The Hostage (28 page)

His smile had no effect on her.

‘Bit cold in here too . . . Anything wrong?’

She looked at her watch. The penny dropped and he checked his own.

‘I’m sorry I’m late. I really am. I’m not normally a tardy person. I’ve been rushing around like a March hare all day. So many things to do and people to see, and then the bloody tube train broke down and I was stuck with a dozen people in the tunnel for ten, maybe fifteen minutes.’

‘You’re twenty minutes late,’ she said.

He looked wounded. ‘I swear if you knew the mileage I’d put in today you’d understand. When I finally got home I had the fastest shower I think I’ve ever had in my life. I left my place at the run and practically got dressed on the tube.’

She wasn’t impressed.

‘Look,’ he said, and stuck his feet out and pulled up the ends of his trousers to expose his socks: one black, one brown. ‘Odd socks,’ he exclaimed. ‘And that’s not all. As I was putting my shirt on I was hopping on one leg at the same time pulling on my underpants and I think I put one of my feet through the little slit that’s in the front because they’re god-awful tight and there’s a whole bunch of extra material at the back.’ He leaned over to lower his voice. ‘When I’m walking I think it looks like I’ve shit myself.’

She tried hard not to smile.

‘Please forgive me,’ he pressed his case. ‘It’ll never happen again. Let’s start over.’ He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small gift-wrapped package, and placed it on the table in front of her. She looked at it and then at him.

‘It’s perfume. Good stuff, so I’m told.’

‘I don’t wear perfume,’ she said.

‘It’s not for you, it’s for your mum,’ he said, adjusting smoothly.

She smiled, catching the adjustment. ‘Thank you.’

‘You look absolutely gorgeous,’ he said and peered around the table to get a full look at her. ‘My God. She has legs too. I’ve never seen you in a skirt before.’

‘I can’t remember the last time I wore one. At school, I think.’

‘I’ll tell you something. If those old fogies back at you-know-where could see you now there might be a few shut faces. I’ve heard the complaints that you don’t look feminine enough. They must be a load of old fruits, that’s all I can say.’

‘They think I’m one.’

‘No way,’ he said, although he had heard that.

‘They call me the dyke.’

‘Well, I think some of those boys have spent far too long cooped up in that little camp with no one but each other for company.’

‘How do you know I’m not?’

‘If you are I’d have to say I’m flattered you think I’m the one who might turn you around. And I’d also have to say you’ve chosen wisely.’

‘You think highly of yourself.’

‘Is it true then? Are you a dyke?’

The waiter came over and handed them menus. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked.

Bill ordered the Sancerre, his favourite Loire, and the waiter left them.

She hadn’t answered and so he pushed on. ‘You don’t care to defend your sexuality either way then?’ he asked.

‘Is that all you’re here for?’

‘Well, I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit it was your beauty that got me interested in the first place. And yes, I would like to have sex with you before we get married.’

His forwardness fell on stony ground, which was a bit of a blow but his own fault. He had not stuck to his tried and tested theory to first get a woman talking about anything, then find their humour and get them laughing. Only then, when the temperature was right, steer the conversation to sex or a related subject that led to bodily contact. He was in a bit of a hole and had to get back on track. But before that he had to establish whether or not she was a lesbian.

‘I believe that when a man sets eyes on an attractive woman for the first time, and vice versa, the first question that pops into his head is, could this be the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with? Is she the one? Sometimes you get your answer the second she opens her mouth - bad teeth or something like that. But if you’re not put off you continue to get to know her, moment by moment, day by day, until she shows you something about herself that you could not live with. And of course, if you don’t find anything about her that you could not live with, then she’s the one for you.’

Before he got to the end of his little thesis, he felt like he was drowning in his own bullshit. From the way she looked at him, he realised this was not a theory to placate Aggy. ‘Maybe that’s too simple,’ he said, still wallowing. He knew that if he was going to get out of this now it was going to be with her help.

‘Would you still sleep with a woman who didn’t meet your expectations?’ she asked.

