Renegades

by Hutson, Shaun;

  She rode it to the tenth floor and got out, passing two middle-aged men about to descend. One of them said something to his companion and she heard their raucous laughter inside the lift.

  She reached her own room, fumbled in her bag for her key and was about to let herself in when the door next to her opened.

  Doyle stuck his head out and smiled, motioning her inside. She closed the door behind her as she entered, then walked to the bed and sat down, kicking off her shoes. She sat cross-legged, watching him as he went to the dressing table, poured two glasses of Scotch from the bottle of Haig which stood there and handed her one.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, listening intently as she relayed the story, waiting until she’d finished then stroking his chin thoughtfully.

  ‘And he was carrying no I.D. at all?’ Doyle said, perplexed.

  ‘No driver’s licence, no credit cards, nothing,’ she said, taking a sip of the Scotch. ‘What about your bloke?’

  ‘I lost him easily. Maybe too easily.’ He pulled at the top button of his shirt, loosening it, then pulled off his tie and tossed it to one side. ‘You know, the more I think about it the more I reckon they wanted us to know we were being followed.’

  ‘You mean, whoever put them on to us was warning us? Letting us know we’re under surveillance? It doesn’t make any sense, Sean. If it was the RUC they’d have come straight out and confronted us. The IRA or the UVF or any other of the para-military organizations aren’t actively functioning at the moment, and if it’d been Maguire and his men they’d have killed us.’

  ‘That doesn’t leave many alternatives, does it?’

  ‘It doesn’t leave any.’

  Doyle took a swig of his drink and looked at Georgie still sitting cross-legged on the bed.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked her.

  ‘I’m fine. Just curious, like you.’ She smiled at him, noticing that he was moving closer to her.

  ‘You’ve cut yourself,’ he said, pointing to a graze on her shoulder. He wet the tip of his finger and wiped the dried blood away gently.

  ‘It must have been in that alley-way,’ she said as he bent closer, inspecting the small cut.

  Their faces were inches apart. She could smell the faint scent of after-shave on him, could feel the heat from his skin close to her.

  ‘Sean ...’

  She spoke his name, then whatever words she intended to speak were lost as he turned his face and kissed her. Their lips crushed together, his tongue probing, met by hers with equal if not increased vigour. She uncrossed her legs, allowing one to slip down and her foot to touch the floor. He pushed her back onto the bed as she fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, their mouths still locked together in the kiss.

  She felt his left hand sliding slowly, gently, up inside her dress, stroking the smooth flesh of her inner thigh, his fingers brushing briefly against the tightly curled down of her pubic mound. Then the fingers were gone again, tracing paths over her thighs.

  He was aware of the warmth radiating from her sex and it seemed to spur him on but there was no impatience in his touch. Only tenderness. A gentleness which seemed almost alien but was all the more arousing because of that.

  He took his hand from beneath her dress and stroked her cheek as he lay down beside her.

  She fumbled with his shirt, pulling it open.

  As he rolled onto his back she saw the scars that criss-crossed his torso.

  If they shocked her she showed no signs. Instead she bent forward and kissed his chest, allowing her tongue to flick gently against a scar which ran across his chest, licking it, following it down to his belly where she found another. She kissed it.

  And another.

  She kissed that too, sucked the white flesh into her mouth, her saliva running into the deep scar, trickling down to the waistband of his trousers which she began to undo.

  He pulled her up and kissed her again, more forcefully this time, gripping her head between his hands as if he were going to crush it.

  She reached out with her right hand and unzipped his trousers, feeling for his stiffness, aware of the moisture between her own legs, of the aching in her nipples which pressed against the material of her dress almost painfully.

  She sat up and pulled the dress over her head, throwing it to one side then, naked, she slid onto him, allowing him to raise one thigh so that it was rubbing against her moist cleft. She left a stain on his trousers as she manoeuvred herself down his body, licking the line of the scars as if they were guides for her. She slipped his trousers and pants off in one movement so that they were both naked.

  She saw other scars on his thighs and those too she kissed before trailing her tongue up to his swollen testicles, one of which she took into her mouth, sucking so gently on it. Then she swivelled around, lowering her slippery sex towards his face, offering it to him as she took the head of his penis into her mouth, licking the clear liquid from the swollen glans.

  Doyle parted her pink, puffy lips with his index finger and ran his tongue over their outer edges, feeling her shudder as he flicked his tongue deep into her. He stirred her wetness for a moment before transferring his attentions to the hard bud of her clitoris, drawing back the fleshy hood to reach it, raking it gently with the edges of his teeth.

  He felt her release his penis and gasp her pleasure as he licked faster, sensing her urgency, sensing her desire for release.

  He kissed her inner thighs, brushed his nose through her dewy pubic hair and smelt the musky odour of her sex and she began to suck him once more, her hands rubbing his thighs and testicles, knowing that he too was close.

  Doyle grabbed her slim hips in his powerful hands and lifted her off him, slithering around so that he was beside her, looking down onto her.

