Asking For Trouble (26 page)

Ilya gazed at me, opened his mouth to speak, stopped, then started again.

‘Look, Beth,’ he said. ‘I owe a lot of money.’

‘Jesus,’ I murmured. Most people I know owe a lot of money, but I suspected Ilya’s definition of ‘a lot’ was pretty different from mine. This clearly wasn’t a case of being slap-happy with the plastic.

‘And I came to Brighton to buy myself some time,’ he went on, picking at a fingernail. ‘And to set something up so I could pay off what I owe. Because I need to. But my time’s running out and . . .’ His woolly explanation tapered off into a gloomy silence.

‘Are you saying you got beaten up by, by your creditors?’ I prompted.

‘Yeah, indirectly,’ he said.

‘Well, who are they?’ I asked. ‘How much do they want? Why?’

Ilya started a deep breath then touched a hand to his ribs, his shoulders sinking again. ‘I know I’ve been less than honest with you,’ he said. ‘And I know that’s pissed you off. But it’ll have to stay that way for now. I’m sorry. But it’s the safest thing, Beth. You’re better off out of it.’

‘But what’s “it”?’ I persisted. ‘Is it antiques and stuff?’

Ilya shook his head and smiled, sort of. ‘No. Pete . . . well, his business – it’s just a way around something. I’m sorry. I can’t say anything more until –’

‘So is it drugs?’ I asked. ‘Is that what you do? Are you a dealer?’

He shook his head again, eyes downcast.

‘So, you know that time I called on you once?’ I began. ‘When I came to get my boa and my watch and you wouldn’t let me in? And your fingers were all white and powdery . . .’

Ilya looked puzzled.

‘You told me you’d spilt Polyfilla,’ I continued. ‘Or some bollocks like that. Well what was that all about? ’Cos I kept thinking it was something druggy. You can tell me if it was. I’m a woman of the world, you know.’

Ilya laughed and ouched. ‘I’d forgotten that one,’ he said, his good eye glittering. ‘No, it wasn’t . . . Look, I suppose it’s pretty obvious that I’m not Mr Clean. So here goes: I got offered some fake twenties and . . .’ He paused, as if he was uncertain whether to continue.

‘Money?’ I said. ‘As in counterfeit notes?’

‘Yeah,’ he said with a sketchy smile. ‘And, well, to make them look older you rub talcum powder on them. I was doing a big batch.’ He grinned foolishly. ‘Good tip if you ever need it.’

I tutted in mock reproof. So what if he knows about forged money? I thought. Wouldn’t mind some fake twenties myself.

‘I think you and I move in different circles,’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘We do.’

Then, looking sober and miserable, Ilya said: ‘Look, Beth, I . . . I’ve got to go away for a couple of weeks.’

Disappointment sank into my stomach and stayed there like Christmas cake. Then a horrible thought came into my mind, so horrible that my heart fisted up and I felt the blood drain from my face.

‘You . . . you are coming back, aren’t you?’ I breathed, and the fear that he might not be – that he was telling me yet more lies or that something bad might happen to him – made my eyes sting with unshed tears.

He gave me a wan smile. ‘Yeah, course I am,’ he said softly. ‘Come over here.’

I went to kneel between his feet and took hold of his undamaged hand. I kept my head low, making a show of nibbling his fingertips while secretly smearing a tear or two on to his trousers and blinking back the next lot. I wouldn’t let him see me cry.

‘I’ve missed you so badly,’ he said, twisting a strand of my hair.

‘Serves you right,’ I mumbled.

‘Yeah, I know,’ he said in a quiet, guilty voice. ‘And I’m sorry. But . . . the antiques thing, in the office . . . you got me on a bad day. I was stressed out, and I know that doesn’t excuse what I did, and I didn’t mean the stuff I said, and I should never have –’

‘Shut up,’ I said gently. ‘It’s over.’

We let a comfortable silence wrap itself around us and I just nuzzled against his knee.

Then Ilya said, ‘Wish I didn’t have to go away.’

‘Mmm,’ I agreed. ‘Are you going to tell me where, or is it another secret?’

‘Prague,’ he replied. ‘And honestly, it shouldn’t take more than a fortnight.’

Oh, that was too many miles away. But I didn’t ask him why, or what he was going to do there. For once, I just accepted it: Prague. A fortnight.

‘Will you do me a favour?’ he said, and he took my hand and placed it over his crotch.

I raised my head, gently massaging his groin and feeling him swell rapidly beneath my palm. ‘I haven’t got any money,’ I said.

