long enough for you to think about what youâve done.â She reached for her jacket, hanging on the back door. âKeep an eye on Polly for a bit will you, love,â Jenny went on. âIâm just going round to tell Paul he neednât worry about replacing your Walkman.â
Daisy flipped from feigned misery to real anger, waving her crumpet in the air and dripping butter onto the floor. âOh Mum, thatâs not fair! Why should I have to lose out on that too?â
âDonât jump to conclusions! Iâll get it on the house insurance! Or from those trigger-happy police.â And she made her escape, before Daisy could wear down her resistance.
âGood thing I was home, really. Anything could have happened,â Paul Mathieson was bragging to Carol as he watched her chopping leeks. In the ice-white, germ-free kitchen she chopped fast and firmly; bits did not fall off the scrubbed board onto the floor, or stick to the knife in an undisciplined way. The knife was stainless steel, it wouldnât dare be otherwise, and the shining blade flashed up and down. Paul, flinching, put his hands in his pockets on their way to a gesture of protection.
âAnything could
not
have happened, Paul,â Carol said, stopping briefly to point the knife at him. âThere was nothing in that bag but Daisy Collinsâs Walkman. I think that Mr Hasty is going to have to volunteer to pay for that, isnât he?â
âYes Carol,â Paul conceded meekly, wondering if it would be all right to help himself to the sherry, even though it wasnât quite time yet. He glanced into the sitting-room at the glass cabinet containing the decanter. If it wasnât locked, she wouldnât hear him opening the door. But if it was locked he was in trouble, for although the lock was tiny, it had a distressingly loud mechanism to it that no amount of oiling could silence. âCan I tempt you to a teeny drink, my pet?â Paul said, thinking to entice her to early alcohol. He took a hopeful step towards the cabinet. A couple of sherries inside Carol, and she might be in the mood for a bit of conjugal access later on.
âNot until youâve fed the cats,â she replied sternly, not even looking up from the chopping.
Paul turned back and dutifully opened the catfood cupboard. Ming and Mong, the matched pair of squint-eyed pale Siamese cats yowled at him from the kitchen floor, plaiting their skinny bodies round his legs. Greedy little buggers, he thought, why should their dinners get priority over me and my drink?
He held his breath as he scooped the foul-smelling Whiskas. The two food bowls had the word âPussyâ in ornate script painted on them, bought in humourless innocence by Carol, but which never failed to bring a silly schoolboyish smirk to Paulâs face. He bent to put the dishes on the floor, keeping the evidence of his dirty mind turned away from Carol, in case she caught him and gave him one of her looks. The cats, tigerish, hissed at each other over the food and jostled stupidly for the same bowl, ignoring the other one. Paul squatted on the floor to push them apart, getting scratched for his effort, then sat back on his heels and watched Carolâs bum jiggling slightly in its tight mauve trousers as she vigorously cut carrots. It was a trim bum, apple-round and temptingly biteable, it seemed to Paul. He could see the imprint of her knickers showing through the fabric, and knew they were the blue lacy ones, cut high and trimmed with jaunty satin frills round the legs. Paul, influenced by the cats, bared his teeth in semblance of a lecherous snarl, just as Carol turned to look at him.
âWhat
are
you doing?â she demanded, incredulously.
âEr . . .â The doorbell rang, saving Paul from inventing an explanation. Rearranging his features into a twisted grin, he scrambled up from the floor and leapt into the hallway, almost falling through the frosted
Daisy flipped from feigned misery to real anger, waving her crumpet in the air and dripping butter onto the floor. âOh Mum, thatâs not fair! Why should I have to lose out on that too?â
âDonât jump to conclusions! Iâll get it on the house insurance! Or from those trigger-happy police.â And she made her escape, before Daisy could wear down her resistance.
âGood thing I was home, really. Anything could have happened,â Paul Mathieson was bragging to Carol as he watched her chopping leeks. In the ice-white, germ-free kitchen she chopped fast and firmly; bits did not fall off the scrubbed board onto the floor, or stick to the knife in an undisciplined way. The knife was stainless steel, it wouldnât dare be otherwise, and the shining blade flashed up and down. Paul, flinching, put his hands in his pockets on their way to a gesture of protection.
âAnything could
not
have happened, Paul,â Carol said, stopping briefly to point the knife at him. âThere was nothing in that bag but Daisy Collinsâs Walkman. I think that Mr Hasty is going to have to volunteer to pay for that, isnât he?â
âYes Carol,â Paul conceded meekly, wondering if it would be all right to help himself to the sherry, even though it wasnât quite time yet. He glanced into the sitting-room at the glass cabinet containing the decanter. If it wasnât locked, she wouldnât hear him opening the door. But if it was locked he was in trouble, for although the lock was tiny, it had a distressingly loud mechanism to it that no amount of oiling could silence. âCan I tempt you to a teeny drink, my pet?â Paul said, thinking to entice her to early alcohol. He took a hopeful step towards the cabinet. A couple of sherries inside Carol, and she might be in the mood for a bit of conjugal access later on.
âNot until youâve fed the cats,â she replied sternly, not even looking up from the chopping.
Paul turned back and dutifully opened the catfood cupboard. Ming and Mong, the matched pair of squint-eyed pale Siamese cats yowled at him from the kitchen floor, plaiting their skinny bodies round his legs. Greedy little buggers, he thought, why should their dinners get priority over me and my drink?
He held his breath as he scooped the foul-smelling Whiskas. The two food bowls had the word âPussyâ in ornate script painted on them, bought in humourless innocence by Carol, but which never failed to bring a silly schoolboyish smirk to Paulâs face. He bent to put the dishes on the floor, keeping the evidence of his dirty mind turned away from Carol, in case she caught him and gave him one of her looks. The cats, tigerish, hissed at each other over the food and jostled stupidly for the same bowl, ignoring the other one. Paul squatted on the floor to push them apart, getting scratched for his effort, then sat back on his heels and watched Carolâs bum jiggling slightly in its tight mauve trousers as she vigorously cut carrots. It was a trim bum, apple-round and temptingly biteable, it seemed to Paul. He could see the imprint of her knickers showing through the fabric, and knew they were the blue lacy ones, cut high and trimmed with jaunty satin frills round the legs. Paul, influenced by the cats, bared his teeth in semblance of a lecherous snarl, just as Carol turned to look at him.
âWhat
are
you doing?â she demanded, incredulously.
âEr . . .â The doorbell rang, saving Paul from inventing an explanation. Rearranging his features into a twisted grin, he scrambled up from the floor and leapt into the hallway, almost falling through the frosted
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