Ripped (20 page)

'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
about
those
things
wherever
they
build
them.
It's
because
concrete
is
so
ugly.'