Skylark by Sheila Simonson Page A

nursery school. Tailored shorts with
knee socks. Enquiries continued into the Hillsborough football disaster. The transport workers'
union was going to call a strike. Chinese students were demonstrating in Beijing. A British
writers' association had petitioned the Czech government to release imprisoned playwright,
Vaçlav Havel. Had I ever heard of Vaçlav Havel? Vague recollections from a senior
seminar on absurdist theater surfaced, but nothing definite.
    Salman Rushdie I had heard of. Speaking of the absurd, the Iranians were still
determined to execute him for blasphemy. One of my more satirical basketball players had given
me a copy of The Satanic Verses as a bon voyage present. I left it behind. I didn't fancy
sashaying through Heathrow airport with it. Life is full of small cowardices. At least I had
displayed the novel in my shop window when it looked as if the chains were going to remove it
from their shelves.
    I brooded over my coffee. Ann rustled the Times . "Another cup?"
    "No, thank you, Lark. I reckon I ought to take a bath."
    "Plenty of hot water." I poured myself another cup and stared at the crossword puzzle. I
like crossword puzzles, but this one didn't make any sense. I wished I were home reading the Chronicle or the Examiner . I wished I were home, tucked into my bed with my
warm husband.
    "I wish I was home," Ann muttered. "I don't care about Princess Di's knees." She
dropped the paper on the cluttered floor and stood up. "I'm homesick."
    "Me, too." I eyed her. She looked as if she were about to burst into tears. "Uh, it's just
bad luck. And culture shock."
    Ann sniffed. "I miss my kids." She had two sons, both in college. "And I'm paying out
my life's savings to suffer. There's no justice."
    I couldn't argue with that.
    "Oh, well, bath time." She heaved a sigh and picked her way through the living room
clutter.
    I had tidied her bed out of the way and cleaned up the worst of the mess the thief had
created in the kitchen by the time she returned.
    "That looks better." She shoved her glasses on and inspected my work. She was wearing
a blue shirtwaist dress and looked crisp and collected. "Didn't Miss Beale say something about
sending a cleaning woman?"
    "Yes, but we'd probably better reduce the chaos. I have to go to Knightsbridge in an
hour."
    "To the American Express office? I'll come with you. I don't want to hang around here
by myself. We can visit the hospital afterwards. I'll buy flowers at the Tube station." She poured
herself another half cup of coffee. "Meanwhile I guess I'll straighten up my belongings. I feel as
if I ought to wash everything, what with that man pawing through my clothes."
    It was half past eleven before we found the hospital. The woman at the reception desk
told us with grim satisfaction that we would have to leave, Mr. Flatkick's condition had improved
but was still Grave. He was not permitted visitors. Ann thrust the flowers at her, with instructions
to give them to Milos, and we trudged off, our inadequate tourist maps in hand, in search of the
police station.
    It was a discreet brick building at the high priced end of the Fulham Road. The city
fathers had tucked it into the corner of a cul de sac opposite a posh terrace of fake-Victoriana.
Some architect of the Prince Charles school had made up his mind to clone Thomas Carlisle's
neighborhood in Cheyne Walk. The long row of red brick townhouses looked smug and
expensive. The police station looked like solid 1955 Council Housing. Only the nifty blue lamp
outside the entrance indicated the building's purpose.
    The Crime Scene technicians had taken our fingerprints the night before, so our visit
was a formality, as far as the desk sergeant was concerned. Just another pair of tourists to add to
the roll of forlorn crime victims.
    We waited on a stiff bench by the central reception desk. Finally Inspector Thorne
emerged, greeted us, and ushered us into his spacious office. He presented us with typed
transcripts of our statements,