The Good Terrorist by Doris Lessing Page A

once.
    “No, but it’s only two days. I’ve done this before, you see,” she said reasonably. “It’s all right if you pay the bills and keep the place clean.”
    “Clean,” said the sergeant, bending down over her, hands on hips like a stage sergeant, Mr. Plod the Policeman. “It’s disgusting.”
    “You saw that rubbish outside,” said Alice. “The Council are taking that tomorrow. I organised it with them.”
    “You did, did you? Then why were we having phone calls about you digging some pit in the garden and filling it with muck?”
    “Muck is the word,” said Alice. “The Council workmen filled the lavatories with cement, so there were buckets upstairs. We had to get rid of them. We dug a pit.”
    A pause. The big broad man stood there, leaning a little forward, allowing his broad red face to express measured incredulity.
    “You dug a pit,” he said.
    “Yes, we did.”
    “In the middle of London. You dig a pit.”
    “That’s right,” said Alice, polite.
    “And having dug a pit, you fill it with …” He hesitated.
    “Shit,” said Alice, calm.
    The five other policemen laughed, sniggered, drew in their breath, according to their natures, but the young brute on whom Alice had been keeping half an eye suddenly kicked out at the door of the cupboard under the stairs, smashing it.
    Philip let out an exclamation, and he was by him in a flash. “You said something?” he said, looming over Philip, who stood there in his little white overalls. A kick would smash him to pieces.
    “Never mind,” said the sergeant authoritatively. He wanted to pursue the main crime. The vicious one fell back a step and stood with clenched hands, his eyes at work now on Pat, who stood relaxed, watching Alice. Alice, seeing his look, knew that if Pat were to meet that one in a demo, she could expect the worst. Again the little cold thrill of sensation.
    “You—stand—there—and tell—me—that you dig a pit in a garden, and just make a cesspit, without a by-your-leave, without any authority!”
    “But what else could we do,” said Alice in clear, reasonable tones. “We couldn’t put dozens of buckets of shit into the sewage system all at once. Not in a house that’s been empty. You’d really have cause to complain then, wouldn’t you?”
    A pause. “You can’t do that kind of thing,” said the sergeant, after a pause. In retreat. Please God, thought Alice, Pat or Philip won’t say: But we’ve done it!
    “It was a very large pit,” she said. “We came by chance on some lush’s bottle bin. It was a good five feet deep. We’d show you, but it’s raining. If you came round tomorrow, we could show you then?”
    A silence. It hung in the balance. Please, please God, thought Alice, nothing will happen, the two girls won’t walk in—that really would finish it—or Jasper doesn’t suddenly take it into his head … For Jasper, in a certain mood, might easily come out and enjoy provoking a confrontation.
    But the thing held. The five policemen who had been scattered around the space of the hall came in closer to their leader, like a posse, and Alice said, “Excuse me, but could I have that?” For the sergeant still held the yellow paper. He read it through again, solemnly, and then gave it back.
    “I’ll have to report that pit to the Water Board,” he said.
    “There were no pipes where we dug,” said Alice, “not one.”
    “Only a skeleton,” said Pat, negligently. As one the six men turned, glaring. “A dog,” said Pat. “It was a dog’s grave.”
    The men relaxed. But they kept their eyes on Pat. She had got a rise out of them, but so smoothly. In the dim light from the single bulb, she lounged there, a dark handsome girl, politely smiling.
    “We’ll be back,” said the sergeant, and hitched his head at the door. They all went out, the killer last, with a cold frustrated look at little Philip, at Pat, but not much at the ordinary, unchallenging Alice.
    The door shut. No one moved.