Doctor Who_ Combat Rock - Mick Lewis [11]
Tonight it was a Hortog. Squealing red livestock belonging to some Papul farmer who’d probably brought it to the troubled island’s capital in the hope of trading it. The soldier saw it leashed up outside a shack that was tipping over into the river behind. He snorted with glee, sensing the animal’s fear. The creature was half the height of the soldier, covered with red fur. One long tusk reared up from its prominent snout. Its hooves clicked nervously as it strained against its leash, foretelling its own doom.
The owner emerged from the dark of the falling-down shack. A native Papul, wearing only filthy shorts imported from Batu. He was terrified, but knew he must make some effort to save his beast – and the potential source of food for his family back in the jungle for at least two, three weeks.
He said something in the Papul language, and placed his hands together in a universal gesture. The soldier turned to his companions as if silently conferring with them what he should do. They simply stood there looking bored. The soldier levelled his pulse rifle at the Hortog and sent a searing, lightning-coloured bolt between its eyes. It hit the dirt, kicking.
The Papul looked up at the soldier, face inscrutable.
Slowly he unclasped his hands. The soldier nodded at him slowly, as if moving his head to some silent music. Then he slung his weapon over his shoulder and ambled off, followed by the rest of the squad.
Dawn. The beasts that welcomed the coming of the sun, did so now, and did so noisily.
So noisily, they woke up Pan.
His eyes flicked open. For a moment he thought he was back in the tattoo parlour. Now why in Whore’s Hell would he be thinking about that? There were no garishly coloured artist examples on the walls. No sound of laser needles. Only drab hotel-room walls and the animals yodelling at the breaking of day.
He felt warm, naked skin next to his own, and turned around. There was a whore sleeping next to him, snoring slightly Then what had happened to Santi? He trawled through his drunken memories and the result tipped his mouth into a grin.
Oh yeah.
He fumbled at the side of the bed for his cigarettes, lit one and piled the pillow up behind his head while he smoked it.
Only just dawn, and it was already stifling in the small room, which stank of sweat and sex. The puny fan turned desultorily on the ceiling. The whore – what was her name? (did it matter?) – stretched out a sleepy foot to rub his leg. He moved his leg away, irritated. Wasn’t it time she took off? He always hated the morning after. He tried to remember the lines of an old song he’d always loved. ‘Stay with me, stay with me, tonight you better stay with me. Just don’t be here in the mornin’ when I wake up. Or something like that.
His head ached. He was hot. He was bothered. The whore smelt slightly, and she wasn’t as sexy as Santi. Still, she’d amused him last night. When he’d got her in bed and demanded how much she wanted, she’d blinked up at him with those big eyes of hers and told him, ‘You Mafiaaa... I like your face. I do for free.’
Yeah, that had been amusing. Last night, anyway.
She was stretching. Blinking sleepily at him, rolling over to face him. He could smell drink on her breath and cigarette smoke. Santi didn’t drink or smoke. But that didn’t make her much of a better prospect.
Why was he always plagued with whores?
She stretched out a hand to touch his. He shook it off, as it was the one holding the cigarette. He inhaled deeply. Just don’t speak, bitch.
‘You Mafiaaa...’ she croaked, smiling in what she obviously thought was a seductive manner.
Pan turned to her. Looked her in the eyes for a moment.
‘You said that once too often,’ he said, and reaching down to his jacket slung on the floor beside the bed, pulled a Pulse Luger from its pocket holster and blew a neat hole through her forehead.
He stepped into the shower,