The Good Terrorist (11 page)

“We told you lot to clear out,” said this man, with the edge on his voice that the dustmen had, a hard contempt, but he was making a gesture to a couple of the men who were about to pull Pat aside and go into the sitting room. They desisted.

Alice held out the yellow paper, and said, “We are an agreed squat.”

“Not yet you aren’t,” said the sergeant, taking in the main point at once.

“No, but it’s only two days. I’ve done this before, you see,” she said reasonably. “It’s all right if you pay the bills and keep the place clean.”

“Clean,” said the sergeant, bending down over her, hands on hips like a stage sergeant, Mr. Plod the Policeman. “It’s disgusting.”

“You saw that rubbish outside,” said Alice. “The Council are taking that tomorrow. I organised it with them.”

“You did, did you? Then why were we having phone calls about you digging some pit in the garden and filling it with muck?”

“Muck is the word,” said Alice. “The Council workmen filled the lavatories with cement, so there were buckets upstairs. We had to get rid of them. We dug a pit.”

A pause. The big broad man stood there, leaning a little forward, allowing his broad red face to express measured incredulity.

“You dug a pit,” he said.

“Yes, we did.”

“In the middle of London. You dig a pit.”

“That’s right,” said Alice, polite.

“And having dug a pit, you fill it with …” He hesitated.

“Shit,” said Alice, calm.

The five other policemen laughed, sniggered, drew in their breath, according to their natures, but the young brute on whom Alice had been keeping half an eye suddenly kicked out at the door of the cupboard under the stairs, smashing it.

Philip let out an exclamation, and he was by him in a flash. “You said something?” he said, looming over Philip, who stood there in his little white overalls. A kick would smash him to pieces.

“Never mind,” said the sergeant authoritatively. He wanted to pursue the main crime. The vicious one fell back a step and stood with clenched hands, his eyes at work now on Pat, who stood relaxed, watching Alice. Alice, seeing his look, knew that if Pat were to meet that one in a demo, she could expect the worst. Again the little cold thrill of sensation.

“You—stand—there—and tell—me—that you dig a pit in a garden, and just make a cesspit, without a by-your-leave, without any authority!”

“But what else could we do,” said Alice in clear, reasonable tones. “We couldn’t put dozens of buckets of shit into the sewage system all at once. Not in a house that’s been empty. You’d really have cause to complain then, wouldn’t you?”

A pause. “You can’t do that kind of thing,” said the sergeant,
after a pause. In retreat. Please God, thought Alice, Pat or Philip won’t say: But we’ve done it!

“It was a very large pit,” she said. “We came by chance on some lush’s bottle bin. It was a good five feet deep. We’d show you, but it’s raining. If you came round tomorrow, we could show you then?”

A silence. It hung in the balance. Please, please God, thought Alice, nothing will happen, the two girls won’t walk in—that really would finish it—or Jasper doesn’t suddenly take it into his head … For Jasper, in a certain mood, might easily come out and enjoy provoking a confrontation.

But the thing held. The five policemen who had been scattered around the space of the hall came in closer to their leader, like a posse, and Alice said, “Excuse me, but could I have that?” For the sergeant still held the yellow paper. He read it through again, solemnly, and then gave it back.

“I’ll have to report that pit to the Water Board,” he said.

“There were no pipes where we dug,” said Alice, “not one.”

“Only a skeleton,” said Pat, negligently. As one the six men turned, glaring. “A dog,” said Pat. “It was a dog’s grave.”

The men relaxed. But they kept their eyes on Pat. She had got a rise out of them, but so smoothly. In the dim light from the single bulb, she lounged there, a dark handsome girl, politely smiling.

“We’ll be back,” said the sergeant, and hitched his head at the door. They all went out, the killer last, with a cold frustrated look at little Philip, at Pat, but not much at the ordinary, unchallenging Alice.

The door shut. No one moved. They all stood staring at that door; the police could come crashing back again. A trap? But the seconds went past. They heard a car start up. Alice shook her head at Philip, who seemed about to break into some effusion of feeling. And the door did open. It was the sergeant.

“I’ve been taking a look at those sacks,” he said. “You said they were being taken tomorrow?” But his eyes were at work all around the hall, lingering with a slight frown on the smashed-in cupboard door under the stairs.

“Tomorrow,” said Alice. Then, in a disappointed voice, “Not very nice, was it, smashing in that little door, for nothing.”

