The Administration Series (97 page)

In the bathroom, he rinsed his mouth out, spat into the sink and then splashed water onto his face. Catching sight of his reflection in the mirror he was surprised by how blurred the lines of his face looked. Still drunk, he decided, but sobering rapidly towards the beginning of the hangover.

He watched himself drying his hands while he considered the dream. The details were fading, but even so, loaded didn't do it justice. He'd never put any faith in the concept of symbolism in dreams. On the other hand . . .

'What
did
you want?' Sara had asked him.

Whatever he wanted, he sure as hell didn't want to be here, drunk, on his own, with nothing but a day at work to look forward to. He checked his watch. Half past two in the morning. There wouldn't be a flight for a few hours, so he might as well try to get some sleep.

When he left the flat, before dawn, Sara still slept peacefully on the sofa. He left her a note explaining where he was going, but not why. Why was more difficult.

It felt strange, and slightly silly, to be retracing the journey to the hotel so soon. Before he got on the flight he had a cowardly urge to call Warrick instead. He had no clear idea what he was going to say, though, or even what he wanted to say, other than it would have to be the truth or he might as well not bother going at all. Nothing else would work on Warrick.

So he took the easier route of the flight. It put things off for another couple of hours.

He found Warrick in the conference centre, eating a late breakfast. Alone.

This was as far as the planning had gone, so he simply went over to the table and sat down without saying anything. It seemed impossible that he'd last seen Warrick only the day before yesterday.

"Would you like some coffee?" Warrick said, after a moment.

"Yeah. Thanks."

Warrick called the waitress over and ordered a fresh pot.

After she left, Warrick said, "I'm sorry."

Toreth blinked, thrown off balance by the echo of his dream.

"I didn't think I'd get a chance to say it," he continued. "I'm sorry I did what I did and I'm sorry I said what I said. It was . . . tacky. Unnecessary. Unkind. Unbelievably stupid. And several other things." He paused. "I don't suppose you could forget it?"

"No. No, I don't think so." The resolution of honesty had a novelty to it that Toreth suspected would wear off quite quickly. But for now it seemed to be doing very well.

Warrick nodded slowly, then began one of his breakfast rituals, spreading butter over a slice of toast with such exactitude that it would probably require electronic measuring equipment to detect a variation in the thickness.

"How's your hand?" he asked.

"What? Oh, fine." Toreth rubbed his bandaged palm. "Nothing serious — a couple of cuts."

Warrick nodded again. "Good. That's what I hoped. I saw the broken glass in the bathroom, and the blood. I asked at reception and they said you hadn't called a medic so — " He shrugged. "That's what I assumed — that it wasn't serious."

Toreth felt unexpectedly pleased that he'd checked. "I'm fine," he repeated, with more emphasis than it really merited.

Warrick looked at the toast for a moment, as if noticing it for the first time, then put it down on the plate. Toreth realised his hand was shaking.

"What's wrong?"

"What's . . . Christ." Almost a laugh. "Sometimes . . . "

He suddenly seemed to be having trouble finishing sentences. Toreth waited as patiently as he could until finally, Warrick said, "Guilt — for fucking someone else and enjoying it and then for telling you about it and enjoying that, too. And fear, in case you didn't come back or you'd be angry when you did, which is relief now that you have and you aren't. I think that just about covers it." He looked up. "Why aren't you angry, by the way?"

"Honestly?" Honestly, he didn't know — he wasn't even sure it was true. But resolution or not, he could hardly say that. Toreth shrugged. "It just seems too hypocritical, I suppose."

"If it means anything at all, I won't be doing it again." Warrick smiled wryly. "Not my field."

Toreth thought about his conversation with Sara. Tell the lie, or not? All that stopped him in that end was the simple fact that it would never work.

"I won't promise anything in return," he said. "I could, but — " He shrugged. "You know me."

"Well," Warrick said carefully, "I'd rather have you on those terms than not at all."

Toreth suddenly realised that he was starving. He reached over and took the slice of toast. "That's settled, then."

Sara was awakened by the fine-tuned sense which, even through the worst hangovers, always got her up in time for work. Almost in time, anyway.

Looking at the debris of the night before, she made a rough calculation of the amount they'd got through, and winced. She hoped Toreth felt better than she did.

That thought made her register the silence in the flat. Curiosity got her off the sofa and to his bedroom. The door was open and there was no one there. Had he gone to work without her? She looked at her watch. If he was in the same bloody awful mood he'd been in yesterday he might decide to make a fuss about her being late. She'd make it, but she was cutting it fine.

Anyway, he wouldn't mind if she borrowed some headache tablets before she set off. Or rather, he could mind as much as he liked, but she was doing it. The very thought of going outside into the sunshine like this was enough to start her eyes watering.

Trying not to make any loud noises, she opened the bathroom cabinet and started hunting for something — anything — to get rid of the pounding in her head. Searching through the precariously balanced contents without precipitating a landslide would have been difficult enough without the hangover.

For God's sake, didn't the man have
anything
in there which didn't cleanse, moisturize or exfoliate? She knocked a stack of jars off a shelf, made a wild grab, missed them, and swore vividly as the largest landed on her bare foot.

Finally, it occurred to her that she was looking in the wrong place. She opened a drawer by the basin and there, thank God, were assorted bottles and strips of pills. Been at the pharmacy again, clearly.

In the kitchen she found a mostly clean glass, filled it with water, and took the tablets. Then she downed the rest of the water, even though she felt horribly queasy. She considered looking for something to eat to settle her stomach, but then remembered whose flat she was in. She refilled the glass and went back into the living room. There, at last, she noticed the paper rolled up and stuck into the neck of an empty bottle.

