A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [75]
‘Kathy?’
‘Sorry.’ She is whispering; as if someone might hear. ‘Did I wake you?’
‘No. I can’t sleep.’
‘I was just gonna fetch a glass of water,’ she says. ‘Sorry to wake you. You want one?’
‘No, thanks.’
If I’d said yes it would have brought her over here. That was stupid.
‘Actually maybe I will have one.’
‘OK.’
She turns on a side light in the kitchen and the low hum of the fridge compressor cuts out as she opens the door. A narrow path of bright light floods the floor. She pours two glasses of water, closes the fridge, and comes back into the sitting-room.
‘There you go,’ she says. I sit up, trying to catch her eye as she comes towards me. Her legs look tanned in the darkness.
‘Thanks, Kathy.’
‘Sorry to disturb you.’
She is not stopping. She turns, saying nothing more, moving back in the direction of her room.
‘Can’t you sleep?’ I ask, desperate now to keep her here. My voice is loud in the room, foolish.
‘No,’ she whispers. ‘I’ll be fine after this. Move into Fortner’s bed if you want. I’ll see you in the morning.’
18
Sharp Practice
‘So how was Kiev?’
‘Kiev?’ says Fortner, as if he had never heard of the place.
‘Yeah. Kiev.’
We walk another two or three paces down Ladbroke Grove before he replies:
‘Oh yeah. Christ. Kiev. Not bad. Not bad.’
I know he didn’t go to Ukraine. The Hobbit told me yesterday on the phone.
‘Were you working the whole time?’
‘Flat out. Twenty-four seven. A lotta talk.’
‘Nice weather?’ I ask, with a grin that he doesn’t see.
‘Oh yeah. Real nice. They sure don’t know how to dress for it, though. Girls wearing nylon tights in the sunshine and all the guys with these thick moustaches. What is that, a macho thing?’
‘What, wearing nylon tights?’
‘You’re sharp tonight, Milius,’ he says, putting his arm across my shoulders. He does that quite frequently nowadays. ‘I like it when you’re quick on your feet. Keeps us old guys on our toes.’
Fortner and I are going for a drink together: it’s something we’ve done three times before, just the two of us. Katharine cooks dinner, makes herself scarce, and leaves us to it. You go enjoy yourself, honey, she says, helping him on with his jacket. Bring him back in one piece, y’hear? And we walk the few blocks from their flat in Colville Gardens down to Ladbroke Grove, ready to drink through to last orders.
The setting is a spacious, brown, old-style pub which will be a themed bar-and-restaurant within twelve months, guaranteed. I hold the door open for him and we go inside, finding a pair of stools at the bar. Fortner hangs his elbow-patched tweed jacket on a nearby hook, retrieving his wallet from the inside pocket. Then he sits down beside me and rests his forearms on the wooden bar, breathing out heavily in anticipation of the long night ahead. To his left there’s a vast, Sun-reading builder, all bicep and sinew, muscles packed tight into a lumberjack shirt. His neck has been shaved to stubble and dropping from a scarred right earlobe is a single silver stud which seems to contain his entire personality. The man does not look up as we sit down. He just keeps on reading his paper.
‘I’ll get the first round,’ I say and reach into my hip pocket for a handful of change. ‘You want a pint or something, Fortner?’
‘A pint,’ he says slowly, as if still coming to terms with this strange Limey word. ‘Yes. That is a good idea, young man. A pint.’
‘Guinness? I’m having one.’
‘A drop of the old Irish,’ he glints. ‘Stout.’
The barman hears this and brings down two tall glasses, starting to pour the Guinness before I have even asked for them. He allows the pints to settle for a while, using the time to take my money and cash it in at the till.
‘Nuts? Do you want any nuts?’
‘Not for me,’ Fortner says. ‘Been tryin’ to get back to my ideal weight. Two hundred fifty pounds.’
‘There you go, guys,’ says the barman, setting the glasses down in front of us. He has the slightly sweeter, higher semitone voice which distinguishes Kiwis from Australians.
‘How was your flight?’
‘From Ukraine? Lousy.’
Imperceptibly, Fortner gathers