In the bathroom Steve fell to his knees on the tiled floor, bent over, retching, speaking on the big white telephone in fluent Swahili.
Sissy waved to Dillon from the window, and gave him a warm, affectionate smile. He climbed into the jeep, switched on, and as he was reversing, tooted the horn and blew her a kiss. Sissy giggled, waved again, and watched him head down the drive, disappearing through the trees.
She spun round then, letting the curtain fall back, at the sound of a handle turning, her eyes widening as Steve came in and kicked the door shut with his heel. He leaned his head back against it, watery eyes in an ashen face, breath rasping harshly as if he'd run a mile. With a trembling finger he pointed to his throat.
'It's not my tonsils…'
Gathered the neckerchief in his hand and pulled it down.
'See… you want to see?'
Sissy shook her head, drawing the bedcover tighter, white rounded shoulders and the upper slopes of her breasts lightly dappled with freckles. 'I think you'd better leave…'
The tremor in Steve's fingers had taken over his entire body. She could see the pent-up emotions physically raking through him, and as he tried to speak, and failed, in his rage and frustration he thudded his side with his fist, trying to release the log-jam inside. But what frightened Sissy most of all was the glazed look of rabid desire in his eyes; not seeing her as a person, as a woman, merely an object of lust with which to satisfy his own cravings.
'Just leave, please…' Sissy could feel her cheeks quivering in a nervous half-smile she couldn't control, moving away from the white rectangle of the bed as he pushed himself off the door and shambled towards her.
'I want you…'
Grunted, garbled, the words were incomprehensible to her but their meaning and intention were plain. Sissy backed away, knuckles white where they gripped the bedcover, real palpable fear making her eyes bright and bringing a fluttering, breathy laugh of nervous release.
Steve's mouth twisted, turned into a snarl. The bitch was laughing at him. Mocking his pain and humiliation. And in blind black rage he lashed out, his open palm cracking Sissy across the mouth, sending her stumbling into the closet door, blood spurting from her split lip.
'No! Sorry…' Steve reached out, tears springing into his eyes. 'No, I didn't mean-'
Sissy went rigid, screamed as his fingers dug into her bare shoulders. Terrified, she screamed again, and Steve clamped his hand over her mouth, stifling her, and with the girl struggling frantically in his arms he lost all control and struck her hard against the side of the head, knocking her to the floor. Grabbing a fistful of dark curly hair, he flung her onto the bed. Sissy squirmed away from him, uttering little tremulous cries of panic, and as she tried to escape Steve dragged the bedcover off her and flung it aside.
Her nakedness sent a shock-wave through him. Not sexual desire. A deeper, murkier, more unspecified emotion. Something like shame, mingled with the loss of what he had once been, and the unbearable reality of what he had become. A life, his life, once bright with promise, girls at his beck and call, wiped out and wasted by a sniper's bullet. Empty, futile, pathetic. Now there was nothing, and all he could do was stand and stare, trembling all over, the breath wheezing in the plastic tube, feeling the hot tears on his face as he broke down into helpless, uncontrollable weeping.
When Sissy slithered to the floor and wrapped the bedcover around her, his attempt to stop her was feeble and half-hearted, and he didn't even raise his bowed head when she ran to the door.
There was blood on his fingers, from Sissy's burst lip.
Steve blinked at it, swaying slightly, and he fell forward onto the bed, face buried in the rumpled sheets, his whole body heaving. In torment he rolled onto his back and stared up at the blurred ceiling. 'Steve … oh Steve,' a hoarse, agonised whisper, as if calling to himself.
It wasn't a woman he wanted, not a woman, there had been too many, no one special. He was never with one long enough to give them any serious thought, or care if he saw them again, he was too young, had been too young to think about settling down, having a wife, kids, raising a family, he didn't ache for that. He cried out for the Steve that was always the centre of attention. The Steve that nudged and winked and said, 'I'll have the blonde' – or the redhead – the one every bloke was trying to get their hands on, he didn't cry for that or call out his name for the loss of pulling a chick. He cried out to the Steve standing up on the table in the bars and clubs, the Steve who jumped up on the stage and took off Tom Jones, the Steve who could sing himself hoarse, to the cheers and catcalls of his mates. He ached for the Steve everyone liked, the joker, the guy everyone made sure was along for the piss-ups and the curries, because if Steve was around, you'd have a good time, and if Steve was pissed, he'd get up and sing. He'd always fancied himself fronting a band, and with a beer bottle as a microphone he looked the business, was the business, but that Steve Harris was someone he had known a long time ago, in another lifetime, now he ached for the loss of himself, the Steve Harris who was never coming back.
CHAPTER 19
The light was ebbing away, a few faint early stars sprinkling the darker sky to the east, and a pallid segment of moon creeping up behind the brow of the hill, directly ahead. Steve wasn't drunk yet – so far just three or four pulls from the bottle of Teacher's – but that was his aim, pure and simple. Blind stinking into sweet oblivion. It wasn't the answer, he knew that, but it was the only answer he had.
Bordered by thick hedgerows, the lane wound upwards, curved back on itself before rising above the treeline and most of the surrounding countryside, then dipping down into the next glen. Steve unscrewed the cap, treated himself to a good belt, felt the ball of heat expand from the pit of his stomach and radiate outwards. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he went suddenly still, his meandering eye caught by a flurry of activity further down the hill. The light wasn't good, but Steve had 20/20 vision. Two caravans were parked under the trees, half-a-dozen men moving about, and at first he thought it might be a gypsy encampment until he spotted the scrambler bikes being wheeled from the back of a van. That didn't seem right.
From the top of the bank he had a better view, and it definitely wasn't right. A large panel-sided truck with a fretwork of aluminium refrigeration tubes above the cab was being backed out onto the road, chugging blue diesel smoke. One of the men appeared round the side of the caravan and went up to the passenger side window and handed something up. At this distance and in this murky light Steve couldn't be sure – not absolutely – but it looked to him like a double-barrelled shotgun.
'Take it easy, come on, breathe slowly,' Dillon said, holding Steve by the shoulders to steady him. The lad was done in, sweat pouring off him, the neckerchief soaked through. He tried to speak, but all Dillon could get were gasping croaks and gurgles. The other lads, sprawled on the grass outside the hide, eating out of mess tins, couldn't have given a toss. The useless pillock in one of his usual drunken flaps, so what else was new?
'Easy now… slow… what's up, Steve?'
Dillon listened close as Steve finally got a word out. Poachers. And then in a burping, gulping rush, he got the rest of it. Dillon patted Steve on the back, well done, and turned to the others.
'Six men, two scrambling bikes – and they'll be armed.' He leaned nearer, nodding, as Steve burbled on. 'Yeah, yeah, okay…'
'Good double act you two've got going,' said Jimmy sardonically, glancing round the circle.
Dillon was stung. 'We're going to have to have a good act, because if they're armed to the teeth I'm not prepared to endanger any one of you,' he told them all straight.