“It's when they know the streets so well they don't need a mapany more.”
“Oh.”Mateo nodded, evidently pleased by this comparison.“Yes,I have such knowledge too—a kind of map of people in my head.Ifollow strictly, every day.”
“You weren't following too well with me today.”
“No.You are new—a new London street to me.I don't yet knowyour routine.”Now it was his turn to blush, a quick shift of bloodin the shadows.“You were swimming when I came over the wall.Atfirst I didn't see you.Then I did, and I started to climb backout.But...”
“Yes?”Sasha prompted him gently.“What made youstay?”
“I thought you were drowning.”
“Well, I'm not drowning now.Why are you here—telling me allthese things that could drownyou?”
Mateo'slips parted.Dismay flickered in his eyes, banished by a suddendefiance.He straightened from his crouch by the bench and stoodwith his arms folded.“What could you do to me, if you decided totell?Who else has heard what I've said?You call the police, Itell you what happens—Cristo denies me.His wife has no brotherMateo.Miguel denies me too, and all the staff who run this place,houseboys and nannies and maids.All the cooks and gardeners.Andthis is easy, because...”
“Because you don't really exist.You're illegal.”
Mateolowered his head.He folded his arms tighter.For all his solidframe, there was something evanescent about him, almost atransparency to light.As if he could be wiped out of the recordsof the world by a few words from the people who knew him.Sasharemembered clearly how that was.“Mateo.Tell me you don't tellevery half-drowned newcomer this tale.”
“I have told no-one.I haven't spoken to any of the peoplehere, not the real ones.Not one word.”
“Why me?”
Mateoshot him a look in which anger, chagrin and amusement wereperfectly mixed.“I don't know.I have broken all my own rules.”Then he unlocked his defensive stance.He put his hand to Sasha'sface again—pushed back Sasha's close-cropped hair above the bruise,then skimmed his fingers over his brow, cheekbones and lips, theintimacy absolute and delicate as the brush of a butterfly's wing.“Your face,” he murmured.“Finer here and here than mine.Yourmouth, like a sculptor would make...”Suddenly he smiled.“I'm notafraid of you.Nobody could look less like borderpatrol.”
Sashasat still beneath the touch.No-one but Laurie had laid a hand onhim in two years.In a way no-one could, not so that it mattered.Laurie's kisses and caresses echoed beneath Sasha's skin, as ifthey were strings of a harp that could give out their music in arandom breeze.In a moment he would take hold of Mateo's wrist, butin the meantime the contact was pleasant, and Sasha was thinking,thinking.US immigration law was radically different to that of theUK, of course.But Sasha had made case studies as part of hisdiploma, comparative stories from elsewhere in Europe, fromAustralia, Canada...
FromMexico.Suddenly Sasha was gripped with desire to help this youngman.It wasn't just kindness—God, no.It was a need to become onceagain what he was.He had been ripped out of England, unpluggedfrom every role in his life where he could be of any use.Not eventhe houseplants needed him here.Now he did take Mateo's arm, verylightly, stilling its motion but holding it warmly, like a friend.“That's just it.I know I don't look like I work in immigration,but—”
Mateo tugged his wrist free.Belatedly Sasha noticed that hewore a little cross around his neck—no, a crucifix, gleaming in thesun.He took a step back.Sasha might have been a priest who’dheard his sins in the confessional, then threatened to break itsholy seal.“Yo nunca he estado equivocadoantes,”Mateo whispered, his colourdraining, “especialmente cuando se tratade un hombre.”
Sasha picked out a word or two, and filled in the rest with anatural linguist’s quickness:I have neverbeen wrong before.Not about a man.“No,”he said urgently.“You don’t understand.I’m not in enforcement, Ijust...”
ButMateo had sprung away.Sasha lurched up.The world spun again, andbefore he could find balance, Mateo had pelted back to the corner,sandals silent on the marble.He grabbed at the jacaranda and swunghimself into the leaf-shade, lithe as a lynx.One rustle of thebranches—one brief shower of petals, like the confetti Sasha andLaurie had thrown at Charlie and Mrs G on their way out of thechurch—and he was gone.
Sashasank back down onto the bench.Something scraped in the back pocketof his jeans.He reached round and pulled out his mobile, somehowstill with him and dry.He stared at the screen.He’d never calledLaurie at work.It had been a law of his life to pick up whenLaurie called him, but that was different.Sick, abruptly desolate,he dialled.
The linerang and rang.Then came the click, the familiar start of thevoicemail.Laurie had recorded his message right there in the phoneshop, unable to resist the lure of a new toy, smiling at Sashawhile he spoke.Christ, that voice—deep, sweet and sexy, hamming itup just a little for fun...
Sashacut the line.His head thumped with pain, and for a moment heconsidered doing something sensible, calling up a cab and takinghimself into A&E, or the ER, or whatever it was called aroundhere.
But itwas only ten o’clock.For some reason that dismayed him.How couldso much have happened, and the whole of a hot vacant day still lieahead?
Betteryet, his key cards were at the bottom of the pool.He could seethem from where he sat, drifting on the chain of their silver fob.He must have pulled them in during his graceless, lungfish strugglefrom the water.Just now he didn't have the strength to dive in andget them back.
Hestretched out on the marble bench instead.His days would only beempty if he allowed them to be.Inside the house lay work he coulddo, the assignments he'd brought out for the next stage of hisqualifications.He could learn more Spanish, and then next time hemet an immigrant Mexican pool boy who didn't really exist, theirconversation would be easier.
Not thathe would be seeing Mateo again.That was a good thing: the boywould be safer if he'd taken fright, reviewed whose fences hejumped over, whose faces he could trust.Sasha closed his eyes.Thehousekeeper was due at twelve.Sasha could rest until then, get ridof this headache, then unless she too assumed he was an estateworker napping in stolen shade, she might let him in.
Hedrifted into sleep, and dreamed of San Marco as a mix between acrate for a pedigree animal and a huge cardboard box by the Thames,through whose sides someone had considerately pierced a pattern ofholes for air.
Chapter Sixteen
Laurie'sphone was ringing in his pocket.Devlin Steele had just leapt off atemple roof in pursuit of Calvin, though, and chickens werescattering everywhere.
Lauriehit the crash pad, rolled aside and curled up laughing.There wasno chance of a transformation now.Devlin's personality wouldn't berising up to swallow his own any time soon.All he'd had to do forthe last hour was run across a rooftop, back and forth untilDouglas Brett and a team from the CG department said he'd got itright, and then argue with Brett and an insurance guy for theprivilege of making the tiny eight-foot stunt jump on hisown.
At least he'd got to jump.He fumbled the phone from hispocket, still laughing.He'd heard Brett yellcutas he hit the mat, so presumablythe job was done and he was free to pick up.The incoming call wasfrom Sasha, who never rang him at work...
