The Good Terrorist Read Online Free PDF Page A

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