Free Blast From the Past by Ben Elton

buggery bollocks!’
    Polly stepped back out of the jeans and rushed over to the front door of her little flat. She lived on the top floor of a large house, one of the thousands of houses that once were home to prosperous Mary Poppins families. Places built to house twelve people and which ended up providing for twelve households. ‘There’s room in this conversion for four decent-sized flats or six small ones,’ the property developers of the early eighties would say. ‘So what do you reckon? Fourteen? Or is that pushing it?’
    That particular speculative bubble had, of course, long since burst, and there were now a mere six buttons on the front of Polly’s building. One of which led right up to the attic of the house, which was Polly’s home.
    Polly gingerly took up the receiver of the entryphone intercom that hung on the wall beside her front door. Her hand was shaking. This was insane. Why had he come back? She was furious, of course, all the old emotions returning, the ancient wound exploding open, but she was thrilled as well. How could she not be? Never had she expected to hear his voice again, and yet here he was, only four floors below, standing at her own front door.
    ‘Hello,’ she said, attempting a noncommittal, matter-of-fact tone and failing entirely. ‘Is that you?’
    Suddenly she was half her age. A young girl again, young and nervous and excited.
    ‘Is that really you?’
    ‘Your light was on. It’s never been on this late before.’
    Polly stepped back as if she had received a blow. She nearly fell. The receiver dropped from her hand and bashed against the wall, swinging on its curly flex.
    ‘Can’t you sleep?’
    The hated voice, the hated and shocking voice drifted up from the dangling receiver.
    ‘I thought you might want company. If you tell the police I came round my mum will say I was at home with her. Are you wearing any clothes, Polly? Have you got a bra on? What colour are your knickers? I bet you aren’t wearing any this late at night, are you?’
    Polly’s eyes were full of tears now. Through the watery mist she focused on the red panic button that stood out upon the wall behind the door. It was so located that should an intruder ever push open the door, forcing Polly backwards into her flat, the button would then be in immediate reach. There was another one on the wall by her bed. Polly wanted to push those buttons, she wanted to alert the whole house to her persecution, to set alarm bells ringing there and in the local police station, but she knew that she must not do it. Her enemy was not at the gate, he was in the street and would no doubt soon scurry off as he always did. He was no physical threat. There was no justification in summoning a screaming squad car, and the police did not take kindly to having their services abused. One does not cry wolf with panic buttons. When you push them you need to be believed.
    Blinking back her tears, Polly grabbed up the receiver.
    ‘I’m calling the police. I am calling the fucking police right now! Fuck off! Please fuck off!’
    ‘You use that word a lot, don’t you, Polly?’ said Peter. ‘Is that because you like it, Polly? Fucking? Is that what you like?’

15
    DOWNSTAIRS THE BUG turned and scurried away. He had taken a big risk ringing her doorbell like that. He’d certainly not intended to do it. He knew it would probably mean a police visit, more social workers, his mum in tears. But seeing her light shining so late, knowing that she, like him, was still awake in the small hours of the night, perhaps even thinking about him, that had been too much for him to resist. Now, however, he must retreat. If Polly did call the police and he were found in her street no denial from him or testimony from his mother would prevent his arrest.
    Leaning against the wall beside her door Polly struggled to control her pounding heart and the tears that she could feel beginning to prickle up into her eyes. Her legs felt weak. Slowly she slid