James Rouch - Civilian Slaughter

“Not good? I’ve come three times already. I bet that’s a couple more than those chairbound warriors you usually service.”

“Maybe without the beer you could have been four times better, or perhaps five. Do you want to do something else? We can join some of the others if you like. That can be fun. Even if you only watch.”

“I’m not into that group stuff. Tell you what I would fancy though, now that we’ve slowed down. How about an ordinary cuddle, no rude stuff.”

He watched her. She was a tall, big-boned girl. Possibly in her mid to late twenties. Rising to a kneeling position straddling his legs, she ran her hands down her sides over the front of her thighs and then up between her legs.

“Open another bottle, and pour it into my hands.” The cork and its harness of twisted wire rebounded from a far wall. Hesitatingly Dooley poured the fizzing wine into the cupped palms she held out to him.

“Ah, it is so cold.” She dashed the champagne over her belly and down into her pubic hair. “Again.”

“I’ve seen booze used for just about everything, but not for washing down there.”

“It is good. The bubbles, they tingle.”

“What you going to do with the bottle afterwards?” To his surprise Dooley sensed his penis begin to stir, sluggishly.

The laugh she gave was deep, almost masculine, and she opened her mouth fully to make it. “Not for masturbating myself. The foil around the neck, it chafes too much. For that I would need Liebfraumilch bottle. Do you want me to find one? I thought you wanted to hold me. I have found that men do not always like it when I am sticky underneath.”

“Stay here. You go out on those stairs, I might not see you again.” He pulled her down and folded his broad arms about her. The talc they had been playing with earlier made the upper half of her body a strangely smooth contrast to the wetness lower down.

“Oh, and this is the big man whose first words to me were that I would do for the first of many tonight.” She walked her fingers down his chest to rest her open hand on his stomach.

“Yeah, well we all shoot our mouths off when the others are nearby—force of habit.”

“Hmmm,” she nuzzled into his neck, fluttering her long eyelashes to tickle his ear. “You are much nicer when you are being yourself, like this. Will you be staying here for long?”

“Why do you ask? Are you a spy?” He was only half joking. The major had got them all together for a lecture before the start of the party.

“In a way, sometimes. Are you shocked, or surprised?”

“No reason why I should be. In the Zone we all do what we have to, if we want to survive.” He found himself able to believe her, was somehow sure she was telling the actual truth. “Does it pay well?”

“The Russians are not good payers, or at least there agents are not. Hard currency is difficult for the Reds to get hold of, and many take a cut before I have my share. For a laugh some of the girls will make up information and then each tells her controller. Of course with so many different sources they believe whatever we have told them so the payment for that is bigger. Then we are paid again by the CIA or MI6 for passing on disinformation. It is fun, and there are few risks.”

They had been together four hours, and this was the first time Dooley had really talked to her. Until this moment he’d hardly given a thought to what life she had beyond this bed and this room.

She was a lot younger than the women he normally battened on to when he was on leave. Not that he could always find someone who’d have anything to do with a soldier from the battlefields of the Zone. Fear of chemical or nuclear contamination or bacterial contagion kept many out of his reach.

He’d almost forgotten how smooth and silky a female’s skin could be. How it could be full of curves that didn’t sag, or bag and wrinkle at every movement in bed. Her hands were pretty as well, neatly manicured, with none of the veins standing out.

He brushed her hair aside and his hand brushed against the sharp petals of earrings. “Shit, those things are lethal.”

She laughed, a subdued throaty chuckle that he felt vibrate against him. “I do not like my ears to be touched, or bitten. I had those made from razor wire, and then gold plated.”

The light from the arcs in the garden and on the terrace flooded into the bedroom as a breeze stirred the curtains. It brought the faint tang of wood smoke.

Falling on her face, the light made her eyes glisten and sparkle. For the first time, after all those hours of intimacy, Dooley kissed her.

The terrace was littered with bottles, half empty glasses and discarded scraps of clothing. Hyde picked his way through the party debris and turned off the generator. The lights faded with the throb of the engine.

Behind him, in one of the upper rooms a portable was blasting out the latest number one on both sides of the Atlantic. As though in sympathy with the sudden silence below, it cut off abruptly. A moment afterward it was replaced with an old Abba tape, and the volume appropriately reduced.

From deeper within the hotel came a scream that turned into a shriek of laughter and then a scream again.

Having kept out of the festivities by choice, Hyde had never felt more lonely. He went down the steps to the lower terrace, to lean on his hands against the back of a stone bench. It felt gritty, and slightly damp.

It was dark down here. He didn’t have to make an effort to conceal himself, the night did that for him. When he heard footsteps behind him he stayed still, didn’t turn around.

The steps, woman’s steps, came closer, and he heard the light rustling of a dress and caught a faint aroma of a musky perfume.

He ached. Out the corner of his eye he could barely make out a dim outline, although she was only a few steps off. Though he’d seen most of the girls as they’d arrived, he wasn’t able to recognize her. It was he who wanted to, but it was she who spoke first.

“You have not enjoyed the party?”

“No, I’m not much of a one for parties. How about you?”

“It was a long drive here. I am not a good traveller, so I have been resting.”

“So you haven’t…” At that point he had to stop. He was saying the wrong thing. How could he say “so you haven’t fucked then?”

“Not yet, no.”

What else could he say. Could he ask a hooker if she was enjoying her night off? He sensed she had added the word “yet” quite deliberately, but her tone had given nothing away.

“I know what you are thinking.”

As she spoke she played with a light scarf, short impatient gestures with it, drawing it fast through her fingers so that the material slapped against them.

Hyde pressed himself against the back of the bench, feeling the unyielding sandstone biting into his erection. “What am I thinking then?”

“You are thinking all of the questions that men so often ask. Like how many have I had, do I ever enjoy it or do I only pretend to. Those sorts of questions.”

“Well, do you enjoy it?” He could feel his penis beginning to leak. There was a creeping dampness inside his clothes.

“Yes, sometimes it is good. Being with Frau Lilly means that everything is always well-organized. That means we can feel safe. Not on edge all the time. It is better if you are relaxed.”

There were more near hysterical screams from the hotel. “That will be Jackie. A new French girl. Always she makes a lot of noise.”

“Do you have, sort of a regular boyfriend, as well as…” He was saying the wrong things again.

“Frau Lilly discourages that, but some of the girls have. Mostly the men are posers, free-loaders. Always they expect presents.”