The Administration Series (257 page)

"
Kill
him?"

The bald statement made Warrick take a breath before he replied. "Yes, if necessary. Or to find something to hold over him. Perhaps even Kate's escape, if it was unauthorised. It worked for us with Alan Howes. It can work again."

Toreth looked away, frowning, his eyes fixed on the lights of the bar across the road. Cars passed, their tyres hissing over the wet road, but Warrick didn't push him.

"He spotted me watching after you talked to him," Toreth said at last. He looked back. "We talked about Tarin. We sorted something out — a way Tarin can be safe, if he survives. Something to clean up his name, get rid of the association to the resisters. But . . . fuck. But you have to trust me. This once, let me fix it for you."

He sounded sincere, but then he usually did. "And I'm supposed to trust his good intentions?"

Toreth took a deep breath. "No. You're supposed to trust me."

There were so many qualifiers and justifications that he could have added to that, but he didn't. He just waited.

Could he trust Toreth? Or, more accurately, did he believe him in this situation? Warrick was surprised by how much he wanted to say yes, to make the gesture, and he distrusted the feeling. However, for all his many, many faults and unreliabilities, had Toreth ever failed him over something this serious?

But wanting to trust Toreth was not the same as that trust actually being realistic or sensible.

"Tarin will be safe?" Warrick asked.

"Absolutely. Now, and for however long it is in the future before he manages to do something else stupid. I can do it."

That decided him. 'I promise' he wouldn't have believed for a moment. Toreth could make a hundred promises in a day and forget every one of them without a qualm. But a statement of ability was another question. 'I can do it' made Tarin's death a matter of personal success or failure for Toreth, and more than anything he hated to lose.

So it was logic, not emotion, to nod, accepting the offer — to nod and see the relief in Toreth's eyes.

"I can fix it," Toreth said. "I will fix it. Just stay the fuck away from Sable from now on."

"You have my word."

"Great. Now let's get out of this bloody drizzle. I'm soaked."

It was flattering, Warrick thought as Toreth waved down a taxi, that someone whose own promises meant so little was so willing to believe Warrick's.

Two days ago, sitting on the bed with Warrick, sharing food out of cartons, Toreth had felt at home. In fact, after they'd done the difficult conversation, they'd spent fifteen minutes discussing decorating before he'd even noticed. True, they'd been talking — yet again — about the exact best way to arrange the cabinet and curtains, but it was still pretty fucking domesticated as far as Toreth was concerned.

Two days ago, that was all. And now, today, it might as well never have happened. Toreth felt like a guest at the delayed house-warming, and a rather uncomfortable guest at that. Part of the problem tonight was that the mixture of other guests was almost disorienting. Their two worlds in collision. SimTech and I&I. A tall, bear-like man who he vaguely recognised as Asher's husband stood talking to Elena. Sara was stalking a young man he had a feeling had arrived with someone from SimTech. He wondered where Cele was, and whether she'd finished the drawing of him yet.

The flat didn't feel like home now. Not in the slightest. Would it ever again?

There had been no news from Sable, and that hadn't helped. He felt as though he was waiting to catch something fragile, knowing that if he looked away for a moment he could hear the crash as it landed.

He felt a hand on his arm, and turned to find Dillian. "Can I have a word with you?"

If he'd been in a better mood, he would've managed something civil. As it was, he said, "I can't stop you."

"Have you seen Keir?"

"Not recently, no. Don't worry — I haven't murdered him and stuffed him down the waste disposal."

For a moment, she stood quite still, then she nodded. "There's no particular reason I should expect you to be polite, is there?"

He kept his voice low and even. "Not really, considering that the last time you wanted a word it was to tell me that you'd rather see me in prison than fucking your brother."

"Can we go somewhere quieter?"

"No, I don't think so. If you've got something to say to me, say it here." Some things he couldn't handle today, and a row with Dillian was one of them. Too many unforgivable things waited to be said that would put Warrick in a filthy mood if he ever heard about them — which he would.

To his surprise, Dillian didn't walk away. Instead, she stood, hesitating, then shrugged. "Fine. Here will do."

Fuck. Trapped in the open, he waited for whatever shit she wanted to fling this time.

"I'm not going to pretend I . . . no." She shook her head. "Bad start. All right — I don't know if you remember, but you told me once that as long as Keir wanted you, you'd still be around. I hoped for a long time that you didn't really mean that."

He laughed, not bothering to hide it. "For five
years
?"

She didn't answer that. Instead she looked up at him, her gaze steady, and said, "I want to say sorry."

Toreth stared, trying to parse the sentence in some way that made sense, then said, "You've got a funny fucking way of going about it."

"Yes, well — " She shrugged. "It's got to be a habit, I'm afraid. I do regret the way I've behaved before — some of the things I've said. To be perfectly honest, I still can't understand why Keir wants what he wants from you. I didn't — still don't — understand how you can . . . "

She trailed off, so he supplied the options. "Chain him up? Hit him? Fuck around?"

She winced slightly. "Yes."

"It's easy, really. I just — "

"Don't . . . I can't understand it. I'm not sure I'll even ever be able to accept it. But at the hospital, when you stopped Keir going in to see Tar — that was very kind of you. And everything afterwards, after the arrest. And even if I overreacted a little to what you did with Val, I do understand that you were trying to make sure Keir was safe. And . . . "

Dillian frowned, looking briefly so much like Warrick that he almost lost track of what she was saying. However much he disliked her, he still wouldn't say no if she ever offered.

"And everything that's happened," she continued, "it's made me realise that life is too damn short to waste it worrying about things I can't change. I spent so many years not liking Tar, and it never occurred to me that he could die and nothing would be put right. Stupid, but true. I can't bear the idea of ending up that way with Keir. Not about anything. Not even — "

She stopped, but the words didn't need to be spoken.

