The Administration Series (219 page)

"What now?" she asked.

"Everything's arranged — it's not entirely official, but I'm owed a lot of favours. You'll be met at the other end. There'll be a safe house, somewhere to stay, and then something permanent can be worked out. For now, the important thing is to get you away."

"Are you coming with me?"

"For a little while, yes." He put a finger to her lips, silencing the protest. "I'm sorry, but it can only be for a few weeks. Then I have to come back. Only until I can get away permanently, I promise."

"As long as we'll be together in the end, I don't care." However, she did care, although she knew it was selfish, after he'd done so much. She couldn't stop herself adding, "I wish it was for good now."

"Soon — as soon as I can, I promise. I'm due for retirement, and I'd like to leave as legitimately as possible. We might need friends later."

We. Everything she had wanted for so long was in that one word.

There was one moment, after he held her tight against him but before he kissed her, when Kailynna the professional began to look to the future, and to calculate, and to doubt. Then Kate set her firmly to one side, and never thought about her again.

When the inspectors had gone, Sara attended a brief, tense meeting in Toreth's office. Herself and Toreth, B-C, Bevan, Chevril, Mike Belkin and the other senior paras in the know. No one had anything untoward to report, and everyone said the same things, over and over again.

It went well. Everything went fine. The interrogation levels looked great. Everyone performed brilliantly. Who came up with the idea of posting investigators ahead of the inspection to warn people it was coming? Brilliant — saved the day. Carnac looked pissed off — that was good, wasn't it? All level one. The inspectors looked convinced. They
were
convinced, weren't they? I would've been.

Trying to persuade each other.

Eventually, Toreth's patience wore thin and he threw everyone else out. They sat, him in Tillotson's stolen chair, herself on the desk. He had his forefingers braced on the edge of the desk, turning the chair a few centimetres left and right. It squeaked softly in the silence.

If he didn't stop it soon, she'd kill him.

"I think it went okay," she said. She hadn't been counting, but that must've been the dozenth time.

"Yeah. It went fine. We just have to wait for the announcement tomorrow. There's nothing else we can do." He wasn't listening to himself.

"At least it's going to be quick." She hesitated, then asked, "Are you going to see Warrick? Tell him how it went?"

He shook his head. "Tomorrow. I left him a message to say we were still around. I'll see him when it's all over and done with."

She checked her watch. "I should go. Fee'll be wondering where I am."

"Come to the flat." When she didn't answer, he spun the chair round once, then pushed it back and stood up. "Call her, come to the flat. We'll get a takeaway; I've already got some things in to drink. I — " He hesitated. "It'll be closer for work in the morning. We should get in early."

Since they'd been getting in early every day for a month, it wasn't much of a reason, but she didn't argue. She knew what he meant. She didn't want to wait alone either.

Cartons lay scattered across the table, interspersed with bottles. It had taken them longer than they'd expected to find an open takeaway. The meal had been further delayed while Sara tidied up, because the flat was way beyond even her high squalor tolerance threshold. By the time they'd thrown out the last of the broken furniture and generally cleaned everything, even Toreth was willing to admit it was an improvement.

Somehow they had moved onto the topic of birthdays. It made a change from I&I, but in an absolute sense it was still depressing.

"It's just that I feel so bloody
old
," she said.

"You're twenty-eight."

"And soon I'm going to be twenty-nine. And next year I'm going to be thirty." If we're still here next year.

"Thirty isn't old. I should know, because
I'm
nearly fucking forty and that isn't old either."

She sighed. She lay on her back on Toreth's battered sofa, her head in his lap, looking up at him. It felt weird, because she hadn't done it for a while, and she was slightly soberer than she usually was when she ended up down here. She was too bloody old to be acting like this, as well.

Toreth didn't seem to mind, though. He'd been remarkably patient while she bitched and moaned over the looming birthdays she couldn't do anything about. Sympathetic, even. Or possibly he just liked the general visual effect of having a woman's head in his lap and he wasn't listening at all. You could never be sure with him.

Right now, he was staring thoughtfully into his drink. He'd had more than she had over the evening, which meant that they were about comparably drunk.

She poked his ribs gently, careful to choose the undamaged side. "What're you thinking about?"

"What?" He smiled slightly. "Oh. Nothing."

Meaning Warrick, probably. Not surprising since, apart from one brief meeting, he hadn't seen him for a fortnight. She felt an uncharacteristic sting of jealousy, not so much directed at Warrick in person as at the way he tended to creep into every situation when Toreth wasn't paying attention to anything specific. Toreth had been hers first — her friend first. Now, however desperately he tried to pretend otherwise on occasion, he was Warrick's. Signed, authorised and submitted, with an unlimited damage waiver.

"What's it like?" she asked.

"What's what like?"

"Having Warrick." Because it was Toreth, she quickly clarified her question. "Having him around as a regular thing."

"Great. It helps if you like chains and you don't mind the noise."

"No, seriously. What's it like?"

"Like?" He shrugged, retreating from the question. "Why should it be 'like' anything? Do you want another drink?"

She knew better than to press him, but she found she really wanted to know. Curiosity and, yes, a touch of envy again. "I mean . . . always having him there. Knowing he's always going to be there."

"I don't. No reason why he should be."

"Oh, come off it. It's been years now. He's not going to just turn round one day, say 'That's it, I don't want you any more', and walk off."

"He could." He wasn't looking at her any more. "People do. Why the hell would I assume that he won't?"

"Well, because it's
Warrick
. He wouldn't. I mean, he really —"

"Don't say it."

"I wasn't —"

"Don't say
anything
." His voice rose. "Don't — just shut the fuck up."

