Bad Angels

by Rebecca Chance

  ‘Eat!’ he said, waving magisterially down the length of the table. ‘Drink! Be merry!’

  ‘Jesus,’ Jon said quietly to Aniela. ‘I hope to hell no one else knows the end of that line...’

  ‘What did you mean?’ she asked Jon two hours later, as they finally made their exit from the penthouse, laden down with gifts.

  Grigor had had Sergei bring round what he lightly called ‘party favours’ for everyone, but which were predictably lavish gifts. The Russian guests, of course, had received individually custom-made presents, whose glitter and sparkle had been visible right from Aniela’s viewpoint at the foot of the table; but even the extra guests, the ones invited that morning to swell the numbers, had received eye-widening gifts from a store Sergei kept for just this kind of purpose. The men had been given exquisite white-gold and cloisonné enamel cufflinks in the Kensington football team’s navy and burgundy, commissioned especially from Fabergé by Grigor, while the women had pendants – mercifully, not in the team’s colours – decorated with diamonds and the same enamel for which Fabergé had become famous.

  But as well as receiving these ‘party favours’, Jon and Aniela had, on announcing that they were leaving, been whisked into the library and presented, by a beaming Grigor, with a Patek Philippe watch for Jon and another pendant for Aniela, an eighteen-carat-gold modern Fabergé egg, pale blue enamel studded heavily with diamonds, which hinged at its centre to reveal a gold butterfly set inside, its wings also covered with diamonds, hanging from a matching gold chain studded at intervals by long pale blue enamel ovals with a diamond at each end.

  ‘It matches your eyes,’ Grigor had said, and when she had protested that it was much too much he had put it into one of her hands, taken the other hand and closed it over the egg with a firmness that brooked no more attempts at refusal. She was still clutching it now, unable to believe how pretty it was. She had shown it briefly to Andy on the way out, passing him slumped on a sofa, smoking cigars and drinking brandy with the famous footballer, both of them laughing their heads off. Andy had waggled his eyebrows and laughed even harder and said something she hadn’t quite understood but seemed to mean that she should have fun. Have fun wearing it, he must have meant.

  Well, that’ll never happen. I’d be too scared someone would mug me. Besides, what do I need with something this expensive? I’m going to sell it as soon as I can and put the money into something safe. An ISA, maybe. Nothing risky.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jon asked, repeating her words back to her. They stepped out of the penthouse lift, into the lobby.

  ‘Oh!’ Aniela, a little tipsy now, realised that she hadn’t explained what she was talking about. ‘When we were going back to the table. After Mr Khalovsky fainted. He said eat, drink and be merry. And you said I hope no one knows the end of that line.’

  ‘Oh yeah!’ Jon smiled, his lips curving, his neat white American teeth flashing. Aniela was so used now to looking at him with the bandages wrapped round his head that she didn’t think anything of it, but she noticed Kevin, the doorman, glancing sideways at Jon with a look in which curiosity and horror mingled. ‘It’s from Ecclesiastes. Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die. Kind of ironic,’ he added, his smile twisting now into something more sardonic.

  Aniela didn’t understand the part about being ironic, but she caught her breath at the ‘tomorrow we die’.

  ‘Oh no!’ she exclaimed. ‘It would have been very bad if someone had said that!’

  ‘Right.’ Jon grinned at her. ‘Lucky I know how to keep my mouth shut, eh?’

  ‘You know much more than that,’ Aniela said.

  She had meant that Jon had the kind of whip-sharp reactions that had impressed Grigor sufficiently for him to offer Jon a job as a security consultant as soon as his face had healed; Jon had thanked him and said that he would seriously think it over. But as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt herself blush. He’ll think I mean sex, she thought, and turned away towards the door that led to the Clinic.

  ‘Well, thank you,’ Jon said lightly. ‘Uh, where are you going?’

  ‘I was just...’ Aniela tailed off. She looked back, over her shoulder, hoping that he would ask her up to his apartment, but too proud to suggest it.

