Cut to the Quick by Joan Boswell

unadorned front porch neither repelled nor invited.
    â€œBarney Evans?” Zee Zee said to the woman who peered at them through the screen.
    â€œNot again,” she grumbled and shouted, “It’s them again, Barney.” Her lips turned down. “You might as well come in— you will anyway. He’ll be along. Don’t think he’s up. He may brush his teeth.” She shrugged. “Or not. I’m making strawberry jam. Went to the pick-it-yourself place yesterday.” She disappeared into the back.
    â€œI didn’t think we wore signs on our foreheads,” Rhona murmured.
    â€œNot for most people—but don’t you think that if you’ve had a number of brushes with police, you develop a sixth sense?” Zee Zee answered quietly.
    In the small hall, wallpapered in a grey, narrow stripe, an overhead light with a smoked glass shade cast little light. Rhona untangled the odours assaulting her nose. Boiling jam almost, but not quite, cancelled stale cigarette smoke, cat pee, rotting wood and rancid fat.
    â€œShe could have moved us to the front room or the kitchen,” Rhona complained, concentrating on breathing shallowly.
    As if she’d heard her comment, Mrs. Evans, if that’s who she was, poked her head out of the kitchen. “Sit in the living room,” she ordered and returned to her jam.
    They did and set up the tape recorder alongside a flickering soundless TV .
    â€œMaybe he’s having a shower?” Rhona said as minutes passed. She leaned toward Zee Zee and away from an overflowing brown glass ashtray sitting on a chrome stand. “Could we do this outside? I may throw up.”
    â€œPoor little cop,” a voice said.
    The man in the doorway would not have drawn attention in a crowd. He had a small quantity of sandy hair pulled across his forehead, pale, pasty freckled skin and a slightly overweight, paunchy body. If you disliked pigs, you would describe him as porcine.
    â€œYou again,” he said to Zee Zee. “What is it this time? Seems to me you didn’t do too well last time,” he smirked.
    â€œWe’re recording this interview,” Zee Zee said. “We’re here to talk to you about Curt Hartman.”
    â€œThat asshole.”
    â€œDo you belong to the anti SOHD group?”
    â€œIt’s not an organized group.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œWe don’t have meetings.”
    â€œHow do you decide when to picket, protest, whatever you do?”
    The man’s small eyes squinched. “Where you guys been— email, of course.”
    â€œAnd why do you oppose SOHD ?”
    â€œGive me a break. Genetic testing. Killing those who aren’t acceptable. SOHD —it’s another justification for abortion. I’m not giving you the spiel—you know what we think.” His pudgy hands clenched. “We’re prepared to wipe them off the face of the earth.” He nodded at the tape recorder. “You can record that—wipe them and their people from the face of the earth.”
    Zee Zee shook her head. “What happened to allowing individual expression of opinion? Freedom of speech. Is that only for those who agree with you?”
    â€œI’m not arguing with cops.” Barney folded his arms over his stomach.
    â€œWhere were you on Sunday night?”
    â€œYou’re crying in the dark, lady. Right here.” He slapped the stained velour sofa, releasing a dusty cloud. “Right here with the old lady, sippin’ a few brews and watchin’ TV until we sacked out. I never went out.”
    â€œAnd your wife will confirm that?”
    Barney smirked. “Of course.”
    â€œWe’d like to see your computer. Your emails sound interesting.”
    â€œMy computer. What the fuck?” Whatever he’d expected them to say, it clearly hadn’t been this. His eyes darted to the next room, where a laptop sat on a table amid a drift