A Prospect of Vengeance

between Mrs Beryl Simmonds and Mr Gary Redwood, back in 1979. But who gave a fuck for that? What mattered was that, once again, Marilyn Francis had been memorable.

'But . . . Miss Francis was a friend of yours, surely?'

'Yeah — ' Gary stopped suddenly. 'No. I just talked to her —

that's all.' He looked past Ian, down the length of the timber-loft. 'She was a smasher — a right little smasher! Bloody IRA

— bloody bastard sods!' He came back to Ian. 'I was only a lad then. First job out of school, like . . . But she was a smasher, she was — Miss Francis.' He pronounced the smasher's name almost primly. 'Why d'you want to know about her?'

Ian was ready for the question. 'Not for anything wrong, Mr Redwood. I'm just a solicitor's clerk, and we've got this will to check up on — next-of-kin, and all that. And probate, and death duties, and all the rest of it — ' He shrugged fellow-feeling at Gary, as one loser to another ' — I just do the donkey-work for my boss . . .' For a guess, Gary wouldn't know probate from a hole in the road. But it might be as well to divert him, just in case. 'She seems to have been a decent sort — Miss Francis?'

'She was.' He looked past Ian again, but only for a second.

'Yes.'

'And pretty, too.' Ian followed Gary's eyes, and his own came to rest on a copy of the Sun which lay folded on top of a bomber-jacket beside the wood pile. 'Like Page Three — ?' He pointed at the newspaper.

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'What?' Gary squinted at him. 'Like — ? No, not like that . . .

That'll be that old bitch going on — like she always did. She just dressed smart — Marilyn — Miss Francis did. But she was a lady. More of a lady than old Mrs Simmonds. And not stuck-up, like some of 'em . . . She'd talk to you — really talk to you — not treat you like dirt, see?'

Ian wasn't quite sure that he did see. It wasn't just that Mrs Simmonds' and Gary's views diverged on Marilyn Francis, that was predictable. There was something here that was missing. But he nodded encouragingly nevertheless.

'An' she was clever.' Gary nodded back. 'She knew things.'

'What things?'

'Oh ... I used to talk to her about the Old West,' Gary trailed off.

'The old — what?'

'West.' Gary's eyes lit up at the memory. 'Cowboys and Indians . . . and the US cavalry — General Custer . . . It's my hobby, like — I read the books on it ... And she knew about it

— knew who Major Reno was, for instance — I didn't have to explain about him getting the blame for Custer getting hisself killed — she knew. We had a good talk about that once, while she was helping me with the deliveries all round the office.

Which she didn't have to do, either ... All about whether the Sioux had used more bows and arrows than Winchesters an'

Remingtons — she didn't think they had many guns.' He nodded vehemently. 'An', you know, she was probably right dummy2

— there's a new book I got out of the library just last week that says that. . . She was clever, I tell you.'

So it hadn't been just the see-through blouse with Gary after all — or the peroxide hair and the red nails. It had been General Custer and the Sioux (and Major Reno, whoever the hell he had been!). But —

'An' she knew about guns.' Another decisive nod, which brought a cow-lick of hair across the bright-eyes. 'Knew more than any girl I ever met — repeating rifles, an' double-action revolvers . . . An' we talked once about the SLRs what the army had. 'Fact, she said I ought to join the army — said I'd make a good soldier, knowing about guns like I did — ' Gary's gargoyle features twisted suddenly.

Clever little Marilyn, Ian had been thinking. Mrs Simmonds had said it, and Gary had said it — on that they were agreed.

And he was himself thinking it: clever, clever Miss Francis!

But Gary was staring up at him. 'You didn't join up, though

— ?'

Gary straightened up. 'Got flat feet — haven't I!' He scowled horribly. 'Went down to the Recruiting Office — went down the day it was in the paper . . . Flat bloody feet, is what I've got. Bloody stupid!'

Ian became aware that he was returning the scowl. 'What. . .

paper?'

'That one.' Gary gestured toward the Sun. 'In all of 'em —

about the IRA shooting her. Christ! I'd 'uv given 'em shooting dummy2

if I'd 'uv got into uniform, and got to Ireland, I tell you —

killing her like that, the bastards!'

Lucky Ulster! Ian's thoughts came away from clever Miss Francis momentarily. But now Gary would give him everything.