Chapter 9

Jake's mind gradually made the transition from, 'where am I?' to 'oh shit!' The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was a glaring shaft of sunlight through unfamiliar, orange drapes. It bore into his brain, he winced, and closed his eyes again. The next time he opened them they were a little clearer and he could make out some detail.

He was on a sofa and his neck had a crick in it. On a far wall was a painting of Shiva and next to it, the Taj Mahal. A joss stick was burning in a brass holder on the mantle and the room bore the powerful aroma of sandalwood. The white, brushed wool carpet had an expensive look to it and, on the whole, the room appeared to be part of a reasonably swanky apartment.

For instance, the wide screen plasma TV was patched to a 5 channel home theatre. The sofa he was on smelled new and the polished, mahogany veneered table was unstained. In fact, everything in the room looked liked they'd barely been unpacked from their boxes. Someone had been spending a great deal of money, or flogging their Mastercard to death.

On the table, however, was something he never expected to see. Casually placed, as though someone had taken it out of their pocket, was a 9mm Steyr Automatic pistol. By the look of it, Jake was fairly sure it was a cheap Chinese clone. A box of ammo lay beside it.

There was a menace about it, which transcended its deadly purpose. Jake had guns himself, but always locked away in accordance with his arms licence. Why any responsible gun owner would leave a thing like that lying around, he'd no idea.

It's also illegal to possess one, except under specified, and rare, circumstances, unless professionally disabled. Jake felt a knot of fear begin to develop in his stomach. What had he gotten himself into?

He began to piece together events of the previous evening. He and Mary had a fight, although he thought it was over nothing. He remembered the bar, the late night crowd, and drinking far more than he was used to. He thought of the cigarettes he'd smoked, proffered by some instant friend he'd found. He recalled standing in the smoking area outside as people milled around and laughed at corny jokes.

Then he was sitting in the driver's seat of his car. He was staring at the clocks, knowing full well he was unable to drive. He wondered where he was going to spend the night and thought he might stay there, in his car. His keys had not made it to the ignition and lay at his feet. That was probably what saved him from a night in the cells.

There was a loud rapping on his window and he saw the Nightview, flourescent white letters 'POLICE' spread across the man's chest. The man stood back as Jake opened the door.

"Are you intending to drive, sir?" The cop said, kneeling, in a faux assertive voice.

"No!" Jake said.

"What are you doing?" the cop continued. Jake shrugged his shoulders and he heard squawking voices as the guy listened to his radio. "May I see your license?" Jake fished out his wallet, spewing his cards all over the passenger seat. He handed the cop his license and he walked back to his car to verify the details. "You can't stay here," the cop said when he came back. "Have you anyone you can call to pick you up?"

"Sure, sure," Jake was desperate to sound cooperative. First he'd called Mary's number but she'd turned off her phone. The only other number he could think of was Sharmila's. He'd copied her number into his phonebook earlier in the day.

Her voice had sounded sleepy. He'd explained his predicament and she asked to speak to the officer. He'd seemed satisfied, then, and, after stressing it was illegal for him to drive, seemed content at the outcome and went away. Jake waited another half hour before Sharmila turned up in a taxi. She was happy to drive him home, she'd said, and took him to her place.

He was not too plastered to remember that nothing happened. He'd sat on her sofa and he must have drifted off. Waking later that night, he'd found Sharmira had thrown a rug over him. He was far too gone to have initiated, and too bombed to respond.

But he knew he shouldn't be here. He thought Mary would be willing to take him back after cooling off, but this situation wasn't going to improve his chances.

The door to the bedroom opened and Jake was confronted by a vision straight out of a soft focus softcore video. Sharmila didn't so much as walk but glided into the room. She was dressed in a pale blue satin nightdress that clung to her body like a second skin. Her full breasts were barely restrained below an acre of sexy, brown cleavage. She'd been brushing her hair and it was long, loose and shone with copper highlights. Sharmila looked at him and smiled so that the room seemed to increase in temperature a few degrees.

"You're awake?" she asked in her lilting, exotic, New Delhi accent. "You look terrible."

