London Broil (20 page)

"Okay?" he
whispered. "Okay," she answered, and wrapped both arms and legs
around him. Inside her, he moved slowly, deliberately at first,
then faster. "Bear down on me, Laura," he said, breathing hard.
"Squeeze me." She let herself consider the way he was filling
her, stretching her, and visualized the muscles that enveloped
him; she found that she had the ability to contract them. It was
like an intimate, internal hug. She wondered whether he could
feel her efforts, but the next time she tried, it drew a moan
from him,
 
and
grabbing her by the hips he suddenly slammed into her once,
twice, three times. Then he collapsed on top of her, panting.

When he had his
breath back, he said, "You must think I'm a pratt for coming
over like this just to fuck you, but I had to. I couldn't relax,
and I couldn't help myself. I had to be with you."

"James, even
when you arrive unexpectedly, I'm glad to see you. Do you want
to talk about what happened?"

"I took one of
the Newcastles out of the fridge. It should be better by now.
I'll just retrieve it. Would you like another glass of wine?" he
asked. She nodded and he rose to get the drinks. "The pint
glasses are in the right top cupboard if you want one," she
called, "and the opener's in the drawer opposite."

He didn't bother
with a glass. They sat on the bed with their drinks, she in her
dress and he naked and apparently unabashed. She kept stealing
glances at him, since she didn't often get to see him naked,
especially in the unaroused state. His entire body seemed
beautiful to her.

"I had an
eventful day," he began. "We got a tip that there was a suspect
hiding in an office building on the outskirts of Canary Wharf.
He was one of a group known to attack bank staff as they were
refilling cash machines. Brutal bastard. Used hammers and knives
on his victims. Anyway, I decided to go with Hicks and see what
I could see. I was tired of being banged up in that office all
day, never getting out into town. We weren't sure which tube
stop to use, and had to walk a long way. Finally we approached
the building from the back through a carpark. I thought it was
odd that the police didn't have the place surrounded, though I
could see some blues flashing out front. Turned out they had
just arrived themselves. Suddenly the suspect burst out the back
door and headed straight for us, as we were blocking the only
clear path through the cars. Hicks is smaller, so he launched
himself at her. We had a scuffle, and he broke away. He ran
about a dozen yards, but then he suddenly stopped and looked
straight at me. And he pulled out a gun."

James drank
deeply from his ale. The two small lines between his brows
deepened as he narrowed his eyes. "It was surreal. I couldn't
believe the wee bugger was drawing a gun and deliberately trying
to kill me. I heard the shot and then I saw the cops pile onto
him. I still don't understand why he did it. If he'd simply run,
he might have got away."

The timer went
off. "Hold that thought," she said. "I have to see to the pie."
She got up and checked it, then turned on the broiler. She was
about to set the timer again when he came out to the kitchen,
wearing his boxers.

"Guns are
illegal here, right? How common is gun crime?" she asked.

"It's rare
compared to the US, but it's growing. Especially in the big
cities. The police normally don't carry guns. Most people here
have never seen a handgun." He was standing beside her as she
monitored the progress of the pie through the glass of the oven
door. He knelt to take a look himself, and she gently trailed a
finger around the bruised area on his cheek. "So you got this in
the scuffle? Was anyone else hurt? What about Jenna?"

"Hicks? She's
fine, though a bit shaken. She's got pluck, so she has," he said
proudly. "I taught her most of what she knows." Laura couldn't
help wondering whether the curriculum was limited to journalism
or included other skills.

"When you see
the papers tomorrow, don't take it at face value. They're going
to have a field day with this," said James. "Our rivals, I mean.
We take a special delight in writing stories about one another.
Your pie's done."

He was right;
she hadn't been watching the pie, and the cheese on top had now
reached the perfect stage of golden toastiness and gone slightly
beyond, with a couple of black charred spots. She removed it and
placed it on a trivet, then set the table with two places. He'd
finished his ale, so she poured the last of the wine into a
glass for him and they sat down to eat.

