The Good Terrorist - Doris May Lessing [172]
“Then I shan’t be here,” said Alice, sounding calm, yet feeling sick with panic. She had thought that their trip out to drop those packages had been the end of it all.
“And the other thing was, Felicity came in. She said they have found Philip’s sister, and the funeral is on Wednesday.”
“Then we can’t do what we planned on Wednesday.” They had decided that Wednesday was the best day for their feat of arms.
Jocelin said, sounding critical, “First things first.”
“But somebody must be at his funeral.”
“You go. You aren’t essential for the plan.”
“But I want to be there!”
Jocelin shrugged. She lifted her mug, stood up, said “Good night,” and went upstairs. Probably to perfect the four explosive devices.
Alice was going to bed when Mary and Reggie came in to say that they were moving out on Wednesday; they would hire a remover’s van.
Alice was ready to laugh at the remover’s van, but remembered that two rooms and part of the attic and most of their bedroom were piled with furniture, and simply said, “Right. Will you need help?”
“Won’t say no,” said Reggie, and off the two went upstairs. So it can’t be on Wednesday, said Alice to herself. She, too, went to bed. She woke early and left a note on the table saying that if the Irishmen turned up, they must be told that she, Alice, was away, and that no one knew where the packages were on the rubbish tip; they had probably been covered over long ago under new rubbish. She went out, thinking that presumably that Russian had told them to come. Well, she had sent him packing, hadn’t she? They would soon all get tired of coming; it was simply a question of sticking it out. She pushed her anxiety down and out of sight.
It was a pleasant morning, sunny, not cold. She walked around the streets, found it was only ten, sat for a long time in a little restaurant, eating a breakfast she did not really want. Eleven-thirty. She thought of dropping in to see her mother again, actually got to the door, and then, realising she would see that meagre little sitting room and her mother boxed into it, with the two shabby, once-splendid armchairs, lost heart and went off across London to visit a squat where lived a girl she had known in Birmingham. The girl had been at the CCU Congress. They talked about having another one, perhaps next month. The house was perfect for a Congress. Alice thought, her heart cold, that in a month they would all be gone from that house: it had been taken for granted everyone would scatter. Who knew where they would all be?
She got back at five. Jasper and Bert and Caroline were in the kitchen, eating take-away. One glance was enough to tell Alice that she had been right: Bert and Caroline could now be considered a couple. But Alice decided not to care.
The Irishmen, she was told, had not been again.
Faye and Roberta had come in, and the six—Jasper, Bert, Caroline, with Jocelin—had decided that the job was to go ahead as planned, on Wednesday afternoon. In the morning they would help Mary and Reggie with loading the removal van. Alice could go to the funeral.
“But I don’t know if the funeral is morning or afternoon,” said Alice.
No one answered. It was not important. Alice thought it would be just like that if she left the squat: she would never be mentioned, would be forgotten, like Jim, like Pat. Like Philip. No, Jasper would be after her, she knew that; the others might forget her, but Jasper could not.
On Tuesday they all went down to the scene of the crime—their joke—and walked around and about the great hotel, part of the crowds. Of course, they took trouble to dress the part. Jocelin, it seemed, did possess more than her jeans and sweater. She wore a dress of pinkish linen that looked as if it had been bought in Knightsbridge. Caroline, similarly, acquired the protective colouring of a beige well-cut skirt and a yellow shirt. Roberta, out of principle, refused to