46

 

Kell turned away and walked out of the room, stumbling toward the door, the lifts. He was aware of somebody behind him calling out “Tom?”—as he walked down the short passage toward the men’s bathroom. He pushed through the door and as he thought of Rachel touching Kleckner, her hands on his body and her mouth on his skin, he bent double as the shock worked through him. He pitched against the wall of the bathroom, his lungs pulling at the room for air.

He reached for a cigarette. He walked over to the bank of sinks and sat against them, lighting it. He opened the window, holding the cigarette out toward the frame, somehow still dully conscious of sprinklers and smoke alarms and rules. With his first inhalation of smoke Kell experienced a surge of rage so intense in its coiled violence that he almost smashed his fist into the wall. He thought of Kleckner’s broken jaw, blood on his face, and considered how and where and in what way he would exact his revenge. He would kill Kleckner. Kell was sure of it. He knew that the American had lured Rachel to the hotel to humiliate him. ABACUS had known that Wallinger’s former colleagues were watching.

There was a knock on the door.

“Tom?”

It was Elsa. Kell found that he was grateful to hear her voice. He tossed the cigarette through the window, turned toward the sinks and switched on a tap.

“Yeah?”

“Are you all right?”

Kell looked at his reflection in the mirror, the collar of his shirt frayed, the cumin stench of his daylong sweat mingling with a taste of tobacco.

“I’m fine.”

He thought of Rachel with her mouth on Kleckner’s cock, swallowing him, then that cock inside her, her legs wrapped around his back. It was happening now, right now. Kell put his face down into the sink and covered it in water.

Elsa had come into the bathroom.

“Tom, what happened?”

“Just felt sick,” Kell replied, the lie springing into his mouth. “Something I ate. Sorry for the cigarette…”

“Do not be sorry!” Elsa’s singsong voice, the happiness in it, was a balm to him, even as he thought of the hotel room again, the noise of Rachel’s orgasm slicing through him like a blade. Kell had his phone in his pocket. He could call her, right now, bring the whole thing to an end.

“I need another cigarette,” he said.

“No.” Elsa’s arm was around his back. “You need to go home. You need to rest. Do you need to be sick?”

Kell knew that Elsa had intuited what had happened. He shook his head. If he stayed, he would be forced to watch the screens, forced to act like a man who did not know the girl, who did not care what was happening. He would have to sit and listen as Harold commented on ABACUS’s prowess as a lover, made lewd jokes about Rachel’s body, made fun of yet another girl who had fallen prey to the charms of Ryan Kleckner.

“Maybe it’s a good idea,” he said.

“To go home?”

“Yes.”