"This is good,"
he said. "Like a quiche, but with yogurt. It gives the custard a
tangy flavor." He cut himself another slice, even larger than
the one she'd given him. "There's something else." She waited,
fork poised in her hand. He hesitated, and then said, "That
moment with the gun. It reminded me of something that happened
when I was a lad, in Belfast." She kept her eyes on him, almost
afraid to move for fear that it might spook him.

He took another
bite of the pie. "In 1973, I was almost seventeen. Didn't get
along well with me Da. I rebelled by going about with a lot of
tough lads. Nationalists, you know, people who wanted an Irish
republic." He looked at her to see whether she had any idea what
he was talking about, and she nodded. The Troubles.

"Were you a
Nationalist too? Or was it more about breaking away from your
father?"

"I'm not sure
any more. Ma had Republican sentiments. She used to call me
Séamus when I was a wean --I mean a wee lad-- even though I was
christened James. Da was apolitical, and he hated the Troubles
more than anything. He only wanted us to be safe. I didn't
understand that until I became a father meself. The lads I spent
time with, they knew some men who... who were very dangerous.
They had guns. Used to get us to help them from time to time. Be
in a certain street in a group, watch certain houses and
describe the people who came and went. I had a younger friend
Donal. He was just fourteen, and he followed me about like a
duckling follows its mother. I didn't think to tell him the
rules. One day I went in the pub and he was having a friendly
coze with a man we all knew was from the police. I hadn't
thought to warn Donny about him, never to speak to him. I saw
some of the older men looking his way and whispering amongst
themselves and knew it was bad. A few days later, we were
walking in the Falls Road and he was shot by a sniper. In the
head. I was arrested and banged up for days. My father came to
collect me, and drove me straight to the train station. He gave
me some money and said to come to my uncle Fergus in London. And
then he said, 'If you love us, you won't come back.'"

"And did you
ever go back?"

"Eventually. I
was angry at Da for years. And I blamed myself for Donny's
death. I went back a couple of times before my parents died, and
they came to my wedding with Sita. I went to Belfast the week I
met you, to see my sister Maeve." He drained his wine glass and
then continued the story. "Fergus was in the construction
business and he helped me get a job, doing renovations on
kitchens and baths, that sort of thing. I found a flat in
Bethnal Green near Fergus' place, the one he left me. After a
year, I started at Birkbeck, but at first I drank too much."

"Ale and
fistfights?"

"Yes." He rose
from the table, clearing the dishes and silverware. He took them
to the sink and began to rinse them. Laura got up and stood
behind him, wrapping her arms around his bare middle. "Thank you
for telling me," she said. "Are you cold? Do you want to get
into bed?"

"I ought to go,"
he said. "I need a bath and a long sleep." He wandered into the
bedroom and re-emerged wearing his trousers and shirt, then
collected his jacket, stuffed his tie in his pocket, and bent to
retrieve his shoes. She waited while he put them on, and then
placed her palms on his chest, sliding them up around his neck
and into his hair. They shared a gentle kiss. It was the first
time they had kissed each other for comfort rather than sex.

"Thanks for
putting up with me," he said. He gestured toward the empty pie
plate. "Have you tried asparagus and gruyère?"

24.
From Russia, With Love

The next morning
she went out to a newsstand to get a paper, and spotted a
headline in
The
Sun
under the byline of
Jon Jacques: "Scribbler Downs Thug as Coppers Look On." She
bought a copy of every local paper and took them upstairs, then
made herself a pot of Ceylon tea.

