The Good Terrorist Read Online Free Page B

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 workshe 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