she?”
“Related to this Blank, no doubt,” Mr. Kowalski said with a sneer. “Related to Snoopers, related to the giant who brought the bread that day. A woman phones up constantly, asking for Blank. I try everything, sing down the receiver, rude noises.”
“Have you tried leaving it off the hook?”
“But my precious, how shall I follow their tricks? No, we must face it, Anaemia, our number is up. This woman who accosts you, she is the one who looks—so—with the staring eyes, the ghoul?”
“That’s her. The pale one.”
Mr. K. shuddered. “Have you seen Wilmot?” he asked.
“Not come out this morning.”
“She must be given her orders. It is a siege. Please to stay on the upper storey till further notice.”
“You won’t catch me going out there again. That woman’s bonkers. They can insult you, but they’re not allowed to pinch your arm. It’s mistaken identity. I’ll sue them.” She hurried off, rubbing her sore arm. “There’s tribunals.”
Left to himself, Mr. Kowalski lumbered into the hall and drew the big bolts on the front door. He went back to the kitchen and locked himself in. Five minutes later Lizzie Blank came downstairs, carrying her boots. For once, she wasn’t bothered about giving him any frights. He was getting a bit unpredictable, she sensed. By leaning hard on the inside of the door, you could get sufficient play to draw back the bolts without making a noise. This she did; and, in her finery, stepped into the street.
Mr. K. tipped half a scuttle of coal into the range. He might as well be comfortable now. I could have a hearty breakfast, he reflected; except that he had neglected to procure the essentials for one. But truly, he had no stomach for it. He was sick when he thought of dying; sick and cold. But I will defend it to the last, he thought: hearth and home.
From between the worn cushions of his fireside chair he extracted his book of idioms. He picked up his pen, and was overwhelmed by a rush of feeling so violent that his hand shook and he was forced to put it down again and recover himself. All the horrors of the last months flooded back; the voices of strange women, the heavy footsteps overhead. The beating in the street, the blonde impostor on his own stairs; the giant, limping off round the corner. Presently he calmed himself; but his hand still shook when he picked up his pen and wrote: Curtains, Swansong, Terminus: THE FINAL CHAPTER.
CHAPTER 9
It was a wild blustery day; tossing grey clouds, rain on the wind, outbreaks of sunshine. Muriel would have put her umbrella up, but she couldn’t juggle both together; the umbrella and the cardboard box.
The baby, Gemma, had been sleeping when she arrived at Edwina’s flat. She had left the empty box at the bottom of the stairs, gone up and rang the doorbell. There was no sign of the flat’s owner, but Suzanne was waiting for her, in her boots and big sweater, ready to go.
“There you are, Lizzie, hello. She’s asleep.”
“That’s good. And how are you, ducks?”
“Oh, I’m all right,” Suzanne said, with a little laugh. She had been heavily pregnant when they had last seen each other; now she looked paler, hollow-eyed, inwardly collapsed. The flat—two rooms really—was dirty and neglected, a near-slum. There was a scrap of fraying carpet, then bare boards; windows were cracked and crisscrossed with tape. There were mattresses strewn over the floor. Somewhere a tap was dripping, tip-tap, tip- tap. Suzanne’s possessions were in a heap inside the front door; a backpack, a sleeping bag, and a box of baby things. Her face had a bruised look, as if she hadn’t slept.
“Heard from Jim?”
Suzanne shook her head. She brushed her hair out of her eyes. “Here are her things,” she said, handing over a plastic carrier bag. “Her bottle and everything, disposable nappies, put cream on her when you change her, she’s getting a rash. She can have a feed when she wakes up.”
“How do you know?” Muriel said suddenly. “How do you know how to look after them?”
“It’s only common sense. It’s not the mystery that people make of it.”
“It’s cold here.”
“The squat should be warmer. I hope it’s all right. I’m taking most of my stuff over on the off chance. I’ll pick her up about six o’clock, will that be okay?”
“I’ll fetch her back.”
“Oh, would you? Course, you could stay here with her”—she looked around doubtfully—“but it’s a bit depressing.”
“Better off at my place,” Muriel said. “Be an outing for her, won’t it?”
“I don’t think she’s old enough to appreciate an outing.”
“She’ll get the air, though. Where is she?”
Suzanne went into the other room and came back with a quilted bundle. She kissed the baby’s fluffy head, and pulled up her hood around her face. “There, she’ll be nice and warm,” she said. “Can you manage? She’s heavier than you think. Hold on, and I’ll put her cot blanket round her. There. Okay?”
“Okay. Good luck then.”
“Thanks, Lizzie. I’ll pay you tonight. See you.”
She followed them out onto the stairs. A keen draught whistled under the closed doors of the landing. Suzanne crossed her arms over her chest. She looked anxious.
