Mantrapped

by Fay Weldon

  Doralee was the first to move. Everything was very quiet. No one came running from Wilkins Parade to help. No doubt they knew which side their bread was buttered. When trouble came they kept out of the way. She called the emergency services from the landline on George's desk. She had left her mobile upstairs. No one answered for two long minutes. Peter pulled himself together and took his watch out and began to time the delay, tapping his foot. A few passers-by stood as if paralysed, staring. 'Can we check your number please? This is in the customer's interests and in case of hoax calls.'

  The Peter body grabbed the phone and shouted, 'Give me the fucking phone.'

  It was evident to Doralee that body and soul had been restored to one another, but leaving Peter rather more forceful than when he had begun. Perhaps he would end up editor. And that was the real Trisha lying dead on the floor. Doralee felt tears well up in her eyes. Poor, valiant, unlucky Trisha.

  'There's been a drive-by killing,' Peter was now saying, out of call-centre mode, and to someone he seemed to take seriously. 'All three services, please… two dead, no one else hurt. Drug-related, I would assume… that's the man. But there's a woman here too. No, I don't know who she is. An innocent bystander. A stray bullet, would be my guess.'

  The paramedics came first and were impatient to take the bodies away and get on with their busy schedule, and would have done so before the police arrived if they could. They were anxious to save paperwork. Doralee and Peter gave the police their witness statements, as the ambulance drove off to answer another call, promising to return when they could, and the police set up their crime scene.

  'Poor woman, poor woman,' said Doralee. 'I think she lived above the dry-cleaner's. She must have called by to deliver my mattress-cover, and then this has to happen!'

  She was sorry to have to abandon the book, but it would seem like pure fantasy now and not marketable. But being a witness to sudden death could keep her in the public eye, and in copy, for quite a while. The police would not take too much time on the case - gangland killings were frequent. And at least she had Peter back. They went back to finish breakfast, just the two of them, shocked and shaken but together. Doralee shoved the butter plate towards him. 'Eat what you like,' she said. 'It's your body.'

  Home and normality is restored

  We went to live with Ron, husband and father. He'd asked us and we went. Of course we did. He loved us after all. He'd missed us.

  That was 1976, one of the long hot summers of the century. An anti-depression had settled over the country, bringing with it endless still days and blue skies. The sun set warm and secure each evening, orange light glowing against the old brick walls of the barn. Red sky at night, shepherd's delight. I thought this would be home for ever.

  The house, which was set amongst parched fields, had been left empty for years. It had nearly fallen down altogether but now we were building it up. We plastered and wallpapered together, making good. Ron and I slept on a mattress on the floor: one night in that first week we heard giant thump thump thumps down the stairs. I thought it was some ill-omened monster, ghost of past and future, but it turned out to be only rabbits, mistaking our home for their burrow. The children slept safely upstairs. I had never been so happy. The moon shone through windows fringed with creeper.

  The white cat came with us, of course. But she never quite forgave me. I had failed to look after her properly. She went to live next door, where there were carpets and no children, but sometimes she would come and sit in our garden in a friendly fashion, and stare at me as if she had a great deal to say, a great tale to tell, if only she had the words.