sudden, appalled understanding as though it were gasping the words that Nathaniel had not spoken.
    “—because in only a few years you will be dead.”
    He cried out against the unspoken words in fury and panic.
    “You bloody fool, Nat! You awful bloody fool!”
    The words echoed in the trench and he jerked his cheek up off the oilskin. There was much light outside, sunlight and the crying of gulls.
    He shouted.
    “I’m damned if I’ll die!”
    He hauled himself quickly out of the crevice and stood in the trench. The sea and sky were dark blue and the sun was high enough not to make a dazzle from the water. He felt the sun on his face and rubbed with both hands at the bristles. He looked quickly round the horizon then climbed down to a trench. He began to fumble with his trousers, glancing furtively behind him. Then for the first time on the rock he broke up the bristly, external face with a shout of jeering laughter. He went back to the dwarf and made water in a hosing gesture at the horizon.
    “Gentlemen are requested to adjust their dress before leaving.”
    He began to fumble with the buttons of his oilskin and lugged it off fiercely. He picked and pulled at the tapes that held his lifebelt inside the duffle. He slipped both off and dumped them in a heavy heap and stood there looking down. He glanced at the two wavy lines of gold braid on either arm, the gilt buttons, the black doeskin of his jacket and trousers. He peeled himself, jacket, woollen sweater, black sweater, shirt, vest; pulled off his long stockings, his socks, his pants. He stood still and examined what he could see of his body.
    The feet had been so thoroughly sodden that they seemed to have lost their shape. One big toe was blue and black with bruise