The Longest Pleasure (32 page)

Janet squatted immediately above them, staring at Galitsin. 'What do you think Jer?'

Jerry shrugged, picked up a washboard, sat against the wall of the hut, rattled his fingers up and down the wooden slats. 'I'm easy. The guy sure needs something. Perhaps even more than Wendy can manage.'

Janet shrugged, went to the other end of the hut, struck a match. Smoke filtered through the room. Galitsin felt tears rolling out of his eyes, across his nose, and on to Wendy's shoulder, trickling round the flesh and into the scented hair. She shivered as they tickled. He raised his head, found hers only inches away. The dark eyes gloomed at him. Her nipples were hard lumps, caressing his own. Her arms were tight, her legs close together, thrusting her groin against his. Wendy, Wendy, Wendy. The world had telescoped into a single sleeping bag, filled with pain.

The door opened, admitted cold and spreading daylight.

'Shut it!' Wendy shouted.

The door closed. 'Somebody giving birth?' This was a white man. Correction, Galitsin realised, as he raised his head. A white boy. As Jerry was also a boy, as Wendy and Janet weren't older than eighteen. This boy had a head of curly fair hair, growing down below his shoulders, longer and more luxuriant than either of the girls. He wore a windcheater, jeans, and pointed leather shoes. He carried a haversack. He bent over the sleeping bag, pulled the neck away from Wendy's shoulder, looked inside. 'Where'd you find it? Under a steam-roller?'

‘
Lying outside the door.' Wendy spoke jerkily, and her breathing was uneven. Her hands stroked up and down Galitsin's back.

'Some people will screw anything,' Bill said. It was a remark, rather than a criticism. 'Who lit the fire?'

'She told me to,' Janet explained.

The guy is hurt bad,' Jerry pointed out.

'No!'
Bill said.
‘I
thought he'd broke a ketchup bottle.'

'And he was cold,' Janet said.

'Not any more,' Bill said. 'Not any more.'

Amazingly, incredibly, there was an erection. More painful even than the bruises, but there, demanding, thrusting its way through the love forest.

'We'd better have him out of there,' Bill said. 'Take a look at those bruises.'

'No.' Wendy spread her legs. Now the pain was exquisite, to be endured for ever and ever.

'What about his internal injuries?' Jerry said. 'He could have a haemorrhage.'

'We'll look,' she said. "When he's warm. You're going to be all right,' she said into Galitsin's ear.
‘I
know. I promise.'

You're real psychic,' Bill said disgustedly. 'You'll get a wombful of lice, or something.' He sat on the floor, opened his haversack. 'Coffee. Real coffee. Half a jar. Now mere's success.'

Janet knelt beside him. "What's that lot?' 'It's a cake.'

'It don't look much like a cake to me,' Jerry said.

'So somebody sat on it. That's why it was chucked out. Coffee and cake. Last time I breakfasted on coffee and cake was the. night I spent at Claridge's.' Bill leaned over, pulled Galitsin's ear. 'Hey, old man, ain't you done yet? There's cake for breakfast.'

But his voice came from a very long way away. Inside the sleeping bag there Was nothing but warmth, and pain, and strong, well-covered arms and legs, and softness. Alexander Galitsin slept.

Christine Hamble switched off the television set, flung herself into a chair, legs thrown across the arm, dressing gown dishevelled. 'The incompetence of the police in this country beats description. They want the character, and he's lying at the side of a road somewhere, naked as the day he was born, and they haven't got him yet. What a bloody awful dump.'

Renee Smith sat up in bed, drank port. She finished the glass, poured. Her fingers were like claws on the bottle; swollen claws. The glass half filled. Irena gazed at the empty bottle, her eyes sad. 'I want to go home.'

Christine Hamble reached for the telephone, picked it up. 'Mrs. Hamble. We'll have another bottle of port. And find Barnes, will you? Tell him that I wish to see him.

Right now.' She replaced th
e telephone, gazed at the bed. ‘Don't worry, dear one. Barn
es will fix you up.'

The bedclothes heaved. 'That child?'