"I feel it," Jake told her, his voice rasping through a cracked throat and a mouth like sandpaper. He felt truly ill from a hangover and his voice sent stabs of pain through his temples. "Ah... ya shouldn't leave that lying around," he croaked, nodding towards the gun. "You get caught with that, the police will throw the book at you."

"I'm sorry," she replied, "it was my husband's. I was just seeing if it was still in working order."

"Why? Expecting trouble?" he grinned. He couldn't imagine any trouble Sharmila could get herself in requiring artillery of that magnitude.

"No," she smiled, "but it's wise to have protection even in this country."

"What the Hell for, Sharmila? It's crazy to have a gun like that. It's the prerequisite for a tragedy."

"How so?"

"Because it's too convenient to grab when you're scared by some noises in the night. You could end up blowing some poor bastard away just for asking directions to the nearest gas station. Even worse, if you were confronted by some villain, without training you could wind up being killed by your own weapon. This is not America, Sharmila, no-one needs a thing like that." The speech exhausted him and he was wracked by a fit of coughing. He really shouldn't have accepted those cigarettes last night! "A kick in the bollocks is all you need!"

"I'm a single woman, Jake," she explained. The words were loaded with emphasis. "I don't have a man to look after me. I must accept responsibility for my own safety."

"Sharmila, I..."

"I will put it away," she told him, "now, do you want some breakfast?"

Mary gradually became aware of the body lying in bed beside her. She thought it was Jake and rolled over for her good morning kiss. She realised her mistake, then, when she saw the dyed blonde curly locks of her friend, Catherine Sullivan. Cath stirred, rolled over and looked at her.

"Hi, how you feeling, hon?" she asked.

"Like shit!" Mary groaned, "did we drink last night?"

"Just a bottle of wine. I pushed OJs at you for the rest of the evening."

"Why?"

"Because I'm an alcohol and drug counsellor and it's not in your interest to get plastered."

"Fuck you!"

"Fuck you, too. Jake called you?"

"Dunno... turned the phone off."

"Check your messages. The poor guy's probably been going frantic."

"I know... serves him right."

"Well, call him and patch up. Y'know where he would've gone?"

"A motel, I suppose."

"You told him to go and fuck Sharmila?"

"I know!" Mary groaned, "I was mad at him."

"Serves you right if he took you up on it. Shit, Mary, a night on the sofa would've sufficed. Why'd you go and throw him out for?"

"I don't know... I lost my temper."

"The Hell you did! Check your messages? Anything there?"

"Yeah, Jake. Three... no four times. Last one 2 in the morning. Poor honey must've been going nuts. Fuck, I'm a silly bitch!" Mary checked her messages from Jake on her cellphone. As she listened, she groaned some more and bit her lips. As she got to the last one, however, she sat up. "Oh, no, Cat! Listen to this last one?"

Cath pressed the phone to her ear. She had trouble making out the slurred speech but it was obvious Jake was calling for help, that he'd been picked up by the police and needed rescuing. "Shit, shit, shit. You'd better call him and see if he's all right."

"Yeah!" Mary speed dialled his number.

Sharmila waited patiently for Jake to finish talking on the phone. She sat at her table, where they'd been having breakfast, and Jake had fled to the other side of the room when his phone peeped. She asked him if everything was all right and he came back, grinning.

"It was all a mistake," he explained, "she got mad. She wants me to come home."

"There, see?" Sharmila said, "I knew it would work out. It was your first fight?" He nodded. "Then you must go home as soon as you can. Bring her flowers?"

"I will."

"And give her a big hug? Kiss her sweetly and take her to bed?"

"Not sure I'm up to it," he replied, abashed.

"You will find the energy," Sharmila laughed, "when you see her, everything will fall into place."

As Jake left, Sharmila stood by the window for a while. When she saw his car take off down the street she went back into the kitchen. Picking up the pad by the phone, she opened the first page and stared at the address hastily written down there. She then got out her road map of the city and ran her finger along the 57 bus route.

