Granny Parsley shrieked, swung with all her might, and was appalled to see her assailant’s head separate from his shoulders and go bouncing into the gutter.

"Oooh, I am sorry, officer. I thought you were a young ruffian intent on mugging a poor defenceless old lady."

The policeman scooped his helmet up from the floor and wiped the mud from it, wondering how a handbag could be so heavy. The old lady must be carry her life savings around in pennies, he thought.

"Sorry Madam," he said, moving further into the orange ellipse of the street-light "It’s Mrs Parsley isn’t it"

"Yes dear. Do I know you?"

"Yes. I responded to the call when your husband - you know - passed on."

"Of course, when old Frank pegged it," said Granny Parsley cheerfully. "How could I forget such a nice young man. You made a lot of tea didn’t you ?"

"Yes. It must have been a terrible shock for you."

"Goodness me, nooooo," chimed Granny Parsley, "I expected it dear."

She smiled at the confused policeman. "Don’t worry love," she said, "here, have a sweet. Let me pick a nice one for you," and she pulled a paper bag from her pocket, carefully delving through the brightly coloured shining wrappers before pressing a gold-wrapped toffee in the policeman’s hand.

"You see," she began, as the policemen chewed, "Frank and I met in the in the munitions factory during the war. The draft board refused him because of his flat feet and the squint but apart from that, and his bad teeth, he was a prime specimen and quite a catch amongst the girls. I worked on the assembly lines making shells and the like, and Frank worked in the testing department. Do you want another one dear ?"

"Mno, fank ou," muffled the policeman, as he strained to unglue the toffee from his teeth with his tongue.

"Not many people remember how many poor souls died in that factory, or lost fingers and hands when a shell was fumbled or a dud fuse exploded. We thought ourselves very lucky to walk out of that factory with all our faculties." She paused, and sadly studied her fingernails where the pink nail polish had become chipped and scraped.

"But Frank had been working with asbestos you see ? It was killing him from the day I met him, only neither of us knew it. He was ill for years, struggling around the flat hauling his oxygen bottle behind him, like a baby pulling a duck on wheels. At the end of it we had a cupboard full of pills and bottles to help with the pain, depression - not to mention incontinence. It’s funny, but I still think of him on bonfire night. The smell of gunpowder reminds me of when we were young."

There was a long silence.

"Be careful now Mrs Parsley," said the policeman. " It’s a rough area round here, especially at this late hour. Would you like me to walk you home?"

"No," she said firmly, "I’ll be fine love. I can look after myself," and she pushed the button on the handlbars of her invalid carriage, which whined obediently into the night.

It wasn’t the asbestos that killed him though. It was Anthony Pole. Tony Pole who hung around the elevated walkway outside the tiny flat that she and Frank shared, surrounded by pale young girls in high-cut skirts and low-cut blouses. The illness forced Frank sit for hours on end staring out at the two by two square window, watching Tony’s loaded handshake pressing drugs into the hands of bedraggled kids.

One day, without a word, Frank heaved himself from his chair and, towing his oxygen cylinder behind him, tottered out onto the walkway and crept, slowly, ever so slowly towards Tony.

He stood in front of the young man and frowned at him for a long time. "I’m dying, you know," he said breathlessly. "My lungs are scarred and twisted and I struggle for every breath," and a cough seized his body as if to illustrate the point. "But I’d rather be like this than be blackened and rotting in my soul, like you are."

Tony stared at the old man, shocked by the audacity of the old man’s simple assault. Frank smiled and turned serenely back to the flat, nodding in tacit agreement with himself.

Behind him the girls giggled at Pole’s impotence and the pusher could only yell "Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!"

The revenge began soon after. For weeks afterwards the pusher and his cronies would taunt and jeer at him when he sat at the window, until he had to draw the curtains and sit in the dark form then on. Then they started posting cruel messages, smutty pictures and human filth through the letter box until, on the night the policeman called, they thrust a burning newspaper through the slot. Granny swiped at it with a blanket until it was extinguished, but by then the smoke was already in his weakened lungs and he died the same night.

She was almost at the entrance the short, dimly lit tunnel when the figure stepped out of the shadows, blocking her way.

"Oh, my goodness," she cried, "what is it with people tonight. Are you trying to give me a heart attack boy ?"

"Sorry Granny I didn’t mean to scare you," said the man.

Granny Parsley peered through the darkness at the face of a middle-aged man that somehow landed on the awkward rangy body of a young man. Years of crack and cannabis had sapped the vigour from his skin and sunk his eyes into deep hollows. A flicker of recognition flashed across Granny’s face.

"I know you," she said. "You’re Edna Morris’s son, Billy aren’t you ?" She frowned. "What are you playing at , sneaking up on an old lady like that," and in a flash she had reached out and clipped his ear. The young man threw his hand to the ear in pain and embarrassment.

"How’s your mum - is she still living down Digby Street with that hod carrier ? She was a one, your mum. She used to be quite the tom-boy when she was young, always climbing trees and rolling round in the dirt with the boys." Granny paused in thought. "Come to think of it that explains why you’re here. She can only have been sixteen when she had you. How old are you now, love ?"