  But he didn’t. He just stared at her. She felt herself growing even redder; the alcohol she had drunk was making her a little dizzy, but no less self-conscious. She was still vividly aware of how awkwardly she was standing, twisted round with her head at an odd angle, probably showing a double chin, her body not in a flattering position either, widening her hips.

  And I ate so much! she thought, panic rising in her. Caviar, turkey, potatoes, mince pies and chocolates...She was carrying an extra box of chocolates – they had been given to all the guests, each one hand-made by Daniel, the chef, and gilded with edible gold leaf. If he tries to pick me up now, he’ll break his back.

  ‘Aniela?’ he said hesitantly at last. ‘Um, I was just thinking—’

  ‘Yes?’ she said quickly. Too quickly. Too keen.

  ‘That maybe you should check me out, you know? My scar!’ he added just as swiftly. ‘Check my scar out! You know, I was jumping round back there – I might have strained something – ripped some of the scar tissue—’

  ‘Oh! Yes!’ Relief flooded through her, stronger and more intoxicating even than the amazing red wine she had drunk at lunch, wine that she would never be able to afford again. ‘Yes, I probably should have a look at that...’

  ‘Great!’

  Jon scooped her armful of gifts from her and strode off towards the lifts without looking back, the presents hostages, surety for her following him. Aniela scampered after him, unable to say a word. She had never been skilled at making conversation, at plastering over moments of social difficulty with an easy flow of words, and now she was completely tongue-tied. She pressed the button for the fortieth floor, because his arms were full, and they stepped into one of the cars, turning as one to look at the closing doors, standing there in silence as it rose. Aniela was more grateful than she’d ever been for the piped music in lifts; without it, he would have heard her breathing, been aware how fast and shallow it was at her excitement at being alone with him.

  Looking down, she realised that her nipples were hard, hard enough to show through both the fabric of her bra – thank goodness I put on a slightly nicer one today, just in case – and the heavy cotton of her uniform. Normally she would have been mortified by this, by her body’s clear evidence of her attraction to Jon; it’s as if my nipples are actually reaching out to him, she thought, and the urge to giggle rose in her, sudden and forceful.

  I’m drunk, she realised. And though, immediately, she wasn’t sure if that were true after all – she’d been careful at lunch, had eaten lots of food to balance the wine that had flowed so freely, had a hard Polish head – she grabbed onto the excuse with a wild surge of eagerness that quite replaced the rising giggles.

  I’m drunk – I can’t be held responsible for what I do next, not really – it’s the wine, not me—

  Aniela couldn’t wait one more minute, one more second. He had asked her up to his apartment – they were alone together, and the lift was ascending with unbearable slowness – forty whole floors, how could she possibly wait that long— She launched herself at him like a missile, her arms around his neck, her mouth on his, her whole body pressed gloriously against his. The presents he was holding tumbled to the floor, landed on both their feet, and she was giddily happy that he had dropped them at once, without hesitation, to wrap his arms around her instead. She pressed herself tightly against his narrow waist, his lean flanks, his cock, which was already stirring for her. She ground herself against him, letting herself go completely, the disinhibiting effects of the champagne and vodka and wine now thoroughly kicking in, the leash she had been keeping herself on kicked away like the Fabergé egg and pendant and cufflinks, like the Patek Philippe watch.

  They were just things. But this, with Jon, was
way beyond anything that money could buy, the best Christmas present she could conceivably imagine...

  Aniela kissed him with every drop of pent-up passion she had been nurturing all these years of working day and night, all the frustration of barely having had sex, all the delight of having, even briefly, found a man who was absolutely amazing at it. She practically mounted him. And, as she had already realised, Jon was a fast learner. His hands wrapped round the back of her head, his tongue drove into her mouth, kissing her back as confidently as if there had never been a clash of teeth just a couple of days before, as if he had always known, instinctively, how to angle his head so that he could kiss a woman as deeply as he wanted to. The bandages rubbed against Aniela’s cheek, reminding her that he was still a patient in her care, that she should be careful with his face; and then she thought: I just saw this man vault over a table, throw a knife at someone but leave them unhurt, protect an oligarch with his own body when the guards didn’t – I think I can trust him to look after himself.