‘
Don't you ever think about anything except sex? I meant with a new bottle. And then you can go quietly off to sleep. By tomorrow morning everything will look much brighter. Come in!'

The door opened, Barnes entered, wearing uniform, as usual, his boots polished to mirror perfection, and carrying a bottle of Croft's.

'Thank you, boy. Give it to Miss Smith.'

Barnes stood above the bed, the label on the bottle turned towards Irena. She closed
her eyes. Barnes placed the bottl
e on the table, removed the cork, returned to stand by the armchair, allowed his gaze to roam up and down the pale legs. 'Will that be all, madam?'

‘
No, that bloody well will not be all,' Christine Hamble said. 'What's happened to Galitsin ?'

'Charlie and I drove him out along the
A4,
as you instructed, madam, and then turned off and took the road by that abandoned airfiel
d. You may remember it, madam.
Not far from Oxford. There we left him. We rolled him off the road, as we didn't want him found until we were clear of the area.'

'You untied his hands?'

"Yes, madam.'

'And he could move? I mean, he hadn't gone and died, or anything like that?' "No, madam.'

'Then what in the name of God is the fool doing? If he doesn't get to shelter soon he'll bloody well freeze, and it'll be his own fault.' Christine Hamble stared at the bed. 'What do you think you're doing? Don't tell me after all these years you've started airing the stuff.'

Irena Szen walked slowly and unsteadily across the room, stood on one leg, swaying like a palm tree in a high wind, dragged her suspender belt over her thighs. 'I am going.'

'Going? Going where, you silly Magyar bitch?'

Irena shrugged, allowed the movement to carry her backwards on to the dressing stool, pulled on a stocking, fastened it with great care. 'Just going. Away. Far, far away.'

Tor Christ's sake. That's all I need. A drunken whore falling about the place.'

Irena straightened her second stocking, stretched out her legs to frown at them.
‘I
am not drunk. Port never makes me drunk.'

Christine Hamble sat up. 'Then try listening. You may remember swearing yourself blue in the face that you would never try to make contact with Galitsin again.'

'I am not going to look for Sandor. I do not suppose he will wish to see me again.'

'Is that so? Well, you can't go back to Park Lane, either. If you do, the police will pick you up. You may be quite sure that by now they know all about you. They will question you, dear one. They may not be the Avo, but policemen are policemen, the world over. So perhaps you think you will be able to implicate me? But you cannot. I have an alibi for this weekend. I am staying with friends in the country. So perhaps you think you will tell them that we stayed at this hotel. Unfortunately for you, Jonathan happens to own this hotel. Which means that I own it Which means that there will be no record that we have ever been here. So do you know what the police will do? They will put you into prison, dear one, for being a whore and for being involved with Galitsin and for perjury. And after they let you out, do you know what they will do? They will send you back to Hungary. Won't that be fun, Irena? You can go back to working for the Russians.'

With great care, Irena Szen put on her shoes, stood up, teetering slightly from heel to heel.

'You forgot something, Miss Smith,' Barnes said.

Irena Szen looked down at herself. 'I always put on my shoes before I dress,' she said with dignity. 'High heels show off my legs to their best advantage. That is professional. When you are good at your job you are professional. A sloppy whore is a bad whore.'

'God, the stuff is leaking out of your ears,' Christine Hamble said. 'And before the police get around to sending you home, dear one, Barnes is going to push your face in. A good whore has to have teeth, and eyes which both look the same way, and no slits up her cheeks.'

Irena Szen looked at Kirsten Moeller for a long moment, then stood on one leg again to pull on her pantees.

‘
You don't think I'd let him?' Christine demanded.

'I'm not afraid of him any more.' Irena Szen clipped her brassiere. 'I'm not afraid of you any more. I don't know when it happened, but I'm glad it did.'

Barnes watched his mistress.

Christine Hamble leaned forward. 'Listen, Irena. I am going to set you up in a new apartment. A better apartment than that old one. A better district, believe it or not. A good street, with good neighbours. You will like it there, dear one.'

Irena Szen buttoned her silk blouse. 'Oh, stop worrying,' she said. 'I am not going near the old place. I am not going to the police. I'm just going. Back to the s
treet. Where I belong, eh, Kirsti
e? That's what I want to do. And that's what I'm going to do.'