She flopped down onto the sofa, moaning quietly as the water she'd drunk sloshed around her stomach, and read the short note over a few times.

Great. Now she felt worried, on top of everything else.

Was it a good thing that he'd gone back to the hotel? He'd seemed fairly pissed off last night. Much as he might've deserved what Warrick had done, it had hurt him in a way which, sober, she found hard to believe. Warrick had really got to him. She didn't actually think Toreth would . . . do anything. On the other hand, she'd never seen him like that before. It made for a compelling spectator sport, but it also had the potential to get messy.

She lay back on the sofa and put her arm over her eyes. If he
was
going to kill Warrick, the least he could have done was to kill her first on his way out.

When it came down to it, she didn't want to think he'd do anything, but he might. Especially if Warrick's mystery fuck turned up again. She imagined Toreth finding Warrick with someone else and her stomach knotted in a way which had nothing to do with her hangover. She'd seen him angry and, if she were being honest with herself, it had scared her. But she'd never seen him genuinely lose his temper. She didn't know anyone who had. Maybe there were no survivors.

Ha, ha. Very not funny.

Right, she told herself. Calm down. Don't flap —
think
.

All she could do was get hold of Warrick and warn him that Toreth was on his way. And, maybe, that he was in a less than sparkling mood. Then, at the very least, Warrick could get rid of any evidence he might need to, including any live bodies. While they still were.

Was there a time on the note? No. Toreth might be there already, but it all depended on the flights.

She had the contact details Toreth had given her in her head, so it took only a few seconds to reach the conference centre. Then she won a brief duel of comm manners in order to convince the receptionist that the call was sufficiently urgent and confidential that he ought to track Warrick down for her. Not bad going, the way she felt.

Time ticked past and Sara fingered the note nervously. On the positive side, the fact that the receptionist was looking at all meant that he hadn't heard about any corpses. Maybe they just hadn't been found yet.

Then the call went through, and she realised she still hadn't decided what to say.

"Warrick? It's Sara."

"What can I do for you?"

Still alive at any rate.

"I, um, just wanted to let you know — " that my boss might be on his way to break your legs, " — that I've seen Toreth. I thought you, er, might be a bit worried about him."

"I never worry about him." Standard issue unreadable Warrick.

"And he's on his way back to the hotel." So you'll want to throw out anyone you happen to be screwing
before
he gets there.

"He's — " There was a brief silence then, faintly, "For God's sake, stop that. It's Sara."

Familiar laughter sounded in the background. "Tell her she's late for work."

Suddenly she felt like an absolute idiot. But a terribly relieved absolute idiot.

Warrick's voice came back, polite but strained. "Sorry about that. Yes. He's, mmh . . . he's here already."

"Oh. Good."

"Was there anything . . . else?"

"No." She grinned. "Have fun."

She cut the comm before he could reply. Then she sat back on the sofa, methodically tearing the note into small pieces. No need to rush in to work now. She could go home and shower and change first. Have something to eat.

And her hangover had gone completely.

Warrick handed him a drink and looked round the reception room. Toreth looked too, tracking his gaze, trying to see if it lingered anywhere. To his annoyance, he found himself fighting an urge to touch Warrick, to stand too close.

Toreth had spent the afternoon learning how to ski, or at least how to fall over slightly less frequently. Not that he was particularly bad at it, and the instructor had complimented him on his balance, although he expected that she complimented everyone on something. It was something he'd never done before, though, and the early stages of anything new frustrated him. He liked to excel. Besides, it was infuriating and embarrassing to watch kids who barely came up to his waist skimming carelessly past him as if they'd been doing it all their lives. Which, presumably, the spoilt little fuckers had.

All afternoon, as he untangled his skis yet again, he'd wondered where Warrick was. That wasn't strictly true — he'd known where he was. What he wondered was who else was there with him. The faceless fuck, somewhere in the conference centre. At the same talk as Warrick? In the same workshop? Sharing a coffee, maybe.

Somewhere here, right now, anonymous in the crowd at the formal evening reception, supposedly the highlight of the conference. A sea of dinner jackets and colourful dresses moved around him, but Toreth looked only at the men. He had what he acknowledged to be a quite irrational conviction that he ought to recognise someone whom Warrick would want to fuck.

Earlier, it had been okay. When he'd found Warrick at breakfast, it had been okay. Talking had been bad, but not unbearable, and he'd got what he'd wanted — an apology and a promise never to do it again. When they'd gone back to the room, it had been more than okay, even though they'd had time to do nothing more than mess around for fifteen minutes before Warrick had to be somewhere. When Sara called, it had been funny, although the reason she'd done it wasn't.

It was a guess, but he knew her well enough to be confident about it. She'd been worried in case he'd carried out his threat from last night. In case when he did get back, Warrick hadn't been alone. Toreth didn't want to think about that. To imagine opening the door to the room and seeing them . . .

'He's here, and I didn't think it would be a good thing to end up doing it again.'

He's here, now.

That was what made the difference, why it wasn't okay any more. Despite the good food and the skiing and the break from work, Toreth felt happy that the conference lasted only one more day.

Turning back from his scrutiny of the room, he found Warrick watching him.

"What is it?" Toreth asked.

Warrick sipped his drink, then said, "Do you realise that, for the entire evening, you've looked as if you want to punch every man I've spoken to between the ages of twenty-five and fifty?"