The Good Terrorist (3 page)

A whistle shrieked. Some factory or other … one o’clock. She hadn’t
done
anything yet.… Standing on the long shallow steps that led to the public library, she wiped her face, and made her eyes look out instead of in. It was a nice day. The sun was shining. The sky was full of racing white clouds, and the blue seemed to dazzle and promise.

She went back to the telephones in the Underground and rang her father’s office on the private number.

He answered at once.

“This is Alice.”

“The answer is no.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“Say it.”

“I want you to guarantee our expenses, electricity and gas, for a squat.”

“No.”

She hung up, the burning anger back. Its energy took her to the pavement, and walked her up the avenue to a large building that was set back a bit, with steps. She raced up them and pressed a bell, holding it down until a woman’s voice, not the one she expected, said
“Sí?”

“Oh, fucking Christ, the maid,” said Alice, aloud. And “Where’s Theresa?”

“She at work.”

“Let me in. Let me come in.”

Alice pushed open the door on the buzzer, almost fell into the hall, and thumped up four flights of heavily carpeted stairs to a door where a short, dumpy dark woman stood, looking out for her.

“Just let me
in
,” said Alice, fiercely pushing her aside, and the Spanish woman said nothing but stood looking at her, trying to find the right words to say.

Alice went into the sitting room where she had so often been with her friend Theresa, her friend ever since she, Alice, had been born, kind and lovely Theresa. A large, calm, ordered room, with great windows, and beyond them gardens … She stood panting. I’ll tear down those pictures, she was thinking, I’ll sell them, I’ll take those little netsukes, what are they worth? I’ll smash the place up.…

She tore to the telephone and rang the office. But Theresa was in conference.

“Get her,” she commanded. “Get her at once. It is an emergency. Tell her it’s Alice.”

She had no doubt that Theresa would come, and she did.

“What is it, Alice, what’s wrong, what is the matter?”

“I want you to guarantee expenses. For a squat. No, no, you won’t have to pay anything, ever, just your signature.”

“Alice, I’m in the middle of a conference.”

“I don’t care about your shitty conference. I want you to guarantee our electricity and our gas.”

“You and Jasper?”

“Yes. And others.”

“I’m sorry, my dear. No.”

“What’s the matter with Jasper? Why are you like this? Why? He’s just as good as you are.”

Theresa said, calm and humorous, as always, “No, Alice, he is not as good as I am. Far from it. Anyway, that’s it. No, but I’ll give you fifty pounds if you come round.”

“I
am
around. I am in your flat. But I don’t want your shitty fifty pounds.”

“Well, then, I’m sorry, my dear.”

“You spend fifty pounds on a dress. On a
meal.”

“You shared the meal, didn’t you? This is silly. I’m sorry, I’m busy. All the buyers are here from everywhere.”

“It’s not silly. When have you seen
me
spend fifty pounds on a meal? If my mother wants to spend fifty pounds on food for all her shitty rich friends, and I cook it, that doesn’t mean …”

“Listen, Alice, if you want to come round and have a talk tonight, you are welcome. But it will have to be late, because I will be working until eleven, at least.”

“You … you … are a lot of rich shits,” said Alice, suddenly listless.

She put down the receiver, and was about to leave when she remembered, and went to the bathroom, where she emptied herself, again carefully washed her face, and brushed her hair. She was hungry. She went to the kitchen and cut herself a lavish sandwich. Lisa followed her and stood at the door to watch, her hands folded around the handle of a feather duster, as if in prayer. A dark, patient, tired face. She supported her family in Valencia, so said Theresa. She stood watching Alice eating her salami and her pâté on thick bread. Then watched while Alice peered into every corner of the refrigerator and brought out some leftover spiced rice, which she ate with a spoon, standing up.

Then she said, “Ciao,” and heard as she left,
“Buenos días, señorita.”
There was something in that voice, a criticism, that again lit the anger, and she ran back down all the stairs and out onto the pavement.

It was after two.

Her thoughts whirled about. Jasper, why did they hate him so? It was because they were afraid of him. Afraid of his truth … She realised that she had walked herself to a bus stop, and the bus would take her to the Council. She got on, suddenly cold, concentrated, and careful.

