Paws for Alarm by Marian Babson

point of disintegration and we headed for the Main Hall. I spotted the next decoy first.
    â€˜Go and ask the guard what time it is –’ I pushed Donald towards the figure. He was halfway to it when he caught on and dashed back to pummel my side.
    â€˜You were going to! You almost did!’ Donna danced with glee.
    â€˜I’ll get you!’ Donald tried to thump his twin, but she was too quick for him.
    I called them to order and we did the Main Hall and the exhibition set pieces, then headed for the Chamber of Horrors. The twins pressed close to me as we descended the stairs, pointing to the fake cobwebs overhead and the grisly heads of the aristocrats who had been guillotined during the French Revolution. I shuddered as I realized that they were Mme Tussaud’s original work; the heads of friends, still dripping with blood, brought straight from the guillotine to the young Marie Tussaud who was forced to model them in wax. How had she kept her sanity?
    Yet, there was her own figure: Mme Tussaud herself, in serene old age, self-modelled and smiling. Proving that a strong enough personality could live through anything; survive horrors, emigrate and become a great business success in another country. It was surprising that modern feminists had not adopted her as a patron saint of their cause; she had everything. It would be a pity if a husband and a few children disqualified her.
    The huge main line station was deserted and curiously eerie as we walked through it. The shops were shut and dark; only a lone vendor with a pile of evening newspapers was in sight. It was past the rush hour and not yet time for the theatre crowd to be heading for the suburbs.
    We found our train platform and, so that we wouldn’t have to walk so far at the other end, we strolled almost the length of it, passing endless lighted windows illuminating empty carriages. It might have been a ghost train.
    We settled ourselves in a compartment; soon a whistle blew, doors slammed and the train moved slowly out of the station. Arnold settled back and began reading the newspaper, the twins dropped into a light doze. I sat at the window looking out at what I could see of the scenery going past. Vignettes of life appeared and disappeared as the lighted windows flashed by.
    I felt tired but restless. It would be nice to have stayed longer in London, taken in a show, and been one of the crowd on the last train home. Perhaps I could organize a childminding swap with Lania; I’d take her kids some evenings when she and Richard wanted to go out, and they could take the twins so that Arnold and I could get to a few theatres while we were here.
    I looked across to say something of the sort, but it was too late. Arnold had fallen asleep, too. With a sigh, I twitched the newspaper from his hands and folded it. I’d read it later; I was still finding the glimpses of English life in the houses along the track more interesting than newsprint.
    We had left the car in the station car park all day. The car park had been full when we left it there this morning, now there were only a few cars remaining. We relinquished our tickets to the ticket collector and headed gratefully for the car, congratulating ourselves on our forethought.
    Yawning, Arnold slid behind the steering wheel. The twins both crowded on to the front seat and battled with the seat belt until it fastened around both of them.
    â€˜Are you sure you’re awake enough to drive?’ I hesitated before getting into the back seat.
    â€˜I haven’t been asleep.’ Arnold was immediately on the defensive. ‘I was just resting my eyes.’
    â€˜Hmmph!’ I got in.
    â€˜It isn’t easy, poring over old books and manuscripts all day, you know. This isn’t a pleasure trip for me –’
    â€˜I'm working!’ He let in the clutch and the car lurched forward.
    â€˜I suppose I’m not?’ I couldn’t let him get away with that. ‘If you