The Good Terrorist by Doris Lessing Page B

They all stood staring at that door; the police could come crashing back again. A trap? But the seconds went past. They heard a car start up. Alice shook her head at Philip, who seemed about to break into some effusion of feeling. And the door did open. It was the sergeant.
    “I’ve been taking a look at those sacks,” he said. “You said they were being taken tomorrow?” But his eyes were at work all around the hall, lingering with a slight frown on the smashed-in cupboard door under the stairs.
    “Tomorrow,” said Alice. Then, in a disappointed voice, “Not very nice, was it, smashing in that little door, for nothing.”
    “Put in a complaint,” he said, briefly, almost good-naturedly, and disappeared.
    “Fascist shits,” said Pat, like an explosion, and did not move. They remained where they were. They might have been playing “statues.”
    They let a couple of minutes go past, then, as one, came to life, as Jim emerged from the shadows of his room, grinning, and the four went into the sitting room, where Jasper and Bert lounged, drinking beer. Alice knew from how they looked at her that Jasper had been telling Bert, again, how good she was at this—reflecting credit on himself; and that Pat had been impressed, and Jim was incredulous at the apparent ease of it all. She knew that this was a moment when she could get her own way about anything, and in her mind, at the head of her long agenda of difficulties to be overcome, stood the item: Philip and Jim.
    She accepted a bottle of beer from Bert, who gave her, with it, the thumbs-up sign, and soon they were all sitting in a close group, in the centre of the tall room. Candle-lit: there had not been time to put a bulb in. But Philip had sat down a little apart, and tentatively.
    “First,” said Pat, “to Alice!”
    They drank to her, and she sat silent, smiling, afraid she would cry.
    Now, she thought, I’ll bring up Philip. I’ll bring up Jim. We’ll get it settled .
    But in the hall, suddenly, were voices, laughter, and in a moment the two girls came in, lit with the exaltation that comes from a day’s satisfactory picketing and demonstrating and marching.
    Roberta, laughing, came over to the carrier of bottles and put one to her mouth, and drank standing, swallowing the beer down, then handed the bottle to Faye, who did the same.
    “What a day,” said Roberta, and she let herself slide onto the arm of a chair, while Faye sat on the other. A couple apart, they surveyed the rest, as adventurers do stay-at-homes, and began their tale, Roberta leading, Faye filling in.
    It was a question of the two or three hundred picketers—numbers had varied, as people came and went—preventing vans with newspapers from getting through the gates to distribute them. The police had been there to see the vans safely through.
    “Two hundred police,” said Roberta, scornfully. “Two hundred fucking police!”
    “More police than picketers,” said Faye, laughing, and Roberta watched her, fondly. Faye, animated and alive, was really very pretty. Her look of listlessness, even depression, had gone. She seemed to sparkle in the dim room.
    “I had to stop Faye from getting carried away,” said Roberta. “Otherwise she’d have been out there. Of course, with both of us having to keep a low profile …”
    “Were there arrests?”
    “Five,” said Roberta. “They got Gerry. He didn’t go quietly, though.”
    “I should say not,” said Faye proudly.
    “Who else?”
    “Didn’t know the others. They were the Militant lot, I think.”
    A pause. Alice knew she had lost her advantage, and felt discouraged. And, seeing Jasper’s face as he watched the two campaigning girls, she was thinking: He’ll be off down there tomorrow, if I know anything.
    He said, “I’ll go down tomorrow.” And he looked at Bert, who said, “Right.”
    Bert looked at Pat, and she said, “I’m on.”
    A silence. Faye said excitedly, “I’d like to have a go at one of those vans. You