The Brothel Creeper: Stories of Sexual and Spiritual Tension by Rhys Hughes

the background the murmurings of other old men were punctuated by the slamming of doors. He rambled on, choking back tears, articulating his words as if suffering from toothache, and finally announced that as a last measure he was outlawing all gatherings in public consisting of more than one individual. I shook my head at this and turned to Moona with a remark that the oppression had reached its absolute limit. It was almost a relief.
    Moona said nothing and returned to the bedroom. I did not follow her but slept in a chair. She must have left before dawn because when I roused myself at first light and went to check on her the bed was empty and cold. She did not return later in the day or in the night. I imagined she had been arrested. My apprehension was a combination of selfishness and confusion: I feared she would name me as an accomplice. I lived for a week wincing at every sound in the apartment, the gurgling of the pipes and creak of floorboards, expecting the notorious knock on the door, the rap of gloved knuckles.
    Only the hiss of the radio soothed me and I smoked the last of my cigarettes in front of the set. Slowly I began to hate Moona. I sank to new depths and understood that I had to reclaim my humanity before it was too late. I decided to search for her. This was my first step back into an authentic life, my only honourable act since Colonel Bones took power and infected society with his diseased values. I went out without my coat and called her name on every street corner. The sound of the rain was like radio static. I approached pedestrians to make enquiries, holding up her photograph and pleading for help in finding her, but they fled before I could reach them, scared of forming a crowd.
    And yet the police were nowhere to be seen. The whirling of truncheons and shouts of “Break it up!” were absent. But the fear and mistrust still lingered.
    I went home and retreated into myself. The supply of food in the house was running low but I adopted an extremely frugal lifestyle, refusing to venture out to any of the state run shops. I even locked the doors leading onto the balcony and drew the curtains. I wept and I hope my tears were for Moona as well as myself. Alternating between self congratulation and self loathing I lost track of time and spent most of my days and nights in uneasy slumber on the crumpled bed, listening to the muffled sounds which reached me through the walls. It was impossible to work out what was happening outside. It was easier to allow my dreams to handle that task and to dismiss the more unpleasant possibilities as simply the products of subconscious fantasy. I was hiding from everything.
    One morning the radio exploded into activity and I jumped from the bed with such force that all my muscles burned with real pain. I had forgotten the set was still on. I wondered if the humidity of the sealed apartment had altered its circuits in some manner, adjusting the capacitors until the tuning slipped to the frequency of a foreign station. But this was not the case. The official news channel was playing music. I crouched before the set and touched it, more bewildered than delighted.
    Outside the voices of a multitude rose on the late summer air. I peeped through a gap in the curtains and beheld a procession of citizens singing and waving banners. Each banner depicted a single symbol: a blue world surrounded by a sunburst. Moona and her colleagues had staged a successful coup. For an instant I felt an urge to join them but for some reason I pulled back. I remained a recluse in my apartment, too damaged on some level to welcome this new age, trembling at the sound of fireworks and carnival drums, envious and resentful of the universal joy and freedom.
    Despite my seclusion I could not avoid understanding the nature of the changes in society. The cult of separation and individuality had been replaced by one of sharing and mingling. All people were now brothers and sisters. Closer than that in