Injury Time by Beryl Bainbridge Page A

‘Inside,’ he shouted, pointing his gun at Simpson’s knees. He dragged the pram backwards into the kitchen and felt underneath the storm cover. Taking out a revolver, he gave it to Harry. The two of them left the room.
    The woman was now sitting on a chair by the sink, holding a shot gun on her lap. The pram stood beside her. Gripping the handle in one hand and staring sullenly ahead, she began idly to push it back and forth.

10
    A lma was the first to speak. She whispered into the half darkness. ‘What’s it all mean, darlings? I thought you were playing silly games. All that banging about. Why don’t you sit down?’
    Nobody answered her.
    She crawled along the sofa and poked her head round the cupboard. ‘You don’t mind if they sit down, do you, dear? They’ve had a shock.’
    ‘Sit at the table,’ ordered the woman. ‘But don’t go near the sodding door.’
    Binny sat on Edward’s knee and clung tightly to his neck. He felt comforted by her warm body on his lap and her breath fanning his cheek. In the circumstances it didn’t matter any more about keeping up appearances for Muriel’s sake. He tried to think when and how Helen would know where he was. There wasn’t a phone number in his diary, or any little pieces of incriminating paper in the pockets of his other suits. She’d look up Simpson’s number in the directory, he supposed, but that wouldn’t help. He didn’t imagine Simpson would have told his daughters where he was going; they were both over eighteen and possibly out themselves. Helen would ring the hospitals first and later the police. It would take hours to get through to the casualty wards – it was practically impossible to find anyone on duty even in an emergency. By the time she’d finished her enquiries, they might be released and free to go home. He’d have to make a statement of course, but these days the police were very understanding. He could even say he’d been passing the house and decided to give chase. The police were always inciting the public to have a go. Or maybe he was on the premises at Simpson’s invitation. He could mention he’d been taken ill – something like a heart attack. He’d lie merely to Helen, not to the police – that would be irresponsible and wrong. God knows, he wouldn’t have to fake it – he felt like death.
    ‘Can I sit with them, dear?’ said Alma. ‘I feel a bit out of it over here.’
    The woman didn’t reply. Keeping a wary eye on the shot gun, Alma moved from the sofa to sit at the table. She was still wearing the duffle coat with its hood pulled over her head. She looked like an under-sized monk, the tip of her nose showing and her hands lost in a welter of sleeves.
    Overhead footsteps sounded on the wooden floor. Furniture was being dragged across the room.
    ‘I don’t suppose this will go on for very long,’ said Edward. ‘They’ve got procedures worked out for this sort of situation. There’s been so much of it lately.’
    Alma was anxious to know what sort of situation it was. Having been asleep at the time, somewhat under the weather as she freely admitted, she wasn’t absolutely sure what had occurred. Like a bird, eyes bright, beaked nose dipping above the tablecloth, she peeped from the hood of the duffle coat.
    ‘Hostages,’ explained Edward. ‘It’s obvious. They’ve escaped from somewhere. Some jail. It happens all the time.
    ‘But how can they be hostages, darling?’
    ‘Lower your voice,’ snapped Simpson. ‘Not them. Us.’
    Alma looked at him. ‘You were horrid to me before,’ she said. ‘Yes you were, pet, don’t deny it.’ She waggled her sleeve at him flirtatiously.
    Edward spoke in low undertones of a decaying society, the gradual breaking down of law and order, overcrowded prisons, lack of money. There was no doubt about it, they were living in decadent times. He was conscious that no one followed his train of thought. ‘Why, only last week,’ he confessed, ‘I was undercharged at