NANCY: [startled] Can’t be them?

EMMA: Who else?

NANCY: Makin’ such a fuss?

She moves for the French windows.

And why would they be coming in the back way—?

Before she can reach the windows, they are burst open by BARNEY, in a breathless rush, with an immediate and gasping demand:

BARNEY: Provos?

NANCY: What?

BARNEY: Provos—MP’s—military police? They been here?

NANCY: ’Course they haven’t. Military police? Why would they be—?

BARNEY: Don’t ask questions—means we still got time. Give us a hand with these things—

He tosses Roo’s army overcoat and hat into the room, then turns back to throw two well-laden duffel bags into view.

Watch out with the bags—could be blood on them.

NANCY: Blood?

BARNEY: [moving swiftly for the front window] Have to get ’em out of sight somewhere—

NANCY: Barney, if this is one of your stupid jokes—

BARNEY: [shifting the curtain for a fast survey of the street] Think I’d joke about the flamin’ provos? [Turning back into the room] Got to get Roo in, and clean him up real fast—where’s Olive?

NANCY: In the kitchen.

BARNEY: Have to warn her—

He heads back for the French windows but is waylaid by a determined NANCY.

NANCY: Warn her of what, for God’s sake?

BARNEY: Look, we’re wastin’ time—

NANCY: [barring his way] You tell me?

BARNEY: Okay. [Rapidly] Been a helluva of a fight at the Melrose pub. Roo got a smack over the head with a bottle, and he’s bleedin’ all over the back lane out there. That enough for you?

He dodges past her and out through the French windows. NANCY is left staring in horror until EMMA, who has been eyeing the bags brought in by BARNEY, says:

EMMA: Be the clothes they got with their discharge. And he wasn’t lyin’ about the blood. [Nodding] See it on the duffel bags.

NANCY: Oh, dear God.

She hurries to the hallway to call urgently:

Bubba—bring some water, will you?! Hot water, and a clean towel? And some disinfectant—!

BUBBA: [from the kitchen] Why d’you need—?

NANCY: Never mind! Just bring ’em—!

She turns back into the sitting room, to appeal to EMMA:

How are we going to handle it? Tell Olive—

EMMA: Up to you, I reckon. [Picking up her music case] ’S your party.

NANCY: But you’re not goin’ out? With somethin, like this on the go? You can’t—

EMMA: Still not gettin’ through to you, is it? Been some changes round here.

Heading for the street door, a determined escape from any claim of old responsibilities:

I’ve made my arrangements for the evening, you lot have made yours.

She moves out, closing the door, leaving a distraught NANCY, as OLIVE arrives in the hallway, brandishing a bottle, with a cheerful enquiry:

OLIVE: What have you been up to—Bubba said you wanted disinfectant?