Trick or Treat

Trick or Treat

A Novel

Lesley Glaister

For Joshua with love

One

Olive sprawls upon the floor, for she suffers with her back, watched by Arthur, watching the tea-time news. It makes less and less sense these days. The confusion that fogs her brain has floated outwards from her, permeating the world; and it is reported back, on the BBC, at six o'clock and at nine o'clock.

People are fleeing and boundaries dissolving; people are missing and people are starving. People are popping in and out of orbit in model spaceships. There is danger in the food, danger in the water, danger even in the air, it seems.

‘Need a pee,' says Olive. Arthur heaves his old bones off the giant leather chair where he perches, and stretches out his arm to Olive, who weighs seventeen stone to his seven.

‘One of these days I won't manage this, me duck,' he gasps. Olive almost pulls him to the floor, grunting and heaving. She is beautiful to lie upon. Her thighs are as thick and solid as the arms of the old chair, her bottom the full seat's width, her belly an endless concertina of soft folds. But now she wobbles precariously upright, and Arthur collapses back into his chair.

Olive goes out to the yard. They have a bathroom upstairs but she only tackles the stairs at bedtime, and is just as happy in the outside lav. Kropotkin, the spaniel, nuzzles round her ankles as she lets her bloomers fall.

‘Good lad,' she says. ‘Good old Potkins.' Kropotkin lives in the outside lav since he cannot be trusted indoors. Indoors, with Olive and Arthur, lives Mao the bald cat. He was hit by a bicycle years ago and his fur fell out in a flurry of indignation and never grew back. He is an odd-looking beast and he needs pampering, for he feels the cold. At night, given half the chance, he snuggles into bed between Olive and Arthur, for all the world like an ancient, skinny baby.

When she's finished, Olive stands in the garden looking at the lights of the city spread out below her, glittering and fizzing under a stony moon. It is a mild night and the air is faintly orange, stained with street lamps and the tang of autumn smoke. This is the view that Olive has had for almost all of her eighty years. She grew up in this house, left only briefly, and returned after her mother's death. It became her own house then, bequeathed to her: Olive who didn't hold with private property, who never meant to stay. It was expedient, however, with the war approaching. She had to live somewhere, and there had to be somewhere for Arthur's return. But Olive never meant to stay, would never have believed, as a girl, that she'd end where she'd begun, with this same view spread out below her.

There is a noise. Kropotkin holds up his head, suddenly alert, and yaps. Olive stiffens. Someone is coming up the passage. She shuffles to the high wooden gate, unlatches it, and peers round its edge. She gives a little frightened moan.

It is a band of devils, crackling and black. They carry lamps, lamps that swing. One of them swings round and she sees a burning grin, a devil's grin. They are banging at the door. Olive closes the gate and leans herself back against it. Her heart is pattering deep in her chest and she struggles to catch her breath.

She hears Arthur open the door. She hears unearthly cackles and she hears the devil's voice. ‘Miaow,' it says, but it is never a cat, it is a devil, masquerading. ‘Trickortreat,' moan the voices and the devil/cat calls out again.

‘Clear off,' says brave Arthur, and then she hears him gasp and shout, ‘Clear off, hooligans!' and the door bangs, and there is the crackle and mirth of the creatures moving away.

Olive cannot move. She is stranded against the gate by her own weight. Kropotkin lies flat with his nose under the gap at the bottom of the gate, snuffling and straining for a chase. Olive needs Arthur. What has happened to Arthur? What have they done to him?

And then the back door opens. ‘Ollie? All right, me duck?' he calls.

‘Artie,' she croaks. ‘I'm here.'

He comes outside, jerky in his carpet slippers. ‘What are you doing there, you daft ha'p'orth?' He holds his arm out to her. ‘Get out of road, Potkins, old fella. Look what young hooligans did!' His pullover is covered in white stuff. ‘Shaving foam,' he says and brushes it off.

‘Whatever is happening, Artie?' Olive says.

‘Just kids,' he says, ‘just kids playing havoc. It's Hallowe'en, Ollie. It were kids from next door I think. Recognised little fat un. Now then, you come in and I'll make you your tea.'

‘Lock Potkins up safe, won't you Artie?' she says. ‘We don't want him frightened.'

Arthur urges Potkins back into his basket. ‘All right, all right,' he murmurs, rubbing Kropotkin's long curly ears. ‘Good dog.'

Arthur and Olive go back inside. Arthur remains in the kitchen filling the kettle and making toast. Olive returns to the front room. She stands huge in the window, her hands on her hips, her legs planted wide apart, intimidating anyone who dares to glance inside the lighted room as they pass.
Evil is abroad
are words that play in her mind, and whether it is really devils, or whether it is only kids with shaving foam and fancy dress, it makes very little difference.

‘Be sure and lock that door, Artie,' she calls, and struggles back to the floor.

‘Forewarned is forearmed,' says Nell to Jim. Nell listens to local radio and she knows all about Hallowe'en, all about the yobs who come round and kick old women's teeth in if they don't get their fiver. She sits in her bedroom on an upright chair, the same chair she sat in, not a year ago, watching herself become a widow in the dressing-table mirror, beside the deathbed of the stoical Jim. Her knees are locked together and her ears are on stalks.

She has switched off the downstairs lights and locked the doors and windows and sealed the letterbox with Sellotape. Upstairs the curtains are thick, and she risks a little lamp. She has the
Daily Mail
crossword on her knee and a pencil between her fingers but she cannot concentrate.