  He raised himself up and she parted her legs to welcome him, moaning softly as she felt the head of his penis probing against her vagina. He inched forward, penetrating a fraction then withdrawing. He repeated the action half a dozen times, each tiny stroke greeted by a gasp of pleasure from Georgie as she raised her hips in an attempt to coax him into penetrating her fully. Instead, he merely moved his swollen organ over and around her slippery sex, placing his glans against her clitoris for glorious seconds before pushing a little more deeply into her.

  ‘Please ... !’ she whispered, stroking his face, her breath coming in great racking gasps.

  And he slid into her fully.

  The feeling was exquisite and she arched her back, both because of the sheer pleasure but also so that he could penetrate her further.

  He began to move rhythmically, each thrust of his met by her raising her hips. She gyrated them gently, her eyes now closed. Lost in the pleasure of the moment she was aware only of his penis deep inside her and of the growing pleasure, the feeling which was building inexorably.

  He held her breasts gently, running his thumb over the stiff nipples then bending his head to take first one then the other between his lips.

  She whispered his name again as she felt the warmth begin to spread across her thighs and belly, at its hottest between her legs.

  She raised her legs, locking them around the small of his back, drawing him deeper as the feeling finally reached its peak.

  She clawed his back, her nails scratching him, skimming over deep scars which had long since healed. He licked the perspiration from her cheek as he thrust harder, his own release now seconds away.

  Georgie called out his name loudly as she climaxed and the sound, coupled with the vibrations he felt beneath him, pushed him over the edge into ecstasy. She moaned more loudly as she felt his thick fluid filling her, his thrusts still perfectly rhythmic as he poured his liquid lust into her, his body trembling.

  She kissed him, the feeling only barely subsiding. She was quivering all over.

  ‘Oh God,’ she murmured, her legs finally slipping from around him, her eyes still closed.

  He licked more perspiration from her cheek, tasting its saltiness, his own pleasure now spent for
the time being. He eased himself free of her, their fluids mingling, dampening the sheet beneath them.

  He lay beside her, listening to her breathing, his own deep and guttural. Gradually it subsided as the burning became a pleasant glow.

  She rolled across to him, looking down at his back, at the scars there too. She kissed one on his shoulder, licking it with her tongue, brushing his long hair away with one hand.

  She wondered what he’d looked like an hour after the explosion.

  He glanced across and saw her smiling at him.

  ‘What are you smiling at?’ he asked, touching her lips with his index finger.

  ‘You. You’re full of surprises.’

  He looked vague.

  ‘You’re very gentle, considerate.’

  ‘What did you expect me to do? Tie you to the headboard?’

  She laughed and kissed his back, just above a particularly deep scar over his kidney.

  ‘Do they ever give you pain?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘Life’s full of pain, Georgie. You just learn to live with it.’

  He reached out and stroked her blonde hair, feeling how soft it was as his fingers slid through it. She stroked the backs of his thighs, tracing one or two more scars.

  He must have bled badly.

  She finally shifted around so that she was lying beside him, also on her stomach. He began to run one hand up and down her back, pausing every so often to enjoy the gentle curve of her buttocks. She kissed him softly on the forehead, then the nose, then the lips.

  When she felt cold he pulled the blanket over them.

  After a while they made love again.

  Eventually Georgie drifted off to sleep.

  Doyle lay awake gazing at the ceiling, his mind thankfully clear of thoughts. Finally he eased himself out of bed, careful not to disturb her, and walked across to the window. He peered out over the city below, looking down on cars which showed little more than pinpricks of light from their headlamps, moving along roads that looked like the illuminated lines on a map.

  Somewhere in that city were the men who had followed them and they had answers which he needed.

  Doyle stood by the window and glanced back at Georgie as she lay sleeping. Then he faced the glass once more, seeing his own reflection. He raised his arms, putting one on either side of the frame, resting his head against the cold glass.

  Don’t let her get close.

  He gritted his teeth until his jaws ached and he lowered his head a fraction, as if he didn’t want to see his reflection.

  Keep her distant.

  He drew his head back a few inches and slammed it forward against the toughened glass, so hard it made his forehead throb.

  ‘Bastard,’ he hissed and headbutted the window again.

  And again.

  Forty-Three

  BRITTANY, FRANCE:

  The window was fully exposed.

  As if every single piece of stone had been meticulously chipped from around it, as if every panel had been painstakingly cleaned.

  The window in the church at Machecoul was as vivid and visible as the day it had been created.

  It stood amongst the dust and dirt of the old building like a beacon, the colours in its glass apparently glowing, such was their intensity. Reds looked like liquid fire, blues like sapphires, yellow like freshly polished gold.

  The window seemed to be glowing.

  Mark Channing stood staring at it, his jaw slightly open.

  Catherine Roberts was beside him, her own gaze riveted on the window, her emotions in turmoil. She felt a curious mixture of elation, bewilderment and two other feelings which she didn’t care for so much. One was awe at the sheer magnitude of the craftsmanship in the window.

  The other was fear.

  When they had left the window the previous night it had been partially encased in stone, its panels still covered by the dirt of ages, yet now it stood in all its original glory.