She stared up at him, appalled by the fear in his voice. "Toreth?" She waited for him to interrupt again, but he didn't. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get into a lot of stupid stuff you don't want to hear. Sorry."

"It's . . . it's no big deal." He ran his hand through his hair. "I don't know why I got so — never mind. What was the question?"

"Forget it."

"No, it's okay. What did you want to know?"

"Well, what it's like, having a regular thing?"

"It's good." He took a deep breath. "It's good — knowing what he likes. It makes it . . . easy. To . . . I don't know. To stay in bed on Sunday morning, or whatever, and fuck or not, and not have to think about everything. Anything. It's safe — no, not safe. That's stupid. Just . . . good."

She could feel him shaking with the effort it took to say that much, and she felt a tiny tug of guilt. It wasn't fair to exploit the fact that he'd do it for her, for no better reason than curiosity. "It sounds lovely."

He nodded, looking even more uncomfortable — at her choice of words or at what he'd said, she wasn't sure. "I don't know why the fuck you're asking me about it. You're the one with the collection of rings."

"They never worked out, though, did they? It was never easy." She snorted, not quite a laugh, and he looked down, suspicious.

"What?"

"I was just thinking — there's you, and I mean this nicely, who'll screw anything you can catch. And you've got Warrick. Then there's me, who's ever so choosy and tries to pick the stayers, and I've got no one. Trying too hard, I expect."

"What about McLean?"

"Total bust." She sighed again. "Wouldn't work. Or at least . . . wrong time, wrong place. Or something."

"Good. He's a tosser." Sympathy, Toreth-style. "You should try my way. Fuck at random until you — " He blinked. "Until you get lucky."

She shook her head. "I don't think it would work. It always ends up messy if I try it."

"You said that before, you know."

"When?"

"Oh, God, years ago. Here. The first time you were here, in fact." He patted the sofa. "When you got so high you tried to fuck me. You said you didn't do casual screwing. Which was funny at the time, because you were lying on top of me trying to unfasten my trousers."

Yes. This was the same sofa where they'd fucked, and she'd pretended in the morning that she didn't remember a thing. She'd been . . . nineteen. Had he really not bought any new furniture in ten years?

"Oh, well. Maybe I was wrong."

He smiled. "Maybe."

Pause for thought, a moment of silence while they both wondered if that was it, then he put his drink down on the arm of the sofa and traced his fingertip slowly round her mouth. She managed to resist for the whole length of her bottom lip, and then she opened her mouth and captured the finger.

A second finger worked its way between her lips as his eyes closed. "Mmm. I like that."

I know you do. I remember.

She licked figures of eight across his fingertips while she told herself what an incredibly bad idea this was. All the same reasons there had been before, and Warrick. Now there was Warrick.

He need never know. She wouldn't tell him, and Toreth wouldn't either, not about this. Besides, if everything screwed up tomorrow, they might not even have a chance to regret it. His free hand stroked over her forehead, traced her eyebrows. It would be so easy to say nothing and let it happen.

She took his fingers out of her mouth, kissed his palm, and he opened his eyes.

"Sara?" he asked, and she shook her head. She had her morals. Not many, and they weren't necessarily very good ones, but Thou Shalt Not Screw Friends' Partners was an absolute.

"I can't," she said. "Not this time."

She thought he might be angry, because his eyes narrowed, but then he laughed. "Fucking hell. I was never sure, you know. Either way."

"Honestly?" She laughed too, relief that after all this time it was suddenly okay for them to come clean about it. "I thought you were just being polite."

"God, no. I didn't want you to resign, and I knew you would if I said anything and you really didn't remember. Well?"

"Well what?"

"Was it good?"

"Was it —?" So typically bloody Toreth. "God, I can't remember." Then she took pity on him. "Yes, it was. I mean, I haven't spent ten years thinking about it every time I screwed anyone, but it was, oh, I don't know . . . in the top ten."

He grinned. "Top five?"

Sometimes, like now, she could still fool herself into thinking that she loved him. She sat up, because a little distance was, if not necessary, then at least a good idea. "Shut up and pass me the banana fritters."

In all of Toreth's life, he couldn't remember a day passing so slowly. It wasn't that there was nothing to do — in fact he was as busy as ever. It was simply that he kept looking at the clock, and every time it was five minutes later than the last time he'd checked. Then he'd be angry with himself, and get back to work, forcing himself to concentrate until he knew at least an hour must have passed.

Then he would look, and it would be five minutes later again.

Sara brought coffees until he had to ask her to stop. He knew she was only doing it from nerves, but he didn't want to miss the report because he was in the medical unit with caffeine-induced cardiac arrhythmia. They didn't speak much — there was nothing left to say. B-C was sensibly keeping out of his way, but he caught sight of Mistry wandering aimlessly around in the General Criminal main office.

When Payne arrived in the late afternoon, unannounced, he wondered if he'd come to say the inspectors were ready. That idea was dispelled by the way he slammed the office door behind him. Toreth inspected him with curiosity — he'd never seen him out of uniform, except at the gym, and the effect was mildly disconcerting. His civilian clothes were stained with sweat, and he looked like hell.

Now that everything was so nearly over, Toreth had hoped Payne would go quietly. He didn't fancy a protracted, boring scene, although he strongly suspected that was what he was about to get.

"Who did you tell about us?" Payne demanded as he came over to the desk.

"No one." Toreth leaned back in his chair. "Sara guessed, but I'll tell you now she didn't tell anyone else."

"You must have told someone."

"If I had, I wouldn't bother to lie to you about it."

Payne didn't seem to hear him. "Or someone saw us. I suppose someone could've seen us. Fuck."