Beautiful Losers continued- by jack wainer

“She’s got the nerve,” said BJ. “And we did tell her that all activity was to be kept within the group.”

“That was sexual activity,” said Prince John, “but you could be right.”
“If so,” I mused, “then our beloved St Joan has got to be a strong contender. She came on pretty strong when Rimbaud was here. Really anti, she was.”
“Do you think we should mention it to her?” asked BJ.
“Who, Joan of Arc?” said Prince John. “She’s well able to take care of herself. Besides, she wouldn’t thank you if you warned her.”
“She’d be offended you even thought it necessary,” said Judas. “And she’s not a girl to offend, is she?”
We agreed, and BJ, Judas and Prince John went off to get a coffee. I wondered whether Prince John remembered that it was he who’d suggested to Rimbaud that she should kill her sister or mother.
Grainne came in and sat down. I began tentatively to broach the possibility we’d been discussing.
“Grainne, have you thought that young Rimbaud might choose one of the Beautiful Losers? As her victim, I mean.”
“That’s her most likely option,” said Grainne. “Has been from the beginning.”
That was Grainne: quiet, brooding, and full of the most intuitive insights. While the rest of us had floundered around speculating and guessing, she’d known that Rimbaud would choose one of us to kill. Had known from the beginning. Perhaps had even known from the moment when she’d suggested leaving the choice of victim open.
She was right too. It was Sunday afternoon, six days after we’d set the task, that I got the phone call. It was Prince John.
“She’s done it,” he said excitedly. “School gym. Come now.”
It wasn’t difficult to get into school out of hours, using the skylight with the permanently broken catch. We’d used it many times when we needed a venue for a group orgy or a rendezvous for a passionate coupling.
As I crossed the flat roof, I caught up with Judas who was just lifting the skylight. We dropped down into the common room and made our way to the gym. Everyone was there. Rimbaud was sitting up at the top of the wall-bars. Down below stood Grainne and Prince John, Skunk and Joan of Arc. Lying on a soiled crash-mat and wearing only a shirt was BJ, his cherubic face marred by his protruding tongue and a tight wire noose embedded into his chubby neck.
I looked up at Rimbaud. “You did it then,” I said.
She waved one hand, then blew a kiss.
Joan of Arc spoke for her. “Of course she did it. I watched the whole thing.”
We all turned and stared.
“How come?” Skunk asked.
Rimbaud hung from the top bar by her hands. “I thought a witness would make it more official,” she said.

END