Ilya’s face contorted into one of its wincing smiles. ‘No, nothing like that,’ he replied. ‘Just suck me off, Beth.’ He gave me a little grin and lifted his bandaged right hand. ‘I can’t even wank properly at the moment. It’s been hell.’

I smiled back. ‘I suppose a fuck’s out of the question.’

“Fraid so,’ he answered. ‘Anyway, I probably wouldn’t last long.’

And so I peeled the zip over his humped-up dick and let his cock spring free. His shaft was broad and hard, its blue veins up and pulsing. My cunt ached. It didn’t seem right that such strength and virility could emerge from a virtual cripple.

‘Don’t mind if I join you?’ I breathed, unfastening my Levi’s.

‘Be my guest,’ he replied.

I shoved my jeans and knickers to my knees, then I opened my mouth wide above his prick. I went down, hardly touching him until my gaping lips were at his root. Then I clamped my mouth around him, smothering his erection in wet heat.

He groaned, long and low, and I reached between my thighs to finger my dampening pussy. Sunlight warmed my bare arse. Ilya kept on groaning as I sucked and slipped, fellating him slowly while I brought myself off.

He was right: he didn’t last long, and nor did I.

With a muted cry, Ilya climaxed, and I drank his juices – that’s how much I liked him – still frigging myself until I’d peaked too. I didn’t even allow myself to gasp and groan freely, preferring instead to keep Ilya’s cock in my mouth for as long as possible.

Lazily, I rolled my tongue around his retracting size, letting him slip from my lips when he’d shrunk back to normal. I rested my cheek against his thigh.

After a while, Ilya said, ‘So who was the guy this morning?’

I struggled with my memory. The morning seemed a million miles away, and when I recalled Luke he seemed as big and important as a pin. I gazed up at Ilya. Was he jealous? Threatened? Of course he wasn’t. Stupid notion.

‘It’s my new blond bimbo.’ I smiled. ‘My main squeeze dried up so I needed someone to fuck.’

Ilya controlled a grin. ‘And?’ he asked.

I shrugged, not sure what he meant, and rested my head on his leg again.

‘Did the earth move?’ said Ilya. ‘Have I got competition?’

‘Well, he can walk,’ I said. ‘So that’s one up on you. And he doesn’t look like a cyclops.’

Ilya stroked my cheek. ‘Just wait till I get back,’ he said. ‘Your cunt won’t know what’s hit it.’

I toyed with his lolling prick, wondering when that would be.

‘I might even try raping you again,’ he said softly. ‘If you play your cards right and promise not to bite.’

I gave his inner thigh a reprimanding little nip.

‘So tell me about him,’ said Ilya, his tone mildly curious but nothing more.

‘There’s not much to tell,’ I said truthfully. ‘Luke’s just into marathon fucking sessions. And that’s about it. He’s got stamina, but not much imagination. I might work on him though. Let him settle in first, then pow.’

‘Lucky guy,’ murmured Ilya. ‘Maybe the two of you could give me a floor show one day.’

‘Don’t think he’s quite ready for that,’ I said. ‘Not yet.’

‘Shame,’ he replied. ‘It’d be nice to sit here and watch the two of you going at it. I could fuck you by proxy.’

I pursed my lips, raising my eyes to meet his, trying to give him a ‘shut up’ expression. It seemed to work, and Ilya just smiled.

More than anything I wanted to hold him, to wrap my arms round him and soothe away his aches and pains and troubles. And my own. But that barrier which said ‘do not touch me emotionally’ seemed to have gone down, only to be replaced by one that said ‘do not touch me physically’. He was too sore. I hate ironies when they’re cruel.

‘When are you leaving?’ I asked, unable to keep the melancholy note from my voice.

‘Tomorrow evening.’

‘Oh, I see.’

We were quiet for a while. I half wanted tomorrow evening to come faster so that his fortnight would be over faster.

‘Beth,’ he said questioningly. ‘What are you doing for the next twenty-four hours?’

I smiled up at him, lifting my brows.

‘Only I’ve got this great idea for a role-play,’ he began. ‘It goes like this: I’m a fragile old man – who might manage a gentle fuck if he’s on his back and very, very comfortable. And you’re a dirty little slut who wants to sit on my cock, straddle my face, dance for me, wank for me, suck me off . . .’ He raised his bound hand. ‘Oh, and maybe rustle up some food as well.’

