Civvies (15 page)

Griffiths was standing by the desk, talking on the phone, when Dillon walked in. Dillon hesitated, but Griffiths gestured him in, a casual twitch of the wrist, nodding and saying, ‘Thanks… fine, and I’ll see you first thing in the morning. ‘Bye.’ He put the phone down and blew out a satisfied gust of air, smacking his palms lightly together. ‘That’s a relief! They’ve bought the entire stock…’ His pleased expression wilted into one of consternation, even alarm. Dillon had dumped a large canvas holdall on the desk and was taking out a small armoury of handguns, rifles, night sights, ammo, CN canisters, commando knives in leather sheaths. ‘Good God! Any of you hold licences for these?’ He held up his hand. ‘Second thoughts — don’t answer.’ ‘You mind if I give you some advice?’ asked Dillon, watching as Griffiths stacked the weapons in a cupboard with a heavy padlock. ‘Get shot of Malone. You’ve got a good man in young Don, he knows the land and he’s got military training for security. Give him Malone’s job and hire a few of the locals on a permanent basis. Pay them enough so they won’t have to poach. Lot of unemployment up here.’ Griffiths shut the cupboard and secured the padlock. Straightening up, he glanced guardedly at Dillon through his fair eyelashes. ‘Not as easy as you think.’ He hesitated, then went on in his educated drawl, ‘Most keepers, you know, supplement their wages. So I give the butcher a few rabbits and he gives me a steak, eggs and so on…’ Dillon waited, knowing there was more to come as Griffiths went over to the window and looked out at the wooded hillside, pulling at the lobe of his ear. ‘Sometimes during the pheasant shooting season a couple of the protected birds get clobbered. I mount them and sell them off in Edinburgh. Malone brought me a couple of falcons, said he’d found them after the shoot, and we split the profits. It’s illegal, and I obviously knew to start with he wasn’t simply finding them…’ He gave a slight shrug, cleared his throat. ‘Now? Well, I’m in a Catch-22 situation. If he goes to the landowner, that’s me out of a job and a cottage, so I doubt I could get him to leave without a hell of a fight.’ Dillon nodded, getting the picture, and smoothed his fingertips along the line of his scar. ‘There’s one on the cards, sir,’ he said almost inaudibly. Griffiths looked over his shoulder, and he got the picture too, seeing the dark, threatening shadow in Dillon’s eyes. Maybe there was a way they could each do the other some good. He turned then, and said softly, ‘You get Malone out of here and I’ll see it to it you get a bonus on top of your wages, and Don will take over… Deal?’ They shook hands.

Dillon couldn’t make head nor tail of it. First off, it wasn’t Susie who had answered the phone, it was her mother; then Helen was going on about the boys, something about being feverish, poorly. Leaning against the reception desk, one hand pressed flat against his ear, he tried to make sense of what the cold, clipped voice was telling him — as it always was, of course, that same austere, snide tone, whenever she had occasion to speak to her son-in-law. Dillon tried again. ‘Well, where is she? What? She’s what?’ Even more mystified now. Why was Helen rabbiting on about minicabs? Had Susie gone off somewhere in one? ‘What did you say? Mumps? Hang on!’ He fished in his pocket as the beeps sounded, pushed a fifty-pence piece into the metal slot. ‘Hello? Look, I’m gonna gave to go… what? No, I dunno when I’ll be back. Just tell Sue I called.’ Dillon glanced up, aware of a presence, Sissy MacFarland standing in the entrance to the bar, one hand holding the edge of the doorway. She hung back a little, waiting for him to finish his call. Dillon said, ‘Well, maybe it’s a good job, it’s catching, isn’t it? Look, just tell her I called, okay, and… hello?’ Hung up on him. Bloody typical. Dillon banged the receiver down and pushed his hand through his hair. He could never get a straight story out of that woman. All the time she had that icy, accusing tone to her voice, as if she was blaming him for something. As if he’d made a hash of things, couldn’t provide for his own wife and kids. ‘Could you give me a hand?’ Sissy asked diffidently. She pointed behind her. ‘Only I want to close the bar…’ Dillon followed her through. Head down on the table amongst a collection of pint glasses and whisky tumblers, hair hanging over like rats’ tails, Steve was gently snoring, the breath rustling and gurgling from his open mouth. One hand trailed on the floor. Dillon’s lips tightened, and he shot a glance of apology at the girl, who returned a tiny shrug. ‘Has he been drinking all morning?’ ‘I’m not sure… Dad was doing the bar, I’ve been in the kitchen.’ She didn’t sound annoyed, more concerned than anything, Dillon thought, standing there with a small anxious frown. She looked as fresh as an advert, like a dairy maid, wearing an old print dress with coloured buttons down the front, and the hem half hanging down at the back. There was a small hole by the waist, maybe it had once held a belt, but it wouldn’t have mattered, it was not the dress he was interested in. ‘I tried to haul him up myself, but he’s too heavy, if you knew how many times I’ve half carried the old man up to bed, but…’ Sissy laughed. She was so free and easy and he noticed she wore no stockings, just small slip-on sandals, her legs still tanned from the summer. Together they hauled Steve upright in his chair, both got an arm around him and hoisted him up. He was well out of it, eyes swivelling, legs like rubber and it took the two of them to get him to the stairs. He swayed, hands up to say he could make it, but then Dillon caught him as he was about to fall flat on his face. Steve had an arm slung round Dillon and the other round Sissy as all three made it up the stairs, along the corridor to his room, and he was sagging between them as they heaved him onto the bed. It was then that Dillon noticed as he looked up and across to Sissy, that in the struggle one of her buttons had popped revealing a milky white, heavy breast. It gave him an erection at just the first look. He didn’t even have to think. She wore no bra, and was still unaware of the fact she was on display, still trying to get Steve out of his jacket but as she turned him over she looked up, not into Dillon’s eyes because, she realised, they were focused on her tits. Sissy laughed, a marvellous throaty giggle, as she pulled her dress closer. ‘I must have lost a button… sorry, can I leave it to you to get him undressed?’ Dillon nodded, thinking what he would give to rip that floral print right off her — he was almost as flushed as Steve. Sissy went out, leaving the door open as Dillon dragged off Steve’s jacket, then eased off his shoes. His feet stank! Dillon pulled the duvet round him and as he bent forward, Steve’s eyes opened. ‘I thi—gulp—she fan—gulp cies… me!’ The beer fumes disgusted Dillon, and he let the duvet flap over Steve’s head. He heard a drunken guffaw as he let himself out. Sissy was on her hands and knees, skirt up, searching around the corridor for her lost button and her arse was as much a turn on as her beautiful heavy breasts. Dillon moved towards her, trying to think of something, anything, to say but he was as dumb-struck as Steve. ‘I found one! The other may be on the stairs!’ Sissy held up the button, and turned as if to walk down the stairs. Then she paused, ‘Is he okay, maybe he needs some coffee?’ ‘He’s okay.’ His voice sounded hoarse, he wanted to hold her, draw her to him, but he couldn’t, he just stood there, and then she cocked her head to one side and smiled. ‘You hungry?’ Oh God! Was he hungry? He wanted to eat her, suck those big beautiful tits, wanted to hold her, he pushed at his pants, the pecker was talking for him. He knew if she came within arm’s length he wouldn’t be able to resist, he’d have to drag the rest of the little floral number off her, but it was just a fantasy… ‘Ah! Well, isn’t that lucky, I’ve found another button.’ She held it out in the palm of her hand. He smiled and leaned against the wall. Sissy slipped the two buttons into her pocket. She looked at Frank Dillon with his head slightly bowed, his cheeks flushed. He had the most piercing eyes she had ever seen on anyone, but he wouldn’t lift them, he seemed afraid or embarrassed to look at her. That room’s empty…’ Sissy looked at him and slowly he raised his head. He gave a low soft moan, and she crossed to him, lifting his right hand and slipping it inside her dress. The softness of her made him gasp. Dillon still could not really believe he’d scored, but when she drew him towards room 22, opened the door, and walked in, turning back just for a second to look at him, he knew he had, as Sissy read in his ice-blue eyes what she had hoped, wanted from the first moment she had seen him.

A few minutes or several hours, he had no notion of how long he slept — or rather dozed — because whenever he drifted off a sour bubbling nausea rose up in his chest, and the bed, the ceiling, the universe went into a corkscrew spin that made him clutch the sides of the mattress, anxious to stay on the planet. On one of these endlessly whirling voyages, ill with dizziness, Steve decided he could stand it no more. He gathered up a few shreds of willpower, groped his way off the bed and lurched to the door. Bathroom. Which way? He could feel the prickle of cold sweat erupting on his forehead, each individual bubble breaking out, trying desperately to quell the gobbet of sickness rising in him and keep it down until he found a friendly lavatory bowl. Stumbling along the corridor, hand out to steady himself, he heard a low moan, quite unmistakable. The moan was heavy with sex, heavy with pleasure, heavy… someone being fucked, well and truly fucked. Steve went very still, listening, then moved closer to the door of room 22, just two rooms down from his, and pressed his ear to the wooden panel. The rhythmic creak of bedsprings, the woman gasping, the man grunting as he thrust into her. Swaying back on his heels, Steve realised there was a fractional gap, the door not fully on the catch. He pressed his hand against the panel, inching it open, and craning forward, slid his head round the edge of the door. In the dim light filtering through the drawn curtains he registered two naked forms, the pale blur of a face turning towards him — ‘Sod off!’ The bedsprings twanged, hard thudding footfalls across the bedroom floor, and next thing Dillon’s hoarse bark of anger, ‘Go on — get out!’ as the door was slammed shut in his face. In the bathroom Steve fell to his knees on the tiled floor, bent over, retching, speaking on the big white telephone in fluent Swahili.

