Water of Death (16 page)

“Okay, you fader,” I said. “Give us a lift home.”

“Don't you know that walking is good for—”

The raised stump of my forefinger put paid to that question before he managed to complete it.

I opened my door and stopped dead. The light was on in my living room.

Sophia's head appeared from behind the sofa. “I finished a bit earlier than I thought,” she said. “Unlike you, it seems.”

“You know how it is.” I closed the door. “An investigator's work is never done and  . . .” I broke off as it became clear to me that the city's senior official was wearing nothing more than a black lace bra and knickers that were definitely not standard issue, even for her rank.

“It's so hot,” she said, stretching her arms.

“It is indeed so hot,” I agreed, rapidly pulling my T-shirt over my head. “You look pretty hot yourself.” Believe it or not, the Recreation Directorate has noticed a correlation between high ambient temperatures and the demand for condoms.

She sat up straight and gave me a smile that started off shy but quickly became surprisingly lewd. “Come over here, you.”

I complied, picking up a waterbottle that she'd put on the table. I cupped my hand and poured water into it.

“Quint  . . .” Sophia's tone was a mixture of admonition and interest.

I dipped a fingertip in the water then ran it down the damp skin between her throat and her chest.

“Quint  . . .” Interest was overtaking admonition.

I wet my finger again and ran it under the fabric of her bra. The nipple was already hard when I got to it.

“Qui  . . .” Sophia's voice gave out.

“Hold on. I'm getting there.”

She gave me a sharp look then pulled my hand forward so the remaining water tipped down the smooth skin of her stomach.

“Not quickly enough.” She unfastened my trousers, put her fingers round my erect penis and pulled me towards her.

“What temperature do you think this organ is?” she asked.

“A little below melting point?” I hazarded.

“Could be,” she said. She pulled the cup of her bra down and rubbed the tip of my cock against her left nipple.

“Approaching melting point,” I gasped.

It was then that I noticed the door. In my excitement I'd forgotten to turn the key. It had swung open silently. I was confronted by a figure in dusty farm worker's overalls standing stock-still and staring straight at me.

“Have I come at a bad time, Quint?” The voice was deep and hoarse. Despite the three years since I'd last heard it, recognition was immediate. “Or have you?”

Sophia had turned back into the Ice Queen and frozen solid. So much for reaching melting point.

“Katharine,” I said, when I finally found my voice. “Ever heard of knocking?”

She laughed lightly and set down the backpack she was carrying. I heard the chink of bottles. Then she rapped her knuckles on the door.

“Knock, knock, who's there?” she said, then moved towards the sofa and took in my companion, a smile playing on her lips. The look she gave her wasn't humorous though.

I pulled up my zip and handed my T-shirt to Sophia, keeping my eyes on Katharine. There was something menacing about the way she was standing, as tense as a lioness about to attack. I wondered who she would go for first, Sophia or me.

I never was much of a fan of troilism.

Chapter Seven

The three of us remained stationary for a few seconds, Katharine still leaning forward and gazing at Sophia with a faint smile on her lips, while I stood with my arms loose, wondering what the hell to do next. Then Sophia got to her feet, gathered up her outer garments in a single graceful movement and retired to the bedroom, the black underwear standing out against her pale skin. The door slammed behind her.

“Is that who I think it is?” Katharine asked, moving forward into the light.

“Who do you think it is?” I demanded. As she came closer, I got a better look at her. She was wearing a faded blue workshirt with the arms rolled above her elbows and matching trousers with the legs turned up over her calves. The visible parts of the limbs were tanned and muscular, her complexion weathered and healthy, though she was thinner than I remembered. Her hair, once auburn and short, was now straw-coloured and hanging down to her shoulders. Apparently investigators prefer blondes. But it wasn't only her hair and build that were different. The way her green eyes moved jerkily around the room as they fixed on objects made me uneasy. I wondered what she'd been through since I last saw her.

“She's the medical guardian, isn't she, Quint?” Katharine said. “I've seen her picture in the
Edinburgh Guardian
. We used to see the odd copy occasionally on the farm.” She paused. “When there was a farm.”

Her use of the past tense to describe where she'd been living sounded odd. She moved to the sofa and slumped down, then lunged towards the table and grabbed the waterbottle. She gulped thirstily from it.

“That's better,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “I ran out of drinking-water this morning.” She gave me a pleasant smile which I didn't buy for a second. “So you're screwing Council members these days, are you?”

Sophia chose that moment to reappear. She gave Katharine a crushing glare from the battery of offensive weapons that's issued to senior auxiliaries. “Who is this person, Quintilian?” she asked, favouring me with a look that was only marginally less devastating. Presumably she thought that using my full name would impress Katharine. She thought wrong.

“Quintilian?” Katharine repeated. “Only his father calls him Quintilian.” She laughed in the throaty way that always used to weaken my knees. “What does that make you? His stepmother?”

Sophia drew herself back and tried to summon up a suitably glacial look. Her white blouse was buttoned to the throat and her guardian's tie knotted tightly, giving her the air of a headmistress about to lay down the law to a foul-mouthed kid.

Katharine ignored her and turned to me. “How is Hector, Quint?”

“He's okay,” I replied. “Growing—”

“I asked for this person's identity,” Sophia insisted, stepping forward and pulling her mobile from her pocket. “Kindly inform me or I will alert the guard.”

I went over and eased the phone from her hand. “That won't be necessary,” I said. “I can vouch for her.”

Katharine's hand had also gone to her pocket. “You don't have to,” she said, taking out a plastic-covered card. “I've got one of these, remember?”