‘Yes. Having sex is a completely different thing. Most men would sleep with any woman whether he liked her or not, if she was physically attractive enough.’

‘And if you met a woman who was good enough to spend the rest of your life with and she jumped straight into bed with you, how would that affect her rating?’

‘You mean, before she got to know me?’

‘Yes.’

He grinned. ‘Alas, one of my biggest problems is my frankness and general honesty . . . So, yes, I’d have to say it could adversely affect her qualifications.’

‘You’d respect her less?’

‘I could only truthfully know that the next day of course, after I’d weighed everything in my mind, but probably.’

‘Why?’

‘I’d always be wondering if she might jump into bed just as quickly with someone else.’

‘What if she did it because you meant nothing to her?’

This was all wrong, Bill thought.They were talking about sex all right, but not in the way he’d anticipated. ‘I’d feel used,’ he said, trying to inject some fun into it.

‘And how do you feel about me?’ Aggy asked casually, without humour.

‘So far, I’d spend the rest of my life with you,’ he said without his usual smile.

‘So I shouldn’t even think about sleeping with you, unless I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life with you?’

‘No, you shouldn’t,’ he said. ‘Would you sleep with me if I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life with you?’

‘No,’ she said.

‘Then we’re settled,’ he said, grinning, wondering if they had arrived back on firm ground.

She sipped her water.

‘I can’t believe none of them have hit on you - the guys in the detachment,’ he said.

She shrugged as she picked up the menu and perused it. ‘There’s not one that you fancy then? Not even a little?’ he asked, almost desperate to know if she was heterosexual. He might even welcome news that she had slept with one of the men at this point.

She glanced at him over the menu, wondering whether to tell him her more private thoughts or not.

‘Not that I’m worried about competition,’ he added. ‘I wouldn’t do anything such as get him transferred to another detachment, he said lying through his teeth.’

She smiled ever so slightly. ‘There was one,’ she finally admitted. ‘But he’s already left.’

‘That’s a pity,’ he said. It was a relief, not that the man had left, but that one had existed in her life.

‘He wouldn’t have been any competition anyway.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘It was a one-way street. I don’t think he fancied me.’

‘You didn’t go out with him then?’

‘No. I don’t think we ever said more than two words to each other that weren’t work related . . . Like I said.’

‘Maybe he was a fruit.’

‘I doubt you would have said that to his face.’

‘Tough guy was he?’

‘I don’t think Stratton had a sense of humour about that sort of thing. I’m not sure he had a sense of humour at all.’

Something inside Bill rocked at the mention of the name. The unbreakable smile looked unsteady for a few seconds. He cleared his throat.

‘Do you keep in touch with him?’ he asked.

‘We weren’t in touch when we worked together. I’m not sure why I mentioned him,’ she said, although that was not true. She wanted to let Bill know she was not a lesbian.

‘Why do you think you fancied him?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Why do you fancy anyone?’ ‘You like that kind of man?’

‘What kind is that?’

‘He’s a bit of a heartless killer, by all accounts.’

‘I’m not sure how true those stories are and I don’t think he’s heartless.’

‘Everyone else does. The way I understand it is he likes killing people so much it’s not only part of his job it’s his extra-curricular activity too.’

‘People like to make up stories about guys like Stratton.’

Bill was sticking the knife into Stratton for a number of reasons, jealousy only one of them. He wondered if it would affect her feelings for Stratton if she knew how true the stories were. But women were strange that way, he reminded himself. They loved rogues. Bill had made a lot of mileage out of that one himself.

‘Can we not talk shop any more?’ she said. ‘I have one more day off and I don’t even want to think about work . . . I almost didn’t meet you tonight because of that.’ ‘Then not another word about it,’ he said.

The waiter arrived with the wine and after he poured them a glass each they ordered. Bill chatted away, doing most of the talking, which he did not mind. Besides, Aggy was a good listener and he was making her laugh. Which was something she’d done little of in the past year.

