it, there’s a story there somewhere.
“I’m sorry, I can’t think of anything. I’ll ring you if I do.” Henry had wanted him out of the house.
“You won’t do anything stupid? No go-it-alone stuff?”
Henry played the innocent.
“Since I don’t know who to go for, that would be difficult.”
9
The vandalism had made Mrs. Abraham bellicose and Henry had found her constant suggestions tiresome.
“What about security lighting, Mr. Cage? They say it really cuts down crime. Floodlight the front of the house. That’s what I’d do if I had the money.”
“Well, let’s see, shall we? Maybe whoever it was is finished now.”
She sniffed. “Why should they stop? Nobody’s doing anything to make them stop.”
Henry had noticed that she spent a lot of time cleaning the front windows or sweeping the front path. He suspected that she was checking all traffic, both vehicular and pedestrian.
HOUSEKEEPER MAKES CITIZEN’S ARREST—he imagined the headline and a photograph of Mrs. Abraham at the front door, looking so very much at home.
He had invited her to take two weeks off with pay until things got back to normal. He had said he thought he might go and stay with friends and get some sleep. She had accepted her unexpected break with grace, sensing the lie, but letting it pass without challenge.
As soon as he had the house to himself, Henry became nocturnal. There had been no more letters and the past few nights had been uneventful, but he knew that it was not over—he felt sure there was more to come. He sat up all night in a drawing room chair pulled up to the window. There was no street lighting immediately outside his house, but he could see the gate and the white picket fence well enough and the road beyond.
When he grew weary, he listened to the twenty-four-hour news on a radio small enough to nestle in the top pocket of his jacket. He had bought it to take to cricket matches, but for the past year had been taking it to bed. It was the only way he could get to sleep. He lay on his right side, an earpiece in his left ear, and he would drift off as reports came in of rogue kangaroos terrorizing a small outpost in Northern Australia or of a totally tattooed man in Alabama. There is not enough real news to fill twenty-four hours and by 4:00 in the morning trivia is rampant. It is easy for the brain to close down in self-defense, but now the same banality and repetition had to keep him awake.
He had a large thermos of black coffee beside him and sandwiches bought earlier in the day. Anxious not to reveal his presence at the window, he had removed the sandwich wrappings in the kitchen to keep the noise down. He was aware that he was being ridiculous.
The first night he had managed to stay awake. He had even enjoyed the experience. His street had once been a rat-run connecting the Fulham and Brompton roads, but pressure from the influential residents’ association had persuadedthe authorities to make the street one-way and now it was of interest only to residents, tradesmen, the relevant utilities—and (at least) one vandal.
By midnight the social comings and goings were over, the Wilkinsons a conspicuous exception. They had arrived home at 1:30 a.m. in their Lexus 400, a car shaped much like themselves—too heavy in the front to be graceful. They had slammed the car doors with tipsy abandon and then with fingers to their lips had hushed each other to their front door.
At 2:55, the clouds had parted and moonlight glossed the roof tiles of the houses opposite. Mr. Pendry had paid a visit to the bathroom at 4:15 and a black cat had daintily walked the length of Henry’s garden fence shortly before 6:00, when
The Today Programme
had rescued him from the inanities of all-night news. He had gone to bed at 7:00 but found it impossible to sleep. Daylight seeped in through the curtains and he was conscious of the sounds of the day beginning: the rattle of the letter box as the newspapers arrived, the bleep of
“I’m sorry, I can’t think of anything. I’ll ring you if I do.” Henry had wanted him out of the house.
“You won’t do anything stupid? No go-it-alone stuff?”
Henry played the innocent.
“Since I don’t know who to go for, that would be difficult.”
9
The vandalism had made Mrs. Abraham bellicose and Henry had found her constant suggestions tiresome.
“What about security lighting, Mr. Cage? They say it really cuts down crime. Floodlight the front of the house. That’s what I’d do if I had the money.”
“Well, let’s see, shall we? Maybe whoever it was is finished now.”
She sniffed. “Why should they stop? Nobody’s doing anything to make them stop.”
Henry had noticed that she spent a lot of time cleaning the front windows or sweeping the front path. He suspected that she was checking all traffic, both vehicular and pedestrian.
HOUSEKEEPER MAKES CITIZEN’S ARREST—he imagined the headline and a photograph of Mrs. Abraham at the front door, looking so very much at home.
He had invited her to take two weeks off with pay until things got back to normal. He had said he thought he might go and stay with friends and get some sleep. She had accepted her unexpected break with grace, sensing the lie, but letting it pass without challenge.
As soon as he had the house to himself, Henry became nocturnal. There had been no more letters and the past few nights had been uneventful, but he knew that it was not over—he felt sure there was more to come. He sat up all night in a drawing room chair pulled up to the window. There was no street lighting immediately outside his house, but he could see the gate and the white picket fence well enough and the road beyond.
When he grew weary, he listened to the twenty-four-hour news on a radio small enough to nestle in the top pocket of his jacket. He had bought it to take to cricket matches, but for the past year had been taking it to bed. It was the only way he could get to sleep. He lay on his right side, an earpiece in his left ear, and he would drift off as reports came in of rogue kangaroos terrorizing a small outpost in Northern Australia or of a totally tattooed man in Alabama. There is not enough real news to fill twenty-four hours and by 4:00 in the morning trivia is rampant. It is easy for the brain to close down in self-defense, but now the same banality and repetition had to keep him awake.
He had a large thermos of black coffee beside him and sandwiches bought earlier in the day. Anxious not to reveal his presence at the window, he had removed the sandwich wrappings in the kitchen to keep the noise down. He was aware that he was being ridiculous.
The first night he had managed to stay awake. He had even enjoyed the experience. His street had once been a rat-run connecting the Fulham and Brompton roads, but pressure from the influential residents’ association had persuadedthe authorities to make the street one-way and now it was of interest only to residents, tradesmen, the relevant utilities—and (at least) one vandal.
By midnight the social comings and goings were over, the Wilkinsons a conspicuous exception. They had arrived home at 1:30 a.m. in their Lexus 400, a car shaped much like themselves—too heavy in the front to be graceful. They had slammed the car doors with tipsy abandon and then with fingers to their lips had hushed each other to their front door.
At 2:55, the clouds had parted and moonlight glossed the roof tiles of the houses opposite. Mr. Pendry had paid a visit to the bathroom at 4:15 and a black cat had daintily walked the length of Henry’s garden fence shortly before 6:00, when
The Today Programme
had rescued him from the inanities of all-night news. He had gone to bed at 7:00 but found it impossible to sleep. Daylight seeped in through the curtains and he was conscious of the sounds of the day beginning: the rattle of the letter box as the newspapers arrived, the bleep of