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an intensity of attention and a sense that, were he to listen hard enough, he might hear something on the tape he had previously missed.
    Mrs. Ransome would listen to the tape herself from time to time but lacking the convenient camouflage of Mozart she confined her listening experiences to the afternoons. Getting out her folding household steps she would pull down
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then reach in behind it for the tape (the photographs seemed as silly and laughable to her as they had to Martin and Cleo). Then, having poured herself a small sherry, she would settle down to listen to them making love, marveling still after at least a dozen hearings at the length and persistence of the process and its violent and indecorous outcome. Afterwards she would go and lie on the bed, reflecting that this was the same bed on which it had all happened and think again about it happening.
    These discreet (and discrete) epiphanies apart, life after they had recovered their possessions went on much the same as it had before they lost them. Sometimes, though, lying there on the bed or waiting to get up in the morning, Mrs. Ransome would get depressed, feeling she had missed the bus; though what bus it was or where it was headed she would have found it hard to say. Prior to the visit to Aylesbury and the return of their things, she had, she thought, persuaded herself that the burglary had been an opportunity, with each day bringing its crop of small adventures—a visit from Dusty, a walk down to Mr. Anwar’s, a trip up the Edgware Road. Now, re-ensconced among her possessions, Mrs. Ransome feared that her diversions were at an end; life had returned to normal but it was a normal she no longer relished or was contented with.
    The afternoons particularly were dull and full of regret. It’s true she continued to watch the television, no longer so surprised at what people got up to as she once had been but even (as with Martin and Cleo) mildly envious. She grew so accustomed to the forms of television discourse that she occasionally let slip a telltale phrase herself, remarking once, for instance, that there had been a bit of hassle on the 74 bus.
    â€œHassle?” said Mr. Ransome. “Where did you pick up that expression?”
    â€œWhy?” said Mrs. Ransome innocently. “Isn’t it a proper word?”
    â€œNot in my vocabulary.”
    It occurred to Mrs. Ransome that this was the time for counseling; previously an option it had now become a necessity so she tried to reach Dusty via her Helpline.
    â€œI’m sorry but Ms. Briscoe is not available to take your call,” said a recorded voice, which was immediately interrupted by a real presence.
    â€œHello. Mandy speaking. How may I help you?”
    Mrs. Ransome explained that she needed to talk to somebody about the sudden return of all the stolen property. “I have complicated feelings about it,” said Mrs. Ransome and tried to explain.
    Mandy was doubtful. “It might come under post-traumatic stress syndrome,” she said, “only I wouldn’t bank on it. They’re clamping down on that now we’re coming to the end of this year’s financial year, and anyway it’s meant for rape and murder and whatnot, whereas we’ve had people ringing up who’ve just had a bad time at the dentist’s. You don’t feel the furniture’s dirty, do you?”
    â€œNo,” said Mrs. Ransome. “We’ve had everything cleaned anyway.”
    â€œWell, if you’ve kept the receipts I could ring Bickerton Road and get them to give you something back.”
    â€œNever mind,” said Mrs. Ransome. “I expect I shall cope.”
    â€œWell, it’s what we all have to do in the end, isn’t it?” said Mandy.
    â€œWhat’s that?” said Mrs. Ransome.
    â€œCope, dear. After all, that’s the name of the game. And the way you’ve described it,” Mandy said, “it seems a