Chapter Seventeen #4
the shadows, Sasha paced. He had his own set of rules, as it was
turning out, on the subject of fidelity, only becoming apparent
now—as rocks became apparent to the captain of a ship, perhaps—when
he struck against them. It had only been a kiss. An innocent one
too, no more than a gesture of gratitude...
No. It
should have been. Sasha could have dried it out to nothing more
than that, dismissed and forgotten it. But he could still feel the
velvet brush against his palm.
He
stopped in his track from one end of the courtyard to the other.
“Shit,” he whispered. He'd been like a rock himself, a stone, dead
to anyone's caress but Laurie's since their very first night
together. Laurie's theatre friends, some of them handsome as young
gods, had hit on him at parties with the greatest sincerity, and
left him completely unmoved. And that was one of Sasha's rules,
never tested until now—if he didn't care, it didn't matter. No harm
could come to Laurie from that. If Sasha did care, though—oh, God,
if he failed to snatch his hand away as if he'd been bitten or
burned, if his treacherous skin was retaining the shape and the
feel of another man's mouth upon it...
He
didn't know what to do. And what the hell was wrong with him?
Laurie had coaxed from him so much pleasure last night—climax after
bursting, astonished climax—that he ought to be purged right now,
unable to raise another flicker.
Sasha's mobile beeped. He snatched it up eagerly from the
bench. If this was Laurie now, there might be a moment in which he
could tell him—confess this trivial thing that was burning him so,
watch it shrivel to nothing in the light of Laurie's
response. The pool boy's taken a shine to
you? I can't leave you alone for five minutes, can I? Well, come
on, then—is he hot? And then the rush of
laughter, cleansing and sweet to Sasha's soul.
No. Just notification of an email. Sasha read through it
distractedly. It was from a colleague at the Guidance Council in
London, one of his co-workers on the Yosiri Cuza case.
I thought you should know, Cuza and his family
were deported back to Bucharest last week. I only just heard about
it—Alan took the case out of my hands. In confidence, I think Cuza
was a sitting duck once you were out of the way. Colin Pearson's
evidence went hard against him in court.
All thoughts of Mateo—of Laurie too, for that matter—flew out
of Sasha's head. He stood staring at the email. Alan Briggs, his
boss, had let him go without a murmur. Sasha's self-esteem, never
the strongest thing about him, had accepted that quietly,
unconsciously absorbing it as a comment upon his role and his
importance, or the lack of it. He had been useful there, but not so
vital that they couldn't do without him. Fair enough, the damaged parts of him
had said.
Now a
new light shone. Sasha tapped his laptop keyboard, opening up his
files on poor greengrocer Cuza. On Pearson, the officially
sanctioned thug who'd come with Sir William Fitzroy to Birchwood
camp, and made it his practice thereafter to hound would-be
immigrants and refugees...
This was
ridiculous. Sasha had handed all this over to Briggs. Pearson
shouldn't have darkened the courtroom door, let alone been allowed
to give decisive testimony. Urgency rose up in Sasha, a need to be
doing, acting, fixing. He could pack a holdall. He could call a
taxi and go.
Then, if
Mateo was correct, he couldn't stir out of this house without his
actions being noted and supervised. Abruptly Sasha decided that was
stupid too. Who would bother to watch him? Well, that was one
matter easy to test.
He
picked up his laptop and mobile and let himself into the house. Mrs
Alvarez was singing in the kitchen: dodging past her in barefooted
silence, Sasha grabbed the clothes he'd left in the hall. His jeans
felt clammy over his damp Speedos but he had to do this now, find
out and dismiss it. He shrugged into his shirt, found a pair of
trainers by the front door.
That
would do. He looked tidy enough. He was just an ordinary man, a
resident of San Marco, out for a walk round the block. He hadn't
seen any other ordinary residents employed in this homely
occupation, and he rather wished he had a dog to walk, bulldog or
chihuahua, to lend him some credibility. Never mind. He let himself
out—keys, pass for the gate—and onto the drive.
The gate
lock was awkward. By the time he had undone it, a little pulse of
claustrophobic panic was beating in his throat. The annoying thing
was that he could have shinned over it, up and over like a fox into
green fields—but he was ordinary, legitimate. Legal. He did not
look at the silver Camry as he passed it. He pushed his hands into
his pockets and set off at an easy saunter.
Halfway
down the street, he began to feel like a fool. No-one was watching
him. Not following him, either. There was no sound of pursuit—only
the eerie silence of a place that should have been filled with the
chatter of kids, with stereo noise and all the annoying, reassuring
audio flotsam of human life. He turned the corner. And, off in the
street behind him, he heard an engine start.