the short journey from front door to car into a ghostly gauntlet run, he hadn’t been tempted to hang about.
“All right, which of you two still has something resembling muscle under the flab?”
“Al had a trial for the Bulls,” said Jennison.
“That right, Alan? Let’s see you in action then.”
The constable hit the woodwork four or five times with the ram with no visible effect except on himself.
“They knew how to make doors in them days,” he gasped.
“They knew how to make policemen too,” growled Bonnick. “Give it here.”
He swung it twice. There was a loud splintering. He gave Maycock a told-you-so look.
“Yeah, but I weakened it,” protested the constable.
“Let’s see what’s inside, shall we?” said Bonnick.
He raised his right foot and drove it against the door. It flew open. Light from the landing spilled into the room.
“Oh Jesus,” said Bonnick.
But Jennison, whose fear of the supernatural was compensated for by a very relaxed attitude to real-life horror, exclaimed, “Ee bah gum, he’s made a reet mess of himself, hasn’t he, Sarge!”
The company of her stepdaughter was always a delight to Kay Kafka. They shared an affection which went all the deeper because it involved neither the constraints of blood nor the coincidence of taste and opinion. Indeed, during these regular Wednesday evening encounters, they rarely strayed nearer the harsh realities of existence than a discussion of films and fashions and local gossip, but what might (in Kay’s case at least) have been tedious in the company of another was here rendered delightful by the certainty of love.
In recent months, however, the approach of harsh reality in the form of the soon-to-be-born children had provided another topic, which could have kept them going for the whole visit if they’d let it. Even here, there wasn’t much harshness in evidence. It had been so far a comparatively easy pregnancy, and, bulk apart, Helen seemed to be enjoying her role as serenely glowing mother-in-waiting. So they would move easily over the wide range of pleasurable preparations for the great day-baby clothes, pushchairs, nursery decoration and, of course, names. Here Helen was adamant. Superstitiously she’d refused all offers to identify the gender of the twins, but if one were a girl, she was going to be called Kay.
“And I don’t care what you say,” she went on, “they’re both going to call you grandma.”
Which had brought Kay as close to tears as she’d been for a long while. She’d told the children to call her Kay when she married their father. The two elder ones did their best to avoid calling her anything polite, but Helen was young enough to want, eventually, to call her mum. Realizing the problem this would give the girl with her brother and sister, Kay had resisted.
“I want to be her friend,” she explained to her husband. “The lady’s not for mummification.”
But she never explained to him just how very hard it was for her to resist.
Grandma was different. She had no resistance to offer here. And even if she had, she doubted if it would have made a difference. Helen had powers of obduracy which could sometimes surprise. In this at least she resembled her dead father.
So she’d smiled and embraced the girl and said, “If that’s what you want, that’s what I’ll be. Thank you.”
It had been a good moment. One of many on these Wednesday evenings. But tonight seemed unlikely to contribute more. Somehow Jason’s phone call had disturbed the even flow, then the fog delayed the pizza delivery and when they finally turned up, they were what Kay called upper-class anglicized-pale, lukewarm and flaccid with not much on top. But the real downer was the fact that, as she entered the finishing straight of her pregnancy, it seemed finally to be dawning on Helen that the birth of the twins wasn’t just going to be a triumphal one-off champagne-popping occasion for celebration, it was going to change the whole of her life, for ever.
Kay tried to be light and reassuring but the young woman was not to be jollied.
“Now I know why you would never let me call you mum,” she said. “Because it would have made you my prisoner.”
“Jesus, Helen,” exclaimed Kay. “What a weird thing to say.”
“I come from a weird family,” said Helen. “You must have noticed. Talking of which, I wonder if Pal turned up.”
On cue the answer came with the sound of the front door opening. A moment later Jason looked into the room. In his mid-twenties, six foot plus, blond, beautifully muscled and with looks to swoon for, he could have modelled for Praxiteles. Or Leni Riefenstahl. If his genes and Helen’s melded right, these twins should be a new wonder of the world, thought Kay, smiling a welcome.
“Hi, Kay,” he said. “It’s all right, sweetie, I’m not going to disturb you. Any word from Pal?”
“No, nothing. He didn’t show at the club then?”
“No. What the hell’s he playing at? I hope nothing’s wrong.”
The phone rang.
He said, “I’ll get it,” and retreated to the hall, closing the door firmly behind him.
“Why’s he so worried?” said Helen irritably. “It’s not as if Pal was ever the most reliable of people.”
“Oh, I always found him pretty reliable,” said Kay sardonically.
She regretted it as soon as she said it. Family relationships were a no-go area, again one of her own choosing. Many times in the past it would have been easy to swing along with Helen as she took off in a cadenza of indignation at the attitude and behaviour of her siblings, but, as she’d explained to Tony, “In the end, they’re blood family, I’m not, and nothing’s going to change that.” To which he’d replied in his mafiosa voice, “Yeah, family matters. You may have to kill ’em, but you should always send a big wreath to the funeral. It’s the American way. That’s one of the things I miss, being so far from home.”
She sometimes thought Tony made a joke of things to hide the fact he really believed them.
Helen gave her a sharp look and said, “OK, I know he’s been an absolute bastard with you-me too-but things change and lately you’ve got to admit he’s been trying. These games of squash with Jase, a year ago that wouldn’t have been possible, but it’s a kind of rapprochement, isn’t it? You know Pal, he would never just come straight out and say, ‘Let’s forget everything and start over,’ he’d have to come at you sideways.”
Sideways. From above, beneath, behind. Oh yes, she knew Pal.
She smiled and said, “Yes, the games obviously mean a lot to Jason. And no one likes being stood up.”
Through the closed door they heard the young man’s voice rise. They couldn’t make out the words but his intonation had alarm in it.
He came back into the room.
“I’ve got to go out again,” he said.
He was making an effort to sound casual but his fresh open face gave the game away.
“Why? What’s happened?” demanded Helen.
“Nothing,” he said. Then, seeing this wasn’t a sufficient answer, he went on, “It was Sue-Lynn wanting to know if I’d heard anything yet. The police just rang her. They wanted to contact Pal as the keyholder of Moscow House. They wouldn’t give any details, but it’s probably just a break-in, or vandalism. You know what kids are like. I blame the teachers.”
His attempt at lightness fell flat as an English comic telling a kilt joke at the Glasgow Empire.
“So where are you going?” asked Helen.
“Sue-Lynn said she’s going down to Moscow House. I thought maybe I should go too. She sounded upset.”
“Since when did you give a damn how Sue-Lynn sounded?” demanded his wife.
Kay said, “No, you’re quite right, Jase. It’s probably nothing, but just in case… Hang on, I’ll come with you.”
She stood up. Helen rose too, rather more slowly.
“All right, we’ll all go,” she said.
“Helen, love, don’t be silly,” protested Jason. “In your condition …”
“I’m pregnant,” she snapped, “not a bloody invalid. And Pal’s my brother.”
