Why Aren't They Screaming? Read Free Page B

way, Clara’s my mother. You can call me Imo. I take it you’re Loretta? Bit silly if you weren’t.’
    With this she disappeared, leaving Loretta to make her way to the kitchen. It was an L-shaped room, with one window giving on to the main road and another, which hadn’t been visible from the front, looking out on to the trees which overhung the side lane. It was a dark room, but not unpleasant; a deep red Edwardian wallpaper covered the walls and gave an impression of cosiness which was enhanced by the presence of an Aga. Suddenly aware of how weary she was – this damned illness, she thought – Loretta pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. She was very glad that she wouldn’t have to return to London that night, even though Imo’s promise of alternative accommodation had been a bit vague. She wondered if Imo, with her dark hair and white skin, resembled her mother. Bridget hadn’t mentioned Clara’s daughter, perhaps because the girl looked the sort of age at which she might be away at university or college. Maybe Imo was home for the weekend? And was the girl’s father about to appear? Loretta assumed all would become clear in the course of the weekend.
    Remembering Imo’s suggestion that she put the kettle on, Loretta got up and looked for an electric kettle. It took her a couple of minutes to realize there wasn’t one. Instead, a heavy, old-fashioned whistling kettle of a type she hadn’t seen since childhood was standing half-full on the shelfabove the Aga. Loretta lifted it down, added more water, and raised one of the two chrome lids which covered the hob. She had an idea that one end would turn out to be hotter than the other and was about to try the second when she was startled by a crash from the hall. Her first thought was that she was about to come face to face with a burglar, and she looked round wildly for anything that might serve as a weapon. At the same time she heard a sliding noise, as if a heavy object was being pushed or pulled laboriously across the floor. Next came a series of panted curses.
    â€˜Bloody
thing!’ she heard, then a noise like a kick and a muttered ‘ow’. This was followed by the same voice uttering, or rather bellowing, a single word:
‘Clara!’
    Loretta unfroze and moved towards the door. Since the newcomer knew her hostess, it seemed unlikely that he was a burglar. But how had he got into the house? Loretta was sure she had closed the front door behind her.
    â€˜Clara!’
The voice was even more impatient. ‘Oh God, where
is
the woman?’
    Loretta opened the kitchen door and collided with the owner of the voice. As she fell back into the room she realized she was still clutching the pewter jug of dried flowers she had grasped a moment before in lieu of a weapon. She thrust it behind her, feeling for the edge of the table, meanwhile surveying the newcomer with as much equanimity as she could muster. He was looking at her oddly, and Loretta felt she couldn’t blame him in the circumstances.
    â€˜Can I help?’ she asked brightly, crossing her arms in front of her as though she’d never been near the flowers, which were now back in place on the table.
    â€˜I’m looking for Clara,’ the man said, still observing her warily. He was in his late thirties or early forties, thin and dark, with rather intense eyes.
    â€˜She isn’t here, she’s at the peace camp.’ Loretta repeated the information Imo had given her, realizing as she did so that she knew nothing about the camp – its location, or Clara’s connection with it. She hadn’t even been aware that there
was
a peace camp anywhere in the vicinity of Flitwell.
    â€˜Oh
hell,’
the man said in a slow voice which expressed perplexity more than annoyance. He stepped back into thehall and Loretta followed. She found him staring at a large square box which was sitting in the middle of the