‘What if Rodney knocks?' niggles Jim.

‘He won't, not tonight.'

‘But if he does, Nell? You can't leave our son locked out in the dark.'

‘He's a grown man.'

‘Still our son.'

‘A grown man.'

‘Nell!'

But Nell has done the thing she only does when pressed. The thing she could never do to Jim when he was a flesh-and-blood man and not just a 4” × 3” photograph in a frame: she flips him over onto his front to shut him up.

‘Sorry, love,' she says and touches the back of the frame with her fingertips, ‘but I'm anxious enough tonight without you wittering on.'

Widowhood suits Nell down to the ground. She has her pension and her house to clean and then there is Rodney who has returned, lately, to her life and who comes and goes. She's lived in this terrace all her married life – fifty years – and the neighbourhood has changed for the worst, and society has changed for the worst, but at least she has her home. At least she has her faculties.

And someone is banging on the door. Nell sits bolt-upright, listening. It's as bad as Christmas, hiding from the carol singers. Nobody could expect an old lady to open the door to strangers – but what if they break the window? There is another knock. What if it is Rodney? Perhaps it was better when he was safely locked away. She hears a faint, odd sound, like a cat. No. It is not a cat. It is somebody pretending to be a cat. This is it then. These are the trick-or-treaters. She sits cold and still as stone. She does not breathe. In her mind are towering youths in black leather and chains and they brandish flaming torches and cudgels. There is one more knock, and then silence.

She waits, straining her ears for sound of them round the back. But no. It is quiet. They have gone. She is able to breathe now, and she stands up, walks around in order to get her circulation going. Later, she decides, she'll risk creeping downstairs for a cup of tea.

This morning she spoke for the first time to the new woman next door. She has three children and is bulging with a fourth. There is a husband, or a man anyway – they just don't bother these days – but Nell has only glimpsed him once. The alleycat sort, no doubt, the sort that prowls. And she looks no better than she ought to. The sluttish type, the type that doesn't know when to stop. Like someone else. Nell purses her lips. She stands Jim up. ‘A shady past,' she whispers. ‘You're lucky you went when you did. You never could have stood it, the things that go on in this street nowadays.'

Jim will not answer. He is sulking.

‘And where she puts all those children I don't know.' Nell laughs, catches sight of her face in the mirror, gaunt and gay. ‘I saw that Olive the other day, Jim, through the window. Stands there bold as brass: light on, curtains open. Oh but she's fat, Jim, senile I shouldn't wonder. And that Arthur! He's out at all hours with that mangy dog. Oh he's saddled good and proper now, principles or no principles.'

‘He only did what he believed to be right,' sighs Jim.

‘But neglecting king and country, Jim, skulking on some muddy farm while you were defending our country!'

‘It was a long time ago. Shouldn't you make your peace?' Jim's voice is tentative. Behind him the sky is blue. The snap was taken before his short illness, one day when she went to the allotment with him and took a picnic lunch. It had been a beautiful summer day, his birthday. They'd had cold meat-and-potato pie, and tomatoes still warm from the sun, and a flask of tea, and he'd said it was grand. He was the photographer really. There are albums and albums of his pictures downstairs. But she took the camera from him on that occasion and snapped him, on his birthday, in his element. The corner of the shed is in the picture. Happy days. Jim was never more content than on allotment days. He might have been an educated man, he might have spent his days in the dry and papery bank, but he loved the soil. He dug and raked and sowed and hoed and passed the time of day with other gardeners, or else he sat in his shed on a canvas chair and puffed at his pipe.

‘I've never had any really good veg since you went, Jim,' says Nell suddenly, with unusual sentimentality. ‘But I'm sure your lovely plot will have gone to the dogs now, like everything else.'

‘No,' says Wolfe, clutching Buffy's arm. ‘Not here. We mustn't here.'

‘Don't be stupid,' says Buffy. ‘Get off.'

‘If you're scared,' Bobby says, ‘then go home to Mum.'

Wolfe knows better than to persist. He doesn't know why he wanted to come now. It sounded fun, trick-or-treating, and Buffy and Bobby thought they'd get lots of money and lots of sweets. But it is horrible. Some people won't open the door. Some people get angry and send them away. And it is scary too, in the dark street. And in his cat costume, Wolfe is cold.

‘How much have you got?' asks Bobby.

‘Only 50p,' Buffy says. ‘Richard Barnes said he got five quid last year, and loads of chocolate.'

‘Bleeding liar,' Bobby mutters.

Wolfe has only got a packet of crisps. This is a big house a long way from the road. It has rows of windows, dark and empty, but there is a light on in the hall. It feels dangerous to Wolfe, away from the lighted road between the trees.

‘Don't,' he begs as Buffy lifts the heavy knocker.

‘Oh shut up,' Buffy says, and the knocking echoes in the house. It is all quiet and Wolfe begins to feel relieved, and then there is the sound of a door opening deep in the house, and the sound of shuffling footsteps.

‘Miaow then!' hisses Buffy.

‘Miaow,' he says half-heartedly. He is fed up with being a cat. He wants to be a boy again.

The door opens. A man is there, a tall sickly man in a dressing-gown and slippers. He stands against the light so that they cannot see his face, just the tatty halo of his hair. When he speaks, his voice is old and greasy. ‘Well,' he says slowly, ‘what have we here?'