London Herald
crime editor James Whelan
found himself an unlikely hero when Costin Stoika, a notorious
member of London's Russian Mafia, attempted to escape from a
building near the Canary Wharf business district. Whelan and
Herald
correspondent Jenna Hicks
were investigating a tip when Stoika burst into the carpark
and violently attacked Ms. Hicks. According to witnesses who
noted the delay in the arrival of police personnel to the
scene, Whelan hoisted Stoika off the prostrate Ms. Hicks and
delivered a handy long fist to Stoika's gut.
Bystanders opined that
although advanced in years, the near-heavyweight Whelan had an
unfair advantage, as the slight Stoika was barely a
welterweight.
Stoika
attempted a haymaker but instead managed only a glancing blow
to the side of Whelan's face. A few inconclusive jabs were
exchanged and the 54-year old Whelan landed a respectable
uppercut before the suspect fled, pausing at the opposite side
of the carpark to draw a 9mm Beretta pistol and discharge it,
missing his erstwhile pugilistic opponent. Nobody was
seriously injured, and the delay provided police the
opportunity to subdue Mr. Stoika.
According to Mr. Justin
Stemple of Tower Hamlets, who observed the altercation, "Oi,
it all wennof, dey got inta da ruk, innit, and da geezer gave
it large."
Mr.
Whelan and Miss Hicks refused comment. 

The
Sun
story was
illustrated with a photo of Jenna Hicks and a grim-looking James
talking with police; Jenna's white shirt was smudged with dirt
and had clearly lost its top buttons; she was holding it closed
with her left hand.
The
Mirror
took a different approach; its headline read
"Chivalry Not Dead: Dashing Editor Saves Damsel In Undress." The
story referred to James as a "bon vivant" and "boulevardier,"
and the photographer had managed to snap a photograph of Jenna's
shirt gaping open to reveal a good deal of her generous
cleavage. Most of the other papers had followed suit with
similar photographs, even when the stories were relatively brief
and businesslike. The
Herald
story was the most laconic and included only a photo of a
policewoman pushing the suspect's head down as he was
transferred to the back of a police car. The byline was not
Jenna's.

Laura found the
number of the
Herald
online and called it, asking to speak to Jenna.

"I'm sorry,
she's out of the office at the moment. May I take a message?"
said the voice on the other end.

"Yes, tell her
it's Laura Livingston. I saw the papers and I'm calling to make
sure she's okay." She left her number and hung up. About twenty
minutes later her phone rang.

"Laura? It was
kind of you to call. I'm taking a day off, but only because
James insisted."

"I was worried
about you. Were you hurt when that criminal knocked you down?"

"As a matter of
fact, I'm a stiff and sore all over, and I have a dreadful
bruise on my tailbone. But you won't tell anyone, Laura? Not
even James? I spent years earning the respect of the men in that
section, and I don't want them thinking I can't handle the job."

"Of course. You
have my word. But what about the photos in the papers that show
your torn shirt? Will this have a negative effect on your
career?"

"Let's just say
it's going to be a while before they stop calling me 'Ursula
Undress, the latest Bond girl.' They don't dare say anything to
James' face, but they keep pretending to look in the car park
for his Aston Martin and then braying like asses, as though
they've done something funny."

"They're
envious, don't you think?" Laura asked.

"Yes, they've
always been envious of James because women like him so much. I'm
sure I'm not telling you anything you didn't know," Jenna
replied. "But then again, he's one of the few men I know who
genuinely like women. Oh, he's from a generation that can be a
bit sexist. He calls a woman a lass, unless she's old, in which
case she's a lady. And if he disapproves of what women wear,
they're tarts. But he never treated me differently from the
others, never went easier on me or relegated me to fetching tea.
This can be a very rough business..." Jenna paused, as if
deciding what to say next. "But he's a good man," she finished.

"Thank you for
saying that, Jenna. I hope everything returns to normal soon.
Can I bring you some groceries or something from the pharmacy?"
But Jenna insisted that she was fine. It felt strange, seeing
James through the eyes of another woman. She'd never heard him
use the word 'tart,' but then, they hadn't had many
conversations on topics other than food and sex. Laura tended to
dress conservatively, and she wondered if he would react
negatively to provocative clothing. Perhaps his preferences had
been shaped by Miss Sweeney's sartorial habits.