  The relief was delicious, a yielding up of any last vestiges of responsibility. She forgot, completely, about being a nurse, about anything but wanting, very badly, to feel him inside her again, straight away, immediately. His cock, now hard as a steel pole, was shoving excitedly against her crotch; it seemed just as on board with this prospect as she was. He was lifting her, pulling her even closer against him, and she moaned, her eyes closed, completely shameless. I’m drunk, she thought delightedly. I’m drunk, it’s Christmas Day, and this is my present, right here, Jon’s cock between my legs—

  Something pinged. She was so out of it, so dizzy with sex, that she thought for a second that it was a microwave. It was a moment more before his hands reluctantly slid from around her, moved her a little back from him; Aniela’s eyes opened equally reluctantly as she realised that the floor below her feet had stopped moving.

  The doors had slid open, and were now beginning to close again: Jon shoved one foot into the gap to hold them, ducking to scoop up the gifts from where they had tumbled over the carpet. Aniela didn’t help. She couldn’t. Her head was spinning, her legs were wobbly; she reached out a hand to steady herself against the wall before heading out of the car, Jon following closely behind.

  Inside the apartment, Jon dumped the presents onto the kitchen counter, took her hand and pulled her towards the bedroom; kicking off her shoes as she went, she followed eagerly. All she wanted to do was throw herself down on the bed and pull him on top of her, and when they reached it, she promptly sat down on it, only to have him drag her up again and keep towing her into the bathroom.

  ‘I don’t think—’ she began nervously.

  She didn’t want acrobatic sex in the bright lights bouncing off the marbled and mirrored walls of the bathroom; that was for when you didn’t feel full and tipsy. She wanted to roll around on the lovely soft mattress, have delicious, not-completely-sober sex; the bathroom could come later, after they’d slept off the huge lunch.

  But what Jon was doing was so odd that she broke off. He had let her go and was reaching into the shower to turn it on full blast. He did the same with the basin, looked down at the bidet and shrugged, and turned that on too: then he leaned past her to close the bathroom door.

  ‘I need to tell you a couple of things,’ he said.

  ‘Really?’ Aniela’s face fell comically. ‘You want to talk?’

  In her tipsy state, she felt a big giggle working its way up to her throat. It’s like he turned into the woman and I turned into the man.

  ‘Aniela! Are you even listening?’ Jon asked crossly.

  She realised she had been miles away, staring at his chest, at the perfect curve of his pecs, lost in a haze of anticipation.

  ‘Sorry!’ she said quickly, snapping back to the moment.

  Look interested, she told herself firmly, or you might not get laid... he might get offended and storm out... She felt the giggle again and had to take her lower lip between her teeth and bite down, hard, to stop it coming out.

  ‘Why is the shower on?’ she asked, when she had herself back under control. ‘And the sink? And the bidet?’ She knew she was slightly drunk, but she was sure it wasn’t normal, even for a very clean American, to turn the bidet on before you had a serious conversation.

  ‘Can’t be too careful,’ Jon said. ‘No way anyone could hear what we’re saying with all this water running. I’ll do a sweep for bugs later.’ He shrugged. ‘There weren’t any before. But someone could have dropped down while we were chowing turkey and planted some.’ His eyes flickered. ‘I would have. So, better safe than sorry.’

  Aniela’s legs gave way under her; she sat down on the edge of the bath. Despite the steamy heat in the bathroom, a cold chill ran down her spine as the seriousness of the conversation they were about to have sank in. What do they call it in English?

  Oh yes. Reality check.

  ‘You’re not a stuntman,’ she said flatly.

  ‘No,’ Jon said wryly. ‘I’m not.’

  She looked up at him, silently waiting for him to answer the real question she was asking. A man more experienced with relationships, with talking to women, would have known to sit down next to her on the wide rim of the freestanding granite bath, to take her hand and look at her reassuringly while he told her what he was, or what he had been. But since no one had ever done that with Jon, he had never learned how.

  So he propped himself against the basin instead, folded his arms over his chest, and said:

  ‘Okay, here it is. For some reason, I don’t seem to be able to do anything but tell you the truth. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know. And don’t ask me why I trust you, but I do.’

