"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Mm?" After a few seconds, Warrick propped himself up on his elbows. "Sorry. You were . . . you kept waking up."
Water in his mouth, in his throat, flooding his lungs.
Old dream. Done it before. Boring. "I don't remember."
"I'm not surprised — you never woke up for long. And you were absolutely spark out, in between."
Warrick was clearly being tactful. How much had he been able to work out? "Sorry if I kept you awake. I should've gone home."
Warrick shook his head. "If it had bothered me too much I would've gone to sleep in the spare room." Then he rolled away, out of the bed. "Stay there for now, anyway. I'll be right back."
Toreth thought about sitting up, but in the end he decided that flat on his back was the least painful place he could be. Sunday today, which meant that technically he could lie here and do nothing except wait for Monday. That seemed like a very attractive option, apart from the fact that he was ravenous. With any luck, Warrick had gone to get breakfast.
In fact, the first delivery was water, a couple of tablets, a cup of coffee and a spray can. Warrick set the tray down, then picked up the can and read the label while Toreth washed down the painkillers.
"What's that?" Toreth asked.
"Prescription-strength analgesic spray."
"What the hell are you doing with a can of that?"
"Comes in handy sometimes." He shook the can half a dozen times, then stripped the sheet down to Toreth's hips. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed the bruising from the strap.
"Is that safe to use with the tablets?" Toreth asked.
"According to the label, yes. Put your hand over your eyes."
The nozzle hissed as Warrick swept the can back and forth, slowly down from shoulders to stomach. The mist settled, burning cold, then hot and almost painful. Then the sensation faded into a faint tingling, which eventually died away completely, taking the pain of the bruising with it.
"Mmh. That feels fucking fantastic."
Warrick laughed. "I'll have to remember that."
He opened his eyes to find Warrick looking at his watch.
"Turn over."
Warrick repeated the procedure, and this time even the brief burning was a pleasure. He stretched warily, his numbed skin feeling peculiar against the sheets. All that was left were deep muscle aches and the throbbing in his wrist, which the painkillers were already blunting. Absence of pain wasn't something he'd appreciated enough in the past.
"Do you want breakfast in here, or in the kitchen?" Warrick asked.
"Give me a minute, I'll be along."`
Actually, it took more like ten. For one thing, what had felt good lying down wasn't as wonderful when he stood up and started moving around. He found his clothes folded on a chair and, for a moment, he wondered where his shirt was. Against his will the river bank came back into sharp focus, making his shoulders twitch at the memory of the gun.
'They made me kneel.'
Why the hell had he told Warrick about it? Some unbelievably stupid reason, obviously, which he couldn't now recall. Any minute now, he would have to go into the kitchen and sit and eat breakfast, knowing that Warrick knew.
'I've never been so fucking frightened in my life'.
Had he really said that? Reluctantly, he searched his memory of Warrick's face, his reaction to the words. He could find nothing he'd been afraid of remembering. No pity, no contempt — only anger and outrage. Warrick had been angry again, just now, looking at the bruises, which was . . . nice of him, Toreth supposed.
Either that, or Warrick was pissed off because he was too fucked to be fuckable.
As he brushed his hair, he decided to forget it. It could be so much worse. He hadn't mentioned the river, and that was something. He could live with it — with himself — knowing that secret at least was safe.
Stick to worrying about the important things in life. Breakfast, coffee, that sort of thing.
In the kitchen, Toreth sat at the table, helped himself to coffee and watched Warrick cooking — pancakes, which somehow didn't surprise him. Even aching and tired as he was, he found it a mild turn-on. Something to do with the skill and concentration, maybe; he liked to watch anything being done well. Plus, for reasons he'd never bothered to explore, pancakes had coincided with some spectacularly good after-breakfast fucks.
Not today, though. Not unless the painkillers had a lot more kick left in them.
"How are you feeling?" Warrick asked when the stack of pancakes reached a respectable height.
"Much better, thanks. Top marks to the spray."