She was rehearsing in her mind her previous successful negotiations. A great deal would depend, she knew, on whom she saw … luck.… Well, she had been lucky before. And besides, what she was suggesting was reasonable, in the best interests of everybody, the ratepayers, the public.

In the great room filled with desks and people and telephones, she sat opposite a girl, younger than she, and knew at once that she was lucky. On Mary Williams’s left breast was a “Save the Whales!” button, and the sprightly shape of the animal made Alice feel soft and protective. Mary Williams was a good person, like herself, like Jasper, like all their friends. She cared.

Alice gave the address of her house confidently, stated her case, and waited while the official turned to press a button or two, and the information arrived, to be set on the desk between them.

“Scheduled for demolition,” said Mary Williams, and sat smiling, nothing more to be said.

This Alice had not expected. She could not speak. It was grief that filled her, transmuting, but slowly, to rage. The face that Mary Williams saw swelled and shone, and caused her to say uncomfortably, even stammering, “Why, why, what is the matter?”

“It can’t be demolished, it can’t,” stated Alice, in a toneless, empty voice. Then, rage exploding, “It’s a marvellous house, perfect! How can you demolish it? It’s a bloody scandal.”

“Yes, I know that sometimes …” said Mary Williams swiftly. She sighed. Her glance at Alice was a plea not to make a scene. Alice saw it, saw that scenes not infrequently occurred at this desk.

She said, “There must be a mistake. Surely they aren’t entitled to destroy a house like this.… Have you seen it? It’s a good house. A good place …”

“I think they mean to put up flats.”

“Naturally! What else?”

The two young women laughed, their eyes meeting.

“Wait,” said Mary Williams, and went off to confer, in her hand the sheet containing the vital statistics of the house. She stood by the desk of a man at the end of the room, and came back to say, “There have been a lot of complaints about the state of the houses. The police, for one.”

“Yes, it’s a disgusting mess,” agreed Alice. “But it’ll be cleared up in no time.”

Here Mary nodded—Proceed!—and sat doodling, while Alice talked.

And talked. About the house. Its size, its solidity, its situation. Said that, apart from a few slates, it was structurally sound. Said it needed very little to make it livable. She talked about the Birmingham squat and the agreed tenancy there; about Manchester, where a slum scheduled for demolition had been reprieved, and became an officially recognised student residence.

“I’m not saying it couldn’t happen,” said Mary.

She sat thinking, her biro at work on a structure of cells, like a honeycomb. Yes, Alice knew, Mary was all right, she was on their side. Although Mary was not her style, with her dark little skirt and crisp little blouse, with her bra outlining the modest breast where the whale cavorted, tail in the sky, black on blue sea. All the same, Mary’s soft masses of dark hair that went into curls on her forehead, and her plump white hands, made Alice feel warm and secure. She knew that if Mary had anything to do with it, things would go well.

“Wait a minute,” Mary said, and again went to confer with her colleague. This man now gave Alice a long inspection, and Alice sat confidently, to be looked at. She knew how she seemed: the pretty daughter of her mother, short curly fair hair nicely brushed, pink-and-white face lightly freckled, open blue-grey gaze. A middle-class girl with her assurance, her knowledge of the ropes, sat properly in the chair, and if she wore a heavy blue military jacket, under it was a flowered pink-and-white blouse.

Mary Williams came back and said, “The houses are coming up for a decision on Wednesday.”

“The police gave us four days to clear out.”

“Well, I don’t see what we can do.”

“All we need is a statement, in writing, that the case is being considered, to show the police, that’s all.”

Mary Williams did not say anything. From her posture, and her eyes—which did not look at Alice—it was suddenly clear that she was, after all, very young, and probably afraid for her job.

There was some sort of conflict there, Alice could see: this was more than just an official who sometimes did not like the work she had to do. Something personal was boiling away in Mary Williams, giving her a stubborn, angry little look. And this again brought her to her feet and took her for the third time to the official whose job it was to say yes and no.

“You do realise,” said Mary Williams, talking for her colleague, “that this letter would say only that the house is on the agenda for Wednesday?”