“Put in a complaint,” he said, briefly, almost good-naturedly, and disappeared.

“Fascist shits,” said Pat, like an explosion, and did not move. They remained where they were. They might have been playing “statues.”

They let a couple of minutes go past, then, as one, came to life, as Jim emerged from the shadows of his room, grinning, and the four went into the sitting room, where Jasper and Bert lounged, drinking beer. Alice knew from how they looked at her that Jasper had been telling Bert, again, how good she was at this—reflecting credit on himself; and that Pat had been impressed, and Jim was incredulous at the apparent ease of it all. She knew that this was a moment when she could get her own way about anything, and in her mind, at the head of her long agenda of difficulties to be overcome, stood the item: Philip and Jim.

She accepted a bottle of beer from Bert, who gave her, with it, the thumbs-up sign, and soon they were all sitting in a close group, in the centre of the tall room. Candle-lit: there had not been time to put a bulb in. But Philip had sat down a little apart, and tentatively.

“First,” said Pat, “to Alice!”

They drank to her, and she sat silent, smiling, afraid she would cry.

Now, she thought, I’ll bring up Philip. I’ll bring up Jim. We’ll get it
settled
.

But in the hall, suddenly, were voices, laughter, and in a moment the two girls came in, lit with the exaltation that comes from a day’s satisfactory picketing and demonstrating and marching.

Roberta, laughing, came over to the carrier of bottles and put one to her mouth, and drank standing, swallowing the beer down, then handed the bottle to Faye, who did the same.

“What a day,” said Roberta, and she let herself slide onto the arm of a chair, while Faye sat on the other. A couple apart, they surveyed the rest, as adventurers do stay-at-homes, and began their tale, Roberta leading, Faye filling in.

It was a question of the two or three hundred picketers—numbers had varied, as people came and went—preventing vans with newspapers from getting through the gates to distribute them. The police had been there to see the vans safely through.

“Two hundred police,” said Roberta, scornfully. “Two hundred fucking police!”

“More police than picketers,” said Faye, laughing, and Roberta watched her, fondly. Faye, animated and alive, was really very pretty. Her look of listlessness, even depression, had gone. She seemed to sparkle in the dim room.

“I had to stop Faye from getting carried away,” said Roberta. “Otherwise she’d have been out there. Of course, with both of us having to keep a low profile …”

“Were there arrests?”

“Five,” said Roberta. “They got Gerry. He didn’t go quietly, though.”

“I should say not,” said Faye proudly.

“Who else?”

“Didn’t know the others. They were the Militant lot, I think.”

A pause. Alice knew she had lost her advantage, and felt discouraged. And, seeing Jasper’s face as he watched the two campaigning girls, she was thinking: He’ll be off down there tomorrow, if I know anything.

He said, “I’ll go down tomorrow.” And he looked at Bert, who said, “Right.”

Bert looked at Pat, and she said, “I’m on.”

A silence. Faye said excitedly, “I’d like to have a go at one of those vans. You know, when I saw that thing standing there, armoured, all lit up, it had wire over the windscreen, I just hated it so much—it it looked bloody
evil.”

“Yes,” agreed Bert. “Epitomises everything we hate.”

“I’d like to—I’d like to—” Here Faye, seeing how her lover looked at her, began playing up to it prettily, said with a mock shiver, “I’d like to sink my teeth into it!,” and Roberta gave her a soft friendly clout across the shoulders, and then hugged her briefly.

“All the same,” she said, “we two ought not to be there again. We mustn’t be caught.”

“Oh,” pouted Faye, “why not, we just have to be careful.”

“They’ll have it all photographed, of course; they’ll have your pictures,” said Jim excitedly.

“Yes, but we weren’t doing anything,” said Faye, “worse luck, keeping our noses clean.…”

“I’ll come down,” said Jim. “I’d like to. Fucking pigs.” And he spoke sorrowfully, genuinely, so that Faye and Roberta looked at him, curious, and Bert said, “The police were here tonight.”

“Just as well we weren’t, then,” said Roberta.

“Alice handled them. A marvel, she is,” said Pat, but not as friendlily as she would have if the two girls had not come in and split allegiances.

Ruined everything, Alice thought bitterly, surprising herself. A moment before she had been thinking: Here am I, fussing about a house, when they are doing something serious.

