At the Ryans’ house, Isabel was asleep on the sofa. Her book lay face-down on the carpet; not the book she was reading, but the book she was writing, her loose-leaf collection of scruffy typed sheets. Jim didn’t believe in her book. He didn’t believe that she would ever finish it, or that anyone would care to publish it if she did. But she was determined, in her drunken way. She was guilty, and she must have something to be guilty of; she must be properly accused. Her body heaved in sleep, her skin grew damp, her face emptied of pleasure or hope. Her many pulses beat.
Mr. Kowalski fell back against the door frame, gagging in panic. The fire iron trembled, clutched against his chest. Ole King Cole, Muriel sang on the street. She could feel the faculties clattering inside her skull, the lines clashing and meshing like railway sidings; she could feel the words twisting together, the separate letters intertwining, the bs with the ps with the ks, all lashing and plaiting their tails. CALCULATION was twisting in her cranium, HUMAN NATURE battered at the bone, at the fissures and the sagittal suture, at the tentorium, at the parietal arch. Ole King Cole, with his frantic black soul; and he called for his fiddlers, ME.
New Year.
Miss Anaemia went down to see the DHSS. “I’m pregnant,” she said. “Rehouse me.”
“We would require confirmation of that.”
“I’ll confirm it. I’m telling you, aren’t I?”
“Medical confirmation.”
“Oh, I see. What if I had an elderly dependant?”
“Are you saying you have an elderly dependant?”
“What if, I’m saying.”
“And you are pregnant as well?”
“Look, you had a tip-off, didn’t you? You came and looked at my sheets. You said I was going with a giant. If I’ve got a man I could be pregnant. What do you have a man for?”
The woman put her pencil down. “According to our Rotherham office, you turned up there to claim benefit, giving a false address and stating that your name was Lady Margaret Hall. You do realise that we could prosecute you for attempted fraud?”
“Supposing I brought you a baby?” Miss Anaemia said. “Would you pay out then?”
Muriel leaned over Mrs. Sidney. “Yellow ones?” she enquired. She shook the bottle and held it tantalisingly out of reach. Mrs. Sidney croaked faintly. Her features were drawn already, corpse-like. Muriel unscrewed the bottle and dropped the pills into her palm. “Open wide,” she said. Mrs. Sidney’s jaw quivered, and she parted her lips. Muriel fed her the pills one by one, slipping some in from the other bottles when she felt like it. It took a long time. She held Mrs. Sidney’s jaw shut to make sure she swallowed. She had seen it done at Fulmers Moor.
Sylvia was out at a meeting of the Canal Clean-up Cooperative. Florence was out at work. Lizzie Blank was in sole charge; that was how they trusted her. She left the old lady to it and went next door to clean the bathroom. She put her feet up for an hour in Sylvia’s living room and read magazines, and ate the caramel toffees she had brought with her. When she went next door to check on Mrs. Sidney the old lady was still breathing, so she pulled a pillow from beneath her head and held it over her face until she was confident that she had expired.
It did not escape her, going downstairs, that by disposing of Mrs. Sidney she might be helping the family rather than hindering them. The break-up of their family life, the increasing dereliction of the family home, was happening around her, but perhaps not at her behest; it was not she who had arranged for Jim Ryan to impregnate Suzanne. Life just arranges itself, usually for the worst, and chance is not blind at all; it has as many eyes as a fly on the wall.
Even if the death did not incommode them in the long term, she could not resist it. She wanted to see their faces. She needed to see how they displayed strong emotion, so that she could copy them, and have something to feed on.
She had reset her features, and was making herself a cup of coffee, when Suzanne came to join her. “Want one?” Lizzie said. “How are things?”
“I’m staying till it’s born,” Suzanne said. “When it’s born I’m getting out.”
“And will you be coming to my place?” Her tone was bright; but it worried her. She could see snags. If Suzanne came to stay at Mr. K.’s house, Poor Mrs. Wilmot would have to move out. She could not trust Crisp with her personal effects; he might sell them, and give the money to the poor. “Why not stay at home?” she said coaxingly. “Just for the first week or two. Give us all a chance to get to know the baby.”
“No, I’m going to Edwina’s. Or I might go to Sean’s. Or I might go back to Manchester to that squat I told you about, only they’ve had a lot of trouble with the police coming round and they might have to move out. I don’t know where I’ll be. Can I use your address?”
“All right.”
“Then if I’m moving around, I can use it for getting my giro. And I can give it to Jim, because there isn’t a phone at the squat, and when he wants to get in touch he can write to me there and you’ll save it for me, okay?” Her eyes flickered away. “He will want to get in touch, won’t he? Don’t you think so? He’ll want to see the baby, won’t he?”
“Oh yes,” Lizzie said. “He’ll take an interest. It’ll come out in the wash, you’ll see.”
“Okay, so you’ll save me any post that comes? I don’t trust Mum to pass my letters on.”
“Or I could mind the baby for you,” Lizzie said. “I could, you know. I wouldn’t mind, if you had business. Or if you wanted a night out. You’re bound to want a night out when you get over having it. You could get Jim to take you to a club.”
“I know you’d help me out,” Suzanne said emotionally. “That’s what I like about you, Lizzie, you’re a Real Person. You don’t fill people up with empty promises.” Sadly, Suzanne turned to leave the kitchen, her coffee mug in her hand. “I shouldn’t,” she said, “it gives me indigestion.” She was very big now. Soon she would lean backwards when she walked. She hadn’t a clue what would happen to her or the baby. Things are coming to a head, Muriel
