Free Trick or Treat by Lesley Glaister Page A

Buffy.
    â€˜What shall we call it?’ Wolfe asks helpfully. The kitten blinks at him with its green marble eyes, and lashes its pipe-cleaner tail.
    â€˜Nothing,’ says Tom, lighting his cigarette, ‘because you’re not keeping it.’
    â€˜That’s quite a good name,’ says Wolfe.
    â€˜What, “Nothing”?’ Bobby scoffs. ‘You can’t call it that. Let’s call it Skull.’
    â€˜You can go and take it back, now,’ says Tom.
    â€˜Can’t,’ says Buffy. ‘Or she’ll be drowned. Do you want her to be drowned?’
    â€˜Not my problem.’
    â€˜We’ll have to find it a new home,’ says Petra wearily. ‘And in the mean time, I don’t think you should call it anything.’
    â€˜All right then,’ Buffy retorts, ‘I won’t call her Anything. I’ll call her Nothing.’
    â€˜You’ll feel bloody stupid standing on the doorstep at night calling, “Nothing,”’ grumbles Bobby.
    â€˜Come on, Nothing,’ Buffy carries the kitten away upstairs, murmuring to her as she goes.
    â€˜I’m going to get on with the guy,’ Bobby says, and follows her.
    â€˜Sorry,’ Petra says to Tom. Wolfe frowns at her. He can’t see what she’s got to be sorry about.
    â€˜You all right?’ Tom asks her.
    â€˜Just tired.’
    â€˜I’ll tell you what, mate,’ Tom says to Wolfe. ‘Why don’t you come into town with me tomorrow? I’m going to do a picture.’
    â€˜On the pavement!’
    Tom is a street artist, and he’s never taken Wolfe with him before. It hasn’t been fair because he’s taken the others, but never Wolfe. He usually gets left with Petra.
    â€˜That would be great! Can I Mum?’
    â€˜Course you can.’
    â€˜What about a lie-down now,’ Tom asks. ‘I could do with a kip myself.’
    Petra smiles down at her tea, and nods.
    â€˜All right, me old mate?’ Tom says. ‘Can you keep yourself amused for an hour? Watch the box, or something.’
    Wolfe nods. Petra and Tom go upstairs together. Wolfe gets the box of fireworks and takes them all out and arranges them on the table. ‘Golden Rain. Traffic Lights. Snakes of Fire,’ he whispers. ‘Vesuvius. Red Arrow. Shattering Star.’
    Nell goes up the stairs for her afternoon rest. She takes the hat up with her, and puts it on Jim’s pillow, beside her.
    â€˜See Jim,’ she says. ‘See what I found.’
    â€˜It’s hers,’ Jim replies. ‘What do you mean “found”?’
    â€˜I did really, on the street. She must have dropped it.’
    â€˜Nell, we don’t want that performance all over again. You must give it back.’
    â€˜Hush,’ says Nell. ‘I must get some shut-eye. Didn’t sleep a wink last night.’
    She folds back her eiderdown and settles herself down. She lies on her back, stockinged feet neatly together, toes pointing to the ceiling, eyes closed. There is so much to worry her nowadays, it’s a wonder she sleeps at all. There’s Rodney. What should she do about Rodney? A good mother would welcome him back, glad to be able to keep an eye on him, and Nell is nothing if not a good mother.
    As she drowses, she remembers bombs, the whine and hiss of bombs, brilliant flowering explosions in a frosty night sky, brighter than the full moon and the stars. There is the rattle of machine-gun fire, like hail upon glass, and there are flames that make the city spread out below glow red and almost glamorous. She is a young mother and her baby son clings to her, terrified. Jim is away watching bombs fall from a foreign sky, same moon, same stars; and his baby, baby Rodney, clings to her. She carries him down the stairs and in a daze, a strange state in which she appreciates the beauty of the bombs and the blazing city, she carries him out into the loud and smoky air and into the