“No.It’s more than that.”
Sashatried to close his ears to the new warmth in his tone.“Well, I...I have to study international case law anyway, for the next stageof my qualifications.I might as well study you.”He drew out acard from a pocket in his laptop case.“My organisation in Londonhas branches here too.This is a central number.Whether they canhelp you or not, I don't know.But they will take you seriously,and they won't ask for personal details until you're ready to givethem.”
Mateotook the card and turned it over thoughtfully.He had nice hands,Sasha observed without wishing to—strong and square, with bluntedfinger ends.Yes, he looked made for risks and hard work.Sashawould have bet on him in the race for life.“So...you started offas an illegal.Now look at you.”
Sashaglanced up.Mateo was studying him at least as intently as Sashahad examined the internet screen and reports on his behalf.“Look,I'm not holding myself out as an example to you, an if-I-can-do-itstory or anything like that.”He smiled and shivered, remembering.“I wouldn't recommend anyone scrabbled their way to citizenship theway I did.”
“You weren’t just illegal.You were a refugee.”
Itwasn't a question.Sasha wondered which of his shadows werevisible.They should have burned away to nothing in thisCalifornian light, but still there was the spare room—theheadaches, and his fucking stupid dreams.“Never mind,” he said,getting up.“Think about what I've told you.Don't act on any of ituntil you're sure you want to face the consequences.And come backand talk to me again, but...”
“But I have to go now.Mrs Alvarez is due in fiveminutes.”
Sashachecked his watch.“Yes, she is.How did...”
“She's mytiaRosa's cousin.”Mateo smiled brilliantly.“I know her schedulebetter than she does.I will think of what you've said, and...”Heheld out a hand, the gesture oddly formal in contrast with thewarmth of his eyes.Still, they hadn't yet shaken hands, Sashasupposed, and he reached back readily, good English manners by nowa reflex with him.
Mateoturned Sasha's hand.He raised it, opened up the palm, and plantedthere one soft-lipped kiss.“And I will think of you.”
***
Alone inthe shadows, Sasha paced.He had his own set of rules, as it wasturning out, on the subject of fidelity, only becoming apparentnow—as rocks became apparent to the captain of a ship, perhaps—whenhe struck against them.It had only been a kiss.An innocent onetoo, no more than a gesture of gratitude...
No.Itshould have been.Sasha could have dried it out to nothing morethan that, dismissed and forgotten it.But he could still feel thevelvet brush against his palm.
Hestopped in his track from one end of the courtyard to the other.“Shit,” he whispered.He'd been like a rock himself, a stone, deadto anyone's caress but Laurie's since their very first nighttogether.Laurie's theatre friends, some of them handsome as younggods, had hit on him at parties with the greatest sincerity, andleft him completely unmoved.And that was one of Sasha's rules,never tested until now—if he didn't care, it didn't matter.No harmcould come to Laurie from that.If Sasha did care, though—oh, God,if he failed to snatch his hand away as if he'd been bitten orburned, if his treacherous skin was retaining the shape and thefeel of another man's mouth upon it...
Hedidn't know what to do.And what the hell was wrong with him?Laurie had coaxed from him so much pleasure last night—climax afterbursting, astonished climax—that he ought to be purged right now,unable to raise another flicker.
Sasha's mobile beeped.He snatched it up eagerly from thebench.If this was Laurie now, there might be a moment in which hecould tell him—confess this trivial thing that was burning him so,watch it shrivel to nothing in the light of Laurie'sresponse.The pool boy's taken a shine toyou?I can't leave you alone for five minutes, can I?Well, comeon, then—is he hot?And then the rush oflaughter, cleansing and sweet to Sasha's soul.
No.Just notification of an email.Sasha read through itdistractedly.It was from a colleague at the Guidance Council inLondon, one of his co-workers on the Yosiri Cuza case.I thought you should know, Cuza and his familywere deported back to Bucharest last week.I only just heard aboutit—Alan took the case out of my hands.In confidence, I think Cuzawas a sitting duck once you were out of the way.Colin Pearson'sevidence went hard against him in court.
