The Bottle Factory Outing by Beryl Bainbridge Page B

the chest.
     The spectacles balanced on the bridge of the tilted nose jerked forwards. A hand holding a gun swung upwards to save them.
     Brenda shouted: ‘Don’t—’ and ‘Why?’ This repetition of an earlier question was spoken on a whining note. She cringed in her
     tweed coat, her red hair hanging limply upon the checked collar.
    She’s bent on destroying herself, thought Freda, and at that moment there was a small plopping sound as Mrs Haddon squeezed
     the trigger.
    To see Vittorio hurtling down the stairs, his shoes falling to the carpet as if in pursuit, made Freda admire him all over
     again. A man was needed at this moment and he was there acting on her behalf, and it gave her a feeling of comfort and pride,
     for she was still trembling. At that moment Patrick the van driver, wearing a short-sleeved garment of powder-blue material,
     flung himself round the curve of the stairway and in two bounds leapt to join the struggling Vittorio below. How opportune,
     thought Freda, too shocked to question further. They held Mrs Haddon by the arms; they encircled her waist lovingly. Patrick
     reached for the gun raised high in the air and entwined his fingers in hers. They swayed, arms dipping up and down, as if
     energetically dancing. Brenda, standing apart in the recess of the illlit landing, put her hand to her mouth and bit the
     ends of her fingers. She was thin as a stick and behind her closed lids her eyes bulged, round as marbles.
    ‘Pet,’ cried Freda, launching herself down the stairs at last. ‘My poor pet.’
    The men, having manoeuvred Mrs Haddon into the front room, placed her in the best chair by the fire with such force that she
     lost her balance. As she tipped backwards, her feet in their neat court shoes flew upwards, and she uttered a tiny cry of
     outrage. Vittorio, refined by his experience, put the gun on top of the wardrobe out of harm’s way.
    ‘That’s my property,’ Mrs Haddon said. ‘I should be glad if you would give it to me.’
    Vittorio stroked his drooping moustache and looked at Freda for instructions. She was standing at the windowwith Brenda in her arms, observing the police car in the street below, its blue light flashing as it cruised at the kerb.
    ‘Look at that,’ she cried. ‘The police have come.’
    ‘I phoned them before I came upstairs,’ said Mrs Haddon. ‘In case they were needed.’ She half-rose to her feet and was thrust
     downwards again by the two men. They were not taking any chances.
    ‘Answer the door,’ commanded Freda, and Patrick did as he was told, running out of the room with the lapels of his dressing-gown
     falling open to expose his paper-white chest.
    ‘We ought to make a cup of tea,’ said Brenda, looking at Stanley’s mother. ‘She’s had a shock.’
    Mrs Haddon stared back without pity. ‘I was only aiming at your vocal chords. You always talked too much.’
    ‘Murderer,’ cried Freda, quivering with indignation as she held Brenda to her breast. ‘You should be put away.’ All the same,
     she couldn’t help being awed by the smart little woman on her chair, come all the way from the North by rail or coach, her
     handbag on her knee with her powder puff inside, her purse and her little black gun.
    Two plain-clothed men and two in uniform came pounding up the hall. They asked a lot of questions about the old lady’s relationship
     to Brenda and how she had come to be in possession of the pistol. Mrs Haddon said she only wanted to frighten Brenda to punish
     her for leaving Stanley and that she’d saved up her pension for three weeks to buy the weapon. She’d told the lady in the
     shop it was for her grandson and the lady had been very helpful. She gave her a card to go with it. She broughtout of her handbag a paper target in red and black to show them.
    They looked at it in silence.
    After a time the uniformed policemen took her outside to the car, and the chief inspector and a sergeant made them all re-enact
     the drama on