The Good Terrorist - Doris May Lessing [131]
Faye did not go to bed until very late and, when she did, said to Alice that she would be all right by herself.
Alice got up in the night quite often, to listen outside Faye’s door. She thought that Faye hardly slept; often she wept, quietly, not wanting to disturb the others. Sometimes Alice could hear her moving about the room, lighting cigarettes, even singing a little to herself.
Roberta had written; they had the address of the hospital. Her mother was slowly dying; Roberta would come back as soon as she could.
A week had gone by. Jasper and Bert should be there. Then arrived a postcard written by Jasper, signed by them both, from Amsterdam, saying, “Wish you were here. Back soon.”
Caroline and Alice spent a lot of time together. Alice, drained and tired, needed Caroline’s natural vitality, her good spirits. Caroline admired Alice, could not stop talking about how Alice had transformed this house.
Most of the time Jocelin was in her room. She was at the top of the house. She seemed to have little to say to them or, indeed, much to say to anybody. She was a silent, observant—and, thought Alice, frightening—girl. What did she do in her room? Caroline said she was studying handbooks on how to be a good terrorist. She said this laughing, as was her way.
A weekend approached.
On the Friday, Reggie and Mary left for Cumberland after Mary finished work, for another Saturday of demonstrations. Jocelin departed, saying only, “See you Monday.”
Caroline said she was off to spend the weekend with a former boyfriend, who had married someone else, was now separated, and wished still to marry Caroline. Sometimes she thought that she would; more often, that she wouldn’t. Still, she liked being with him; they had a good time together, she said. She had invited Alice to come as well. Alice would have gone, but there was Faye. She felt bitter, sitting alone at the kitchen table, Faye having gone up to bed, and Philip upstairs, too.
All things being equal—this meant, without Faye—she would have gone off without leaving an address for Jasper; it didn’t matter where. She really must put her foot down, say she’d had enough. She might even leave him.
Repeating to herself how much better off she would be by herself, she felt how her heart chilled and saddened; and she stopped, saying again, “I’m just going to show him, that’s all.”
But how could she show him anything, if she was obediently waiting here when he got back? Which would almost certainly be in a day or two.
No, this business of Roberta’s mother was a disaster, for her as much as for Roberta and for Faye.
So she brooded, drinking coffee, and more coffee, sitting alone.
It was not yet twelve when she went up. Outside Faye’s door she stood listening: not a sound. This was unusual. Faye did not sleep, ever, until two or three.
Alice saw herself, standing there, her ear to a door panel on the dark landing, and was angry with herself, with everyone—self-pity raged. She went into her room and decided to go to sleep at once. But she did not. When she was safely in her scarlet Victorian nightdress, she went to the window and stood watching the traffic rushing past. She was remarkably uneasy and restless. Again outside Faye’s door, she said to herself: Now, this is enough, go to bed and stop it! But she did nothing of the kind. Gently she opened the door and stood there like a ghost, ready to hear Faye shout at her to go away, to leave her alone, to stop prying.… The light was out, and the room was dark. Faye could just be seen, a bundle in the corner. There was a strong smell. As Alice realised this smell was blood, she switched on the light and screamed. Faye lay on her back, propped slightly up on embroidered and frilled cushions, ghastly pale, her mouth slightly open, and her cut wrists resting on her thighs. Blood soaked everything.
Alice stood screaming.
She had foreseen this,