The Furies by Irving McCabe

noise of a police whistle behind her, she lengthened her stride as much as the hem of her skirt would allow, and scurried along the pavement, all the time aware of the curious glances from pedestrians walking towards her.
    More shouts and another blast from a police whistle followed – both louder, both nearer – and she realised she could not outpace the police. Dear Lord, they would soon catch her, or some diligent citizen might stop her. What should she do?
    There was only one option: hide.
    She saw an alleyway between the houses and slipped into it – she had no idea where it went – and blindly hurried to the bottom; it turned right into a brick-walled passage, which ran parallel to the main street. Wooden doors were built into the passage wall, presumably leading into the back yards of the houses, Elspeth thought, as she tried the handle to the first and found it locked. There were footsteps in the alleyway behind her and she quickly tried several more doors before finding a handle that responded: with a click the door swung open. She slid through and hurriedly closed it behind her, her heart hammering in her throat as she looked up to see a bolt and quietly slid it across. Then she turned round and leant back against the doorframe, trying to catch her breath and slow her racing heart.
    It took her a moment before she realised that sitting on a chair outside the open back door of the house was a young woman with a small boy on her lap. The child – he looked about five years old – was dressed in pyjamas, with a book propped on his lap. Both looked frightened as the woman pulled him close to her chest.
    A clatter of hobnailed boots, the rattle of handles, the thump of passage doors being shoulder-barged. The woman slowly lowered the boy to the ground, then took his hand, and, keeping her eyes fixed on Elspeth, began to back towards the open door of the house.
    Elspeth saw her fear and took a measured step forward, holding her hands out in a gesture of supplication. ‘Please, ma’am,’ she whispered. ‘I mean no harm to you or your child.’
    As the woman watched her, Elspeth heard footsteps in the alleyway and turned to see the handle to the passage door rotate and then shudder as one of the policemen leant against it. Elspeth paused, holding her breath, waiting to see if his weight might force it open. But it held, and his footsteps faded as he walked further along the alleyway. She turned back to the woman, who was staring intently at the red-and-green WSPU brooch Elspeth had pinned to her blouse. After a moment the woman looked up, put a finger to her lips, and silently motioned for Elspeth to go towards her.
    Elspeth quietly followed her into the house, stepping aside as the woman closed the door and turned a key in the lock.
    Inside the small scullery kitchen Elspeth smiled at the boy, who was hiding behind his mother’s leg, clinging to her skirt out of shyness or fear. The woman leant back against a small kitchen table, her arms crossed, her eyes wary. ‘What’s a smart woman like you doing running from the police?’ she said. ‘Is it something to do with the suffrage meeting at the rink?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Why are you running away?’
    â€˜Mrs Pankhurst was there – they released her from prison two days ago under the cat and mouse rule.’
    The woman nodded.
    â€˜Well, the police were waiting and re-arrested her before she could enter the meeting. She’s a sick woman and the women in the crowd were upset about it. They were – we were – protesting, which is our legal right. Then the police began to arrest us and I had to make a run for it.’
    The woman thought for a moment. ‘Well, I don’t approve of law-breaking,’ she said. Then she stared at the WSPU brooch again. ‘But the way some women protesters are treated by the police is a scandal.’ She smiled and looked down at the boy.