Alice said, inspired, “Why don’t you come and see it? You and—?”

“Bob Hood. He’s all right. But he’s the one who …”

“Yes, yes,” said Alice. “But why don’t you both come and see the house?”

“The houses, yes—I think Bob did see them, but it was some time ago—yes, perhaps we should.”

Mary was writing the words that would—Alice was sure—save the house. For as long as it was needed by Alice and the others. Save it permanently, why not? The piece of paper was slid into an envelope bearing the name of the Council, and Alice took it.

“Have you got a telephone in the house?”

“It was ripped out.” It was on the tip of Alice’s tongue to describe the state of the house: cement in the lavatories, loose electric cables, the lot; but instinct said no. Although she knew that this girl, Mary, would be as furious, as sick, as anyone could be that such deliberate damage could be done to a place, the damage had been done by officialdom, and Mary was an official. Nothing should be done to arouse that implacable beast, the bureaucrat.

“When should I ring you?” she asked.

“Thursday.”

That was the day the police said they would be thrown out.

“Will you be here on Thursday?”

“If not, Bob over there will take the call.”

But Alice knew that with Bob things would not go so well.

“It’s routine,” said Mary Williams. “Either they will pull the houses down at once, or they will postpone it. They have already postponed several times.” Here she offered Alice the smile of their complicity, and added, “Good luck.”

“Thanks. See you.”

Alice left. It was only five o’clock. In one day she had done it. In eight hours.

In the soft spring afternoon everything was in movement, the pastel clouds, new young leaves, the shimmering surfaces of lawns; and when she reached her street it was full of children, cats, and gardeners. This scene of suburban affluence and calm provoked in her a rush of violent derision, like a secret threat to everything she saw. At the same time, parallel to this emotion and in no way affecting it, ran another current, of want, of longing.

She stopped on the pavement. From the top of her house a single yellow jet splashed onto the rubbish that filled the garden. Across the hedge from her, in the neighbouring house, a woman stood with a trowel loaded with seedlings, their roots in loose black earth, and she was staring at the shameful house. She said, “Disgusting, I’ve rung the Council!”

“Oh no,” cried Alice, “no, please …” But, seeing the woman’s hardened face and eyes, she said, “Look, I’ve just been to the Council. It will be all right; we are negotiating.”

“And how about all that rubbish, then,” stated, not asked, the woman. She turned her back on Alice, and bent to the fragrant earth of her flower bed.

Alice arrived at her door in a tumult of passionate identification with the criticised house, anger at whoever was responsible for the errant stream—probably Jasper—and a need to get the work of reconstruction started.

The door would not budge when she pushed it. The red heat of rage enveloped her, and she banged on the door, screaming, “How dare you, how dare you lock me out?,” while she saw with her side vision how the woman gardener had straightened and was gazing at this scene over her neat little hedge.

Her anger went as she told herself, You must do something about her, soon; she
must
be on our side.

She offered the woman a quick little placatory smile and wave of the hand, rather like the wagging tail of an apologetic dog, but her neighbour only stared and turned away.

Suddenly the door opened and Jasper’s fingers were tight around her wrist. His face had a cold grin on it which she knew was fear. Of whom?

As he dragged her in, she said, in a voice like a hushed shout, “Let me go. Don’t be stupid.”

“Where have you been?”

“Where do you think?”

“What have you been doing all day?”

“Oh, belt up,” she said, shaking her wrist to restore it, as he released her on seeing that doors had opened and in the hall were Jim, Pat, Bert, and two young women dressed identically in loose blue dungarees and fluffy white cardigans, standing side by side and looking critical.

“We always keep this door locked and barred because of the police,” said Bert, in a hurried, placating way, and Alice thought, Well, there’s no need to bother much with
him
, as she said, “It wasn’t locked this morning, when we came. And the police don’t come at this hour, do they?” She said this because she had to say something: she knew her fit of rage outside the door was unfortunate.

The five were all staring at her, their faces shadowed by the dull light from the hurricane lamp, and she said, in her ordinary mild voice, “I’ve seen the Council, and it’s all right.”