Injury Time by Beryl Bainbridge

road with the rain falling on him. She knew he didn’t remember the name either.
    He ran up and down steps, peering at windows and glancing now and then at the car. She waved encouragingly once or twice. After a while he returned and slumped damply into the driving seat.
    ‘No luck,’ said Muriel. There was a funny smell coming from his suede overcoat.
    ‘I’ve got it,’ cried Simpson. ‘His car. Freeman’s car. It’s a brown Rover. It’ll be outside the house.’ He turned the key in the ignition.
    ‘He won’t have come by car,’ said Muriel. ‘Just drive very slowly and we’ll look for vegetation.’
    There were three balconies, next to each other, entwined with thin strands of creeper. On Muriel’s instructions Simpson went up the steps of the second house and knocked on the door. Here the vine, coming into bud, hung low and dripped water down his neck. Muriel remained in the warmth of the car. The house was in complete darkness.
    Edward plucked Simpson inside with such haste that to Muriel, observing the scene from behind a window distorted by rain, it was as if her husband had simply been swallowed up. She stared curiously at the empty porch.
    Simpson’s propulsion into the hall was painful; he was pierced in the ankle by a sharp implement. His small cry of agony went unnoticed amid the enthusiasm of his welcome.
    To Edward, the arrival of Simpson was comparable to sighting the cavalry on the brow of the hill when all seemed lost. He hit his friend repeatedly on the shoulder as though they’d not met in years.
    ‘My wife,’ said Simpson. ‘She’s still out there.’ He tore himself from Edward’s embrace and hobbled down the steps.
    ‘What on earth happened to you?’ asked Muriel. ‘Why are you being so silly?’
    ‘I was stabbed,’ said Simpson, gritting his teeth and locking the car.
    Muriel took no notice. He was always complaining of aches and pains; he had no stamina. She stood on the pavement in the rain, trying to protect her hair with her arms. The privet hedge, she noted, illuminated by the block of flats across the street, was festooned with egg shells, strewn among the dripping leaves like Christmas baubles on a tree.
    ‘Aren’t they stopping after all?’ asked Binny, confused by the comings and goings. She stood at the table, rearranging the flowers in the white vase.
    ‘They’re on their way,’ said Edward. ‘Simpson forgot his wife. He’s gone to fetch her.’ And he ran out again to wait for them behind the door.
    Simpson, followed by Muriel, re-entered the house with caution. In the gloom he saw the outline of a bicycle leaning against the wall.
    ‘Such weather,’ murmured Muriel, peering downwards for somewhere to wipe her feet.
    Edward led them into the front room. ‘This is George Simpson,’ he said, speaking to Binny.
    Simpson saw a small woman with a pale face, dressed in mourning. She was holding a pink carnation in her hand.
    ‘And his wife, Miriam—’
    ‘Muriel,’ corrected Simpson. He bent and rubbed at his ankle. He felt sure he was bleeding.
    ‘We weren’t certain of the house,’ Muriel said. ‘It was in darkness.’
    ‘Edward made me draw the shutters,’ explained Binny. ‘He doesn’t like being overlooked.’
    ‘It’s cosier, don’t you think?’ cried Edward. ‘Keeps the place warm. I felt rather chilly myself, though I did turn up the thermostat.’ He looked anxiously at Muriel, fearing he’d sounded too familiar with the central heating system.
    Simpson said shutters were splendid. It was just like France. So much better than curtains.
    They all gazed at the windows and nodded in agreement. The metal bar that kept the shutters in place, once fixed, was difficult to unclasp. The children, impatient to let in daylight at breakfast-time, were in the habit of jabbing at the bar with a poker to release it; most of the paintwork and portions of the wood panelling were severely damaged.
    ‘We did have curtains,’ said Binny. ‘But they