Small gasps and mutterings abounded as the pair walked in, Mirushka dutifully responding with smiles to those brave enough to make eye contact with her. Rasti came out from behind the bar, an enormous smile on his face, bidding her welcome. Peter was delighted to see he had shaved and was even wearing a shirt for the occasion. Leading them to their table at the far end of the restaurant, Rasti pulled the chair out for Mirushka, who gracefully sat down.
“Be careful of this one,” the big Czech said, nodding his head towards Peter as he spoke to her. “The first time I went drinking with him he made me go the bar and ask for a pint of Cocksucker.”
Peter’s delight disappeared, while Mirushka, thankfully, laughed at the brief display of vulgarity.
“Is that something you stock?” asked, her eyes mischievous.
“Only on special occasions, birthdays usually,” grinned Rasti.
“Then I shall know not to be fooled.”
Rasti laughed and returning to his bar told them he would be back for their orders presently. Peter could feel Mirushka’s eyes turn back to him as he hid his face behind his hands.
“He’s lovely,” she reassured him, her voice full of fun.
Peter slid his hands down from his face. “Lovely isn’t the word. You look beautiful tonight by the way.”
“Thank you. You’re looking very handsome yourself.”
Rasti returned with drinks and took their order, before Peter excused himself to slap an embrace on the musician, busy readying his gear close by the table. “Howdo, Jamie,” he grinned, the guitar man returning the embrace and offering Mirushka a smile before returning to the intricacies of his speaker.
As he sat back down, Mirushka captured him in her eyes and began her probing.
“So, tell me about yourself. Who is Peter Lowe?”
Peter winced, not expecting the question.
“The guy sitting with you now?”
She laughed and shook her head. “No, I mean family, what brought you to Prague, girlfriends…?”
Peter took a gulp of his Czech ale.
“Family – none left, Prague started out as good a place to escape to as any and then we fell into a kind of mutually abusive love affair. And girlfriends? Well, nothing serious. Not for a long while anyway.”
“Why not?”
Another wince. “That was the reason for escaping in the first place. Anyway, isn’t that more of a second bottle question?”
“We’re not really doing things the right way round,” she smiled, “but if you are uncomfortable…”
“No,” Peter shook his head. “It’s not a problem.”
Peter’s eyes drifted as unwelcome memories returned, but feeling Mirushka’s hand cover his own on the table, he carried on, voicing words he had suppressed for more years than he cared to remember.
“There used to be one, a long time ago now. She left me. I don’t really know why for sure. There wasn’t anyone else, not that I know of anyway. She just said she couldn’t be the partner I ‘deserved’, that she wasn’t going to be able to be there for me and needed to give me the freedom to find someone else.”
“Why couldn’t she be there?” Mirushka pressed, gently. Peter dodged the question, dropping his eyes back to the table.
“I hated those words. The freedom to find someone else, like that was ever going to happen. I resented whatever freedom it was she thought she was giving me, I resented the idea that there was someone else for me when all I ever wanted was her and I resented her for arbitrarily deciding what was best for me.”
The bitterness poisoning his words shocked him and he stopped himself from saying any more.
“She must have loved you very much,” Mirushka said, her voice as soft as her smile.
“That’s what she said,” Peter replied, his own smile even softer than Mirushka’s. “So I decided the best way to spite her great intentions for me and prove her noble sacrifice was a pointless crock of shit was to be as miserable as possible and make damn sure I didn’t find this magical ‘someone else’ she wanted to force on me. I stayed away from women altogether for a couple of years.”
Mirushka gave a warm chuckle. “Until when? I get the impression you’re quite the ladies man, with this image you have made for yourself, the moody, blues loving loner.”
“Those days are gone,” Peter grinned.
“Completely?”
“Completely. And I never intentionally cultivated an image, thank you very much, that’s just how I am. I keep few friends but love the ones I have, people like Rasti or Jamie. People who’ve seen a bit of life, who understand the music. And there’s no better place than Prague to be lost in a crowd.”
Her thumb began to caress the back of his hand as a small silence hung delicately in the air between them, and Peter once more lowered his stare to his glass on the table before him.
“It hurts though” he said softly, “cutting yourself off like I’ve done. Not just inside, but physically.”
He unconsciously withdrew his hand from her delicate stroking and clenched it as he tried fruitlessly to explain.
“It’s like you’re aching to find a spark of joy in something, anything, instead of just… being hollow. And you start to hate it and hate yourself when you just can’t find even a shred of joy in anything, even in the things you used to live for. You could be sat in a pub with your best mates in all the world around you who’d do anything to chisel a smile onto your face, or in bed with some girl who can’t say no and is up for anything, but at the end of the day it means nothing. And in the end you do end up like some walking caricature; wrapped up in the image of yourself you’ve created because that’s all you have left and it’s all you know how to do.” His voice began to trail off, tiring of the effort and self indulgence of vocalising his anguish.
He felt her fingers touching his again on the table and he offered them a perfunctory squeeze, picking up his glass with his other hand to take a deep drink, his frustratingly wet eyes still unwilling to meet hers. Swallowing the lump that had begun to rise in his throat, he sat bolt upright and forced his broadest grin onto his face.
