The Administration Series (138 page)

Despite Warrick's ready agreement, Toreth had a lingering feeling of unease. Partly it was the fact that Warrick had spent a fair proportion of the evening looking as if there was a faint but unpleasant smell in the vicinity, which at any moment would turn out to be something nasty stuck to his shoe. Partly it was the effort of keeping an eye on who was talking to Warrick and, more importantly, what they were saying to him.

At the moment he had been cornered by Chevril, who fell under the heading of 'dull but safe'. He talked primarily about money, not work, and he wasn't going to start any fishing expeditions into their sex life. Toreth wasn't sure how many of the fuck stories he'd passed on to Sara had made it any further but, with one thing and another, he did know there were various versions floating around the section. It was only to be expected when Warrick was a) rich, b) attractive, and c) interestingly kinked.

Warrick, however, wouldn't see it like that. If he heard anything, he would have — in Dillian's phrase — fifteen different kinds of fits. Not in public, obviously, but the moment they left and probably for a tediously long time afterwards.

Earlier Toreth had spent an agonising half hour while, at Sara's instigation, Warrick had outlined the sim to a group of curious admins. Most of the questions had revolved around sex, in one way or another, although that was fine as long as it didn't get personal. There had been a couple of nasty moments when the conversation had veered towards I&I applications for the sim. To his surprise, Warrick had merely deflected the enquires with polite (and as far as Toreth knew, untruthful) claims of commercial confidentiality.

He must have looked nervous at the time, because after the group had split up (with an assortment of optimistic requests for sim time), Warrick had smiled serenely at him and said, "Some of us do know how to behave in public."

At the moment, judging by the snippets he could overhear — and Warrick's glazed expression — Chevril was well into his favourite theme of 'why my life would be perfect if I only had a job with a rich corporation'. It would be less annoying if the man would actually go out and
find
another job, but he preferred to complain about it instead. Still, he was a good para. Takes all sorts.

If it looked as if Warrick was about to start chewing his own arm off to get out of the trap, he'd rescue him.

Anyway, it was getting close to the time to make the presentation to Sara and give his speech, to which he was looking forwards tremendously. Sara had spent the entire week trying to wheedle out of him exactly what he was going to say, and looking increasingly panic-stricken by the whole idea. As well she might. He'd had a word with her multitude of friends in the division and reaped a variety of entertaining anecdotes, including some he'd forgotten and a few he hadn't even known about. Everyone had been very helpful. He'd mentioned that to Sara, once or twice.

In fact, he'd transferred the notes for the speech onto paper, just for the pleasure of watching her face as he took them out of his jacket pocket and paged through them a couple of times during the evening.

He checked the notes one more time. Looking up, he discovered that Warrick had made his escape from Chevril. Hell, where was he? Nowhere to be seen. Toreth told himself he was worrying unnecessarily. What could go wrong, really?

The music had quietened, so while he kept scanning the room, he tuned into Chevril's conversation. He'd turned his attention to Sedanioni, one of his investigation team and therefore obliged to give her boss a minimum level of courteous attention.

"Fraser from level six left last year. I saw him a few weeks ago. Do you have any idea what he's earning now? Go on, guess. All right, I'll tell you . . . "

"Drink?"

Warrick's voice, right behind him, startled him.

"What? Oh, thanks."

Warrick passed him a glass over his shoulder. Toreth leaned back and looked up at him.

"Having fun?" he asked, without much hope of getting a positive reply.

To his surprise, Warrick smiled. "I'm having a tolerable evening, yes. I'm keen to hear your speech, at least."

"Oh, good." Toreth grinned and tucked the papers away again. "Sara isn't."

"I know. I saw her at the bar and she said that if — "

"The problem, of course," Sedanioni said to Chevril, pointedly and slightly too loudly, "is that
some
people don't know what they really want."

Chevril, naturally, failed to notice the hint. Or he noticed it and ignored it, because he carried on as if she hadn't spoken.

Warrick crouched down and rested his arms on the back of Toreth's seat. "I know what
I
want," he murmured, his voice low and amused. "I want you."

"Yeah, I've noticed." Toreth kept his reply equally soft.