"Take the can with you when you go, if you like."
"I might just do that."
"Right. Ready." Warrick set down the plates and sat down. The table already held coffee, fresh juice, breads, butter and conserves — everything for a perfect lazy breakfast. A nice relaxing way to spend a Sunday morning, if he hadn't felt as though he'd been trampled in a riot.
Fortunately, pancakes were easy to deal with one-handed. After they'd eaten in silence for a while, Warrick asked, "Are you still planning to turn down the job?"
"Yes. Why? Changed your mind about it being the right thing to do?"
"Good God, no. I was merely wondering about Kemp."
"What about him?"
"How he's going to react to your refusal."
He didn't want to think about Kemp, even though he probably ought to. "I told him it was over. I don't see it makes any difference to that."
"But will he agree?"
"God, I hope so." He rubbed his wrist gingerly. "I'm really not in the fucking mood to do that again."
"Mm."
He had, Toreth noted, started the toast thing again. What was coming next?
When the slice had been buttered to satisfactory evenness, Warrick bit the corner off and asked, "What are you going to do if he decides otherwise?"
"I don't know." He hesitated, hating the sound of that. "Taking on corporates of his class one-on-one is punching a long way above my weight. There's nothing I
can
do, that I can see, except to do to him what he did to me. Only I'd finish the fucking job."
Warrick put the toast down. "No."
The firmness caught Toreth by surprise. Before he could say anything, Warrick continued, "You wouldn't get away with it. And this isn't worth getting killed over."
That was the problem. It nearly was, or it was beginning to feel that way. The humiliation burned in a slow, lasting fire. Nothing he could do, and he hated helplessness more than just about anything else. His life taken out of his control. Anger welled up and threatened to breach the dam.
"Untouchable bastard corporate
wankers
." He smacked his left palm on the table, because Warrick wouldn't appreciate it if he threw his cup across the room. "Someone should shoot the fucking lot of them."
Warrick steadied his own cup. "Rubbish. No one's untouchable. To pick a random example of a bastard corporate wanker, I'm not."
"I didn't mean you," he said before he could stop himself. Oh, well done. Just what he needed — to give Warrick more ammunition.
Warrick smiled, looking delighted to have drawn a response. "Of course not. But there are always ways. Personal ways or business ways, depending on what you want to achieve. I know where I'm vulnerable."
He counted points off on his fingers as he talked. "Dilly, and family in general. Friends, some of whom are also colleagues. You. That's on the personal side. Professionally, SimTech has its own set of skeletons in its cupboard — we make sure they never rattle, that's all. Disgruntled employees are always a danger, even though we make an effort to treat people well." He paused briefly. "And then there's the old business with the investigation. Plenty of approaches, if you think about it."
Toreth considered the idea. He was used to looking at those situations from the other side, sifting through the debris of corporate unpleasantness when it escaped into the open. It hadn't occurred to him to try to play that game himself.
"Kemp will have his own weaknesses," Warrick continued. "Far more than I do, I would say, because he's so much more successful."
"Richer, anyway," Toreth said absently, still thinking about the list Warrick had given.
Warrick smiled. "Thank you. Yes. Richer, anyway. But if he thinks he's safe, he's sadly misguided. We'll be able to think of something to correct the misapprehension."
'We'. Warrick's casual inclusion of himself in the enterprise almost slipped past him.
"It's nothing to do with you. Whatever he says about the job, I'll sort it out myself."
Warrick looked at him, then shrugged. "I'm not planning to go round to Kemp's office and punch him on your behalf, if that's what you're worried about."
"I'm serious, Warrick. I want you to stay out of this. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly. Would you like anything else to eat?"
"I — yes. Couple more pancakes, if there are any going."
"Just let me get the pan hot."
Topic closed. Opening it again would be the first step on the slippery slope down to a serious discussion of things he had no desire to talk about. After which Warrick would do whatever the hell he wanted to, anyway.