“Never mind,” he chirped. “It’s all over and done with now, and at least I always have my music!”
“And Rasti,” Mirushka replied, her voice calm and patient, while a concerned smile played on her lips.
“And Rasti,” Peter conceded, flicking a glance through the archway to the bar area where his big Czech friend had his arm around Michael’s shoulders, the two of them laughing heartily at some outrageously inappropriate joke Rasti had doubtless told.
“So what about you?” Peter hurriedly moved the subject on, anxious to clothe the nakedness she had exposed. “What’s Miroslava Svobodova’s story?”
She leaned back, her familiar twinkle of mischief replacing the brief look of disappointment, and raised her glass to her lips.
“My full biography is available on the Party website Mr Lowe. I can have my aide forward you the link?”
“My insomnia isn’t so bad that I need to read a politician’s biography,” he said, mirroring her earlier light-hearted brusqueness. “What’s the real story?”
“Much the same as yours. One major heartbreak which left me unwilling to get too involved, and a number of disappointments since then. So, I directed my energies elsewhere, firstly as a business manager then into politics with Herbert and now…”
“And now you’re the Prime Minister, with the downside that you’ve cultivated your own image as a mildly eccentric single woman who won’t allow anyone to get near.”
She grinned at the assessment.
“Image. Yes we all have one I suppose, but it depends on how deep their roots go. I’ve never doubted the sincerity of yours for a moment, but I could tell, back when Herbert was alive, that there was more to you than meets the eye. Herbert could tell as well, and that, I think, is why he took to you so well. I think your image is more eccentricity than anything, and I love eccentric people.”
; Peter frowned playfully, wary of having his ego punctured, but knowing full well that his lover was gently teasing him. “What eccentricities?” he replied.
Mirushka’s wide grin spread across her beautiful features, “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, “maybe the clothes… You don’t exactly reflect the height of fashion do you?”
“Fashion’s for losers,” Peter said defensively, still unwilling to give in to her gentle goading, “for people who are so desperate to ‘fit in’ they’ll act however some fashion house tells them to so they don’t have to bother developing their own personality. Fashion changes every five seconds, Mod is a way of life.”
She returned his grin, pleased at the success of her teasing.
“And anyway,” he said, sitting back down and turning his chair sideways as Jamie began the rhythmic strumming of his guitar, his husky voice pulling the attention of the other diners away from staring at the couple and onto himself, “our music’s miles better.”
It was much later that the pair returned to the luxurious sanctuary of Mirushka’s hotel, ascending in the lift together to her suite. Peter was taken aback at the comfort the rooms had to offer; deeply carpeted, brightly décored, with the most kingly of king sized beds visible through the open bedroom door. The contrast with Mirushka’s family home could not have been more apparent, yet she looked at Peter almost apologetically.
“It doesn’t quite have the charm of home,” she said, “but I suppose it’ll have to do.” Her mischievous smile returned to her face as she saw Peter’s eyes fixed on the bed. “I suppose even the worst of us should suffer comfort now and then.”
Peter turned to her, his boyish grin appearing hesitantly on his face, alongside what he suspected looked like an awkward discomfort.
Mirushka breathed deeply and reached out to gently touch his hand.
“Listen, Peter, if you regret what happened I understand. We are professional people, we don’t have much time for that kind of thing and it’s easy to get carried away.” She talked quickly, trying to defuse the small spark of tension that had arisen.
Peter stopped her in her tracks, tenderly cupping her face in his hands. “Mirushka,” his voice was gentle and calm, “shut up.” He leant forward and pressed a loving kiss against her lips. She responded by pulling his body tightly against her own and holding him there, relishing his invigorating warmth through the cotton shirt.
They held on to each other after breaking their kiss, the stresses of their lives pouring out, unspoken, into each other’s embrace. Lifting his head from her fragrant neck, Peter held his lover gently by the shoulders.
“I got you something today,” he said.
“Mr Lowe,” she spoke back in her mischievous voice, “should I accept gifts from an employee of the Institute for European Harmony?”
“It’s not from them,” Peter snapped, a little too quickly, “it’s from me.”
He pulled a small, flat box from his jacket pocket and handed it to Mirushka who took it with a look of nervous excitement.
“What is it?” she asked.
Peter’s grin grew wider still. “Something to play up your eccentricities,” he said.
Mirushka opened the box and looked down at the shining, gold pocket watch within. She laughed gently, appreciating both the gift’s value and the sense of humour of its giver. Taking the watch in her hand she ran the chain through her fingers and pressed the lid open to reveal the beautiful glass face and intricate Roman numerals within. On the inside of the lid had been inscribed one word; ‘Miláčku’.
“Do you like it?” Peter asked, his nervousness more apparent than ever.
“Like it?” Mirushka’s voice trembled slightly and her eyes looked wet. Gripping her gift in her hand she flung her arms around Peter’s neck and pressed another kiss against his lips. Looking him straight in the eye she said in a soft, quiet voice, “Lubim ta.”
The words were ones Peter had never heard before and his puzzlement displayed on his face.
“What does that mean?” he asked.