Mary rang her service administrator and rearranged her appointments for the week. She decided to have the day off to make things up with Jake. The woman told her she had a message from the refuge for her. Sharmila Devi had checked out early that morning leaving a message that she was going home.

Mary marked the information for future reference. No-one could stop her leaving at any time, it was not a prison. At the end of the day, women were responsible for their own safety. The refuge could only offer support.

Jake had told her he'd stayed at a friend's place. He'd been a little evasive and Mary had guessed it was someone he'd just met at the pub. Some sympathetic mug had given him a roof for the night. He'd also explained he'd talked himself out of trouble when confronted by the police. He'd got someone to drive who was sober. Mary put her suspicians behind her, even though she could feel them gnawing away. She'd hadn't been in the mood for another scene, or a lengthy interrogation. As Cath explained, there had to be a time for trust, and, she'd figured, she'd better start now or the relationship was doomed.

She'd jumped when she'd heard his car crunch up her driveway. She'd opened the front door and watched him saunter towards her carrying a huge bunch of flowers and a grin. He knew he'd done good, she'd thought, and he was rightfully smug about it.

Mary ahd taken the flowers inside and had fussed about for a vase. The bouquet languished for the time being on the table, however, when he'd put his arms around her and hugged for a full ten minutes.

She'd quelled his attempt at apology and sniffed, moist eyed, into his neck. She'd mumbled she was sorry and asked him if he was hungry. She hadn't made a move to the kitchen, however, preferring to stay where she was.

Jake reeked of stale booze and cigarettes. Mary'd ordered him to the bath immediately and he'd asked her to scrub his back. She'd waited impatiently while the bath filled and heard him splashing. Quickly, she'd stripped and went in to join him.

Mary'd lathered up his hair, kissing his shoulders, and revelling in the contact, skin to soapy skin. She'd maneuvred around so she was facing him, legs twined around his. She'd kissed and stroked and kissed again, played with his equipment while he'd fumbled around between her legs. She'd thought about fucking right there in the bath, but it was too awkward and she'd worried about vaginal infections with the dirty water.

She'd stood, took his hand, and guided him out of the bath to the towels. They'd dried each other, before strolling hand in hand to the bedroom.

And now, here they were, sitting naked in their bed poring over the atlas spread on the sheets.

"Here," he said, "Severodinsk!"

"Why?"

"It's a cool name."

"Twit! So you think the Trans Siberian? Then we could catch a flight from Vladivostok to Vancouver?"

"And down here through Seattle... the West Coast Highway, maybe by motorbike? Y'fancy being a biker chick?" He knew she hated the word 'chick.' Rather than a telling off, however, she playfully batted at him with the back of her hand.

"Honey? Where'd we stay? Y'thought about that?"

"Wherever you like. Motels, Hotels, Camping grounds, in a tent..."

"Not in a tent, baby. I've lost the urge to rough it."

"Then maybe one of those Winnebago thingies, with all the modcons?"

"That sounds more like it," Mary chirped, "more my style. Hot and cold, indoor plumbing..."

"You don't piss in the woods, then?"

"All right for you guys," she laughed, "all you have to do is flop it out."

"So!" he summed up, "we do Europe, across Russia, then down the West Coast of the States. What'd we do after that?"

"Isn't that enough?" she said, "I've got a job, remember?"

"Yeah, and you've got twenty years' leave built up. I reckon that must be over a year."

"Not quite. I haven't always worked for the service. I've done other stuff, y'know? I haven't got that much leave owing."

"How much, then?"

"Um, about 30 weeks, I think."

"Well, that's seven months."

"It is? No kidding? Shit, I suppose it is. I've never really worked it out before."

"Why the Hell have you never taken a holiday in 20 years?" he asked.

"I suppose... well, it kind of crept up on me. My life is, was, work. It defined what I am, I allowed it to define me. I had no other life outside of work. I even socialised with the people I work with. What would I do with a holiday? I'd have probably moped around home, bored as Hell, or gone out drinking with Cath or something. Not very healthy, huh?"

"Maybe. But I can understand that," he replied, "I lived above my work. I never left it except to go shopping. Didn't much like pubs..."