'Now wait a moment. I want to know what this is all about,' said Wilt. 'I've been to that
police station and frankly I don't want to go there again.' He stayed resolutely in his
chair.
Mr Misterson reached in his pocket and took out a plastic licence which he opened.
'If you'll take a good look at this.'
Wilt did and felt sick. It stated that Superintendent Misterson of the Anti-Terrorist Branch
was empowered... Wilt got up unsteadily and moved towards the door. Behind him the Superintendent
was giving Inspector Flint, Sergeant Yates and the bank manager their orders. No one was to leave
the office, there were to be no outgoing phone calls, maximum security and business as usual.
Even the bank messenger was to remain where he was.
'And now Mr Wilt if you'll just walk out quite normally and follow me. We don't want to
attract attention.'
Wilt followed him out and across the bank to the door and was hesitating there wondering what
to do when a car drew up. The Superintendent opened the door and Wilt got in. Five minutes later
he was sitting at a table being handed photographs of young women. It was twenty past twelve when
he finally picked Miss Irmgard Mueller out.
'Are you absolutely certain?' asked the Superintendent.
'Of course I am,' said Wilt irritably. 'Now I don't know who she is or what the wretched woman
has done but I'd be glad if you would go and arrest her or something. I want to get home to my
lunch.'
'Quite so, sir. And is your wife in the house?'
Wilt looked at his watch. 'I don't see what that's got to do with it. As a matter of fact she
will now be on her way back from playschool with the children and...'
The Superintendent sighed. It was a long ominous sigh. 'In that case I'm afraid there won't be
any question of an arrest just yet,' he said 'I take it that Miss... er... Mueller is in the
house.'
'I don't know,' said Wilt, 'she was when I left this morning, and today being Wednesday she
doesn't have any lectures, so she probably is. Why don't you go round and find out?'
'Because, sir, your lodger just happens to be one of the most dangerous woman terrorists in
the world. I think that is self-explanatory.'
'Oh my God,' said Wilt, suddenly feeling very weak.
Superintendent Misterson leant across the desk. 'She has at least eight killings to her credit
and she's suspected of being the mastermind... I'm sorry to use such melodramatic terms but in
the event they happen to fit. As I was saying she has organized several bombings and we now know
she's been involved in the hijacking of a security van in Gantrey last Tuesday. A man died in the
attack. You may have read about the case.'
Wilt had. In the waiting-room at the Accident Centre. It had seemed then one of those remote
and disgusting acts of gratuitous violence which made the morning paper such depressing reading.
And yet because he read about it the murder of a security guard had been invested with a reality
which it lacked in the present circumstances. Mastermind, terrorist, killings words spoken
casually in an office by a bland man with a paisley tie and a brown tweed suit. Like some country
solicitor, Superintendent Misterson, was the last person he would have expected to use such words
and it was this incongruity which was so alarming. Wilt stared at the man and shook his head.
'I'm afraid it's true,' said the Superintendent.
'But the money...'
'Marked sir. Marked and numbered. Bait in a trap.'
Wilt shook his head again. The truth was unbearable. 'What are you going to do? My wife and
children are at home by now and if she's there... and there are all those other foreigners in the
house too.'
'Would you mind telling us how many other... er... foreigners are there, sir?'
'I don't know,' said Wilt, 'it varies from day to day. There's a stream of them coming and
going. Jesus wept.'
'Now, sir,' said the Superintendent briskly, 'what's your usual routine? Do you normally go
home for lunch?'
'No. I usually have it at the Tech but just at the moment I'm off work and yes, I suppose I
do.'
'So your wife will be surprised if you don't come home?'
'I doubt it,' said Wilt 'Sometimes I drop into a pub for sandwiches.'
'And you don't telephone first?'
'Not always.'
'What I am trying to ascertain, sir, is whether your wife will evince any alarm were you not
to come home now or contact her.'
'She won't,' said Wilt. 'The only time she'll be alarmed is when she knows we've been
providing accommodation for... What is the name of this bloody woman anyway?'
'Gudrun Schautz. And now, sir, I'll have some lunch sent up from the canteen and we'll make
preparations.'
