LITMIR.BIZ

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stared blankly at the two women and then pushed past them.

      Upstairs, there was a young police officer in uniform standing in her kitchen – what was left of her kitchen.

      ‘Mrs Hall?’ he said pleasantly, turning round to face her.

      Dora nodded. The kitchen window was smashed and everywhere seemed to be covered in cups and cornflakes and washing and newspapers and books and plates – cupboards open, milk puddling around an overturned bottle on the lino – on the wall, in spray paint someone had written ‘SLAG’ in huge fluorescent green letters.

      Dora stared at the policeman and blinked. She struggled to find something to say but was stunned to discover that there were no words in her mouth.

      Sheila launched herself manfully into the breach. ‘You’ve been burgled.’

      The policeman looked at his notes. ‘Mrs Shepherd here said she came round at just after twelve o’clock today to see if you were in.’

      Sheila sniffed. ‘I was round at nine but you weren’t here, so I nipped back.’

      The man consulted his notes again. ‘Twice?’

      Sheila nodded, colouring slightly. ‘I’ve been worried about her.’

      ‘And on the last occasion Mrs Shepherd found the street door open downstairs.’ The officer looked up and pointed at the broken window with his pen. ‘I reckon they must have come in over the flat roof, broken that, and then let themselves out by the front door when they’d finished. Kids, most likely.’

      Dora took a deep breath, but Sheila was ahead of her.

      ‘What are their parents doing? Why aren’t they in school, that’s what I want to know? It’s disgraceful.’

      Dora turned round, stepping on crackles of broken crockery. She coughed to clear her mind. ‘I’ve been to Ely. My cat …’ she began.

      Sheila snorted. ‘Never mind about the bloody cat. Look at the mess.’ She bent down to pick up the remains of a mug. ‘I bought you these last Christmas – ruined.’

      Dora wandered through the little flat. It looked as if a huge malevolent child had been playing hunt the thimble – drawers were upturned, books strewn everywhere, endless sheets of paper curled into snow drifts against the skirting boards.

      The policeman followed in Dora’s wake. Sheila skittering along behind.

      ‘Anything obviously been stolen?’ he asked, still clutching his notebook. ‘Money, valuables? Your sister said the TV and video are still here.’

      ‘Nothing seems to be missing,’ said Dora, finally finding her voice. ‘I don’t keep a lot of cash in the house. I won’t really know if anything’s been taken until I’ve tidied up.’

      In the office there were computer disks strewn all over the floor, books, notes, pens, ink – a multi-coloured archipelago of chaos nosing its way out into the hall. Dora suddenly felt as if someone was sitting on her chest, and slumped down in the swivel chair, the pulse in her ears banging out a calypso rhythm.

      ‘Your sister mentioned your address was broadcast on TV last night.’

      Dora glanced up at the young man and then Sheila. Somewhere low in the pit of her stomach she had a nasty sense of being caught out. ‘Yes –’

      Sheila stared at Dora. ‘It’s all right, I already told him about that woman on the telly. Common, if you ask me, and no more brains than she was born with. Said she lived here, but she doesn’t, Dora does. She must have had the flat before. There were students in here, weren’t there? All the same, students. How long have you been here? Three years? Four?’ She glanced at Dora for some kind of confirmation, but Dora said nothing, deciding it was better just to let Sheila carry on – she was doing a fine job of pushing the skeletons neatly back into the cupboard. ‘But fancy telling everyone the address, and on TV too.’

      Before anyone could pass comment there was a funny strangled mewling sound from close by.

      Dora sprang to her feet. ‘Oscar,’ she whispered and hurried back into the hall.

      He was in the sitting room, camped out under an upturned armchair. When he saw her he lifted a feline eyebrow.

      ‘The day I’ve had,’ he mewled. She stroked his broad gingery skull and was rewarded with a guttural purr. He deigned to let her pick him up and nosed miserably against her chest. With narrowed pupils, he reassured her that the chaos had nothing whatsoever to do with him.

      ‘Spur of the moment, I reckon,’ pronounced the policeman. ‘Could be that they saw the TV programme – arts thing, like your sister said – but I very much doubt it. They’re like magpies, these kids. Trouble is, if they don’t find any money or anything they can sell quickly, they smash the place up. They reckon it’s the frustration.’

      Sheila made a dark unpleasant sound in her throat. ‘Frustration? I’d give the little buggers frustration. So what happens now?’

      The policeman shrugged. ‘Fingerprint lads are on their way, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. There’s an awful lot of this kind of thing goes on.’

      Sheila sniffed. ‘What about that woman on TV?’

      The man shrugged before returning to a solution he understood. ‘School’s just across the back from here. Maybe they saw Mrs Hall go out this morning. Maybe they climbed up on the roof for a dare. Who knows?’

      Dora glanced up at the wall above the fireplace. ‘At least they weren’t totally illiterate,’ she mumbled, reading the arc of obscenities sprayed on the chimney breast. She looked around, swallowing hard. ‘I really ought to ring Kate.’

      ‘Her daughter,’ Sheila informed the policeman. ‘Lovely girl, she’s an estate agent, works in Banbury, you know, near Oxford? Got married last year.’

      The policeman nodded and then scribbled something on a sheet of paper which he handed to Dora. ‘If you give these people a ring they’ll come and sort your window out’ he said in a reassuring voice.

      Sheila squared her shoulders. ‘I’ll just nip home and get my overall. I think we’ve got some magnolia emulsion left in the shed. Get that wall done in no time.’

      Dora was too overwhelmed to protest.

      ‘What do you want me to say to that girl down there?’ said Sheila, pulling on her coat.

      Dora took a deep breath and went into the office. From the window she could see the reporter from the Fairbeach Gazette, Josephine Hammond, still sitting in her car.

      ‘Nothing,’ Dora replied flatly.

      Maybe the girl would get bored and go away. Dora picked up a fan of paper from the office floor. Wishful thinking.

      It looked much worse than it really was, or at least that’s what Sheila said at least two hundred times, as she bagged up the broken remnants of Dora’s life. It was like a mantra. Plumping and straightening with uncanny zeal she cut a swathe of order through the chaos. Dora would have been immeasurably grateful, if only Sheila could have managed her act of compassion in silence.

      ‘I don’t know …’ Sheila said, for the umpteenth time, dropping a broken plant pot into a black bag, ‘… what is the world coming to? Look at this …’

      Dora followed her, cradling Oscar. She felt as if she was walking around inside somebody else’s body.

      Finally, hours later. Sheila emptied the sink, stripped off her rubber gloves and tucked them up into a neat ball.

      ‘There we are,’ she said briskly, claiming another personal triumph. ‘Now don’t touch that emulsion in the living room. I’ll nip round tomorrow and put another coat on.’ She arranged the clean brush and roller back in the paint tray. ‘Might be a good, idea to do the rest of the room while we’re at it.’ She looked round thoughtfully. ‘Whole

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