afraid to move, as the men cursed and banged on the window and the side door. After a while they stopped.
"They won't really be away," whispered Liz. "They'll be across the road or something."
At Maureen's suggestion they shut up the office, left by the goods entrance and pissed off to the pictures for the afternoon. They saw a miserable film about a man who ran around shooting people.
"That was fucking rubbish," said Maureen, when they got outside.
"Oh, I liked it," said Liz, "I think he's dishy." Liz offered to cover Monday for Maureen, she owed her a shift anyway.
"That'd be great, Liz, I need a couple of days off in a row."
It was getting dark already and the streets were Saturday tea-time quiet, when families gather together to watch crap telly and unpack the shopping. Even Benny's close was silent, she couldn't hear any of the usual noises of TVs or children shouting. It felt dead.
Benny had left a note on the coffee table saying that he was at an AA meeting and would be back later. Maureen turned on all the lights in the flat, put the television on in the living room and tried to think about anything that wasn't Douglas. The house began to close in on her.
She started to make something to eat, not because she was hungry, just to keep herself moving. She found some bread but couldn't see any butter in the fridge.
The phone rang. She dropped the slices of bread and galloped over to it. It was Winnie. She was trying to disguise her drunkenness with a posher accent. Some journalists had been telephoning her.
"Don't say anything, Mum, please, and for God's sake don't give them any photos."
"I did not say anything," said Winnie. "And don't you talk to them either."
"I'm hardly going to, am I?"
"Well, sometimes people do things, things they wouldn't usually do, when things get ... a wee bit . . ." She forgot what she was talking about.
"You're pissed, then?" said Maureen.
Winnie couldn't summon the energy for a fight. "How dare you," she said, and dropped the receiver. She mumbled something about Mickey. Maureen could hear footsteps and then George asking a question in the background.
He picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"Hello, George, it's me."
"Oh, did you phone her?"
"No, she phoned me."
"Oh. She's a bit ... a bit tired. She was trying to phone you at work this afternoon but couldn't get an answer."
"Oh, there's something wrong with the switchboard. She'd have been put through to the back office," said Maureen. It was a good lie, made up on the spur of the moment, but her voice was too high, she was talking too fast.
"All right, then," said George irrelevantly, and hung up.
She ate some dry bread dipped in milk, the best cure for an acid stomach, and sat in front of the television, flicking from station to station, trying to find something engrossing. The programs were so asinine that not one of them could hold her attention for longer than thirty seconds.
If Benny would come home they could watch telly together. She could phone Leslie but she would have to talk about everything; she couldn't face that right now.
Maureen jumped when she heard the door. It was a polite rat-rat-rat, not a familiar knock. She walked apprehensively into the hallway, hoping to fuck it wasn't the police, and peered out of the spy hole.
She had never seen him before. He was in his midtwenties, dressed in a green bomber jacket and jeans with his hair greased back off his face. He was standing casually at the door, contrapposto, looking directly at the spy hole, as if he knew she was there looking out at him.
Her hand was on the latch when the letter box opened slowly.
"Maureen," he whispered, his voice a smug, nasal drawl. "I know you're there, Maureen, I can hear you moving."
Suddenly terrified, she flattened herself against the wall and slid away from the door.
"I can still hear you moving," he said. "Are you going to open the door?"
"Who are you?" breathed Maureen, a thin film of sweat forming on her upper
"They won't really be away," whispered Liz. "They'll be across the road or something."
At Maureen's suggestion they shut up the office, left by the goods entrance and pissed off to the pictures for the afternoon. They saw a miserable film about a man who ran around shooting people.
"That was fucking rubbish," said Maureen, when they got outside.
"Oh, I liked it," said Liz, "I think he's dishy." Liz offered to cover Monday for Maureen, she owed her a shift anyway.
"That'd be great, Liz, I need a couple of days off in a row."
It was getting dark already and the streets were Saturday tea-time quiet, when families gather together to watch crap telly and unpack the shopping. Even Benny's close was silent, she couldn't hear any of the usual noises of TVs or children shouting. It felt dead.
Benny had left a note on the coffee table saying that he was at an AA meeting and would be back later. Maureen turned on all the lights in the flat, put the television on in the living room and tried to think about anything that wasn't Douglas. The house began to close in on her.
She started to make something to eat, not because she was hungry, just to keep herself moving. She found some bread but couldn't see any butter in the fridge.
The phone rang. She dropped the slices of bread and galloped over to it. It was Winnie. She was trying to disguise her drunkenness with a posher accent. Some journalists had been telephoning her.
"Don't say anything, Mum, please, and for God's sake don't give them any photos."
"I did not say anything," said Winnie. "And don't you talk to them either."
"I'm hardly going to, am I?"
"Well, sometimes people do things, things they wouldn't usually do, when things get ... a wee bit . . ." She forgot what she was talking about.
"You're pissed, then?" said Maureen.
Winnie couldn't summon the energy for a fight. "How dare you," she said, and dropped the receiver. She mumbled something about Mickey. Maureen could hear footsteps and then George asking a question in the background.
He picked up the phone. "Hello?"
"Hello, George, it's me."
"Oh, did you phone her?"
"No, she phoned me."
"Oh. She's a bit ... a bit tired. She was trying to phone you at work this afternoon but couldn't get an answer."
"Oh, there's something wrong with the switchboard. She'd have been put through to the back office," said Maureen. It was a good lie, made up on the spur of the moment, but her voice was too high, she was talking too fast.
"All right, then," said George irrelevantly, and hung up.
She ate some dry bread dipped in milk, the best cure for an acid stomach, and sat in front of the television, flicking from station to station, trying to find something engrossing. The programs were so asinine that not one of them could hold her attention for longer than thirty seconds.
If Benny would come home they could watch telly together. She could phone Leslie but she would have to talk about everything; she couldn't face that right now.
Maureen jumped when she heard the door. It was a polite rat-rat-rat, not a familiar knock. She walked apprehensively into the hallway, hoping to fuck it wasn't the police, and peered out of the spy hole.
She had never seen him before. He was in his midtwenties, dressed in a green bomber jacket and jeans with his hair greased back off his face. He was standing casually at the door, contrapposto, looking directly at the spy hole, as if he knew she was there looking out at him.
Her hand was on the latch when the letter box opened slowly.
"Maureen," he whispered, his voice a smug, nasal drawl. "I know you're there, Maureen, I can hear you moving."
Suddenly terrified, she flattened herself against the wall and slid away from the door.
"I can still hear you moving," he said. "Are you going to open the door?"
"Who are you?" breathed Maureen, a thin film of sweat forming on her upper
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