'What preparations?' asked Wilt but the Superintendent had left the room and the other
plainclothes man seemed disinclined to talk. Wilt regarded the slight bulge under the man's right
armpit and tried to stifle his growing feeling of insanity
In the kitchen at Willington Road Eva was busy giving the quads their lunch.
'We won't wait for Daddy,' she said, 'he'll probably be back a little later.'
'Will he bring his bagpipe home?' asked Josephine.
'Bagpipe, dear? Daddy doesn't have a bagpipe.'
He's been wearing one,' said Penelope.
'Yes, but not the sort you play.'
'I saw some men in dresses playing bagpipes at the show,' said Emmeline.
'Kilts, dear.'
'I saw Daddy playing with his pipe in the summerhouse,' said Penelope, 'and he was wearing
Mummy's dress too.'
'Well he wasn't playing with it in the same way, Penny,' argued Eva, wondering privately what
way Wilt had been playing with it.
'Bagpipes make a horrid noise anyway,' maintained Emmeline.
'And Daddy made a horrid noise when you got into bed...'
'Yes, dear, he was having a bad dream.'
'He called it a wet dream, Mummy. I heard him.'
'Well that's a bad dream too,' said Eva. 'Now then, what did you do at school today?
But the quads were not to be diverted from the absorbing topic of their father's recent
misfortune. 'Roger's mummy told him Daddy must have something wrong with his bladder to have a
pipe,' said Penelope. 'What's a bladder, Mummy?'
'I know,' shouted Emmeline, 'it's a pig's tummy and that's what they make bagpipes out of
because Sally told me.'
'Daddy's not a pig...'
'That's enough of that,' said Eva firmly, 'we won't talk about Daddy any more. Now eat your
cod's roe.'
'Roger says cod's roe is baby fishes,' said Penelope. 'I don't like it.'
'Well it's not. Fishes don't have babies. They lay eggs.'
'Do sausages lay eggs, mummy?' asked Josephine.
'Of course they don't, darling. Sausages aren't alive.'
'Roger says his daddy's sausage lays eggs and his mummy wears something...'
'I don't care to hear what Roger says any more,' said Eva torn between curiosity about the
Rawstons and revulsion at her offsprings' encyclopedic knowledge. 'It's not nice to talk about
such things.'
'Why not, Mummy?'
'Because it isn't,' said Eva unable to think of a suitably progressive argument to silence
them. Caught between her own indoctrinated sense of niceness and her opinion that children's
innate curiosity should never be thwarted, Eva struggled through lunch wishing that Henry were
there to put a stop to their questions with a taciturn growl. But Henry still wasn't there at two
o'clock when Mavis phoned to remind her that she had promised to pick her up on the way to the
Symposium on Alternative Painting in Thailand.
'I'm sorry but Henry isn't back,' said Eva. 'He went to the doctor's this morning and I
expected him home for lunch. I can't leave the children.'
'Patrick's got the car today,' said Mavis, 'his own is in for a service and I was relying on
you.'
'Oh well, I'll go and ask Mrs de Frackas to baby-sit for half an hour,' said Eva, 'she's
always volunteering to sit and Henry's bound to be back shortly.'
She went next door and presently old Mrs de Frackas was sitting in the summerhouse surrounded
by the quads reading them the story of Rikki Tikki Tavi. The widow of Major-General de Frackas,
at eighty-two her memories of girlhood days in India were rather better than on topics of more
recent occurrence. Eva drove off happily to pick up Mavis.
By the time Wilt had finished his lunch he had picked out two more terrorists from the mug
shots as being frequent visitors to the house, and the police station had seen the arrival of
several large vans containing a large number of surprisingly agile men in a motley of plain
clothes. The canteen had been turned into a briefing centre and Superintendent Misterson's
authority had been superseded by a Major (name undisclosed) of Special Ground Services.
'The Superintendent here will explain the initial stages of the operation,' said the Major
condescendingly, 'but before he does I want to stress that we are dealing with some of the most
ruthless killers in Europe. They must on no account escape. At the same time we naturally want to
avoid bloodshed if at all possible. However, it has to be said that in the circumstances we are
entitled to shoot first and ask questions afterwards if the target is able to answer. I have that
authority from the Minister.' He smiled bleakly and sat down.
