(Plot and Structure)
The Destructors
Graham Greene
1
It was the eve of August Bank Holiday that the latest recruit became the leader of the
Wormsley Common Gang. No one was surprised except Mike, but Mike at the age of nine
was surprised by everything. “If you don’t shut your mouth,” somebody once said to him,
“you’ll get a frog down it.” After that Mike had kept his teeth tightly clamped except when
the surprise was too great.
The new recruit had been with the gang since the beginning of the summer holidays, and
there were possibilities about his brooding silence that all recognized. He never wasted a
word even to tell his name until that was required of him by the rules. When he said
“Trevor” it was a statement of fact, not as it would have been with the others a statement of
shame or deiance. Nor did anyone laugh except Mike, who inding himself without support
and meeting the dark gaze of the newcomer opened his mouth and was quiet again. There
was every reason why T., as he was afterwards referred to, should have been an object of
mockery—there was his name (and they substituted the initial because otherwise they had
no excuse not to laugh at it), the fact that his father, a former architect and present clerk,
had “come down in the world” and that his mother considered herself better than the
neighbors. What but an odd quality of danger, of the unpredictable, established him in the
gang without any ignoble ceremony of initiation?
The gang met every morning in an impromptu car-park, the site of the last bomb of the
irst blitz. The leader, who was known as Blackie, claimed to have heard it fall, and no one
was precise enough in his dates to point out that he would have been one year old and fast
asleep on the down platform of Wormsley Common Underground Station. On one side of
the car-park leant the irst occupied house, No. 3, of the shattered Northwood Terrace—
literally leant, for it had suffered from the blast of the bomb and the side walls were
supported on wooden struts. A smaller bomb and some incendiaries had fallen beyond, so
that the house stuck up like a jagged tooth and carried on the further wall relics of its
neighbor, a dado, the remains of a ireplace. T., whose words were almost conined to
voting “Yes” or “No” to the plan of operations proposed each day by Blackie, once startled
the whole gang by saying broodingly, “Wren built that house, father says.”
“Who’s Wren?”
5 “The man who built St. Paul’s.”
“Who cares?” Blackie said. “It’s only Old Misery’s.”
Old Misery whose real name was Thomas had once been a builder and decorator. He — —
lived alone in the crippled house, doing for himself: once a week you could see him coming
back across the common with bread and vegetables, and once as the boys played in the car-
park he put his head over the smashed wall of his garden and looked at them.
“Been to the lav,” one of the boys said, for it was common knowledge that since the
bombs fell something had gone wrong with the pipes of the house and Old Misery was too
mean to spend money on the property. He could do the redecorating himself at cost price,
but he had never learnt plumbing. The lav was a wooden shed at the bottom of the narrow
garden with a star-shaped hole in the door: it had escaped the blast which had smashed the
