The Good Terrorist by Doris Lessing

was laughing, but hesounded frightened. “It all goes into the sewers, underneath here, but suppose the sewers just packed up?”
    “They won’t,” said Alice, peering through the darkness at his dark face to find out what was really frightening him.
    “Why shouldn’t they? I mean, they say our sewers are all old and rotten. Suppose they just explode? With sewer gas?” He laughed again.
    She did not know what to say.
    “I mean, we just go on living in this city,” he said, full of despair. “We just go on living.…”
    Very far from his usual self was Jim now. Gone was that friendly sweet-cheeked face. It was bitter, and angry, and fearful.
    She said, “Come in, Jim, let’s have a cup of tea and forget it, it’s done.”
    “That’s just what I mean,” he said, sullen. “You say, Come and have a cup of tea. And that’s the end of it. But it isn’t the end of it, not on your life it isn’t.”
    And he flung down the spade and went in to shut himself in his room.
    Alice followed. For the third time that day she stood in the grimy bath, labouring with cold water to get herself clean.
    Then she went upstairs. On the top floor all the windows were open, admitting a fresh smell. It was raining steadily. The sacks of refuse would have a lot of water in them, and the dustmen might be bad-tempered about it.
    Midnight. Alice slumped down the stairs, yawning, holding the sense of the house in her mind, the pattern of the rooms, everything that needed to be done. Where was Jasper? She wanted Jasper. The need for Jasper overtook her sometimes, like this. Just to know he was there somewhere, or if not, soon would be. Her heart was pounding in distress, missing Jasper. But as she reached the bottom step, there was a pounding on the door as if a battering ram were at work.
The police
. Her mind raced: Jasper? If he was in the house, would he keep out of sight? Old Bill had only to take one look at Jasper and they were at him. He and she had joked often enough that if the police saw Jasper a hundred yards off and in the dark, they would close in on the kill: they felt something about himthey could not bear. And Roberta and Faye? Please God they were still at the picket. The police would have only to take one look at them, too, to be set off. Philip? The wrong sort of policeman would find that childish appeal irresistible. But Pat would be all right, and Bert.…
Jim, where was he?
    As she thought this, Pat appeared at the sitting-room door, closing it behind her in a way that told Alice that the two men were in there; and Philip stood at the kitchen door, holding a large torch, switched on, and a pair of pliers.
    Alice ran to the front door, and opened it quickly, so that the men who had been battering at it crashed in, almost on top of her.
    “Come in,” she said equably, having sized up their condition in a glance. They had their hunting look, which she knew so well, but it wasn’t too bad, their blood wasn’t really up, except perhaps for that one, whose face she knew. Not as an individual but as a type. It was a neat, cold, tidy face, with a fluffy little moustache: a baby face with hard cold grey eyes. He enjoys it, she thought; and, seeing his quick look around, straining to go, as if on the end of a leash, she felt sharp little thrills down her thighs. She was careful that he did not catch her glance, but went forward to stand in front of a big broad man, who must weigh fifteen stone. A sergeant. She knew his type, too. Not too bad. She had to look right up to him, and he looked down at her, in judgement.
    “We told you lot to clear out,” said this man, with the edge on his voice that the dustmen had, a hard contempt, but he was making a gesture to a couple of the men who were about to pull Pat aside and go into the sitting room. They desisted.
    Alice held out the yellow paper, and said, “We are an agreed squat.”
    “Not yet you aren’t,” said the sergeant, taking in the main point at once.
    “No, but