‘I won’t miss here,’ Derek says wistfully. ‘Can’t wait to go.’
‘Don’t wish it away,’ she says, the sadness creeping back into her voice and eyes.
‘Hey, so maybe I should walk you home.’
‘No,’ she says, forcing a beaming grin and moving closer into his side. ‘I want to see your flat.’
‘Apartment.’
‘Flat,’ she giggles, pressing her boobs into his arm. ‘I’m fine, honestly.’
‘You said your momma died.’
‘Don’t want to talk about that. Tell me about the Marines. Tell me about nice things and, and . . .’
‘They got grief counsellors in England?’
‘What the fuck? I’m fine. Are you excited about the Marines? Where do you go to train? What are those other guys called? Seals or something?’
‘Navy Seals. Special Forces.’
‘You should do that,’ she gushes, clinging to his arm. ‘You’d be so good.’
‘Hooyah,’ he says, smiling, worried, confused, turned on.
‘Hooyah,’ she laughs.
‘My place,’ he says, nodding at the door over the road. ‘Listen, Ria . . .’ He stops walking to stand on the sidewalk. ‘Maybe I’ll walk you home, huh?’
‘Do you want to?’ she asks, dropping her voice to a low murmur, closing the gap between them. ‘I mean . . . if you don’t want me to come back . . .’ She trails off, seeing his eyes flick down to her chest, now inches from him. She reaches out for his hands, taking them in hers, smiling at him, fluttering eyes, demure and sexy. He swallows, blinks and tries to steel himself to say no, to say he will walk her home. She senses the rejection coming and moves in to press her mouth on his. He stiffens. Unsure. The worry increasing, but she’s warm and soft and she smells so good. He thinks to pull back, but her hand comes up to snake round the back of his head, pulling him in. She doesn’t push it, but kisses softly, easing her lips against his, feeling his heart thumping, feeling his hard body. ‘I’m leaving soon,’ she whispers, pulling her lips back from his. ‘One night.’
‘I . . .’
‘Don’t you want me?’
‘Sure, you’re . . .’
‘Do you think I’m pretty?’
‘Yes, ma’am, very damn pretty.’
‘Let’s go inside. I want to go inside.’
‘Okay.’
They cross the road, pushing into each other, arms round waists, shoulders, kissing, touching, and through the door to climb the stairs to his apartment.
‘She needs to come home,’ Safa says.
‘She’s an adult,’ Ben whispers back.
‘She’s drunk. She’s going to do something she’ll regret. I’m bringing her back . . .’
‘No,’ Emily says. ‘She’s fine. You heard him – he’s being really nice.’
‘She’s upset. She shouldn’t be doing anything,’ Safa says.
‘Her choice,’ Miri says. ‘We’re here to ensure protection. Not to guide her life.’
‘Exactly,’ Emily says.
‘Young lady should come home,’ Harry says, upset at seeing the girl needing affection so badly she’s throwing herself at the lad.
‘She is fine,’ Emily whispers firmly. ‘If this is how she copes, then let her. It’s her life. Her mistakes.’
‘Oh god, I am so horny . . .’ Ria’s voice continues.
‘Fuck’s sake, turn it off,’ Safa snaps.
‘You sure, Ria? You sure you wanna . . .’
‘Stop asking me! Yes. Yes, I am sure . . . Where’s your room? Oh my god, you are so fit.’
‘Turn it off now,’ Safa says, her voice rising.
Miri shakes her head. ‘No. If it is uncomfortable for you, Miss Patel, then go stand over there.’
‘We are not fucking listening to her having sex.’
‘We are listening to ensure she does not say anything about the Blue.’
‘I won’t listen to this shit,’ Safa says, striding off.
‘Aye,’ Harry says, following her.
‘Tango Two? Want to leave?’
‘My name is Emily,’ Emily says quietly. ‘And I’m fine, thank you, Mrs Sanderson.’
Miri glares with cold grey eyes.
‘Apologies,’ Emily says.
‘Fucking hell . . . your willy is huge . . .’
‘Yeah, okay, I don’t want to listen,’ Emily says, walking off.
Noises. Thumps. Bangs. Grunts. A hiss of static. Background voices. A television or stereo. Music playing softly. A commercial advert. Heavy petting. Clothes being taken off. Zippers.
‘STOP . . . STOP, PLEASE . . . NO!’
Safa, Harry and Emily burst to life. Sprinting down the alley as Ben waves his hands at them.
‘It’s a movie . . . Just a movie,’ he says urgently as a tinny American voice pleading for someone to put the gun down comes from the tablet.
Miri changes the tablet to the lowest volume setting, but listens intently. Loose lips sink ships, and a word uttered in passion has overthrown governments before. She knows. She’s done it.
Ben reaches out to touch Safa. She pulls away from him with pure fury pouring off her. She hates it. She hates that Ria is doing this. She should have more pride in herself, but Safa also feels something else. A weird jealousy. A sense of someone having the emotional freedom and sexual maturity to simply know what they want and to have it. She walks further into the shadows. She wants to go and not listen, but what if Ria gets in trouble? Ben stares at the ground. Miri is right. The potential risks are too great and they don’t know Ria. They don’t know Emily either, but it’s different.
‘Can’t listen,’ Harry says, walking off further down the alley. Safa goes with him. The two side by side until they get enough distance not to hear anything.
A sound of a sob. Emily goes to move again, aiming towards the mouth of the alley towards the direction of Derek’s apartment. Ben stops her. Shaking his head.
Ria cries. The heavy breathing and rhythmic sounds of the bed ending suddenly.
‘Keep going . . . please . . .’ Ria says.
‘I can’t listen,’ Emily says. ‘Sorry, I’m not an agent anymore.’
‘I’ll stop . . . You’re crying . . .’
‘No! Please, I’m fine.’
‘Ria, listen . . .’
‘Just fuck me, please.’
Miri locks eyes on Ben, as though daring him to turn and go with the others. This is what it takes. To work at this level means doing this. To listen to everything. To hear everything. To know all the pieces of the game. Ben refuses to be cowed. That he is sickened at what he hears shows on his face, and he gives thanks that Miri finally portrays the essence of a human being and closes her eyes in distaste, but then he immediately suspects that very reaction was just a show too.
It’s over quickly. A build-up. A grunt. Silence.
‘You okay, Ria?’
A sniffle, a quiet sob. ‘I want to go home.’
Ben stares across the road at the building.
‘Sure, can I call someone? You wanna drink? Coffee?’
‘I miss my mum.’
‘What happened? You want to talk?’
‘Christ, he’s a nice lad,’ Ben whispers, looking away.
‘She died . . . I . . .’
‘It’s okay, you can cry . . .’
‘I just . . . I . . . I can’t see her again . . . never . . . She’s gone and . . .’ The words come between sobs. Derek’s soft tones giving comfort. The bed creaks. Ben visualises the lad moving closer to her.