Injury Time by Beryl Bainbridge

seemed touched by moonlight; the edge of a chair shone, a fold of white tablecloth, the bevelled corner of a cardboard invitation stuck in the frame of the mirror. On the wall beneath the electric clock, a red indicator on a power point burned like the butt of a cigarette.
    Binny could see Alma sitting bolt upright on the sofa, eyes staring. The men took no notice of her.
    ‘You,’ said Ginger, looking at Binny. ‘Is there anyone living upstairs?’
    ‘No one,’ she said. ‘Honestly. I promise you.’
    ‘Have you got shutters on the first floor windows?’
    ‘Not any more,’ she said apologetically. ‘They had woodworm.’
    ‘Right,’ said Ginger. He spoke to Harry. ‘We don’t have to worry about the front door, or the roof. We’d hear the bastards. It’s the back and the first floor that needs watching.’
    The woman lying on the carpet, knees buckled against the lower half of the food cupboard, began to moan. Her assailant stood over her with his hands in his pockets.
    ‘You shouldn’t have done that, Widnes,’ said Harry. He nudged the woman’s arm with the toe of his boot.
    ‘Lay off,’ groaned the woman.
    ‘I want out,’ the man said. ‘What in God’s name do we do with them?’ He indicated the group huddled together in the gloaming of the front room.
    ‘First,’ Ginger said. ‘We got to watch the back and upstairs. There’s balconies up there. They could climb along from the house next door. Widnes, have a look round the back.’
    ‘I want bloody out,’ repeated Widnes angrily, but already he was going through the door. There was a clatter as he fell over some obstruction in the hall.
    The woman sat upright and clutched her ribs. ‘Crazy bastard,’ she whined. ‘He damn near killed me.’
    ‘Sod you,’ said Ginger. He and Harry stood at the back window and peered out at the pink city sky.
    ‘My wife,’ said Simpson. ‘Where’s my wife?’ He went, without interference, to the door. He was ashamed of himself, but he hoped Muriel was still in the house; he didn’t want to be left alone.
    Muriel was sitting on the stairs holding a doll on her knee. She was playing with its celluloid toes and frowning.
    ‘Where have you been?’ asked Simpson. He became terribly angry at the thought of her hiding in the hall when he had been exposed to such violence. The skirt of her dress, he noticed, was streaked with dirt and torn at the hem.
    ‘I was out at the bins,’ she said. ‘Seeing to Alma.’
    ‘I told you not to bother with that woman,’ he scolded. ‘You made a ridiculous fuss of her.’
    ‘I was glad of something to do,’ Muriel said. ‘I’m used to doing things for you and the children. It’s what I’m for. I don’t know what to do with my hands when I’m not busy. After the children were walking and we gave the pram away, I used to cross my arms over my chest when I went out.’
    ‘Look at the state of your dress,’ shouted Simpson. ‘And your stockings. You realise your fur is ruined. It’s in the most disgusting mess, absolutely disgusting.’
    ‘Stop it,’ she said. ‘I’m frightened.’
    He sat on the stairs beside her and put his arms round her shoulders. There were smashed picture frames on the carpet and pieces of broken glass. Where the bicycle had leaned there was now a dark blue pram; the handlebars of the bicycle were twisted and caught in the bannisters.
    ‘I’ve seen one of them before,’ said Simpson. ‘The one called Widnes.’
    ‘Why are they here?’ Muriel asked. She looked down at the doll and let it fall on the stair. ‘I thought it was real,’ she said.
    ‘They won’t harm us,’ said Simpson. ‘There’s too many of us. What would be the point? Whatever they’ve done, it couldn’t be worth shooting the lot of us.’ He thought of the woman on the floor, battered by the man he’d met at the telephone kiosk. It was a mercy he hadn’t argued with the fellow over who should first use the phone.
    Ginger came into the hall.