a bath.
There's a wet suit hanging over the shower rail and an oxygen tank leaning up against the toilet. While the bath's filling I try phoning home, but get the answering machine. I try Mo's mobile, but that's switched off, too. She must still be in Dunwich under lockdown. Feeling sorry for myself, I go and rinse the salt off my skin: but I can't hang around in the bath without thinking of Ramona, and that's not a healthy sign either. I'm confused about her, I feel guilty whenever I think about Mo, and the smell of saltwater brings back that frightening slow-motion underwater tumble, knife in hand. This isn't me: I'm just not the cold-blooded killer type. When shit needs kicking and throats need slitting we send in Alan's goon squad. I'm supposed to be the quiet geek who sits at the back of the computer lab, right?
Except I signed my name on the line a few years ago, right ..below the paragraph that said I accepted the Crown's commission to go forth and perpetrate mayhem in the defense of the realm, as lawfully directed and commanded by my designated superiors. And while most of the time it's trivial shit — like breaking into an office and leaving evidence to shitcan some poor bastard who's stumbled too close to the truth — there's nothing there that says I'm not required to wrestle killers in wet suits or molest alien monsters. Quite the contrary, in fact. I don't have a license to kill, but I don't have orders not to kill in the course of my duties, either. Which realization I find extremely disturbing; its like the sensation in your stomach the first time you get into a car after getting your driving license, when you suddenly realize there's no instructor in the seat next to you and this is not a test. I wrap myself in a bath sheet and go back out into the bedroom. It's about one in the afternoon and I've got a few hours to kill before Ramona is due back. Lunch shows up and is as blandly tasteless as usual — I swear that there's a force field in the hotel dimensions that sucks the flavor out of food. I badly want something that'll distract me from pursuing this morbid introspection. Pinky left the PlayStation behind, so I plop myself down in front of the TV, pick up the controller, and poke at it in a desultory sort of way. Candy-bright graphics and a splash screen flicker by as the machine clunks and whirs, loading; then it launches a road race game, in which I'm driving a variety of cars along winding roads around a jungle-covered island while zombies shoot at me. 'Arse,' I mutter, and switch off in disgust.
I check that my tablet PC is plugged into all the wards correctly, then draw the curtains and He down on the bed for a short nap.
I'm awakened what feels like a split second later by a banging on the door. 'Hey, monkey-boy! Rise and shine!'
Jesus. I've been asleep for hours. 'Ramona?' I stand up and stagger towards the vestibule. My upper thighs and forearms ache as if I've been beaten — must be the swimming. I draw the chain and open the door.
'Had a good nap?' She raises an eyebrow at me.
'Got to get — ' I pause. 'Dressed.' Damn, I haven't phoned Mo, I realize. Ramona is looking like about a million dollars, in a blue evening dress that clings to her improbably well — it seems to be held on with double-sided sticky tape. There's several meters of pearl rope wound into her hair: she must have found a handy time warp for the make-up crew to have had time to get her ready for the fashion photo-shoot.
Meanwhile, I'm wearing yesterday's underpants and I feel like I've been run over by a train.
'You're running late,' she says, pushing past me; one nostril wrinkles aristocratically as she surveys the wreckage. She bends over a large carrier bag with the logo of that goddamned tailor on it: 'Here, catch.'
I find myself clutching a pair of boxer shorts. 'Okay, I get the message. Give me a minute'
'Take ten,' she says, 'I'll go powder my nose.' Then she disappears into the bathroom.
I groan and retrieve my tuxedo from the leg-well of the desk. There's a fresh shirt in the bag, and I manage to install myself in it without too much trouble. I leave the goddamn squeaky shoes for last. Then I have a mild anxiety attack when I realize I've forgotten the shoulder holster. Should I or shouldn't I? I'll probably end up shooting myself in the foot.
In the end I compromise — I've still got Ramona's phonegun, so I'll carry that in one pocket. 'I'm ready,' I call.
'I'll bet.' She comes out of the bathroom, adjusting her evening bag, and smiles brilliantly. Her smile fades.
'Where's your gun'
I pat my jacket pocket.