Once he had poured in the batter, Warrick said, "To change the subject very slightly, what are you going to do about your flat? Specifically, about the security system."
"I hadn't thought about it."
"Well, if I might make a suggestion, you could consider replacing it with one which actually provides some measure of security."
Toreth shrugged. "I've never needed it before. It's not like there's anything much valuable there."
"Mm. I could send someone round, if you don't mind — a company that does some security consultation for SimTech. They're very good. They did here."
"Expensive?"
"Not excessively. Consider it an early birthday present. Or you can pay me back, if you prefer. Later. However, I think it would be a good idea to have it fitted now."
I thought I was the one who bought the chains. "I don't need — "
With miraculous timing, the door to the flat opened. They both froze, Warrick with a pancake half-lifted, until Dillian's voice called, "Keir? Are you ready? Sorry I'm late."
Warrick flipped the pancake and did the remaining two quickly. "Oh, damn. Burned." He raised his voice. "We're in here."
"We? Oh." Toreth heard her voice change as she came down the corridor. "Good morning, Toreth, I — "
As she came into the room she stopped dead.
He didn't bother to look round. She'd obviously seen the bruises — they were a little difficult to miss. "Morning, Dillian. I have to be going, I'm afraid. I've got things to do."
"I'll send someone round, shall I?" Warrick asked, as Toreth stood up.
Taking the opportunity offered by Dillian's presence, when he wouldn't argue. Still, on the other hand, pride was a poor substitute for being alive. "Okay."
Warrick nodded. "Do you want to borrow a shirt?"
"Yeah, thanks."
To Warrick's relief, Dillian didn't say anything until the outer door of the flat closed. Then she asked, "Keir, what happened?"
"Would you like a pancake?" He should have remembered that she was coming round. At least then Toreth could have had a shirt on. "And there's coffee, if you want some. Or we can get going."
She sat down. "You can stop that right now. I'm not going anywhere until you tell me."
"It's a long story."
"I have plenty of time. Is he all right?"
The genuine concern in her voice surprised him. "Yes. What you could see is more or less all the damage there is."
"Good. There's no need to look at me like that. I may not like him very much, but I don't want to see him hurt. And I don't want to see
you
hurt, either."
"It's absolutely nothing to do with me." He offered her a cup. "He was beaten up by someone who didn't even know I existed."
She took the coffee, looking sceptical. "That didn't look like the result of a bar fight to me. Who was it? Outraged husband?"
"Something like that."
"You are the worst liar in the world, you know that? Tell me."
He knew that she wouldn't let it drop until he'd told her something. "All right. But you have to promise me that you will keep this an absolute secret. Don't even tell anyone else involved that you know about it. Not Toreth, not Sara, not anyone at all."
She stared at him. "Now you're scaring me. Yes, all right, I promise."
He gave her the condensed version of the condensed version, missing out the whole scene by the river. When he'd finished, she didn't look any happier.
"I can't believe you helped him."
"I didn't know why he wanted the name."
She sighed. "It wouldn't have made the blindest bit of difference, though, would it? You'd have done it for him anyway."
"Probably, yes."
"Oh, God. What were you
thinking
, Keir? What if this boyfriend of Sara's had gone to Justice? What if it had all come out? And how did you get hold of the name, anyway?"
He ignored the last question. "He didn't go to Justice then, he can't now. There's nothing to worry about."
"Nothing to
worry
about?"
"Not about me. I'm not involved." Yet. The unspoken qualifier sounded so loud to him that he was surprised when she didn't pick up on it.
"But you told this Kemp your name when you called him, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"Oh!" She threw her hands up. "How can you be so, so — "
"Calm? Look, he has no idea that I had anything — "
"No, you idiot. How can you be so
stupid
? God, now I'm sorry that I felt sorry for him. I wish they'd broken every bloody bone in his body, twice over, for dragging you into this."
He could feel his patience beginning to stretch thin; he tried to keep his voice level, because she was only worried for him. "Dilly, drop it. It happened, and it's over now."