slumped back into his chair and stared at The Adoration of the Chosen One.
Common sense told him to drop the case. Forget about the Chosen One and whatever Weiss had been up to. Then he remembered the kid’s terror back at the ship.
He had a couple of weeks’ leave due—he’d contact the ‘port and tell them he wasn’t coming in for a while. Then he’d concentrate on the Elly Jenson case.
He tapped Dr. Rao’s code into his handset, got through to the Indian, and arranged to meet him at nine that evening.
* * * *
NINE
OSBORNE
It was two in the morning and the Siren Bar was filling up.
The dance floor was a mass of bodies, writhing to the rhythmic thump of the latest pop hit. Fat foreign men sat at tables, half-naked girls squirming on their laps. The girls sucked on bottles of beer, feigning interest and animation, but achieving only a look of boredom.
From time to time couples left the bar and passed Sukara on their way to the cubicles. The girls smirked at her as they clung to their rich customers. Sukara tried to ignore them, but felt herself blush beneath the gaze of the men. She drank her beer, lining up the bottles on the bar before her. Fat Cheng had once told her that she drank too much. “Beer okay, Fat Cheng,” she had replied. “I take plenty yahd.”
He’d shaken his big head. “Not you drunk I worry about, little Monkey. Beer no good for your insides, your liver.”
Sukara had just shrugged. She had more to concern her than what beer might be doing to her insides.
A drunken Indian labourer was arguing with two tall escort girls further along the bar. He kept pawing at their breasts, trying to run a hand up inside their thighs. One girl backed off, screeching at the Indian in machine-gun rapid Thai. The guy pulled out his wallet, staggering with the effort, and waved baht in the face of the first girl. She hissed at him, turning her face away contemptuously. The second girl whispered to the Indian and pointed along the bar at Sukara. He looked up, squinted, then staggered towards her. Behind him, Sukara saw that the girls were laughing.
He slurred something at her in Hindi, waving the cash, a measly fifty-baht note.
Sukara turned away, ignoring him. Her lurched towards her and pincered her arm in a painful grip.
“Let go!”
“I said, come with me!”
For a split second she considered telling him where to go—but something nasty in his eyes told her that that would not be wise. The alternative was to go with him, and pray that the bastard wouldn’t turn violent.
Quickly Sukara grabbed the note and slipped off her stool.
She led the Indian to one of the tiny cubicles, not the room she used for the Ee-tees; she didn’t want the memory of what she did with the Indian tainting her special room. He collapsed against the door, staring at her and unfastening his trousers. Sukara slipped the baht under the mattress and pulled down her skirt, leaving her T-shirt on: she did not like going with human men, and tried to keep as much of herself covered as possible.
She knelt on the edge of the bed and held on to the rail on the wall, letting him have her from behind. She heard him belch, smelled the beery fumes in the air. She felt him thrusting between her legs, his first few attempts missing and sliding up and across her back. She felt his fingers forcing apart her legs, felt him try again, this time entering her brutally. He was so big that she feared he might tear her. She closed her eyes and cried out in pain as he thrust repeatedly. She pulled forward so that he slid out before he came, and her relief was immediate.
The first blow struck her across the back of her head, so painful that she thought he must have picked something up, or pulled a cosh from somewhere. The blow rang through her skull. She fell face down on the bed, protecting her head from his punches. She would not cry out, would not
Common sense told him to drop the case. Forget about the Chosen One and whatever Weiss had been up to. Then he remembered the kid’s terror back at the ship.
He had a couple of weeks’ leave due—he’d contact the ‘port and tell them he wasn’t coming in for a while. Then he’d concentrate on the Elly Jenson case.
He tapped Dr. Rao’s code into his handset, got through to the Indian, and arranged to meet him at nine that evening.
* * * *
NINE
OSBORNE
It was two in the morning and the Siren Bar was filling up.
The dance floor was a mass of bodies, writhing to the rhythmic thump of the latest pop hit. Fat foreign men sat at tables, half-naked girls squirming on their laps. The girls sucked on bottles of beer, feigning interest and animation, but achieving only a look of boredom.
From time to time couples left the bar and passed Sukara on their way to the cubicles. The girls smirked at her as they clung to their rich customers. Sukara tried to ignore them, but felt herself blush beneath the gaze of the men. She drank her beer, lining up the bottles on the bar before her. Fat Cheng had once told her that she drank too much. “Beer okay, Fat Cheng,” she had replied. “I take plenty yahd.”
He’d shaken his big head. “Not you drunk I worry about, little Monkey. Beer no good for your insides, your liver.”
Sukara had just shrugged. She had more to concern her than what beer might be doing to her insides.
A drunken Indian labourer was arguing with two tall escort girls further along the bar. He kept pawing at their breasts, trying to run a hand up inside their thighs. One girl backed off, screeching at the Indian in machine-gun rapid Thai. The guy pulled out his wallet, staggering with the effort, and waved baht in the face of the first girl. She hissed at him, turning her face away contemptuously. The second girl whispered to the Indian and pointed along the bar at Sukara. He looked up, squinted, then staggered towards her. Behind him, Sukara saw that the girls were laughing.
He slurred something at her in Hindi, waving the cash, a measly fifty-baht note.
Sukara turned away, ignoring him. Her lurched towards her and pincered her arm in a painful grip.
“Let go!”
“I said, come with me!”
For a split second she considered telling him where to go—but something nasty in his eyes told her that that would not be wise. The alternative was to go with him, and pray that the bastard wouldn’t turn violent.
Quickly Sukara grabbed the note and slipped off her stool.
She led the Indian to one of the tiny cubicles, not the room she used for the Ee-tees; she didn’t want the memory of what she did with the Indian tainting her special room. He collapsed against the door, staring at her and unfastening his trousers. Sukara slipped the baht under the mattress and pulled down her skirt, leaving her T-shirt on: she did not like going with human men, and tried to keep as much of herself covered as possible.
She knelt on the edge of the bed and held on to the rail on the wall, letting him have her from behind. She heard him belch, smelled the beery fumes in the air. She felt him thrusting between her legs, his first few attempts missing and sliding up and across her back. She felt his fingers forcing apart her legs, felt him try again, this time entering her brutally. He was so big that she feared he might tear her. She closed her eyes and cried out in pain as he thrust repeatedly. She pulled forward so that he slid out before he came, and her relief was immediate.
The first blow struck her across the back of her head, so painful that she thought he must have picked something up, or pulled a cosh from somewhere. The blow rang through her skull. She fell face down on the bed, protecting her head from his punches. She would not cry out, would not
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