'No, no, not that one.' She reaches in and removes the phonegun, then gestures at the shoulder holster: 'That one.'
'Must I?' I try not to whine.
'Yes, you must.' I shrug out of my jacket and Ramona helps me into the shoulder rig. Then she straightens my bow tie. 'That's more like it. We'll have you attending diplomatic cocktail parties in no time!'
'That's what I'm afraid of,' I grumble. 'Okay, where now'
'Back to the casino. Eileen's throwing a little party in the petit salle, and I've got us tickets. Seafood canapes and crappy lounge music with a little gambling thrown in. Plus the usual sex and drugs rich people indulge in when they get bored with throwing their money away. She's using the party to reward some of her best sales agents and do a little quiet negotiating on the side. I gather she's got a new supplier to talk to. Ellis won't be there at first, but I figure if we can get you an invitation onto the ship ...'
'Okay,' I agree. 'Anything else'
'Yes.' Ramona pauses in the doorway. Her eyes seem very large and dark. I can't look away from them because I know what's coming: 'Bob, I don't, I don't want to — ' She reaches for my hand, then shakes her head. 'Ignore me. I'm a fool.'
I keep hold of her hand. She tries to pull away. 'I don't believe you,' I say. My heart is beating very hard. 'You do, don't you'
She looks me in the eye. 'Yes,' she admits. Her eyes are glistening, and in this light I can't tell whether it's cosmetics or tears. 'But we mustn't.'
I manage to nod. 'You're right.' The words feel very heavy to me, to both of us. I can feel her need, a physical hunger for an intimacy she hasn't allowed herself to indulge in years. It's not sex, it's something more. Oh what a lovely mess! She's been a solitary predator for so long that she doesn't know what to do with somebody she doesn't want to kill and eat. I feel ill with emotional indigestion: I don't think I've ever felt for Mo the kind of raw, priapic lust I feel for Ramona, but Ramona is a poisonous bloom — off-limits if I value my life.
She closes the gap between us, wraps her arms around me, and pulls me against her. She kisses me on the mouth so hard that it makes my hair stand on end. Then she lets go of me, steps back, and smoothes her dress down. 'I'd better not do that ever again,' she says thoughtfully. 'For both our sakes: it's too risky.' Then she takes a deep breath and offers me her arm. 'Shall we go to the casino'
The night is young. It's just beginning to get dark, and some time while I was sleeping there was a brief deluge of rain. It's cut the baking daytime heat down a few notches, but steam is rising from the sidewalk in thin wisps and the humidity setting is somewhere between 'Amazonian' and 'crash dive with the torpedo tubes open.' We stroll past a few street vendors and a bunch of good-time folks, under awnings with bright lights and loud noises. The brightly painted gazebos in front of the restaurants are all full, drowning out the creaking insect life with loud chatter.
We arrive at the casino entrance and I nod at the unfamiliar doorman. 'Private party,' I say.
'Ah. If monsieur et madame would come this way ...'' He backs into the foyer and directs us towards a nondescript staircase. 'Your card, sir?' Ramona nudges me discreetly and I feel her slide something into my hand. I flip it round and pass it to the doorman. 'Here.' He scrutinizes it briefly, then nods and waves us upstairs. 'What was that?' I ask Ramona as we climb. 'Invitation to Eileen's little recreation.' It's all polished brass and rich, dark mahogany here. Deeply tedious landscape paintings in antique frames dot the walls, and the lights are dim. Ramona frowns minutely as we reach the landing: 'Under our own names, of course.'
'Right. Do the names signify'
She shrugs. 'Probably, on some database somewhere. They're not stupid, Bob.'
I offer her my arm and we walk down the wide hallway towards the open double-doors. Beyond them I can hear the clink of glassware and voices raised in conversation, layered above a hotel jazz quartet mangling something famous. The crowd here feels very different to the gamblers in the public areas of the casino downstairs, and I instantly feel slightly out of place. There are dozens of women in their thirties and forties, turned out in an overly formal parody of office wear. They have a curious uniformity of expression, as if the skin of their faces has