Warrick stroked the back of Toreth's neck with a discreet finger. "I want you to fuck me," he continued. "I want you to chain me up with your lovely presents. I want you to hurt me. I want your mouth against my ear, promising me things I can hardly bear to hear because I want them so very badly."

The light caress was firing every nerve in his body. Warrick slipped his arm over Toreth's shoulder, not an overly intimate gesture to an observer, but his touch burned across Toreth's chest even through the layers of cloth. His voice whispered on, while around them everyone else continued their conversations, oblivious.

"I want to give myself up completely and let you take control. I want to kneel for you, bound and blindfolded, while you fuck my mouth. I want your hand in my hair, forcing me down. I want to taste your come. I want your fingers inside me. I want your cock inside me. I want you to hold me, to hold me down, so that all I can feel is you, all I can hear is my voice begging for you, for more, for everything. I want to lose myself so totally that when you finally let me come, I don't even hear myself scream." Brief pause. "That's what I want."

He stood up and moved away. Toreth sat frozen in shock, dry-mouthed and nearly shaking with lust. It took him a whole minute to realise that it was time for him to make his speech, and that Warrick had lifted his notes.

The indoor section of the cafe was almost deserted. Everyone sat outside at the plaza tables, enjoying the unexpectedly warm October Saturday. When Warrick emerged from the cafe carrying the tray, he saw Toreth waving from a small table in the centre. As he worked his way across the closely packed space, he hoped Toreth had simply been lucky to find a vacant table. He wasn't above using his I&I ID to clear seats when he felt like it.

He sat down beside Toreth and emptied the tray. "So, what do you think of open-air theatre?"

While he watched Toreth pretending to consider the answer, Warrick tasted a teaspoonful of the nutmeg-dusted froth on his coffee. Bitter, but a pleasant combination.

"Not bad," Toreth said finally. "It's been a long week, I needed some extra sleep."

"You didn't enjoy it?"

"Well . . . " Toreth broke a corner off his cheese scone and ate it. "This is nothing like as good as yours."

"Thank you." Warrick waited, then prompted, "Well?"

"'A History of the Reconstruction of New London in Drama and Song'? They could've picked something more exciting. Like anything. And bits of it were complete bollocks, anyway — I've read some of the old files."

"You can hardly blame them for sticking to publicly available information for a public performance."

"Yeah, fair point." Toreth licked his thumb and finger. "I suppose it was okay, if you want to find out how many things rhyme with debris."

So he'd been at least that awake. "They're a talented group. Dillian was at university with one of the founders — they both read engineering."

"Yeah? Figures." His eyes crinkled, half smile, half reaction to the sun emerging from behind a cloud. "You could've told me we were only there to help make up the numbers. I'd have brought a blanket."

Warrick decided to up the game. "Don't worry, I shall know not to ask you next time."

Cornered, Toreth shrugged. "I've had worse afternoons. Didn't you say they do evening performances in bars? That wouldn't be so bad. Something to drink . . . " His hand dropped below the table and Warrick felt a touch on his knee, then fingertips walking slowly up his thigh. "Nice dark seats at the back."

About to protest, Warrick stopped, his attention caught by a woman emerging from the constant flow of pedestrians on the broad path that ran across the centre of the park. Her clothes were respectable, if not new — appropriate for middle age but carelessly worn, the colours mismatched, the cardigan misbuttoned. Striding towards the outdoor cafe, apparently looking directly towards them, she seemed out of place amidst the drifting afternoon crowd.

Did he know her?

Toreth's hand stopped moving. "What?"

"That woman, over there."

As she reached the edge of the plaza, Warrick decided he didn't recognise her. At the same moment, however, the contact on Warrick's leg vanished and Toreth muttered, "Of all the fucking people . . . "

She pushed past a crowded table, ignoring an angry protest as a drink spilled. Halfway across the obstacle course, though, her approach faltered. She ground to a halt a couple of metres from the table and hesitated, darting glances at Warrick before her gaze settled on Toreth.

"I didn't . . . " Her voice was soft, breathy and almost childish. "I — Did you lose my number, Val?"