Kirsten Moeller's nostrils spread as she breathed.
‘I
)o you know what will happen to you ?'

Irena Szen zipped her woollen skirt, shrugged.

*You will get V.D. Syphilis, not gonorrhoea. And you will be a
rrested by the police. Don't th
ink I will help you. Don't think you'll see any of that money you've so carefully saved. I won't let you touch a penny of it.'

Irena Szen picked up her handbag, opened it, took out a roll of five-pound notes. She laid them on the table, one after the other. She counted. 'One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. And here are three ones.' She accumulated them in a neat pile, held them in front of her face, tore them in half. You never knew I was so strong, eh, Kirstie?' She tore the notes again, and again, dropped them in the wastepaper basket, put on her jacket, picked up her mink. 'Keep my money, Kirstie. Buy your
self a girl.' She glanced at Barn
es. 'Or a man.'

She walked to the door, and Barnes moved to stand in front of it, still watching his mistress.

'If you walk through that door,' Christine Hamble said, 'just don't ever bother to come back.'

Irena Szen stretched out one long arm, rested her fingers lightly on Barnes' shoulder, moved her arm to one side. Barnes allowed himself to go with it, still watching his mistress. Irena Szen opened the door, closed it again behind her.

'You should've let me work her over, madam,' Barnes said. 'That's all her kind needs. A bit of stick now and then.'

Kirsten Moeller pushed herself out of the chair, walked across the room. She stood above the bed, inhaled Irena Szen's scent. She flopped forward, lay on her face, her mouth open, wetting die sheet with her saliva.

Barnes tongue came out of his mouth, circled his lips. He moved forward. His boots made no sound on the thick carpet. He stood above the bed. Beneath him the pale legs disappeared beneath the dressing gown. But drawn tight the dressing gown was sheer, and he could follow the legs upwards to the rounded buttocks, the deep curved back, the slender shoulders, only now obscured by the thin stranded, untidy yellow hair. Barnes breathed deeply. He lowered his body, very slowly, until he sat on the bed. He drew off his left glove, placed his left hand on the back of Christine Hamble's knee. The fingers waited for a moment, then began to move upwards, still very slowly, very cautiously.

Christine Hamble moved her head, freed her tongue from the sheet 'If you don't get the hell out of here,' she said, speaking very quietly, 'I'm going to kick your lousy face in.'

iv

'Open wide,' Wendy commanded, and Galitsin obeyed, gazing at the dark curved roof of the hut. It was a view he had become used to, over the past few days. He had done nothing but look at the view. The roof, and Wendy. Sometimes her face, sometimes her hair, sometimes the thick Irish sweater, sometimes her heavy breasts. She had been in constant attendance.

Now she smiled. ‘
I think today, Bonzo, we will let you look at yourself. Jerry!'

She had called him Bonzo from the first morning. 'Because you arrived like a stray dog,' she had said, fie resented neither the name nor the comparison. It was not possible to resent Wendy.

Jerry's face joined hers, above him. Jerry had become a sound, knuckles rattling over the washboard, a range of hum which extended from a high whine to a low growl in his chest. He called it skiffle. For Jerry there was only one god in the sky, and his name was Lonnie Donegan. Sometimes in the afternoons the others, Bill and Janet, and occasionally Wendy as well, joined in. The afternoon was their time for relaxation. Sometimes they sang, sometimes they talked, about a variety of subjects, revealed a remarkable acquaintance with everyday affairs, with- history, music, literature and even art. They argued passionately, but without passion. And sometimes they made love. But there was even less passion in their love-making, as there was no design, no pattern. The coupled, or merely fondled, or kissed and muttered at each other, apparently as the whim took them, sometimes two at a time, sometimes three, once even all four. Sometimes one performed while the others sang. But the only one who ever made love to Galitsin was Wendy, and there was nothing communal about that. She came into the sleeping bag, her heart-shaped face, intended by nature for smiling, unnaturally serious. She regarded ejaculation as a necessary therapy, took great pride in his progress, explained it to the others that he was getting stronger every day.