"Twenty-four," muttered Billy, who was now so mortified with embarrassment that he could barely string two words together.

"Well," said Granny, "why are you sneaking around like a black rat in a coal scuttle?"

Billy looked round furtively before answering.

"I just wanted some stuff, Granny."

"Why didn’t you say so, love?" said Granny, her face softening. "What do you want, dear ? I’ve got uppers, downers, jellies or some little blue ones for staving off hives."

"I don’t suppose you’ve got anything harder have you Gran ?"

"You know I don’t," she snapped. "This stuff is all recommended by genuine mediacl doctors so it’s guaranteed safe, not like that poison the others sell. Now take it or leave it."

"Just some uppers please"

"That’ll be five pounds please," said Granny Parsley lightly, as if the boy were purchasing a cream bun. She delved once more into the handbag and pulling out the bag of brightly wrapped sweets, and rifled through the gold, green, royal blue, red and violet paper before selecting a silver sweet which she pressed into the young man’s hand.

"Take two after a meal and don’t drink alcohol or operate heavy machinery."

Billy looked mystified. "What sort of machinery. Do you mean, like, a steam-roller or something ?"

"Well I don’t really know dear but I would certainly stay clear of steam-rollers, yes. Run along now, and take care."

Granny Parsley watched the young man run awkwardly down the street and around the corner.

"God Bless," she muttered.

She was about to resume her journey when a second figure stepped out of the shadows.

"Caught you at it you bitch," growled Tony Pole.

Granny stabbed urgently at the button of her electric chair and the motor sparked into life, catching Pole off-guard. She crouched low over the handlebars like she’d seen the motor-cyclists do but was disappointed to see that the reduced wind resistance had not altered the chair’s progress from a sedate walking pace and Pole was walking calmly beside her. He jammed out his fist and lifted Granny from the chair by the collar of her fake fur coat.

"How long did you think you could get away with selling on my patch. Very stupid mistake," he shouted, barking his fetid breath into Granny Parsley’s face until her pearl-rimmed glasses steamed up.

"Oh dear," cried Granny, tears starting to well in her eyes, "I’ve been ever so silly and I only wanted to make a bit of money to top up my pension." She drew in a short sobbing breath and began to gabble. "It’s just what was left in the medicine cupboard from when Frank died and it can’t be bad for them, not really, because it’s all legal isn’t it ? I mean the doctors wouldn’t let you have it if it wasn’t legal. And I thought I’d be doing the kids a favour giving them something a bit safer and cheaper and I don’t sell to the young ones but I really have been a silly old woman haven’t I?"

She gathered herself as Tony Pole gazed at her disdainfully. "Oh, look," she said, "my nose is running. Do you mind if I get myself a hankie ?"

Tony lowered the old lady back into the chair and clicked his tongue in disbelief.

Granny Parsely stooped to delve in the handbag and then straightened up stiffly, one hand wiping her streaming nose while the other pointed the gun unsteadily at the pushers head. His draw dropped and his eyes grew wide, and Granny thought he may have done something unpleasant in his trousers.

"This is the last gun we ever made in the factory," she said, still sniffing but smiling at the memory, "and I slipped it into my garter and smuggled it out. I only kept it as a momento but you’ve no idea how useful it’s been. Handsome isn’t it? Ever so easy to use and a very sensitive trigger - just the thing for my arthritis. The only trouble is it’s a bit unreliable, but then we all get a bit unreliable when we get old don’t we? It tends to go off unexpectedly, which could be very dangerous couldn’t it dear ?"

Tony nodded vigorously, but his tongue seemed to have grown too big in his mouth for him to speak and sweat had broken out on his forehead in such quantities that it looked like he’d just stepped out of a shower.

"I don’t like you Anthony. You’re a naughty boy and you must be punished. And you killed Frank, which was very naughty indeed. Poor Frank," and as she spoke Granny Parsley’s eye’s glazed over as she remembered her strong young man , and the gun sagged slightly, only enough for Tony to regain his composure and leap for the muzzle of the gun.

There was a loud crack and smoke billowed out from the old fire-arm. Tony, directly in the line of fire, was surprised to find that he had suffered no ill effects and stared quizzically at the old lady, the sweat breaking from his forehead.

"Unreliable dear. I keep a blank in the chamber just to be on the safe side."

"Blanks?"said Tony Pole incredulously, then threw his head back and laughing hysterically. "Blanks. You stupid old cow. I’m going to kill you now."

"Oh dear," said Granny forlornly, "I wish you wouldn’t," and calmly lowering the gun, she shot him twice in the foot.

Tony Pole screamed and crumpled to the ground.

"Only one blank," said Granny, "the rest of the magazine is live. You can’t be too careful you know, there’s all sorts of wierdos out here these days. Now, are you going to be a good boy form now on ?"

Pole nodded furiously, his face white and distorted by the pain.

"And you’re not going to sell any of that horrid stuff to children ?"

Again Pole acquiesced.

"Good boy. Run along now, dear." She peered down at the foot, a shattered mess of splintered bone and bloody flesh. "You’ll want to get some tincture of iodine on that," she said, and pushing the button on her chair she resumed her stately progress home.