The Longest Pleasure (29 page)

The Fugitive

'Get
up!'

The voice came from several blocks away, reached through layers of cotton wool to seep into Galitsin's brain. Each word added a blow to the succession of pain-waves. Too much whisky for breakfast. The thought obsessed him. But now it was not only the whisky.

'Get up, God damn you!' This time the words
were
accompanied by a kick in the thigh.

Galitsin tried to obey, drew up his knees, discovered that his wrists were tied together behind his back. The feel of the cords cutting into his flesh brought memory. There had been a bedroom at the top of a tall apartment building. It had been a green bedroom, where he had been waiting for Irena to come to him. Only a man dressed as a chauffeur had come instead, had invited Galitsin to accompany him. To Irena? He had stepped past the chauffeur and had been struck from behind. Or the roof had fallen in. Or there had been an earthquake.

And now he lay on his face on the floor. No, in the back of some sort of van. And a man wanted him to get up.

The foot swung again, the boot thudded into his thigh. He felt little pain down there, at this moment, but the force of the kick sent his brain whirling out of his neck and into his ears, so positive, so alive, it made him wish to vomit.

He reached his knees, arching his body from the floor with a tremendous effort. He blinked in the darkness, and then was assailed by light as the rear of the van opened. He crawled towards the light, and was st
ruck in the small of the back. H
e groped forward, with his face and his shoulders. For a long moment he
was nowhere at all, except that
he was surrounded by light, and noise, as of people speaking, and laughing. Then he struck the ground, and this was made of concrete. Amazingly, distressingly, he did not lose consciousness.
^:
He heard rather than felt his body smash into the stone, could no longer be sure which was pain and which fear, and which sheer surprise.

Water splashed on to his head. He made a noise, which he supposed would be interpreted as a moan. He had not intended to moan, only to speak, to ask, Why is this happening? Why are you doing this to me? Where is Irena? He opened his eyes. Or perhaps his eyes had been open all the time; he could not remember closing them. But now he could see through the film of water which dripped across his vision. He looked at a pair of high-heeled shoes, nylon-clad legs. Irena? No, these were prettier legs than Irena possessed, better fleshed, beautifully formed. He knew whose legs they were, whose legs they had to be. He forced his head higher, gazed at the green woollen dress, the mink jacket. He could not quite reach the face, until Kirsten Moeller placed one of the high-heeled shoes on his shoulder, pushed him on to his back. His head banged again, and for a moment he lost her altogether. Then another waterfall cascaded on to his face, blinding him and choking him, leaving him breathless, but with a cleared vision at last.

'Where is Miss Smith, boy?' Kirsten Moeller asked.

'Charlie is bringing her down.' Galitsin turned his head, gazed at the khaki uniform, the black boots. He wondered why he did not hate this man. Why he did not even fear him. Especially those boots. Perhaps he was too confused to feel such positive emotions as hatred or fear. They would come later.

Kirsten Moeller nodded, snapped her fingers. The chauffeur stepped forward with a cigarette, already lit. She inhaled, looked at the man on the ground 'Alexander Galitsin.' When she smiled her always thin lips faded into two hardly perceptible red lines, and her tongue came between them, moving quickly, and then halting, before darting to left and right and back into her mouth again. Her mouth reminded bim of a lizard's in its movements. A very beautiful lizard. A very deadly lizard.

'I saved your life,' he said. The words came out as a
mumble, and he discovered that his lips had been cut; blood filled his mouth.

Kirsten Moeller continued to smile, and stepped on to his stomach. The stiletto heel sank into his belly, and his knees came up, as his shoulders arched forward, as the breath exploded from his mouth and nostrils. "You are a Russian bastard,' she said softly. 'I owe you so much, Sandor, sweetheart. My life is only a part of it'

The foot moved, just in time, Galitsin thought, to stop him suffocating. But breathing remained almost too painful to endure, and his knuckles had been ground into the rough stone. He forced himself to look away from the smiling lizard's face, at the ceiling, very high, at the walls, a long way away. He was in a warehouse. And there was another man, standing behind his head. A man he had never seen before, arms folded, a bowler hat perched on the back of his head, a disinterested expression on his face. It occurred to Galitsin that men like Schabski and Kulomsin did not only come to the surface in time of war. They were there all the time, finding their own level of society, where they would be welcome, and even useful.

His gaze came forward again, past the smiling face to the chauffeur, who also smiled, and then to the van, waiting by the sliding doors. A warehouse. Somewhere in London. But what was Alexander Petrovich Galitsin doing in an empty warehouse somewhere in London? It occurred to him that Alexander Galitsin had not really understood what he was doing, anywhere, for a very long time. Forever, perhaps. Certainly n
ot since that summer in Pobredi
kov. He wondered if he would ever understand why and how, if he would ever be allowed the chance, now.

Someone banged on the outside of the door. The sound echoed round and round the empty chamber. The chauffeur slid open a speaking panel. 'Yes?'

'Charlie. With the Hungarian.'

The chauffeur glanced at Kirsten Moeller, who nodded. Suddenly she was excited, where before she had been almost passionless, even when standing on Galitsin's belly. He watched the mink jacket moving as she breathed, the pink spots come into her cheeks.

The door slid open, and a car drove in, to park beside the van. The back door opened, and Irena Szen got out, a flurry of mink and long, thin legs. 'Well, really, Kirstie,' she said loudly. 'This is too much. I've told you before, I don't want to get mixed up in your business. I won't. And that gorilla made me leave a client. You are going to ruin my reputation.'

'Be quiet,' Kirsten Moeller said. 'Don't you recognise Sandor Galitsin?'

