She could create a noise cleaning the bathroom too, of course, and this sometimes did disturb him, unrhyth-mic crashes of shampoo bottles and Jif falling in the bath, the Niagara of water and chug of the tank.

Saturday was the only day she had time to clean, and then she sometimes left it, what with the shopping and the launderette, or if they went out. Today the chore had to be done, because Terry had asked Blackie over. Blackie was all right. But Lucy and Jenny would come too. Julie had mixed feelings about it, she always had.

Generally, when things got going, it was not so bad. In fact, she liked it, sometimes. But then, again—

At the thud of the knocker—the bell no longer worked—Julie switched off the Hoover and pushed her short black hair back. She was slim and small breasted with rather large feet, and she wore stained jeans and a cotton top. She let the music center go on playing, a reassuring thump, thump, thump, and went out with her purse into the narrow hall.

Through the wavered glass of the door she could not see anyone. Had the bastard already gone?

Julie flung the door open and there was the milk sitting on the doorstep. There was no sign of the milk float. She had missed him. Sod it.

Outside the front door of the end-of-terrace house, was a five-foot patch of weeds, and a dustbin. Just inside the gate stood a girl, about ten years younger than Julie. She had a lot of very black hair.

"Mrs. Watt?"

"No," said Julie flatly.

"Yes," said the girl, quietly and distinctly, "she lives with her daughter."

"You've got the wrong house," said Julie Sawyer. She jerked her bitten thumbnail at the next house along, the first of the adjacent row beyond the gap. "Try her. She might know." Knock the old cow up and waste her time.

Julie was going to close the door, but the girl walked forward. Her clothes were good, particularly the leather jacket.

"I've come a very long way."

"Have you? Well, I've never heard of any Watts."

"I came into London, and then out here."

"They must have given you the wrong address."

"This is the house."

"No," said Julie, trying to be strong, "it isn't."

And then the sash window went up over their heads.

Terry peered out, his face sallow and his hair looking tangled and greasy. What the droning Hoover and beating music had not been able to achieve, their steely voices under the window had.

"What the fuck's going on?"

Julie gazed up at him in exasperation.

"She's come to the wrong place."

Terry's eyes had cleared. He stared at the girl.

"No she hasn't." He smiled. "Who did you want, love?"

"Mrs. Watt."