come around."
"I could get the phone book. We could look it up," said Julie briskly.
But Ruth said, not flurried: "They had to have it changed."
Terry made more coffee, and Julie turned on the Hoover. She went around the room, moving furniture, and then around Ruth, who did not move, simply lifting her feet off the ground until the appliance had passed. Then Julie did the stairs, banging quite a lot, and dragged the Hoover off into the bedroom and the upstairs room Terry called his Lair. It was a tiny place he had managed to fill with shed clothes, half-made model airplanes, paperback thrillers, and empty beer cans. Sometimes Terry also wrote short pieces of fiction in here. Julie had admired this talent when first they met, but now she did not bother with what Terry wrote. Squashed in the corner was a camp bed. That would need to be made up, too.
Julie cleaned the bathroom, managing to knock all the toothbrushes and makeup off the shelf under the mirror.
Terry must be mad to ask this girl to stay tonight.
They had agreed, months ago, that it was just as well to play safe. They had their regular friends. But what did they know about this Ruth?
How trustworthy was Terry? There was that girl at his office, Sherry, and perhaps—
Julie did the beds.
When she came down, Terry was still holding forth to Ruth, and Ruth still listening, sitting composed in a black T-shirt and jeans on the two-seater settee. Terry sat on the floor by the electric fire and his mug had made a wet ring on the top of the surround. There were biscuit crumbs on the carpet.
While Julie washed up, Terry went out to get some wine and cans of Carlsberg Special Brew.
The cat appeared at the kitchen door, and Julie let it in.
"I suppose I've got to feed you now."
She opened a can of cat food and put it down.
The cat approached the food, and ate, standing up, tail laid flat to the floor as if to earth itself.
Ruth came into the doorway of the kitchen.
"You have a cat."
"Cat? Yes."
The kitchen was unwide and Julie found herself hoping that Ruth would not enter it, for then they would brush against each other, something she did not relish. The cat saved her from this by looking around from behind the cooker, and then walking straight up to Ruth. "What's her name?" asked Ruth.
"Mohawk," said Julie. Terry had called the cat that, and she had thought it clever, at the time. But it was a stupid name, typical.
And Ruth did not employ the name. Instead she got down on her knees and held out her hand for the cat to sniff. The cat inspected her fingers, finding something fascinating.
The cat's face was coal-black with one white dot, like a speck of paint, on its forehead. The yellow eyes shone like lemon fruit-drops.
" 'Dark they were and golden eyed,' " said Ruth.
"Pardon?"
"It's Ray Bradbury," said Ruth. "The Martians in the short story."
"Oh. Terry reads sci-fi," said Julie, dismissively.
Ruth did not respond. She had picked up the cat, and held it in her arms, her cheek against its sleek black back. The cat purred with a high grasshopper whirr.
Julie felt annoyed, as she did about that Macdonald woman next door, the one who had complained about her music and who stole her cat. Julie would often shut the cat in, but then the cat would shit in the bath.
After all, Julie pushed by Ruth with an aggressive "Excuse me," and went to the music center. She selected one of the most vibrant tapes, put it on, and stepped up the volume.
The beat came, and she moved to it for a moment, knocking against a toffee-wood table by the settee.
When she glanced round, Ruth had gone with the cat out of the back door into the weedy garden.
Usually over the weekend Mrs. Macdonald tried to keep to herself as much as possible. It was at these times that she felt the most threatened. Weekends, and in the evenings, when the loud music was played and the noisy visits went on. Her house was separated from the house of Julie Sawyer and Terry Purvis only by the width of
"I could get the phone book. We could look it up," said Julie briskly.
But Ruth said, not flurried: "They had to have it changed."
Terry made more coffee, and Julie turned on the Hoover. She went around the room, moving furniture, and then around Ruth, who did not move, simply lifting her feet off the ground until the appliance had passed. Then Julie did the stairs, banging quite a lot, and dragged the Hoover off into the bedroom and the upstairs room Terry called his Lair. It was a tiny place he had managed to fill with shed clothes, half-made model airplanes, paperback thrillers, and empty beer cans. Sometimes Terry also wrote short pieces of fiction in here. Julie had admired this talent when first they met, but now she did not bother with what Terry wrote. Squashed in the corner was a camp bed. That would need to be made up, too.
Julie cleaned the bathroom, managing to knock all the toothbrushes and makeup off the shelf under the mirror.
Terry must be mad to ask this girl to stay tonight.
They had agreed, months ago, that it was just as well to play safe. They had their regular friends. But what did they know about this Ruth?
How trustworthy was Terry? There was that girl at his office, Sherry, and perhaps—
Julie did the beds.
When she came down, Terry was still holding forth to Ruth, and Ruth still listening, sitting composed in a black T-shirt and jeans on the two-seater settee. Terry sat on the floor by the electric fire and his mug had made a wet ring on the top of the surround. There were biscuit crumbs on the carpet.
While Julie washed up, Terry went out to get some wine and cans of Carlsberg Special Brew.
The cat appeared at the kitchen door, and Julie let it in.
"I suppose I've got to feed you now."
She opened a can of cat food and put it down.
The cat approached the food, and ate, standing up, tail laid flat to the floor as if to earth itself.
Ruth came into the doorway of the kitchen.
"You have a cat."
"Cat? Yes."
The kitchen was unwide and Julie found herself hoping that Ruth would not enter it, for then they would brush against each other, something she did not relish. The cat saved her from this by looking around from behind the cooker, and then walking straight up to Ruth. "What's her name?" asked Ruth.
"Mohawk," said Julie. Terry had called the cat that, and she had thought it clever, at the time. But it was a stupid name, typical.
And Ruth did not employ the name. Instead she got down on her knees and held out her hand for the cat to sniff. The cat inspected her fingers, finding something fascinating.
The cat's face was coal-black with one white dot, like a speck of paint, on its forehead. The yellow eyes shone like lemon fruit-drops.
" 'Dark they were and golden eyed,' " said Ruth.
"Pardon?"
"It's Ray Bradbury," said Ruth. "The Martians in the short story."
"Oh. Terry reads sci-fi," said Julie, dismissively.
Ruth did not respond. She had picked up the cat, and held it in her arms, her cheek against its sleek black back. The cat purred with a high grasshopper whirr.
Julie felt annoyed, as she did about that Macdonald woman next door, the one who had complained about her music and who stole her cat. Julie would often shut the cat in, but then the cat would shit in the bath.
After all, Julie pushed by Ruth with an aggressive "Excuse me," and went to the music center. She selected one of the most vibrant tapes, put it on, and stepped up the volume.
The beat came, and she moved to it for a moment, knocking against a toffee-wood table by the settee.
When she glanced round, Ruth had gone with the cat out of the back door into the weedy garden.
Usually over the weekend Mrs. Macdonald tried to keep to herself as much as possible. It was at these times that she felt the most threatened. Weekends, and in the evenings, when the loud music was played and the noisy visits went on. Her house was separated from the house of Julie Sawyer and Terry Purvis only by the width of
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