Irena Szen stood above Galitsin, the colour draining from her skin and leaving only a yellow stain, her mouth forming a round 'O', the long, haunted face scarcely better than an animated skull. 'Sandor?' she whispered. 'I don't understand. Sandor!' She knelt beside him, raised his head, pillowed it against her breast. Blood trickled from his lips on to the soft fur of the coat. 'What has happened to him?'

'He came to see you, as I thought he might,' Kirsten explained. 'Fortunately, I had Charlie watching your apartment. And he called Barnes.'

'But what has
happened
to him?' Irena's voice was high. She kissed Galitsin's forehead, pulled her scarf from her head to wipe the blood from his face.

'Barnes had to persuade him to come with us.'

Irena glanced at the chauffeur. 'He hit him? You? You...'

'Be quiet, Irena. Barnes is going to hit him again. We are all going to hit him.'

Irena stared at her, and then at Barnes. Her arms tightened on Galitsin's neck, her breathing quickened. 'Why? Oh, why, Kirstie? He only came to see me. You know that.'

'I think you may be right for once, dear one,' Kirsten Moeller said. 'Certainly there was nobody following him tonight. We were careful about that. Weren't we, boy?'

Barnes nodded.

'Then why must you harm him?' Irena asked.

Kirsten Moeller flicked ash. She shrugged her shoulders. 'Because he is a Russian. Because he is one of the men who beat me up. Because it is good for business.'

'Good for business?' Irena whispered.

'Oh, yes. My business is causing the Russians trouble, dear one. Anything I can do to disrupt relations between the Soviet Union and Great Britain is good for business. I do not know whether Sandor really has defected or whether he has been planted, but he is still a very well
-
known man, whose name has been in all the newspapers today. Now when he is discovered down some lonely British alley, beaten to death, everybody is going to be very upset'

'Beaten?' Irena screamed. 'To death? I won't let you do it.' Galitsin's face was pressed into the collar of her coat, and breathing had become difficult. But everything had become difficult. And surprisingly he was not afraid. Fear seemed pointless. Fear suggests that there is something to be done about what is coming, and that you are incapable of doing it But he could no longer feel even his hands.

'Won't you, dear one?' Kirsten Moeller asked. 'Would you like to go with him? Barnes would like to work you over, Irena.'

Irena's head lifted, and Galitsin watched her tongue circle her lips. The arms holding his head had already slackened. Irena Szen was not heroine material.

'You can watch if you like.' Kirsten Moeller snapped her fingers. The man standing behind Galitsin stooped and grasped Irena Szen's shoulders. She tried to shrug herself free and kicked at his ankles. He spun her round and threw her against the wall, pulled her arms behind her back and held her still.

'Kirsten!' she screamed. 'You cannot!'

'Boy,' Kirsten Moeller said.

Barnes smiled. From his pocket he took a long strip of leather, which he wrapped round and round the glove on his right hand, pulled it tight with great care, worked his fingers to make sure his hand was comfortable. He nodded, and the man called Charlie grasped Galitsin's shoulders, pulled him into a sitting position. Galitsin stared at Barnes, at the cold absence of feeling in the young man's face, the absorption with the coming business of causing pain. He wondered if Kulomsin had looked like that when he had knelt over Kirsten Moeller? But perhaps Galitsin had also looked like that when he had knelt over Irena Szen.

Irena screamed, and Barnes' right arm came forward like a piston rod. Galitsin closed his eyes, and pain burst across his left cheek, exploded up into his eye and down into his jaw, separating each tooth one from the other, causing them to rattle in unison.

Barnes hit him, again, and again. Galitsin could feel the blood dribbling down his cheeks and forehead. But Barnes had finished with his face. He had m
oved away, and Galif-sin opened
his eyes. The room had become a haze, of pain and blood and tears, and legs. Legs clad in black boots. Barnes was standing up, and now the leg was swinging. Galitsin tried to move, and the boot crashed into his ribs. The man called Charlie released him, and he rolled across the floor, shoulders bumping, hands scraping. Hands which belonged to another being, another existence.

'Kirstie!' Irena screamed. 'You promised. You swore to me in Buda. Don't you remember? That you would not kill him. That you would never be responsible for his death.'

Barnes stood above Galitsin, and the foot was swinging once again. This time it crashed into Galitsin's back, and his kidneys joined the pain cascading down into his thighs, leaving his legs with a curious feeling of being disconnected from his body.

'Wait,' Kirsten Moeller said.

Barnes checked his foot in the midst of another swing, straddled Galitsin, his hands on his hips.

'A live Galitsin, abandoned in a suitable gutter, might be even more effective than a dead one,' Kirsten said thoughtfully.

The room swung round and round, and the floor heaved, up and down. And his life was being discussed.

'He knows who beat him,' Barnes said.

'He knew me already,' Kirsten Moeller said. 'And Irena. Irena is his only contact.'

Irena sucked air into her lungs. 'I will never see him again, Kirstie. I promise.'

'Will you move from your present apartment? I will find you another just as suitable.'

Irena Szen's head jerked back and forth, as if on a string. 'Yes. Yes, I promise. I swear, Kirstie. Just do not kill him.'

Kirsten Moeller walked across the floor, stood above Galitsin, next to Barnes. Through the blood mist which covered his eyes Galitsin looked at her legs. They seemed to stretch above him for ever, into the darkness of the woollen skirt, the flutter of the silk slip. 'He will probably remember your face, boy. Are you afraid of him?'

Barnes smiled.

'I am not afraid of him
either,' Kirsten Moeller said. ‘
He is not
a
man of action, this one. He is one of nature's nonentities. But we must obtain the best capital out of this. The bastard has got rid of his uniform. I think he should be naked. Naked, abandoned in the snow.'

'Then he will freeze!' Irena cried.