"Helen, go away." Deliberate boredom, a tone Warrick recognised well.

She smiled rapturously. "Of course you did. I knew you had. Look. Val, please look."

She rolled back the soft beige wool sleeves. The neatly patched elbows caught Warrick attention for a moment, then he simply stared, horrified. Her bare arms were crossed with scars, dozens of them, new over old, cuts and burns; she must have taken some trouble to ensure the injuries healed leaving such visible marks.

No chance of his reaction upsetting her — all her attention was on Toreth. She edged closer. "I didn't forget. I hurt myself for you, Val. See?"

After a few seconds Warrick looked at him too, his eyes unwilling to leave the awful mutilation. Toreth appeared profoundly unimpressed, and annoyed.

"Helen, be a good girl and fuck off, or I'm calling Justice." Then, to Warrick, he added, "Don't worry; she's not dangerous. She's just a pain in the neck because she won't fucking — " he turned back to her, " —
go away
."

Cringing, the woman held her ground, her arms still extended like a security pass, hands clasped, knuckles white. "Don't be angry, Val," she whispered. "I looked for you, I promise."

"You're breaching the banning order, remember? Do you remember?" Toreth asked the question without any apparent expectation of an answer, because he was already pulling out his comm earpiece.

"Banning order?" Warrick asked.

"Yeah. There's a permanent anti-nuisance injunction that's supposed to keep the demented bitch away from me." Out of the corner of his eye Warrick saw her flinch again at the words. "And much as I hate to give Justice the satisfaction of asking for their help . . . "

"Val, why are you angry with me? I don't understand. Tell me what I did wrong."

The soft, miserable voice and the sight of the woman, so obviously disturbed, stirred pity. Warrick touched Toreth's wrist. "What happens then?"

Toreth jerked his hand away, frowning irritably. "Detention. With any luck they'll lock her up and lose the fucking code this time."

"Isn't there anyone else you can call?"

"What, you want me to find her a bloody psychiatrist?" Toreth hesitated, then shrugged quickly. "Maybe. There used to be a husband. Helen, are you still married?"

She frowned thoughtfully, then brought her hands up in front of her face, spreading her fingers. Thin scars netted the backs of her hands, and a wide gold band encircled her ring finger.

"Yes. I'm sorry, Val."

"No, that's fine." He tapped a shortcut and waited. "Sara? Yes, me. Sorry to bother you at the weekend. No, I'm still in the park with Warrick. Yeah, but we stopped for coffee and cake afterwards. I know, I know, no need to take the piss. Listen, you've got three guesses who just turned up. No. No. No — Psycho Helen."

As he said the name he glanced towards Helen, who made a soft sound of longing. Toreth snorted and looked away. "Madder, if anything. Do me a favour, would you — link in to I&I, check the file and get in touch with her husband. Tell him that she's here with me and if he doesn't come and take her somewhere else in the next five minutes, I'm contacting Justice and calling in the banning order. Plaza Cafe. No, I'll wait."

Toreth sat in silence, watching his fingers tapping the edge of the table. Helen stood fixed to the spot, her whole body yearning towards him. Warrick looked between them, wondering.

Eventually Toreth's head lifted slightly. "He is? Thank God. Great, thanks. Yeah, see you Monday."

He turned to Warrick. "Her husband's in the park somewhere. He's on his way. And remember — you wanted me to call him. It wasn't my idea."

Silence again, until curiosity won out. "Toreth, who is she?"

Toreth sighed. "I interrogated her, a long time ago. You really don't want to hear the details."

"Why doesn't he?" a male voice asked from behind him.

Warrick turned round to see a man, about the same age as Helen, looking between them. He wore the same kind of clothes — a little out-of-date, a little dilapidated — but without Helen's distracted air.

"Why don't you tell him what you did to her?" he demanded, his voice harsh with anger.

"I did my job." Toreth tapped his watch. "Three minutes to get her the fuck out of here, or I call Justice." His hard, flat voice wasn't quite the game voice, but it was close enough to be unsettling.

The man's eyes narrowed. "That's it? That's all you've got to say?"

"My interest in you, and her, finished . . . what? Ten years ago?"