a good job it was not a real pistol he was holding, Winston thought.
Mrs. Parsons" eyes flitted nervously from Winston to the children, and
back again. In the better light of the living-room he noticed with interest
that there actually was dust in the creases of her face.
'They do get so noisy,' she said. 'They're disappointed because they
couldn't go to see the hanging, that's what it is. I'm too busy to take
them. and Tom won't be back from work in time.'
'Why can't we go and see the hanging?' roared the boy in his huge
voice.
'Want to see the hanging! Want to see the hanging!' chanted the little
girl, still capering round.
Some Eurasian prisoners, guilty of war crimes, were to be hanged in
the Park that evening, Winston remembered. This happened about once a
month, and was a popular spectacle. Children always clamoured to be taken
to see it. He took his leave of Mrs. Parsons and made for the door. But he
had not gone six steps down the passage when something hit the back of his
neck an agonizingly painful blow. It was as though a red-hot wire had been
jabbed into him. He spun round just in time to see Mrs. Parsons dragging
her son back into the doorway while the boy pocketed a catapult.
'Goldstein!' bellowed the boy as the door closed on him. But what most
struck Winston was the look of helpless fright on the woman's greyish face.
Back in the flat he stepped quickly past the telescreen and sat down
at the table again, still rubbing his neck. The music from the telescreen
had stopped. Instead, a clipped military voice was reading out, with a sort
of brutal relish, a description of the armaments of the new Floating
Fortress which had just been anchored be