‘What do you do to amuse yourself in your downtime back at the det?’ he said, then quickly, ‘Oops, I said the “D” word.’

‘It’s okay. Let’s face it, it’s our life. It’s hard not to talk about it. How about best efforts?’ she said.

‘Best efforts . . . It is an unusual business we’re in,’ he said. ‘Hard to ignore we have such unusual occupations.’

‘I was walking down Oxford Street this morning, mostly window shopping, when I found myself doing anti-surveillance. ’

‘Not a bad idea looking as delicious as you do. How short is that skirt? I’ve been praying you’d go to the loo soon so I could get a look at it.’

She stood up and put her hands on her hips, mimicking a model’s flare.

‘Turn around,’ he said.

She pretended to be irritated by the attention but did as she was told and turned around one way, and then back the other.

Bill looked at her perfect breasts, slender hips and tight, rounded bottom with X-ray eyes, ‘Jesus,’ he mumbled to himself. She sat back down and he continued staring. ‘You know, it would not be such a good idea if you dressed like that over you-know-where.You’d attract far too much attention. ’

She sipped her wine. ‘The last thing you need in that job. That’s why I try and look like a boy. They want me to look feminine, but they’re wrong. I wouldn’t last a week.’

He was enjoying her more and more, mainly because he never expected her to be as sharp as she was.

‘I read mostly,’ she said. ‘In my spare time. Books.’

‘Books,’ he said. Another nice surprise. ‘People don’t read enough books these days. I read all the time.’

‘What kind of books?’ she asked.

‘Non-fiction. History.’

‘Just non-fiction?’ she asked.

‘Pretty much. Unless it’s a fictional character set in a factual setting.’

‘Like what?’

‘
Lord of the Rings
. Noddy.’

‘Idiot,’ she said, laughing. ‘You can’t stay serious for more than a few seconds at a time, can you?’

‘I am Irish, remember. But you should know that the Irish joke a lot to hide how serious they truly are.’

‘You don’t seem Irish.’

‘And how does an Irish person seem?’

‘I mean you’ve only got a faint accent.’

‘I spent most of my youth in England.’

‘Your accent’s nice. It has soft edges.’ She looked into his eyes, growing warmer towards him.

‘Thank you,’ he said, staring back at her.

The waiter arrived and placed their meals in front of them.

‘That was good timing. My heart was tearing at me to lean over and kiss you.’

‘You’ll get gravy on your shirt.’

‘I might just walk across the bloody table if you look at me like that again.’

She suddenly felt it was moving too fast and pulled back a few bends in the road.

‘Is it difficult for you . . . fighting your own people?’ she asked, then wondered why she did. It was a stupid question.

‘My own people?’

‘I didn’t mean it to come out quite like that. Forget I said it.’

‘I know what you mean. I think the Catholics have a valid argument.’

‘Do they?’

‘They weren’t always at war with the Brits, you know,’ he said. ‘Before the IRA there was the IRB: the B stood for Brotherhood. They were non-militants and had quite a few admirable characters among them.’

‘Like whom?’

‘There were loads of ’em.’

‘So tell me.’

He smiled at her inquisitiveness. ‘Okay. Have you ever heard of Thomas Francis Meagher?’

‘No.’

‘Right then. I’ll tell you a little about him. Now you’re sure you want me to bore you to death with a bit of Irish history?’

‘I like history.’

‘That’s all you had to say. Okay. Let me see. Thomas Meagher . . . He lived around the time of the great famine. Do you know when that was?’

‘Somewhere in the eighteen hundreds?’ she asked, guessing.

‘More than what most people know. And you know that was when the Irish wanted to become independent?’

‘Kind of.’

‘Kind of,’ he said rolling his eyes good-humouredly. ‘If you’re going to go to war against them you should at least have the decency to know what it’s about.’

‘That’s why I’m asking.’

‘Better late than never, I suppose . . . Well, the British didn’t want that and so they planned to weaken the country by exporting as much of the food as they could to England, leaving hardly anything for the people to eat but potatoes. You know about that?’