Crossfire by Dick;Felix Francis Francis Page A

that was not just because the temperature was always low. It was also due to the realization that people were actually buried beneath my feet, under the stones set in the church floor. I could recall how my overactive childhood imagination had caused me to shiver, as I did so again now.
    I stopped and thought it anomalous that the bodies of those buried so long ago could still have such an effect on me, whereas the bodies of the Taliban, those I had so recently sent to their graves, seemingly had none.
    I walked on.
    The center of the village was mostly unchanged, although some of the shops had different names, and others had different purposes.
    I went into the general store to buy a sandwich for lunch and waited for my turn at the checkout.
    “Oh, hello,” said the woman behind the till, looking at me intently. “It’s Tom, isn’t it? Tom Kauri?”
    I casually looked back at her. She was about my age, with long, fair hair tied back in a ponytail. She wore a loose-fitting dark gray sweatshirt that did a moderate job of camouflaging the fairly substantial body beneath.
    “Tom Forsyth,” I said, correcting her.
    “Oh yes,” she said. “That’s right. I remember now. But your mum is Mrs. Kauri, isn’t she?” I nodded, and she smiled. I handed her my sandwich and can of drink. “You don’t remember me, do you?” she said.
    I looked at her more closely.
    “Sorry,” I said. “No.”
    “I’m Virginia,” she said expectantly.
    I went on looking at her, obviously with a blank expression.
    “Virginia Bayley,” she went on. “Ginny.” She paused, waiting for a response. “From primary school.” Another pause. “Of course, I was Ginny Worthington then.”
    Ginny Worthington, from primary school? I looked at her once more. I vaguely remembered a Ginny Worthington, but she’d definitely had black hair, and she’d been as thin as a rake.
    “Dyed my hair since then.” She laughed nervously. “And put on a few pounds, you know, due to having had the kids.”
    Virginia Bayley, plump and blond, née Ginny Worthington, skinny and brunette. One and the same person.
    “How nice to see you again,” I said, not really meaning it.
    “Staying with your mother, are you?” she asked.
    “Yes,” I said.
    “That’s nice.” She scanned my sandwich and the can of drink. “Such a lovely woman, your mother. That’s three pounds twenty, please.” I gave her a five-pound note. “A real star round here.” She gave me my change. “Real proud of her, we are, winning that award.” She handed me my sandwich and drink in a plastic bag. “Lovely to see you again.”
    “Thanks,” I said, taking the bag. “You too.” I started to leave but turned back. “What award?”
    “You must know,” she said. “The National Woman of the Year Award. Last month. In London. Presented by the Prince of Wales, on the telly.”
    I looked blank. Had I really been so involved with my own life that I hadn’t even noticed my mother receiving such an accolade?
    “I can’t believe you don’t know,” Ginny said.
    “I’ve been away,” I replied absentmindedly.
    I turned away from her again.
    She spoke to my back. “You can come and buy me a drink later if you like.”
    I was about to ask why on earth I would like to buy her a drink when she went on. “My old man has arranged a bit of a get-together in the Wheelwright for my birthday. There’ll be others there, too. Some from school. You’re welcome to come.”
    “Thank you,” I said. “Where did you say?”
    “The Wheelwright,” she repeated. “The Wheelwright Arms. At seven o’clock.”
    “Tonight?”
    “Yeah.”
    “So is it your birthday today?”
    “Yeah,” she said again, grinning.
    “Then happy birthday, Ginny,” I said with a flourish.
    “Ta,” she said, smiling broadly. “Do come tonight if you can. It’ll be fun.”
    I couldn’t, offhand, think of a less fun-filled evening than going to the pub birthday party of someone I couldn’t really remember,