  Reaching up, he began, slowly, to unwrap the bandages from his head, baring his scalp, his features. Jon wasn’t himself aware of the significance of this gesture, that as he began to tell Aniela the truth about himself, he felt the need to remove any physical layers of concealment from his face, but Aniela noticed it. She sat quietly opposite him, sobering up fast, her years of nursing experience giving her the ability to stay calm without registering any emotion at the story he was telling her.

  The only omission Jon made in telling his story was the man he had killed, the true reason why he had had to leave Jackson’s Hollow and never go back. Instead, he alluded to a rough, violent upbringing, the need to forage for food that had made him an expert sniper, and told the story of how he had been headhunted from the Marines to be turned into one of the CIA’s most effective black ops agents.

  ‘Which means that I killed people,’ he said simply, beginning to roll up the bandages around the fingers of his hand. ‘A lot of people. But I was just a dumb kid then. I thought they were all the bad guys, enemies of Uncle Sam – you know, truth, justice, democracy, the American way. And then I found out that they’d got me to kill some of the good guys. Worse. They wanted me to blow up a whole family, just so they could pin it on some folks they wanted to drop in the shit. So I looked back, and I started to wonder. I asked myself how many of those guys I’d killed that they told me were bad really had been bad enough to need killing. And I started educating myself. I never had anything like proper schooling – I could read and write, but not much more than that. I never read much about our history, I just believed what I saw on Fox. I started finding out about a lot of shit that the CIA pulled in Latin America, for instance. Training death squads, running ’em. Mining harbours, torturing people – nuns, for Christ’s sake. Bad, bad shit.’

  He put the bandages down on the basin. The mirror above was completely fogged up with steam by now.

  ‘It put the lid on the idea that I could trust that the folks who sent me out on missions were always in the right,’ he said. ‘And when you’re hurting people, maybe even killing ’em, you have to be right. You’re probably thinking I was a fool to believe ’em in the first place, and I can’t blame you. All I can tell you is that a kid’s lucky to leave the Hollow able to read and write at eighth-grade level.’

&n
bsp; He shrugged.

  ‘Well, I couldn’t keep doing what I was doing, but I couldn’t quit either,’ he said. ‘I knew too much about all sorts of stuff. No way they’d ever let me go. So I planned it out, faked my own death and drove off a cliff.’ He smiled. ‘Or that’s what they thought. I bought a new face in Brazil, and I turned myself into what you might call a gun for hire.’

  Aniela still didn’t say a word; neither of them was the kind to talk if it wasn’t necessary. If there was more to come, he needed to be allowed to tell it in his own time, when he was ready. She wouldn’t prompt him or push him in any way.

  ‘And yeah, I killed more people,’ he continued. ‘Like I said, I can’t lie to you. Only they were a hundred-per-cent certified bad people this time around, because I could pick and choose my jobs now. Gangsters, kidnappers, pimps. I got to save the good ones and take out the bad people, for a change. But I always knew it wasn’t going to be for the rest of my life. And it’s not like I actually enjoy it.’

  His mouth twisted wryly.

  ‘I’ve worked alongside enough people who do to know the difference. So I got myself a nice little retirement plan, bought myself a ranch, and I’m going to settle down and work my land. And getting out of the gun for hire business. I went kinda Old Testament about that. Made a vow to put it behind me for good and all.’

  He raised a hand to his face.

  ‘Got Dr Nassri to work me over. Last time I ever go through that,’ he said ruefully. ‘I tell you, there’s something real strange about not knowing what you’re going to look like for months on end.’

  He looked straight at Aniela, his eyes clear and frank. ‘How much of this is a surprise to you, Aniela?’

  She stared back at him.

  ‘Perhaps not so much,’ she said simply. ‘One facial reconstruction is not normal, not without significant damage to correct. But two? To put yourself through that not once, but twice?’ She saw Jon register that she knew about his previous surgery, and swept on quickly: ‘Don’t worry, it is deep in your file. Dr Nassri is always very careful.’