"He looks healthy enough," said Craig.
"You've no idea," said Jane, and another warning was stored in Craig's memory, as he began to talk to her about the places he had been to, and the wars he had seen. There was a violence to her that her father had given her, and she listened eagerly, scarcely noticing the food she had chosen so carefully.
When the coffee came she said: "You're very like Daddy." He was silent. "I meant that as a compliment, really."
"I thought you hated your father," said Craig.
"Just sometimes," she said. "He expects too much. That's where you're different. You never expect anything."
"So I'm never disappointed."
"Will you tell him—what I said?"
"No," said Craig.
"Why not? Because you like me?"
"Because I like you," he said.
"There," said Jane. "It didn't hurt to say it, did it? You know, maybe it's true. Maybe I do like everything Daddy does." Her knee rubbed firmly, insistently, demanded to be trapped between his.
"Those bloody dancing girls," said Jane. "Daddy thinks I don't know," she said. "That's stupid. He should have realized I'd find out."
"He didn't want to realize it," said Craig.
"I'm twenty," said Jane. "A woman. Daddy acts as if I'd been written by Hans Christian Andersen. His pal."
Craig stayed silent. Her knee was a restless stimulus reminding him how pretty she was, and how violent.
"You don't even care, do you?" said Jane, and smiled. "I want you to make love to me, you bastard. There. Does that satisfy your great big masculine ego?"
Craig wondered what Loomis would say. First Tempest, now Jane. And Loomis so prudish, and so avid for information.
"It's nice to be asked," said Craig, "but there's no need to be so rude about it. And stop saying 'bloody.' It spoils your image."
"I'm sorry," said Jane. "But you don't know what it's like, do you? Being mixed up in something you can't control, I mean. I bet that's never happened to you."
Craig said: "Why did you choose the cafe where Soong worked?" and Jane scowled, disliking the switch in conversation.
"We didn't," she said. "We just went there. It looked nice."
Craig said: "Don't lie. It wastes time," and she scowled again.
"All right, clever. You work it out," she said.
"Your father told you to go," said Craig. "He wanted you to call on Soong. You had a message for him."
The scowl vanished; amazement replaced it. "It's not true," she said. Craig said: "You're still wasting time." She looked at his face, desiring more than ever the deadly strength he masked so carefully.
"All right," she said. "He was going to be one of
Daddy's charities. All I had to do was tell him to ring Daddy at home. Someone had told him about Soong—he was very bright, you know—and Daddy thought he could use him." "How?"
She shrugged. A very pretty movement.
"Daddy helps all sorts of people. Usually it makes him more money. But—" She looked puzzled again. "How did you know? Daddy doesn't like people to know about his charities. I got that mob to the cafe so that it looked—you know—just chance. I didn't tell Charlie or Arthur or anybody."
"Information received," said Craig. "Arthur a friend of yours?"
"He has to be. Daddy wants to collect him." The frown came back. "Please can we go now?"
"Where?" asked Craig.
"I know a place," she said. "On the coast. It's mine. Mummy left it to me. We can be back before dinner."
The Lamborghini whispered, and they skimmed to a deserted headland, clambered down rocks to a remote and private beach. No other cars, no boats, no trippers: just one sea gull fishing, screaming his unsuccess, and a beach hut that held nothing but blankets and towels, a bottle of Scotch and two glasses. Craig watched as the girl spread blankets on the sand, poured and gulped down three fingers of Scotch. She was smiling as she undressed, and there was a madness in the smile that reminded him of Simmons. She lay down on the blankets.
"You scare me," she said. "You know that, don't you?"
And later: "If my father were to find out, he'd kill you." "Why me?" said Craig.
She wept then, and Craig put his arms about her, waiting. If you waited long enough, they always stopped crying.
"All right," she sobbed. "I've done it before. But not like this. This is different."
"How?" said Craig, and forced kindness into his voice.
"The others were younger than you—and not nearly so strong. You're stronger than Daddy." The thought amazed her even as it delighted. "I love you," she said.
What you mean is you hate Daddy, Craig thought, and you've dealt him the ultimate hurt. It would be as well to leave before Daddy got back.
The scars on his body fascinated her, even the broken finger. For Tempest they had been a source of suffering, since he had suffered, but for Jane they were a source of pride. He allowed her to touch them, caress them, willing his mind to forget the beatings, the knifing, the gunshot that had marked him where her hands explored. Instead he set himself to learn her secrets, and she talked freely, easily, her mind obsessed with the strength and power of the man who had possessed her, until he made love to her again: a box of chocolates for a good little girl. When they had done, he made her swim in the sea, and she gasped at its coldness that seemed to him only a word. He swam far out in an ugly, powerful crawl, letting the water chill away the effects of a love that had seemed neither clean nor dirty, merely necessary at the time. When he got back she was drying herself with a towel, her pretty body somehow pathetic even in its firm and shapely youth. He supposed that once he would have been moved to pity, to protect anyone as young as that. But that had been a long time ago.
They stayed out on the beach until evening, then Craig drove her back to the showpiece of a house and she went away from him at once, to play at flirtation with Charlie, even though her father was away. Craig went to lie down in the bunkhouse, to think what came next. Nuderama had gone, and the eight supporting lovelies; but he knew where to reach them. He had all the general information he needed on Charlie and his friends. And Hornsey. And maybe he knew where Brodski was too. It was time to get back to London, he thought. Sleep a while, shave, bathe, dine with Jane and Charlie— and perhaps learn a little more—then go to London and talk to Loomis. And maybe rob a bank in Morocco.
12
When he woke up he knew that something was wrong. He knew it immediately, as his eyes opened, so that he was already rolling away from the blow aimed at his head, and his hand lashed out above the blow; he felt bone give as Charlie fell. But there were two other men there, very good men indeed. He managed to throw Zelko, sprawl away from Simmons's kick so that it missed his stomach, caught him at the side of the knee. But he was limping after that, limping too much, and they attacked him from left and right together. He hit Zelko again, a sharp stab at the throat that brought the big man to a rigid halt, but he didn't fall, and the blow left him overexposed to Simmons, whose own blow came fast as a duelist's, the edge of the hand laid deftly against the line of his jaw. He fainted.
Zelko said: "A good man. Strong. Quick." His voice was a whisper.
Simmons said: "Almost too good." He bent to feel Craig's pulse, and smiled. "He'll live. For a while anyway."
Zelko rubbed his throat, then kicked Craig in the ribs.
"Not yet," said Simmons. "Look after poor Charlie."
Zelko bent over Charlie and picked him up, handling him as if he were a puppy. A bruise blossomed on Charlie's forehead like an orchid in rain.
"Poor Charlie," Simmons said. "He seems to have no luck at all with Craig, does he?"
Zelko said: "He has a lot to learn."