'After the house has been surrounded,' said the Superintendent, 'Mr Wilt will enter and
hopefully effect the exit of his family. I want nothing done to prevent that first essential
requirement. The second factor to take into account is that we have a unique opportunity to
arrest at least three leading terrorists and possibly more, and again, hopefully, Mr Wilt will
enable us to know how many members of the group are in the house at the moment of time of his
exit. I'll go ahead with my side and leave the rest to the Major.'
He left the canteen and went up to the office where Wilt was finishing his Queen's pudding
with the help of mouthfuls of coffee. Outside the door he met the SGS surgeon and
para-psychologist who had been studying Wilt covertly.
'Nervous type,' he said gloomily. 'Couldn't be worse material. Sort of blighter who'd funk a
jump from a tethered balloon.'
'Fortunately he doesn't have to jump from a tethered balloon,' said the Superintendent. 'All
he has to do is enter the house and find an excuse for taking his family out.'
'All the same I think he ought to have a shot of something to stiffen his backbone. We don't
want him dithering on the doorstep. Give the game away.'
He marched off to fetch his bag while the Superintendent went in to Wilt. 'Now then,' he said
with alarming cheerfulness, 'all you've got to do...'
'Is enter a house filled with killers and ask my wife to come out. I know,' said Wilt.
'Nothing very difficult about that.'
Wilt looked at him incredulously. 'Nothing difficult? said Wilt in a vaguely soprano voice.
'You don't know my bloody wife.'
'I haven't had the privilege yet,' admitted the Superintendent.
'Precisely,' said Wilt. 'Well, when and if you do you'll discover that if I go home and ask
her to come out she'll think of a thousand reasons for staying in.'
'Difficult woman, sir?'
'Oh no, nothing difficult about Eva. Not at all. She's just bloody awkward, that's all.'
'I see, sir, and if you suggested she didn't go out you think she might in fact do so?'
'If you want my opinion,' said Wilt, 'if I do that she'll think I'm off my rocker. I mean what
would you do if you were sitting peacefully at home and your wife came in and suggested out of
the blue that you didn't go out when it had never occurred to you to go out in the first place?
You'd think there was something fucking odd going on, wouldn't you?'
'I suppose I would,' said the Superintendent. 'Never thought of it like that before.'
'Well you'd better start now,' said Wilt, 'I'm not going...' He was interrupted by the
entrance of the Major and two other officers wearing jeans, T-shirts with UP THE IRA printed on
them, and carrying rather large handbags.
'If we might just interrupt a moment, said the Major, we would like Mr Wilt to draw a detailed
plan of the house, vertical section and then horizontal.'
'What for?' said Wilt unable to take his eyes off the T-shirts.
'In the event that we have to storm the house, sir,' said the Major, 'we need to get the
killing angles right. Don't want to go in and find the loo's in the wrong place and what
not.'
'Listen, mate,' said Wilt, 'you go down Willington Road with those T-shirts and handbags you
won't reach my house. You'll be bloody lynched by the neighbours. Mrs Fogin's nephew was blown up
in Belfast and Professor Ball's got a thing about gays. His wife married one.'
'Better change into the KEEP CLAPHAM WHITE shirts, chaps,' said the Major.
'Better not,' said Wilt. 'Mr and Mrs Bokani at Number 11 would be on to Race Relations like
the clappers. Can't you think of something neutral?'
'Mickey Mouse, sir?' suggested one of the officers.
'Oh, all right,' said the Major grumpily, 'one Mickey Mouse and the rest Donald Ducks.'
'Christ,' said Wilt, 'I don't know how many men you've got but if you're going to flood the
neighbourhood with Donald Ducks armed to the teeth with whatever you have in those gigantic
handbags you'll have a whole lot of schizophrenic infants on your conscience.'
'Never mind that,' said the Major, 'you leave the tactical angle to us. We've had experience
before of this sort of operation and all we want from you is a detailed plan of the domestic
terrain.'
'Talk about calling a spade an earth-inverting horticultural implement,' said Wilt. 'I never
thought I'd live to hear my home called a domestic terrain.'
He picked up a pencil but the Superintendent intervened. 'Look, if we don't get Mr Wilt back
to the house soon, someone may begin wondering where he is,' he protested.
As if to reinforce this argument the phone rang.