Sophia looked in surprise at the “ask no questions”, which is issued to undercover operatives by the Public Order Directorate. I got a hold of one for Katharine during the manhunt that was going on the last time I saw her.

“You work for the city?” Sophia asked disbelievingly.

“On and off,” Katharine replied jauntily. Then she told the guardian her name. That went down like a bacon sandwich in Mecca.

“Katharine Kirkwood,” Sophia repeated, her expression hardening even more. “I remember you from the murder investigation in '22. You are a demoted auxiliary and a deserter, are you not?”

“
Was
a deserter,” I said, stepping between them before they put to use the unarmed combat skills they'd been taught on the auxiliary training programme. “The desertion charge was removed from Katharine's record.” I ignored the look on Katharine's face that said “I can fight my own battles, sonny.”

Sophia's body was still taut. “And what entitles you to burst in here without so much as a knock?” She hadn't got over being caught with her hand full.

Katharine laughed. “I can see Quint hasn't told you anything about me.”

The guardian looked at me quickly, her eyes wide open.

“Em  . . . Katharine and I used to have something going  . . .” I said weakly.

“Meaning what, exactly?” Sophia's voice was suddenly tremulous.

“Meaning, among other things, that we did the kind of things you were indulging in when I arrived,” Katharine said, her eyes flinty and unwavering despite the smile on her lips. “You know – frotting, sucking, fucking  . . .”

Sophia's head jerked back like she'd been slapped. Then she walked purposefully towards the door, kicking aside the backpack Katharine had left in the way.

“Hey, watch that!” Katharine called. “It's fragile.”

I stood and watched the door swinging on its hinges after Sophia had gone. “Thanks a lot,” I said. “You didn't have to be so graphic.”

Katharine's laugh sounded almost manic.

“Nice lady, Quint,” she said. I turned to discover her undoing the buttons on her shirt. “You do pick them.”

I watched as she bared the firm breasts and dark brown nipples that I'd seen in my dreams for months after she left the city. Then the immediacy had faded and I'd been left on my own in the dark. Katharine frowned distractedly when she saw the direction of my gaze then went into the bedroom.

“Christ almighty,” she shouted after a few seconds in the alcove that used to contain my shower. “Is there no water at all in this bloody city?” She reappeared with her shirt still off. “All I wanted was a wash.”

“I thought you said you saw the paper from time to time. There's been water rationing for the last two summers. If you want a shower, you'll have to queue at the public facilities tomorrow morning.”

Katharine poured the last of the bottled water on her hands and started rubbing them across her chest. I became aware that the melting point I'd been heading towards with Sophia was on its way to being achieved again in my trousers.

I managed to look away and went awkwardly over to what passes in the Supply Directorate for a kitchen table. It almost collapsed when I leaned on it. That reminded me of the missing lottery-winner. Fordyce Kennedy could have done wonders for citizen-issue furniture if they'd let him.

“What are you doing back in the perfect city, Katharine?” I asked, watching regretfully as she did her shirt back up again. “What's happening on the farm?” She'd been living with a group of collectivist dissidents twenty miles to the east the last time I saw her.

She came across, picking up the bottle of tested whisky I'd put on the coffee table and pulling the cork. “The farm?” She paused and drank deep, then passed me the bottle. “There's no farm, Quint.” Her eyes glinted and she gave another unbalanced laugh. “The farm's fucked.”

“What do you mean?” I handed her back the bottle, having decided that whisky was surplus to my body's requirements for a day or two, and watched as she took another slug.

“What I mean is that we've given up.” Suddenly her head dropped and she sat down limply at the table. “It's been hell these last couple of years, Quint. The high temperatures burned away most of our cereal crops in the summer and the endless rains in winter rotted the root crops before we could get most of them out of the ground.” She raised her head and looked at me desperately. “Then there were the gangs. When the bloody Council decided to attack the ones who'd set up near the city border last autumn, they drove the psychos in our direction. We fought them off for months but we took too many casualties.” She drank again and slammed the bottle down. “Eventually people just began to drift away. I was the last. The farm's a wasteland now.” She stared across at me again, her eyes screwed up. “It isn't fair, Quint.”

I moved my hand towards hers but she pulled back and stumbled over to the sofa. I heard a sob but I knew she wouldn't let me near her. At least that's what I told myself. So I took the easy way out and left her there. A few minutes later the lights flashed three times then were extinguished for the night. Lights out and curfew. I felt my way to the bed and crashed out, the whisky I'd downed last night at the Fisheries Guard base finally catching up with me. It had been a painful morning. The evening hadn't turned out much better.

Night was no improvement either. Images of Sophia kept flashing up at me, to be replaced by Katharine's bronzed face and worrying eyes. I thought I could hear Bob Campbell singing “Starvation Farm Blues” in the background.

I woke up and rolled around in the heat. Although the women had laid into each other like a pair of alley cats, there was something about Sophia's jealousy that didn't ring true. I knew Katharine of old. She said what she thought, which had been one reason for the problems she'd had as an auxiliary. But I wasn't so sure about Sophia. She used to be a guardian of the hardline-doesn't-even-begin-to-describe-me persuasion and she hadn't changed much, for all the new Council's softly softly approach. Why had she suddenly started spending time with a demoted auxiliary like me? And why had she, the city's senior medic, appeared when Frankie Thomson's body was found – before we knew anything about his DM record or the nicotine poisoning? Then there was the huge search of all the city's whisky – why had she forced that through? Had I been swallowing every hook Sophia had dangled in front of me? What if she was trying to ensure my involvement in something that would have a much more profound effect on the city than a guardian's unexpected sexual flowering?