Mirushka just smiled her beaming smile back at him. “Guess,” she answered before pulling his head back to her own and clasping him tightly to her.
“We really shouldn’t,” said Mirushka, wrestling her lips free as Peter’s hands began to move softly over her body, “I should re-read my papers before the morning..”
“Mm hmm,” Peter murmured his agreement as he kissed the nape of her neck down to her shoulder, feeling the tension in her muscles relax at his touch.
“And my speech is still unfinished…” her eyes were closed and her voice was light and distant as Peter’s hands moved to the top button of her blouse.
“It has to be a good speech…” she continued, in almost a whisper.
“The best,” agreed Peter.
“And I have to work hard tonight.”
“Very hard.”
Her thoughts of policies, speeches and soundbites drifted further away from the front of her mind as she lifted her hands to Peter’s chest and pushed him delicately and deliberately towards the beckoning bedroom door.
Later, Peter watched his hands move over the shoulders of the naked woman lying on the bed in front of him, his eyes wide and unblinking, as though in a euphoric trance. Kneeling behind his lover, Peter’s thumbs worked the stress from her shoulders while murderous tension built in his own. His confrontation with Deprez played out again and again in front of his blank, staring eyes as though the back of Mirushka’s head was projecting the images. He had won the one small concession for which his conscience had yearned for years; to be ordered to kill and not just have his complicity presumed, and he had humiliated Deprez into the bargain. But what spoils had his victory brought him? He still had to kill this woman, this beautiful, strong, honest woman. Would the stain on his soul be any lighter because he had finally got his order?
He must do it, Peter knew that. Not because of Deprez, but because of the organisation he represented. For as much as Deprez was weak, The Child was not; to cross him was only the act of the suicidal and the stupid. To refuse the kill now would surely mean Peter’s own death and it would not be a dignified one. He must kill Mirushka. There was no alternative. If he didn’t complete the job, The Child would simply send someone else, someone who would share none of Peter’s misgivings. Better for Mirushka that it was him. And it would be so very, very simple to kill her now, with his hands moving so freely around her soft, delicate neck…
He ran a feather light touch over the warm skin of her neckline, following down and cupping her shoulders as he wrestled with the conflicting desires in his mind.
Mirushka was making a quiet purring sound at the sensation of Peter’s fingers. His eyes widened further still, the circular motions of his hands moving closer to her neck until he felt the tension in his fingers as they readied to squeeze.
A contented Mirushka exhaled a deep, satisfied sigh, turning her head to the mirror adorning the dressing table a short distance from them, the movement breaking Peter’s concentration, himself now staring into the mirror at the reflection of his own murderous intent.
“Your touch is so soft,” she said, “like velvet.”
A moaning, howling sound broke his concentration and his body coiled up as he realised it was coming from himself. His fingers clenched shut, centimetres from Mirushka’s neck and opening his throat to allow the scream out, he threw himself, in his own nakedness, from the bed to the floor, rolling across and thrusting his tight fist into the offending glass, shattering it into a thousand pieces as the howl within him reached a crescendo. Then he knelt, knuckles bleeding, arthritic fingers pounding, heaving air into his depleted lungs, shaking, unwilling to raise his head to Mirushka, who sat shocked and frightened on the bed, and whose eyes burned through Peter’s back and into his thumping heart.
CHAPTER 12
SHE MOVED TO DISMISS THE SCOWLING RADO, summoned by the crashing of glass and Peter’s cry, and turned back to the man still kneeling tensely in the
shards. She pulled the bed sheet tight around her as though it shielded her against his words. And his words began to trickle, the apologies dripping from his mouth like the blood from his hand, the confessions close behind.
Peter was an agent, a killer for his sham Institute, whose sole concern was the overall security of the Union and its strategies, the individual aspirations of its members beneath consideration. The Institute had decreed that reunification would destabilise the existing structure and compromise objectives, so must be prevented – Peter was the instrument of this prevention.
The trickle became a flow and Peter recounted his friendship with Herbert and his reluctance to go through with his mission, before he had replaced his medicinal syringe with a tampered version designed to introduce an air bubble into his weak heart. Peter’s final job for his employers…
“Until you.” He looked, for the first time up from the glass, his eyes puffy and red, betraying his emotions as much as the quiet in his voice.
“With Herbert gone they thought that would be the end of it, but then you took over. I’m supposed to kill you too, but I’m not going to.” He looked back at the shattered mirror and at his clenched, bleeding fist. “I’ve made my choice.”
Silence descended which Peter had no desire to break. He had made his confession and given what apologies he could. What happened next was up to her.
She made him wait for a response and when it came it was quiet but firm, the mischievous warmth that infused her voice absent, replaced by cold authority.
“Tonight, the time in Bojnice, all lies?”
“No.”
“And I should believe that, why?”
“Because you should believe that it would be far easier for me to have done the job from afar; no personal involvement, just one more face in the crowd. I wasn’t supposed to get so close to you, but I couldn’t help it. You drew me in.”
The answer seemed almost to relieve some of the tension displayed on her face and she swallowed before continuing.
Escape to Perdition--a gripping thriller! Page 11
