Anne Billson - Suckers

We went into the living room. There was just enough light filtering through the closed curtains for me to see it was unusually messy — old newspapers and unwashed cups all over the place, and a slightly rancid smell I couldn't identify. Abigail's cot was in the middle of the room, and Alicia's knitting lay on the table, next to a half-finished mug of tea. She asked if I wanted some, and disappeared into the kitchen to pour me a cup. When she handed it over I took a sip and almost choked. It was stone cold.

'Where did Jack call from?' I asked casually.

'Don't know,' she said. 'He sounded funny when I spoke to him. Not like Jack at all.'

I was wondering whether he'd been phoning from Roxy's, and whether it wasn't time someone told Alicia what was going on, when all of a sudden she began to snivel. I looked on, embarrassed, as she wiped her nose with her sleeve. The small bundle of grubby pink blankets in the cot began to whimper in sympathy, and Alicia stared at me accusingly. 'Shit. Now you've gone and woken Abby.'

'Wait a minute,' I said, but she turned to scoop up the baby, and as she did so I caught a glimpse of Abigail's face. It was grey, and the eyes seemed unnaturally black and beady. It stopped crying for a moment, breathing in with a sort of whiffling noise before opening its mouth for another bawl. 'Christ,' I said. 'It's got a lot of teeth already.'

'She ,' said Alicia. 'She's not a thing . And she's got a name , Dora. She's called Abigail .'

I didn't really blame Alicia for being tetchy. I would have been tetchy too, if my husband had forbidden me to talk to anyone before buggering off for a dirty weekend with his personal assistant. Then I saw she was rucking up her T-shirt and preparing to feed the baby. I tried not to imagine what might happen when those sharp little teeth fastened on to one of her swollen nipples, but an image of Lulu in the bath popped unbidden into my brain and I began to feel lightheaded. 'Don't you think you should give her a bottle or something?' I said. 'I wouldn't breastfeed, if I were you — it's too dangerous.'

Alicia looked amazed and exasperated at the same time. 'Don't be stupid ,' she said, quite vehemently. 'It's been proved time and again that mother's milk is better than the bottled stuff.'

'I didn't mean it would be dangerous for the baby .'

But she had stopped listening. I eyed Abigail doubtfully, and Abigail stared back — rather maliciously I thought. The little beast had stopped crying; now she was licking her lips.

I tried once more. 'Don't do it, Alicia.'

'Oh, for Christ's sake! ' she yelled. 'You're getting on my nerves, Dora. Why don't you get out of here? You think you can come round and cause trouble. Well, fuck off! '

Never before had I known Alicia to lose her temper and swear. Hearing those words from her, of all people, shocked me almost as much as anything else that had happened that weekend.

I had no desire to hang around and watch Abigail's feeding time. I left the stone-cold tea on the table, and fled.

I went to Ruth's 'meeting' after all. I had nothing better to do that evening — except stare at the phone, wondering whether I dared interrupt Duncan's orgy of introspection. I went past the gallery, which was showing a wide selection of what appeared to be carpet underlay, and knocked at the door leading up to Matt's office. It was opened by a teenager wearing a black beret and cradling a machine-gun. I wondered if it had been Ruth's father who had provided the hardware.

He looked me up and down. 'Who you, babe?' He wasn't wasting any syllables. I gave my name, and he consulted a small notebook. I was apparently on the guest-list, because he nodded and stepped aside.

'Strict door policy you've got here,' I said, keeping an eye on the barrel of the gun as I squeezed past. 'That won't be a whole lot of use, by the way. Bullets don't stop them.'

'Yeah, they do,' he said. 'Shoot their feet off and the fuckers can't walk.'

The place I'd used as an HQ all those years ago had been transformed. The threadbare carpets had been replaced by sanded-down floorboards and a couple of plush oriental rugs. Someone had knocked a hole in the roof and inserted a large fanlight, and this, together with an excess of greenery, gave the place the look and feel of a conservatory. It was a clear night; if you looked straight up, you could see the stars. There were stars on the walls as well: signed portraits of pop singers, and a couple of certificates. It seemed that my erstwhile friend Matt was now an important and much sought after director of pop promo videos.

'Dora!' exclaimed Ruth, detaching herself from a bunch of people who were sipping wine and laughing at their own jokes. 'You made it!'

'Well,' I said. 'Look at you.' Yesterday's chic black frock had been replaced by a flak jacket, lumpy army-surplus trousers gathered around the ankles by drawstrings, and a samurai headband printed with some Chinese characters and a red sun motif. I saw her puckering her lips, ready to perform the kissing manoeuvre, and swerved to avoid it.

'Have a drink.' Her eyes fell on my bandages. 'Good Lord, what have you done to your hands?'

'An allergy.'

'Allergy? What kind of allergy?'

I told her I was allergic to broken glass. She made a sympathetic face. 'Poor Dora, you're always doing horrible things to your hands. Oh well, mingle and enjoy yourself. Dino'll be here any minute.'

'Dino? You're kidding.'

She shook her head solemnly. 'Our most valuable asset. Our main man .' I cringed, but she had already waddled off to greet another arrival. I endeavoured to chat with the other guests, surprised at how much information they had gathered. None of the obvious conclusions had been drawn, but Duncan and I were evidently not alone in our efforts to hold the fort against the rampaging hordes of night's black agents.

I ran into Desperate Dan, who had acquired an additional twenty-two hours' worth of stubble since our last meeting. He reeled off a list of industries which had fallen under Multiglom control in the meantime, Sunday or no Sunday. I talked to a TV presenter who had lost her job after refusing to swap her day shift for a night one, and to an editor of consumer affairs who had been sacked for resisting the drive towards intensive, non-critical coverage of Multiglom-linked products.

I talked to a computer buff who had hacked his way into the Multiglom files and been horrified by what he'd found there — a sort of hit list, he said, with some pretty famous names on it, though he refused to elaborate further. I talked to an advertising copy-writer, and to the sales manager with a firm of kitchenware manufacturers, and to an intense-looking man with a beard who said he was a film director; this last fellow had subjected me to ten minutes of unmitigated boredom before I recognized him.

'Matt,' I said. 'It's Dora.'

He did a double-take. 'I thought I'd seen you somewhere before. How long has it been?'

'Thirteen years,' I said, wondering how such a charming young hophead could have turned into this overfed entrepreneur.

'This is really wild, isn't it,' said Matt, or Matthew as I found he now preferred to be known. He had once changed his surname to Paint, but the age of flippancy was long gone.

I was thankful when our desultory conversation was interrupted by Ruth, who hollered and waved her arms like a cattle-driver. 'Ssh, everyone. Dino's here. Why don't you fill your glasses and take a seat.'

There was a mad rush to the bar, followed by aimless milling around the half-dozen or so chairs. Most people hunkered down on the floor. Finally, two people were left standing. One was Francine, still in her party frock and looking slightly the worse for wear. The other was a short, bullet-headed individual in a camouflage jacket. Even before he'd scratched his crotch and introduced himself, I guessed who it was.