The Good Terrorist. Doris Lessing

mates. Soon there was a burst of loud scandalized laughter. Then another. The policewoman, diligently filling in her form, tightened her lips, Alice could not make out whether in criticism or not.

      ‘Small things amuse small minds,’ said Alice.

      The policewoman shot her a look which said that it was not for her to say so, even if she, herself, had been thinking it.

      Alice smiled at her, woman to woman. ‘And so,’ she said, ‘that’s it. No. 43 is now legal, and in order. Any more raids and you’ll be stepping well over the line.’

      ‘That’s for us to say, I think,’ said the policewoman, with a tight little smile.

      ‘No,’ said Alice. ‘As it happens, no. I think not. There will certainly be no further complaints from the neighbours.’

      ‘Well, we’ll have to hope not,’ and the policewoman retreated to join her own in the back room.

      Alice, satisfied, went out, and home, directing herself to pass 45. No one in the garden now. But in the deep shade in the angle of the two hedges she could just make out that a pit had been dug. She could not resist. For the second time that night she slid silently in at a garden gate. 45 looked deserted; all the windows were dark. The pit was about four feet deep. There was a strong sweet earthy smell from the slopes of soil around its edges. The bottom looked very flat – water? She bent to make sure. A case, or carton, something like that, had been placed at the bottom. She swiftly straightened, looked around. Consciously enjoying her condition, the sense of danger, of threat, she thought: They will be watching from those curtains or upstairs – I would be, in their position. What a risky thing to do, though; she turned to examine the strategy of the operation. No, perhaps it was all right. Whereas the digging of their own pit on the other side of the hedge could have been observed by the occupants of three houses and by anyone about in Joan Robbins’s house, here, two sides were tall hedge, the third the house. Between here and the gate were shrubs and bushes. Joan Robbins’s upper windows were dark. Over the road, set back in its own garden, a house; and certainly anyone could see what they liked from the upstairs windows. Which were still dark; the people had not yet gone upstairs to bed. She had seen what she needed to see. She would have liked to stay, the sweet earthy smells and the impetus of risk firing her blood, but she moved, swift as a shadow, to the front door and knocked, gently. It was opened at once. By Andrew.

      ‘I knew you must be watching,’ she said. ‘But I’ve come to say that I told the police station 43 is an agreed squat. So they will be quite prepared to accept it when you say you are.’

      Her pulses were beating, her heart racing, every cell dancing and alert. She was smiling, she knew; oh, this was the opposite of ‘her look’, when she felt like this, as if she’d drunk an extra-fine distilled essence of danger, and could have stepped out among the stars or run thirty miles.

      She saw the short, powerful figure come out of the dark of the hall, to where she could examine his face in the light from the streetlamps. It was serious, set in purpose, and the sight of it gave her an agreeable feeling of submission to higher powers.

      ‘I’ve buried something – an emergency,’ he said. ‘It will be gone in a day or two. You understand.’

      ‘Perfectly,’ smiled Alice.

      He hesitated. Came out further. She felt powerful hands on her upper arms. Did she smell spirits? Vodka? Whisky.

      ‘I am asking you to keep it to yourself.’

      She nodded. ‘Of course.’

      ‘I mean, no one else.’ She nodded, thinking that if only one person was to know in 43, nevertheless in this house surely several must?

      He said, ‘I am going to trust you completely, Alice.’ He allowed her his brief tight smile. ‘Because I have to. No one in this house knows but myself. They have all gone out. I took the opportunity to – make use of a very convenient cache. A temporary cache. I was going to fill in another layer of earth, and then put in some rubbish.’

      Alice stood smiling, disappointed in him, if not in her own state; she was still floating. She thought that what he had said was likely to be either partially or totally untrue, but it was not her concern. He still gripped her by her upper arms which, however, were on the point of rejecting this persistent, warning masculine pressure. He seemed to sense this, for his hands dropped.

      ‘I have to say that I have a different opinion of you than of some of the others from your house. I trust you.’

      Alice did not say anything. She simply nodded.

      He went indoors, nodding at her, but did not smile.

      She was going to have to think it out. Better, sleep on it.

      Her elation was going, fast. She thought: But tomorrow Jasper and I are going out together, and then…it would be a whole evening of this fine racing thrilling excitement.

      But poor Jasper, no, he would not feel like it, probably, if he had spent the night in the cells. What was Enfield Police Station like? She could not remember any reports of it.

      From the main road she saw outside No. 43 gate a slight drooping figure. An odd posture, bent over – it was the girl of this afternoon, and she was going to throw something at the windows of the sitting-room. A stone! Alice thought: Throwing underhand, pathetic! – and this scorn refuelled her. Alive and sparkling, she arrived by the girl, who turned pathetically to face her, with an ‘Oh’.

      ‘Better drop that,’ advised Alice, and the girl did so.

      In this light she had a washed-out look: colourless hair and face, even lips and eyes. Whose pupils were enormous, Alice could see.

      ‘Where’s your baby?’ hectored Alice.

      ‘My husband is there. He’s drunk,’ she said and wailed, then stopped herself. She was trembling.

      Alice said, ‘Why don’t you go to the short-term housing people? You know, there are people who advise on squats.’

      ‘I did.’ She began weeping, a helpless, fast, hiccuping weeping, like a child who has already wept for hours.

      ‘Look,’ said Alice, feeling in herself the beginnings of an all too familiar weight and drag. ‘You have to do something for yourself, you know. It’s no good just waiting for people to do something for you. You must find a squat for yourself. Move in. Take it over. Then go to the Council…Stop it,’ she raged, as the girl sobbed on. ‘What’s the good of that?’

      The girl subdued her weeping, and stood, head bent, before Alice, waiting for her verdict, or sentence.

      Oh God, thought Alice. What’s the use? I know this one inside out! She’s just like Sarah, in Liverpool, and that poor soul Betty. An official has just to take one look, and know she’ll give in at once.

      An official…why, there was an official here, in this house; there was Mary Williams. Alice stood marvelling at this thought: that only a couple of days ago Mary Williams had seemed to hold her own fate – Alice’s – in her hands; and now Alice had difficulty in even remembering her status. She felt for Mary, in fact, the fine contempt due to someone or to an institution that has given way too easily. But Mary could be appealed to on behalf of this – child. Alice again took in the collapsed look of her, the passivity, and thought: What is the use, she’s one of those who…

      It was exasperation that was fuelling her now.

      ‘What is your name?’

      The drooping head came up, the drowned eyes presented themselves, shocked, to Alice. ‘What do you think I’m going to do?’ demanded Alice. ‘Go to the police and tell them you were going to throw a stone through our window?’ And suddenly she began to laugh, while the girl watched her amazed; and took an involuntary step back from this lunatic. ‘I’ve just thought of something. I know someone in the Council who might perhaps – it is only a perhaps…’ The girl had come to life, was leaning forward, her trembling hand tight on Alice’s forearm.

      ‘My