All thoughts of Mateo—of Laurie too, for that matter—flew outof Sasha's head.He stood staring at the email.Alan Briggs, hisboss, had let him go without a murmur.Sasha's self-esteem, neverthe strongest thing about him, had accepted that quietly,unconsciously absorbing it as a comment upon his role and hisimportance, or the lack of it.He had been useful there, but not sovital that they couldn't do without him.Fair enough, the damaged parts of himhad said.
Now anew light shone.Sasha tapped his laptop keyboard, opening up hisfiles on poor greengrocer Cuza.On Pearson, the officiallysanctioned thug who'd come with Sir William Fitzroy to Birchwoodcamp, and made it his practice thereafter to hound would-beimmigrants and refugees...
This wasridiculous.Sasha had handed all this over to Briggs.Pearsonshouldn't have darkened the courtroom door, let alone been allowedto give decisive testimony.Urgency rose up in Sasha, a need to bedoing, acting, fixing.He could pack a holdall.He could call ataxi and go.
Then, ifMateo was correct, he couldn't stir out of this house without hisactions being noted and supervised.Abruptly Sasha decided that wasstupid too.Who would bother to watch him?Well, that was onematter easy to test.
Hepicked up his laptop and mobile and let himself into the house.MrsAlvarez was singing in the kitchen: dodging past her in barefootedsilence, Sasha grabbed the clothes he'd left in the hall.His jeansfelt clammy over his damp Speedos but he had to do this now, findout and dismiss it.He shrugged into his shirt, found a pair oftrainers by the front door.
Thatwould do.He looked tidy enough.He was just an ordinary man, aresident of San Marco, out for a walk round the block.He hadn'tseen any other ordinary residents employed in this homelyoccupation, and he rather wished he had a dog to walk, bulldog orchihuahua, to lend him some credibility.Never mind.He let himselfout—keys, pass for the gate—and onto the drive.
The gatelock was awkward.By the time he had undone it, a little pulse ofclaustrophobic panic was beating in his throat.The annoying thingwas that he could have shinned over it, up and over like a fox intogreen fields—but he was ordinary, legitimate.Legal.He did notlook at the silver Camry as he passed it.He pushed his hands intohis pockets and set off at an easy saunter.
Halfwaydown the street, he began to feel like a fool.No-one was watchinghim.Not following him, either.There was no sound of pursuit—onlythe eerie silence of a place that should have been filled with thechatter of kids, with stereo noise and all the annoying, reassuringaudio flotsam of human life.He turned the corner.And, off in thestreet behind him, he heard an engine start.
Chapter Eighteen
Lauriesat in his trailer, bored almost to tears.
Thetrailer was twenty feet long.Inside its sun-baked silver skin, theair was cool.Laurie had a bathroom, a day bed, a leisure arealined with white leather sofas.Because he had now lived with Sashafor so long that he couldn't help himself, he spent some part ofevery day's boredom in calculating how many refugee families couldshare this space, make use of and appreciate it.
Whichwas a damn sight more than Laurie did.Boredom was the thin end ofthe wedge for him.He didn't enjoy his own company enough thesedays to put up with it serenely, and at first he'd avoided hiswhite-leather luxury tomb, wandering round the set between takes inthe hope of finding something to do.In the smaller theatres wherehe'd worked, it had been an unwritten rule that an actor with timeon his hands would help out.Laurie, with his scene-paintingskills, willingness to hoist crates, his uncanny gift for coachingfellow players into remembering their lines, had seldom known anidle hour.
He'dbeen cooped up this time for three.Once in costume and makeup,Brett would confine him to barracks until shooting started, andthat could mean any time that the director had finished with hismeetings and settled the last detail of his latest exotic,blindingly expensive set-piece scene.Laurie could have managedbetter if any of the other three luxury tombs had been open to him,but Nicole came and went from hers with an ice-queen's face ofenigmatic calm, Wes Lombard would most likely brain him with anIvory Gate souvenir paperweight if ever he darkened his door, andas for Bailey...
