The Good Terrorist (52 page)

Now she began to think, but very carefully, about her parents. First, her father: no, he was too awful to waste time on, she wasn’t ever going to think about him again. Her mother … What would Dorothy say if she knew her daughter had been at the bombing? Not that Alice believed that she—Alice—had any real reason to feel bad; she hadn’t
really
been part of it. Alice sighed, a long shuddery breath, like a small child. This was something she could never, ever tell Dorothy, and knowing this made her feel severed from her mother as she had not done before: she might have said a final good-bye to her, instead of just having had one of their silly quarrels!

Oh no, it was all too much, it was too difficult.… Here Alice got abruptly to her feet: it looked as if she was about to walk right out of the kitchen, and after that the house; but, having stood in a stiff, arrested pose for a minute or so, she sat down again, because she had remembered Peter Cecil. (Peter Cecil, ha ha!) She couldn’t go now, because there was this lunch. But perhaps I’ll tell him all about it, she thought, he’s a professional, I can talk about the bombing without all the rights and wrongs of everything coming into it, just as a job that was done, but was bungled a bit.… Funny, she had not thought until this moment that they had messed it up. And had they? After all, if publicity was the aim, then they had certainly achieved that! And Faye? But comrades knew their lives were at risk, the moment they undertook this sort of thing, decided to become terrorists.… She could not remember a point where she had said, “I am a terrorist, I don’t mind being killed.” (Here she was again impelled to get up from her chair, in a trapped panic movement, but again sat down.) I was all the time waiting for something to
start—
she thought; and on her face came a small, scared, incredulous smile at the inappropriateness of it. Had she not believed that the bombing was serious, then? No, not really; she had gone along with it, while feeling it was not right—and behind that was the thought that
serious
work (whatever that might turn out to be) would come later. Well, what would
they
think about the bombing? (Meaning, the Russians.) There was no need to ask what Andrew would say. Or Gordon. She could imagine, only too vividly, their condemning faces.

And Peter Cecil? For some reason, he was different. Of course, I wouldn’t give away any names, she thought: I’d just talk very carefully, tell him the story. I’d say I was told by someone in the know, and I wanted to have his opinion.

Here various little warnings that her nerves had registered and were holding banked there till she could attend to them nearly surfaced, but retreated again. Meanwhile, she was thinking that Peter Cecil had a nice face. Yes. (She was looking at him in her mind’s eye, as he had stood there yesterday outside the door, she in a frenzy of impatience to be off.) A kind face. Not like those Russians, not at all like them, he was quite different.… And here the warnings came back, in a rush, screaming for attention, and she could no longer shut them out.

Of course Peter Cecil was not like those Russians, because he wasn’t a Russian. He was … he was MI-6 or MI-5 or XYZ or one of those bloody things, it didn’t matter. The point was, he was English,
English
.

At this thought, at the word, a soft sweet relief began to run through Alice, so strongly she had to recognise it and be embarrassed by it. And what of it! English or not, he was the enemy, he was—worse than the Russians—he was upper-class
(Cecil
, I ask you!), he was reactionary, he was a fascist. Well, not exactly a fascist, really, that was exaggerating. But English.
One of us
. She sat thinking about his Englishness, and what that meant, what she felt about it—that talking to him would be a very different thing from talking to those Russians, who simply got everything wrong, and that was because they didn’t know what we were really like: English. And what was the matter with feeling like this? Had they (the comrades) not decided to have no dealings with Russians, IRA Uncle Tom Cobbley and all, only with
us?

As she imagined herself talking to Peter Cecil, she knew that many things would not have to be said at all, as they don’t between people from the same country, no matter how divided about certain things. (Like politics!)

But what did he want to know? Alice could not remember what had been said yesterday. Her memory was a blank except that he had asked about Andrew. (Andrew
Connors?
Well, why not, perhaps he really was Connors.) But what had she said? Had anything been said? No, she was sure not, everything had been so rushed, she had been in a fever, she had only wanted to get off as fast as she could. The
matériel?
No, was it likely she would mention that? Of course she hadn’t!

She sat on, cold, tense, frightened, trying to remember, while at the same time, the thought,
He is English
, was coming to her rescue. She was struggling to make her memory come to heel, to give up what it should, while she thought, He is English, he will understand.

Oh yes, Alice did know that she forgot things, but not how badly, or how often. When her mind started to dazzle and to puzzle, frantically trying to lay hold of something stable, then she always at once allowed herself—as she did now—to slide back into her childhood, where she dwelt pleasurably on some scene or other that she had smoothed and polished and painted over and over again with fresh colour until it was like walking into a story that began, “Once upon a time there was a little girl called Alice, with her mother, Dorothy. One morning Alice was in the kitchen with Dorothy, who was making her favourite pudding, apple with cinnamon and brown sugar and sour cream, and little Alice said, ‘Mummy, I am a good girl, aren’t I?’ ”

But today her mind would not stay in this dream, or story; it insisted on coming back into the present, away from her mother, who was finally repudiating Alice because of the bombing.

Alice sat quietly on, while time passed, carrying her towards lunch and Peter Cecil. She was very anxious, and the pit of her stomach hurt, and her heart thudded painfully.

There was no need to tell Peter Cecil anything about it. Why should she? Perhaps she would say a little about Andrew. It would not harm Andrew: she did not even know where he was. “Andrew Connors?” she would say. “Yes, he said he was an American. He sometimes visited the house next door; he was in love with a girl who lived there then, I’ve forgotten her name. And that’s all I know, really.”

They would have a nice lunch. Perhaps he would even turn out to be a friend, like Andrew. After all, she counted Andrew as a friend, though she did not now think as well of him as she had. There were always decent people, even among reactionaries. She remembered some comrade or other, saying somewhere or other—in Birmingham, was it? in the Manchester squat?—that it was primitive Marxism to think that as individuals every member of a ruling class was bad. She would just have to watch her tongue; it would be all right. Just have to be careful—and trust to inspiration. It was silly sitting here worrying about what to say; she always did know, when the time came, how to handle things.

And that went for Gordon O’Leary, too.… But as she thought about him, Alice felt the anxiety in her stomach becoming a sharp, almost unbearable pain. Oh, shit, she had just understood she must be careful not to mention Gordon to Peter Cecil, or to let Peter Cecil come anywhere near this house after lunch. Never mind, she was sure she could manage that. She would first handle Peter Cecil, and then Gordon O’Leary. But—she suddenly thought—why should she meet Gordon at all? After lunch, she could simply go off for a walk somewhere, and not come back to this house till later. No, that would only be postponing the problem. She would come back in good time from the restaurant, saying good-bye to Peter Cecil there, and pin a note on the door saying … No, there couldn’t be a note: the neighbours would see it and come to investigate. Much better let everyone think that things were going on normally for as long as possible; and that was why it was a good thing they would at least see her going in and out.

When she got back from the restaurant she would lock the doors and windows—there was only one window that didn’t lock, and she would nail it down, now, before she went off—and she would go right up to the top of the house and into the attic, and put a weight on the trap door so that no one could come up into it. Even if Gordon O’Leary got into the house somehow—and he would hardly want to be seen breaking into a house in full daylight—he would not know you could get up into the attic; why should he?

This detailed planning and arranging was making her feel better. It was what she was good at: she felt in command of everything again, and her painful stomach was easing, and she was breathing more quietly.

She was actually looking forward to the meal with Peter Cecil!

Smiling gently, a mug of very strong sweet tea in her hand, looking this morning like a nine-year-old girl who has had, perhaps, a bad dream, the poor baby sat waiting for it to be time to go out and meet the professionals.

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