“Oh well,” said Faye, dismissing the police’s visit to the house as unimportant compared with the really big issues, “I’m off to sleep, if we are going to get up early tomorrow.”

The two women stood up. Roberta was looking at Philip, who still sat there, apart, as if waiting. “You staying here tonight?” she asked, and Philip looked at Alice. She said, “I’ve told Philip he can live here.” She heard the appeal in her voice, knew she had her look, knew she might simply break down and weep.

Roberta’s body had subtly changed, hardened, looked affronted, though she made sure her face was impartial. Philip seemed as if he were sustaining invisible blows.

Roberta looked at Bert, eyebrows raised. Bert’s gaze back was noncommittal: he was not going to take sides. Again Alice thought, He’s not up to much!
He’s no good
.

Alice looked at Pat, and saw something there that might save the position. Pat was waiting for Bert; yes, something had been said, discussed, when she was not there. A decision?

Pat said, since Bert did not, “Philip, Alice can’t make decisions as an individual. Alice, you know that! We’ve got to have a real discussion.” Here she glanced at Jim, who at once said, “I was here before any of you, this was my house.” He sounded wild, was wild, dangerous, all his smiling amiability gone. “I said to you, come in,
this is Liberty Hall, I said.” Here was a point of principle. Alice recognised it. She thought: “It’s Jim who will save Philip!” Jim was going on, “And then I hear, ‘You’ve got to leave here, this is not your place!’ How come? I don’t get it.”

Roberta and Faye stood up. Roberta said, “We should call a real meeting and discuss it, properly.”

Philip stood up. He said, “I’ve been working here for two days. The fifty pounds wouldn’t pay for the cable I’ve used.”

Alice looked wildly at Jasper. Who was waiting on Bert. Who smiled calmly, white teeth and red lips glistening in the black beard.

Pat stood up. She said curtly, disappointed in Bert, “I see no reason at all why Philip shouldn’t stay. Why shouldn’t he? And Jim
was
here before any of us. Well, I’m going to bed. If we go to the picket tomorrow, then we should be up by eight at the latest.”

“I’m coming to the picket,” said Philip.

Alice drew in her breath, and stopped a wail. She said, “I’ll have the money. I’ll have it by tomorrow night.”

Philip gave a little disappointed laugh. “Maybe,” he said. “And that isn’t the point. If I was going to take my stand on money, then I wouldn’t be here at all.”

“Of course not,” said Pat. “Well, let’s all go down tomorrow.” She yawned and stretched energetically and sensually, with a look at Bert, who responded by getting up and putting his arm round her.

Oh no, thought Alice, not again.

Roberta and Faye went out, holding hands. Good night. Good night.

Bert and Pat went out, close.

Jasper went out after them; and Alice heard him run noisily up the stairs.

Alice said to Philip, and to Jim, “It’ll be all right.”

Philip said, “But you can’t say it is, not as an individual.”

“No,” said Jim. He had lost his wild anger. Was his sane, smiling self. But Alice thought: If we throw him out, he’s going to come back one night and wreck the place. Or something like that. She was surprised that the others hadn’t seen this, felt it.

Philip said to Alice, taking a stand where, she knew, he had
often made himself do it before, “I won’t be working here tomorrow, I’m going with the others. After all, the fight against the capitalists is more important than our comfort.” No pay, no work! He walked out and could be heard pounding up the stairs.

Jim went without saying good night and took refuge in his room. There began the sound of his drums, soft, emotional, like a threat.

Alice was alone. She went around the room putting out the candles, and then stood letting the dark settle so that she could see in the uneven darkness, where the shoulder of a chair, the hard edge of a table, took shape. She was thinking: The very next thing I do will be …

As she left the room, she was worrying—Has Jasper taken his things to another room?—and her heart seemed to give way. For if he was going to shut her out, then, with Bert here, she knew she would find it hard to keep the connection with him that was the meaning and purpose of her life. He would not leave her, she knew that; but he could seem to go very far away.

She went into the hall, now so empty and so large with no one in it, and put out the light. She went up the stairs in the dark, feeling the worn carpet slippery under her feet, and to the landing where the doors were behind which were disposed the others; Philip, too, in the little room beyond the large one Roberta and Faye had taken. Jim always slept downstairs, where his music was—and, for another thing, it was easy to jump out of a window there, and run for it, if necessary.