I stretched to kiss the tip of his cock. ‘My diary’s suddenly empty,’ I said. ‘And you’re in luck because I’m a pretty good cook. But, when I’m naked, I am kitchen dynamite.’

I WAS SITTING
at my computer, cranking out a book review for a local magazine.

Several feet to the left of me was the big bay window that looks across to Ilya’s flat. A late-August rainshower dappled the glass and the telephone wires sloping down to my building carried droplets of water like tiny glass cable cars.

For five days, nothing had stirred. Ilya’s blind remained half-up – a position unsuited to day or night; the lights didn’t go on or off.

They wouldn’t do. He was in Prague. For at least a fortnight.

But old habits die hard, and I couldn’t stop myself from continually checking the view.

And forever in my mind were thoughts that ranged from ‘maybe he’ll come back early’ to ‘maybe I’ll never see him again and I’ll just keep gazing at his window until one day someone else will move in’.

So I was typing in bits of my review, ruffling through notes, staring at the screen, and every now and then casting a glance beyond the rain speckles to Ilya’s flat.

His departure after the 24 hours we’d spent together –
24 hours of deliciously claustrophobic bliss, both domestic and debauched – had left a void inside me so vast that I couldn’t imagine anything would ever fill it. Not even Ilya’s safe return.

I didn’t know how things would be between us when – if – we were together again. There was nowhere left for us to go. ‘No emotional entanglements’ – that was one of the early rules of our game. Well, we’d broken that one, big style. And it couldn’t be fixed.

Ilya, apparently, tends not to stay in the same place for long: he gets bored, he moves on. That’s his lifestyle. And it doesn’t do to get too involved with people, he’d said. He prefers to keep his distance; that way no one gets hurt. But his feelings for me were becoming harder to control. That scared him and sometimes it made him angry – with himself or with me.

Hence the antique-shop aggression. He’d wanted to try to take things back a few paces, get us on track again; but he didn’t know how, and all those confused, pent-up emotions got expressed via the wrong outlet.

So where to next? We’d been silent on that subject, both of us tacitly agreeing to delude ourselves by pretending it wasn’t an issue.

And our options were pretty limited and unappealing. Would we try to rewind, box up our feelings and play at playing the game for a little while longer? I couldn’t begin to see how that would work.

And becoming more involved, in terms of a relationship, was surely not on the cards. Ilya and I belonged to separate worlds. Besides, as much as I cared for him and desired him, I didn’t think I could ever love or trust him.

I glanced across to his flat. I did a double-take, my heart going pitter-patter like the rain. Something – someone – had moved in the shadows.

I kept on staring. My computer hummed away. Everything was still over there. Was he back or had my eyes
been playing tricks? Was it just the reflection of a tree in the breeze?

But no, there was movement again. Joy tamed by disbelief bubbled up inside me. He was home. My excitement mounted. The dark figure was moving closer to the window. Perhaps he was going to signal to me.

Then a slab of cold dread thumped into my guts, because Ilya does not wear caps with black-and-white bands. That’s what policemen wear.

My eyes riveted to the dark figure, I eased back my chair and stood.

I padded over to my rain-streaked bay window and, though it’s only a few feet away, that walk seemed to take for ever, as if I were wading through zero-gravity in huge, clumsy moon boots.

Below, parked outside Ilya’s building, was a police car, its Day-Glo stripe gleaming in the shower-murky street.

He was dead.

For five days, he’d been lying in a pool of blood, slowly rotting, and nobody knew except the man who’d murdered him – shot him, stabbed him, beaten him to a pulpy corpse – because he owed too much money.

He wasn’t in Prague. He was dead.

They would need someone to identify the body.

I slipped on my sandals.

‘And so do you know where Mr Travis is?’ asked the officer. ‘Or how we might contact him?’

I was going to say Prague, but I stopped myself. I didn’t know if I was allowed to give that information to the police. I shook my head. ‘Just on holiday, I think. I’m not sure where.’

The relief was overwhelming. It was still sluicing through me, like rainfall in the gutters outside. He wasn’t dead. He’d just been burgled, though nobody seemed to know quite when.

Ilya’s landlord was poking at the splintered wood of the flat door.

‘So you’re not a close acquaintance of Mr Travis, then?’ continued the officer.

‘Not really, no,’ I said. ‘We’re more, just a bit neighbourly really.’

‘So you’re not in a position to confirm that the television and video are missing?’

‘No, suppose not.’ I shrugged, but it was pretty bloody obvious that they were.

‘Well, I’m afraid there isn’t a great deal we can do,’ he said, flicking shut his notebook.