Ripped by Frederic Lindsay Page B

sitting alone watching him which did not fit the girl opposite. She was certainly under thirty with very blonde hair cut short and dark big eyes. She had a good jaw and clearly marked cheekbones, things which he associated with character. For some reason, it seemed to him like the face of a country girl – and then she looked to the side and down and it was a beautiful face.
    'Would have been? Is your wife dead?'
    At her tone, the faintest disturbance moved in him like the shadow of one of those fish which are misshapen by the pressure of living far under the surface. According to his ideas if you misunderstood and spoke to someone of a near relative who was dead as if the person still lived then you would offer, even perfunctorily, some convention of apology. There had been nothing of that. Her voice was pleasant and curious, but there was no place in it for remorse.
    'Oh, no, not dead . She's gone to Shreveport... It's a town. In Louisiana. That's in the south – of the United States.'
    She held out her glass and smiled.
    When the drinks came, he waved away the change . The size of the tip he had given alarmed and pleased him. Out of character, anything was possible.
    'Shreveport,' he explained, 'is more like a city really. It's quite interesting how it got its name. A riverboat captain cleared a logjam that had blocked the whole river. They named the place after him. His name was Shreeve, you see. That was in 1836.'
    'You have a good memory for dates.'
    It seemed to him that no one had ever listened to him as attentively as this stranger. She made him feel as if they were alone in the room.
    'My daughter lives there and she wrote long letters telling us about the history of the place and what industries it has and about how funny it was at first to see the policemen going around with guns. She wanted us to share it all.'
    'That sounds nice. Did she write you separate letters?'
    'What?'
    'I mean one to you and then one to your wife – or just all the time to both of you "Dear Mummy and Daddy".'
    'All her letters were to both of us,' he said and felt tears press behind his eyes which made him angry until he remembered. She doesn't know Clare's left me.
    'That doesn't seem fair.' He felt old, bitter and wise. As if any of it had to be fair.
    'People are different,' she said. 'You can't make them one thing, it's dull. Not that it's exciting here . Would you like to come to my place? We could have a drink there just as well as here.' When he had been young, men wanted and girls refused. It had been a battle in which you led attacks and devised stratagems; getting your hand to the top of a leg had been a major victory and typically brought the campaign to an abrupt halt. He had claimed one complete success, and taken it for granted he should marry. Everyone had been younger then – himself, the girls – all of them younger than this woman beside whom he was an old man.
    'You don't know me,' be began, 'and even nowadays –'
    'My name is Frances,' she said. 'That better?'
    He told her his name, and blundered on. 'Even nowadays – perhaps more than the old days – there's a risk involved for a girl. I mean with a stranger.' He was anxious to persuade her that she should not do this kind of thing again. 'Terrible things happen – you read of them in the papers. '
    'You're nice,' she said. 'You're a very nice man. I wouldn't be taking any risk with you.'
    They took a taxi , his car, since he did not believe in drinking and driving, was tucked safely out of sight in the garage at home. The elephant-grey legs of the flyover flicked past. 'They say,' she said, 'there's a woman buried in one of those. She was killed by a man and then her body was put in there. Next morning the workmen poured concrete on her. They didn't know she was there, you see.'
    He was amused . 'I've heard that story before.'
    'Do you think it's true? My - a friend told me that.'
    'Heard it about somewhere else, I mean. I expect stories like that get made up