  The question they both wanted to ask was, How?

  Yet each knew that to voice that question would merely confuse matters even more. They had the clichés in their minds and on their lips, ready to roll them out like bit-players in a bad B-Movie.

  ‘Who could have done this?’

  ‘What has happened to the window?’

  ‘What we are seeing is impossible.’

  They were like atheists trying to explain a miracle.

  It couldn’t have happened. It wasn’t possible.

  And yet they saw it.

  For a moment Cath wondered if it was a dream, an extension of the nightmares they had shared for what seemed like an eternity. She almost pinched herself.

  Instead she took a step towards the window, narrowing her eyes against the brilliance of the colours contained in the glass.

  Come on, there had to be more clichés to describe the way she was feeling.

  Amazed. Incredulous. Dumbstruck.

  The list was endless.

  Channing also moved, closer, his jaw still slightly open.

  Should he look for scientific explanations? Perhaps it was a fucking miracle, he thought. Perhaps God had seen fit to restore a window dedicated to him to its full splendour.

  One look at the design on the glass told Channing that God did not figure anywhere in this tableau.

  If he had seen what the window bore he would have destroyed it, not renewed it.

  He wanted to speak but the words would not come. They eluded him with the same stealth as rational thought. He didn’t know what to say, he didn’t know what to think.

  He could only look at the window, take in its details, marvel at its appearance.

  If only he could stop shaking.

  Cath moved to within a foot of the window, then stepped back lightly, as if to take in every panel, every mullion, every trefoil and quatrefoil. Every line, every colour, every shape. They seemed to converge on her like a manic kaleidoscope, searing her retina, implanting their forms on her mind as well as her eyes.

  She felt faint and backed off a little, as if direct confrontation with the window was somehow too overpowering, too difficult to contend with.

  The feeling passed gradually and she was able to look once more, mesmerized by the radiance of it.

  The sun had pierced the gloom of the church, cutting through the darkness as it fought its way past a broken slat in one of the boarded up windows.

  The shaft struck something lying close by the window.

  Something silver.

  She took another step backwards but kept her eye on the glinting object, not sure if Charing had seen it or not. He mumbled something under his breath about the camera and left the chancel, his unsteady footsteps echoing away within the main body of the church.

  And now Cath saw that silver object glinting again and, this time she moved towards it.

  It lay close to the base of the window at its left hand side, almost hidden in dust and crumbled stone. She knelt and picked it up, brushing the grime from it cradling it in her hand.

  It was a cigarette lighter in solid silver, shaped like a horse’s head.

  Lausard’s lighter.

  She regarded it impassively for a moment until she heard Channing re-enter the church then, quickly and surreptitiously, pushed it into the back pocket of her jeans.

  Out of sight.

  Lausard had been here after them, that much was obvious. But why? How had he come to drop the lighter, or, more to the point, to leave it?

  Another mystery?

  She looked at the window again, feeling the lighter in her back pocket.

  Channing didn’t notice the slight smile on her lips.

  Forty-Four

  The creature was almost six feet tall.

  It rose in the centre of the window, arms outstretched and upraised. In its left hand sat a child, in its right another smaller apparition.

  It stood on the heads of two humanoid beings which were lying sideways.

  Both had been created naked; their large geni
tals were clearly visible.

  Beneath the creature’s legs there was a gate, a portcullis-like affair further adorned with heads. The hundreds of tiny eyes each seemed to reflect the light with unsettling intensity.

  The central creature, the largest, was coloured dark blue except for its eyes, which seemed to glow hellish red in the glow of the lamps and the intruding rays of sunshine creeping almost timidly into the transept of the church. The two monstrosities it stood upon were yellow in colour, apart from their eyes which were the same vivid red. Thick tongues had been fashioned to make it appear that they were licking their lips.

  Most of the panels contained at least one representation of a child and every one, without exception, carried some letters or symbols. The words were in Latin.

  Channing sat by the altar, glancing up at the window, making a note of the words, trying to make-sense of them. He couldn’t. The only thing that came into his mind when he looked at the window was the uncertainty of how it had come to be uncovered. And uncovered so thoroughly and expertly.

  He and Cath had spoken barely ten words to each other since they’d arrived at Machecoul and found the restored window. He had taken a series of photographs of it; she had set to work trying to figure out the design, the date and possibly the creator.

  The window was complex in its construction but relatively simple in its illustration. Just the four large creatures surrounded by over a dozen smaller ones and the children.

  So many children.

  ‘It’s definitely fifteenth century,’ Cath said, her voice cutting through the stillness, cutting through Channing’s thoughts too. ‘This window is perpendicular glass.’ She pointed to the mullions which divided each compartment, segmenting every panel. ‘There’s a lot of white glass in it. It’s been painted over, at least the large figure has, not fired like the smaller ones.’ She tapped the lass with the end of her pen. ‘The figures of the children have been made using a mosaic effect. Tiny pieces of coloured glass pieced together like a jigsaw. The rest of it is peculiar to perpendicular glass. Decorated style, S-pose, ogee arches.’