LITMIR.BIZ

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how he's going to break the news. "Look at her. She's eighty-odd and she still thinks she's Ginger Rogers…"

      "Do you want me to —" starts Bryan, but Bliss cuts him off.

      "No. It's your big day, Peter. Anyway, she knows me better."

      "That doesn't necessarily make it easier," says Bryan sagely, but Bliss waves him away.

      "Don't worry, Peter. Just get me a very large brandy…"

      "Aren't you going to drive her home then?"

      "It's not for me, you idiot; it's for her."

      Word spreads faster than cholera in a room filled with nearly eighty policemen, and a depression settles over the reception as Bliss gently leads Daphne from the dance floor. Samantha has heard the news and races to be at Daphne's side as her father edges the aging woman towards a distant chair.

      "What's happening, David?" Daphne demands breathlessly, aware that she is suddenly the centre of attention.

      "Just a minute," he says, and frantically signals the band to start up again.

      "You're scaring me, David," Daphne continues, but Bliss needs her to be seated.

      Daphne sits, crushed in her own private world, as Bliss forges through the downpour with his face pressed to the windshield. "There's no point in hurrying," he has told himself a dozen times since leaving the Berkeley, "it won't bring her back." But he can't keep his foot off the throttle. He turns on the radio to break the overbearing silence and catches the end of the hourly news.

      "… reporting live from the scene of today's murder.

      "In a bizarre attack in Westchester this afternoon an elderly pensioner was pushed into the path of a London-bound express."

      "I don't think I want to hear," says Daphne quietly, and Bliss turns it off as the reporter confirms that the victim's name is being withheld while next-of-kin are informed.

      "She doesn't have any — not close, anyway," says Daphne, before sinking back into her misery.

      Detective Inspector Mike Mainsbridge of the British Transport Police is the officer in charge at the scene and is giving the same answer to the local radio reporter.

      "What can you tell us then, Inspector?" demands the reporter.

      "We've contacted a friend of the deceased and are awaiting her arrival, though we are fairly certain that we can positively identity her from articles found in her possession."

      "Any suspects at this time?"

      "We're looking for a white male, twenty to thirty years…" Mainsbridge continues, while Ronnie Stapleton slumps on Krysta Curran's bed with his face buried in his hands as they listen to the report.

      "Don't turn me in. I didn't do it, Krys, honest," he snivels. "The old bag just jumped."

      Krysta swats ineffectually at her own tears. "They said she wuz shoved on the telly," she says, as if a picture of a police officer demands greater credence than mere words, and the tears continue to cascade down her cheeks. "You can't stay here…" she is saying as the Inspector continues, "Fortunately we have a clear picture of the suspect from the station's surveillance camera…"

      Stapleton lashes out in frustration. "Switch it off!" he yells. "Switch it off." Then he sags in despair. "What am I gonna f'kin do, Krys?"

      "You could turn yourself in."

      "What — and tell ‘em I didn't do it — yeah, right. They'll swallow that. I got form, remember. I'm on probation."

      "Yeah. For a couple of ounces of dope — not for bumping someone off."

      "D'ye think the filth'll care?"

      "It'll be worse if they catch you."

      "They ain't got no witnesses," spits Stapleton.

      "You heard him, Ron — they got video."

      "It was dark. They could be bluffing," he pleads, tears streaming down his face. "She f'kin jumped, honest." Then he brightens with an idea. "You could say I wuz ‘ere all afternoon with you. We wuz playing on your computer — remember?"

      Krysta's face falls. "I dunno…"

      "I thought you loved me. I mean, it's not like it's gonna make any difference now. The old crumbly's gone."

      "But, we wuz in the caff together. You wuz making fun of her. The others will know."

      "Then we came right back ‘ere afterwards, aw'right?"

      Krysta keeps her eyes on the floor as she mumbles. "My mum and dad will be back soon."

      "You're throwing me out?"

      "Ron… I…"

      "Oh. Screw you."

      "Where'ya gonna go then?"

      "Mind yer own f'kin business."

      Daphne Lovelace has kept a stoic face since receiving the news, though she has loudly blown her nose on several occasions as Bliss drives her back to Westchester. "I'm afraid I rather spoiled Samantha's wedding," she starts, but Bliss rebukes her immediately.

      "You most certainly did not. Hardly anyone noticed. In any case, it wasn't your fault."

      "Well, I still feel responsible. Minnie was probably feeling miffed that I'd gone without her when she wasn't feeling well."

      "In which case she wouldn't have been at the station?"

      "Maybe she'd perked up and decided to come to the reception."

      It seems unlikely, thinks Bliss, finding it difficult to imagine that someone of Minnie's age would venture to London alone. Then he chides himself for the thought; after all, she was just about to set out around the world.

      "She was so thrilled about the trip," continues Daphne, reading Bliss's mind. "She's never really travelled anywhere before — not like me — and I was looking forward to showing her all the places I'd been… Red Square in Moscow, Istanbul — the blue mosque — the Taj Mahal…" Daphne's voice slowly fades in loss and sorrow and she blows her nose again.

      The rain hasn't eased as Ronnie Stapleton slinks along the scruffy lane at the back of his parent's terraced house on the outskirts of Westchester. With his eyes focused steadfastly on the light from his mother's kitchen, Ronnie peers over the rotten lattice fence and sees her familiar figure fussing over the stove.

      "I'm gonna chuck his dinner out if he doesn't show up soon," Dorothy Stapleton calls out to her husband, and she checks the clock on the microwave. "It's gone eight. I told him not to be later than six."

      "I'll eat it," yells a child's voice in response, and the shadow of Ronnie's rambunctious ten-year-old brother, Marty, appears in the window.

      "You will not, and it's time you were in bed," laughs his mother. "You've got school in the morning."

      The muffled sounds and blurry images of his family tug at Stapleton, and the prospect of a hot meal and some warm, dry clothing drag him towards the backyard gate. They obviously don't know, he tells himself, and seriously considers walking in as if nothing has happened.

      You're innocent, the voice in his mind says, though he hangs back, asking, How long before they see the news? How long before the knock on the door?

       And how will they know it's you? The cop said it was a white male aged twenty to thirty. You're only eighteen.

      What about the video?

       They're lying. They always say they've got video.

      And, what if they're not lying this time?

      Ronnie Stapleton pauses with his hand on the gate latch and the memory of his father's final admonition ringing in his ears. "This is the last time, son. You only get one chance in my books," he'd said only three weeks earlier as he'd led his son out of court. "If the fuzz ever come looking for you again, you're out."

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