Not even you.

"Yeah, well, don't get worked up about it." Wanting the conversation to be over, he reached for standard, professional reassurances. "You'd be surprised how many people feel exactly the same in circumstances like that. More often than not, in fact. Perfectly natural."

She nodded. "Thanks. But it's not just the business with Tar. It's — " She waved her hand, indicating the flat. "I wasn't happy when he told me. But in a way it does make a difference, knowing that he means this much to you. You're making a commitment to him by moving in."

Then she stopped, clearly expecting a response. The one thing that sprang instantly to mind made his hands clench, and this would be a very bad place to hit her.

Dillian continued, oblivious. "I can't fool myself any longer that he isn't different as far as you're concerned. That you don't really care about him."

Her words, so casually spoken, felt like a slap in the face, like a cruder echo of Carnac's attack. What fucking right did she have to say these things to him? "How I . . . what the hell has it got to do with you?"

"I only wanted to tell you that I — "

He grabbed her arms, squeezing tight, desperate enough to try that. Her eyes widened, her mouth still open on the last word, but at least it
was
the last. The effort of holding the anger back, of keeping his voice neutral, started a throbbing pain in his temples.

"Shut up." He shook her arms, digging his fingers in tighter. "Just shut the fuck up and mind your own fucking business. What he wants has got nothing to do with you. He's — "

He's mine, but he was fucked if he was giving her that much ammunition.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sara, scrambling down the stairs into the living room as quickly as she could without pushing people bodily aside. He daren't let her get to them — he wasn't going to let his anger with Dillian spill out and hurt Sara.

Finger by finger, he forced his hands open, then walked away without another word. Behind him, he heard Sara's voice.

"Dillian!"

Picking up a bottle of spirits from the table on the way past, he went off and locked himself in the cloakroom. There he sat on a pile of guests' coats, his heart pounding, drinking out of the bottle until he stopped shaking.

Once it had been all right. Back when it was just fucking, and how long ago had that been now? Before it turned into flats and families and next of kin and things he simply couldn't cope with. Not with those, and not with Warrick's endless
patience
. He couldn't do it. He couldn't live here. He'd screw it up, somehow, in the end, like he so nearly had just now with Dillian, and he and Warrick would have a row that couldn't be fixed by fucking. Then Warrick would throw him out.

This was enough. This was absolutely enough. Time to put a stop to it before things got completely out of control.

Toreth found Warrick in the study, sitting at the desk. He didn't look round as Toreth came in. After a moment, Toreth closed the door.

"What the hell are you doing in here? Your f — Dillian was looking for you."

"I won't be long."

"What is it?"

As Toreth went over to the desk, Warrick pulled a file across it, hiding whatever he'd been looking at.

"What is it?" Toreth repeated.

"Nothing."

"Bollocks is it." Toreth reached over his shoulder and hesitated, his hand on the file, suddenly reluctant to know. Warrick didn't react, neither to stop him nor to encourage him. Long seconds of silence passed, then he lifted the file.

He really should have guessed.

"It arrived earlier," Warrick said. "Hand courier. There's a note with it. She says to let you know she's sorry she didn't have time to get it framed. She might be able to get here later, but she has a gallery opening she has to attend."

"Do you . . . what do you think?" What had Cele said about it?

"I think it's very good. But then all her work is. And the choice of subject is impeccable."

Toreth finally laid the file aside and stood looking at the finished drawing, his hands resting on Warrick's shoulders. What would Dillian say about it?

"Why are you sitting in here?" he asked eventually.

Warrick leaned back, resting his head against him, making him think of the night at Kate's house. "I was trying to work out what you're looking at."

"And?"

"And I think I did."

Toreth didn't ask, and Warrick didn't elaborate. After a while, Toreth moved round to sit on the edge of the desk.

"Warrick . . . " Now it came down to it, the words wouldn't come. He shouldn't tell him tonight, because he could foresee the most Godawful row or, more probably and more unpleasantly, an evening of frigid politeness in front of the guests until Toreth lost his temper and stormed out.

"What is it?"

"I can't live here. It won't work. I know you wanted to try it, but I'll just end up . . . or rather we'll end up — " Sentence getting out of hand. He took a deep breath and went for the essentials: excuse, apologise and shut up. "I should have said before, but I thought it would be okay. I'm sorry for . . . for the inconvenience." Christ,
that
was lame.

Warrick shook his head. "No real inconvenience incurred. I was telling the truth when I said I intended to move anyway and this flat is perfect. Thanks for letting me know. And I'm sorry if you feel I pressured you into agreeing in the first place — I didn't intend to."

And that was it. Toreth watched Warrick slide the drawing back into the sleeve Cele had sent it in and put it carefully away in a drawer. When he stood and turned there was an awkward moment of silence. Then he stroked Toreth's upper arm gently and smiled.

"You look very nice. In the flesh as well as on paper."

"Thanks."

As they left the study, Warrick hesitated in the doorway. "You aren't planning to go now, are you?"

"Fuck, no. I'll stay 'til tomorrow." Why hadn't he waited until tomorrow to tell him? Or the day after? Or the week after? Or —

"Good. Did you say Dillian wanted me?"

They returned to the living room and the party.

Once there, Toreth helped himself to another drink and waited for the sense of relief that stubbornly failed to arrive. He felt somehow cheated. Not that he'd wanted a huge, stand-up row over the issue — of course he hadn't. Even so, some kind of reaction would have been nice. Warrick could at least have
asked
him to stay, even though he'd have had to say no. The problem was that Warrick would've known he'd say no, which was precisely why he hadn't asked. Infuriating — but then Warrick so often was.