Read Online Why Aren't They Screaming? by Joan Smith - Free Book Online Page A

– you or Peggy, say. Then I’ll go public on it.’
    â€˜Who else knows?’ Loretta asked. ‘What about Imo?’
    â€˜She knows about the letters. Not the voices. You’re the only one who knows about those. And you must keep quiet, Loretta. For the time being. Please.’
    A new thought struck Loretta. ‘Is that why you put me in here last night? To see if I’d hear the voices?’
    Clara looked slightly shame-faced. ‘Well, it did cross my mind ... But really, when you think about it, I had no choice. I could hardly put Peggy in here, could I? Not when she’d had that bang on the head. It wouldn’t have been fair.’
    â€˜Are they always at night?’
    â€˜So far. I’ve been sleeping in here a lot lately.’ Clara’s cheeks reddened, and Loretta wondered why. ‘It’s always been at midnight or later. Heavens, look at the time! I must fly or I’ll be late for church. Help yourself to breakfast – there’s bread in the crock, eggs, bacon, the usual things. Lunch at one. See you later.’
    The door closed and Loretta was alone. She lowered herself back on to the pillow and lay with her hands clasped behind her head. Common sense told her this was no place for someone recuperating from even a mild illness; she should pack her things and be ready to leave when Clara returned from church. Loretta swung her legs to the floor, went to stand up, then hesitated. How would she feel if she washed her hands of the whole business and left Clara to get on with it? Was Clara really asking so much? Loretta had often beento Greenham; she had been moved by the dedication of the women who braved appalling weather conditions and constant evictions in pursuit of a cause she, too, believed in. All Clara was asking for was a bit of sisterly support, and for Loretta to act as a witness. How deep was Loretta’s commitment if she wasn’t even prepared to do that? She sighed, the impossibility of running out on Clara impressing her forcibly. She had made her bed, she thought, running her hand over the worn surface of the patchwork quilt, and she would have to lie on it.
    Half an hour later, dressed and ready for breakfast, Loretta made her way downstairs. Clara’s work table was still in the hall, empty and waiting to be transported upstairs. She skirted round it and paused by the front door, looking for traces of the previous night’s attack. Apart from a darkening of the cement in the cracks between the floor tiles, there was remarkably little damage. She opened the kitchen door, wondering if Peggy or Imo were up, but the room was empty apart from the grey cat who strolled over to meet her. Loretta bent to scratch his head, was rewarded with a loud purr, and set about making tea and toast. Having consumed both she looked at the clock; it was quarter past eleven, and she wondered how to pass the time until Clara returned. Judging by the potatoes sitting in a pan of water on the kitchen table, preparations for lunch were well under way – she could indulge herself with a clear conscience. Picking up that morning’s
Observer,
which was lying unopened on a chair, she crossed the hall, went through the untidy conservatory, and found herself on a small paved area adjoining the house. It was a sunny spot, and several chairs and a low wooden table had been placed there to take advantage of this fact. Loretta sat down and began to leaf through the paper; finding nothing much of interest, she took it back to the kitchen and ran lightly up the stairs to Clara’s study. A couple of minutes later she returned to her seat outside, this time armed with an early novel by Margaret Atwood that she hadn’t had time to look at before. It was easy reading, and it didn’t take long for Loretta to become temporarily oblivious of her surroundings. She was not aware that she was no longer alone until herlight was suddenly blocked and she looked