Sissy waved to Dillon from the window, and gave him a warm, affectionate smile. He climbed into the jeep, switched on, and as he was reversing, tooted the horn and blew her a kiss. Sissy giggled, waved again, and watched him head down the drive, disappearing through the trees. She spun round then, letting the curtain fall back, at the sound of a handle turning, her eyes widening as Steve came in and kicked the door shut with his heel. He leaned his head back against it, watery eyes in an ashen face, breath rasping harshly as if he’d run a mile. With a trembling finger he pointed to his throat. ‘It’s not my tonsils…’ Gathered the neckerchief in his hand and pulled it down. ‘See… you want to see?’ Sissy shook her head, drawing the bedcover tighter, white rounded shoulders and the upper slopes of her breasts lightly dappled with freckles. ‘I think you’d better leave…’ The tremor in Steve’s fingers had taken over his entire body. She could see the pent-up emotions physically raking through him, and as he tried to speak, and failed, in his rage and frustration he thudded his side with his fist, trying to release the log-jam inside. But what frightened Sissy most of all was the glazed look of rabid desire in his eyes; not seeing her as a person, as a woman, merely an object of lust with which to satisfy his own cravings. ‘Just leave, please…’ Sissy could feel her cheeks quivering in a nervous half-smile she couldn’t control, moving away from the white rectangle of the bed as he pushed himself off the door and shambled towards her. ‘I want you…’ Grunted, garbled, the words were incomprehensible to her but their meaning and intention were plain. Sissy backed away, knuckles white where they gripped the bedcover, real palpable fear making her eyes bright and bringing a fluttering, breathy laugh of nervous release. Steve’s mouth twisted, turned into a snarl. The bitch was laughing at him. Mocking his pain and humiliation. And in blind black rage he lashed out, his open palm cracking Sissy across the mouth, sending her stumbling into the closet door, blood spurting from her split lip. ‘No! Sorry…’ Steve reached out, tears springing into his eyes. ‘No, I didn’t mean—’ Sissy went rigid, screamed as his fingers dug into her bare shoulders. Terrified, she screamed again, and Steve clamped his hand over her mouth, stifling her, and with the girl struggling frantically in his arms he lost all control and struck her hard against the side of the head, knocking her to the floor. Grabbing a fistful of dark curly hair, he flung her onto the bed. Sissy squirmed away from him, uttering little tremulous cries of panic, and as she tried to escape Steve dragged the bedcover off her and flung it aside. Her nakedness sent a shock-wave through him. Not sexual desire. A deeper, murkier, more unspecified emotion. Something like shame, mingled with the loss of what he had once been, and the unbearable reality of what he had become. A life, his life, once bright with promise, girls at his beck and call, wiped out and wasted by a sniper’s bullet. Empty, futile, pathetic. Now there was nothing, and all he could do was stand and stare, trembling all over, the breath wheezing in the plastic tube, feeling the hot tears on his face as he broke down into helpless, uncontrollable weeping. When Sissy slithered to the floor and wrapped the bedcover around her, his attempt to stop her was feeble and half-hearted, and he didn’t even raise his bowed head when she ran to the door. There was blood on his fingers, from Sissy’s burst lip. Steve blinked at it, swaying slightly, and he fell forward onto the bed, face buried in the rumpled sheets, his whole body heaving. In torment he rolled onto his back and stared up at the blurred ceiling. ‘Steve … oh Steve,’ a hoarse, agonised whisper, as if calling to himself. It wasn’t a woman he wanted, not a woman, there had been too many, no one special. He was never with one long enough to give them any serious thought, or care if he saw them again, he was too young, had been too young to think about settling down, having a wife, kids, raising a family, he didn’t ache for that. He cried out for the Steve that was always the centre of attention. The Steve that nudged and winked and said, ‘I’ll have the blonde’ — or the redhead — the one every bloke was trying to get their hands on, he didn’t cry for that or call out his name for the loss of pulling a chick. He cried out to the Steve standing up on the table in the bars and clubs, the Steve who jumped up on the stage and took off Tom Jones, the Steve who could sing himself hoarse, to the cheers and catcalls of his mates. He ached for the Steve everyone liked, the joker, the guy everyone made sure was along for the piss-ups and the curries, because if Steve was around, you’d have a good time, and if Steve was pissed, he’d get up and sing. He’d always fancied himself fronting a band, and with a beer bottle as a microphone he looked the business, was the business, but that Steve Harris was someone he had known a long time ago, in another lifetime, now he ached for the loss of himself, the Steve Harris who was never coming back.