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The Duel

By: TrishaMonks



The Grey Gull Tavern was an old seafaring inn overlooking the decrepit harbor of Tormaz. Like all quayside inns, it had once thrived on the patronage of fishermen, sailmakers and travelers. Those days were now long passed, the old prosperity having been killed off by piracy on the seas and the construction of a large new port ten miles along the coast. For sixty years the Grey Gull lay derelict and forgotten, as the fisherfolk forsook Tormaz and moved away, leaving only a few rotting ships in the ancient harbor. But when the great war broke out on the distant Zerl Islands, the armies of Tilnon needed a port of embarkation for their troopships, and the generals remembered the old quays at Tormaz, so they sent their craftsmen to refurbish them. The troops brought new life to the Grey Gull Tavern, and its walls echoed again to the noise of song and revelry, for it became a favored haunt of soldiers and sailors en route to the Zerl campaign. 

On one particular evening of early autumn, in the mellow weeks before the wintry seas grew too perilous for the huge slow troopships, a hundred of Tilnon's infantry were enjoying their last night on the mainland. Forty of them descended on the Grey Gull at sunset, determined to drink every drop of ale and wine in the tavern. They were a raucous crowd, most of them new recruits who came to drown their fear of battle. About a dozen were young women and girls, barely out of their teens, whose high voices shrieked and cackled above the hubbub of noise as their throats swallowed copious quantities of strong ale and dark wine. They flirted with their male comrades, kissing some and cursing others, shoving aside the optimistic hands that tried to paw their bare thighs or sneak under their short red dresses. Red, too, were the tunics of the men, but their modesty was protected by close-fitting white breeches.

In a corner, away from the lamplight and the swirling smoke, sat two women whose raiment showed that they were not part of the main group. One was small of stature, with a tumbling mane of blonde curls, wearing a short buckskin dress with a tassled hem and no sleeves. The other was taller and more athletic, her body finely-toned and smooth-skinned. Her chestnut hair was long and neatly combed, its shiny tresses falling around her tanned shoulders. Her black leather waistcoat and matching short skirt were decorated with small metal studs, as was the broad belt that encircled her slender waist. From the belt hung a sword in a black scabbard, its hilt patterned with intertwining shapes in red and gold.

The women sat on a bench with their backs propped against the tavern wall. Before them, on a table, stood two copper tankards and six empty wine-jugs. The blonde drained the last dregs from her tankard and banged the empty vessel on the tabletop.

"Somebody fetch me a drink!" she slurred.

"You've had enough for tonight, Keelam," her companion replied. "And anyway, we've run out of money."

The blonde frowned, her bleary eyes staring at the row of empty jugs. "Fear not, Sharmoon! I'll get money from these Tilnonese fools. Give me your sword!"

Sharmooon laughed. "You're drunk! You can barely stand, let alone wield a weapon. But you're forgetting that these red-clad loudmouths are our friends and allies. So sit quiet, or go to sleep!"

Keelam cursed and with a sweep of her arm knocked one of the jugs off the table. It hit the floor and smashed to pieces. The noise caught the attention of a nearby group of Tilnonese soldiers: three men wearing sergeants' insignia and two young female recruits. The tallest of the men grinned and walked over to the table, his arm around the waist of one of the girls.

"What's wrong, Kee?" the man asked, his mouth curling in a wry smile. "Too much wine, perhaps?"

Keelam glared up at him. "Get me another jug, Wixer!"

The man laughed. "It's not my task to keep you in wine, Keelam. And as for you, Sharmoon, you shouldn't let your little comrade drink so much. You know she can't take it."

Sharmoon shook her head. "You know that's not true, Wixer. Remember your drinking contest last year? It was you, not Keelam, who toppled off the bench."

Wixer grinned, before sitting on a chair on the opposite side of the table. Placing his young female companion on his knee he turned to face Sharmoon.

"I remember the contest," he said, after a long moment of silence. "I also recall that you promised me a kiss that evening, after I generously paid off your gambling debt. You still owe me that kiss, Sharmoon."

Sharmoon's keen blue eyes narrowed as she stared across the table. "The promise was forfeited when you lost both the drinking contest and your wits. I usually keep my promises, Sergeant Wixer. But I won't kiss any man who lies in a drunken stupor on the tavern floor."

Wixer shrugged, turning his attention to the girl sitting on his knee. He caressed her long auburn hair and smiled to see her yawn.

"Are you weary, little one?" he asked, his voice softening to a tone that was almost paternal. "We'll return to our bed soon, I promise. But first I'll introduce you to a pair of tough barbarian warriors: Keelam and Sharmoon, staunch allies of our king in his long and bitter war."

The girl yawned again, and Wixer turned back to Sharmoon. "This is Nimi, a fine spearmaiden who excelled in training. Don't be fooled by her prettiness, for she fights like a wildcat. She reminds me of you, Sharmoon: beautiful and charming, yet deadly in combat."

Nimi gazed drunkenly at Sharmoon, her brown eyes so dilated that they seemed almost black.

"I've heard so much about you," she murmured dreamily. "About your skill with a sword. Wixer reckons you're the greatest of warrior women, and that you've slain three thousand enemies."

"That's an exaggeration," Sharmoon muttered. "What other half-truths have you heard?" 

Nimi leaned forward, parting her lips and licking her teeth. "One of the women in my regiment," she began, pausing to hiccup. "Her name is Kori: a tough corporal at the training camp. She remembers you with affection, Sharmoon. She told me that you make love like an angel."

Keelam had been listening quietly to the conversation, but this last remark made her laugh aloud, her blonde tresses jiggling as her shoulders shook with mirth. "Like an angel? That's one I've not heard before!"

Sharmoon's elbow gave her friend a sharp nudge in the ribs as she said: "Sober up, Kee-Kee! Where are your manners? Your mockery is embarrassing our pretty guest!"

Keelam chuckled merrily but Nimi ignored her and fixed a bleary gaze on Sharmoon, who in turn looked at Wixer.

"I think you should escort Nimi back to her tent," she suggested. "She's had far too much drink tonight, and tomorrow she has a long voyage to endure."

"I can hold my ale!" Nimi protested. "I'm eighteen years old, so please don't treat me like a child!"

Keelam laughed again, pointing an accusing finger at Wixer. "Cradle-dipper! She's ten years younger than you. Have you no shame, Sergeant?"

Wixer shrugged. "Nimi isn't a child. She's barely four years younger than Sharmoon and is a woman of some pedigree, a fact that several of her male comrades will happily confirm."

"You swine!" Nimi yelled, lightly slapping his nose. "You make me seem like the regimental whore!"

Wixer clasped her tightly in his arms and stuck out his tongue. Nimi buried her hands in his mop of black hair and clamped her mouth onto his. Their kiss lingered for a half minute, before Wixer pulled away to turn once again to Sharmoon.

"Now I want the same from you, my fine barbarian friend! Tonight you shall fulfill the promise that you once made. Give me your kiss, Sharmoon!"

Sharmoon shook her head. "No. I will not kiss you. Not tonight. Nor any other night."

Wixer frowned. "Then answer this challenge: a duel, just you and me. And, if I win the contest, my prize shall be more than a kiss."

Keelam whistled through her teeth. "Are you mad, Wixer? You cannot defeat Sharmoon."

"I know," Wixer muttered. "But the prize is too tempting, and the ale has dulled my wits."

Sharmoon smiled at him. "I accept the challenge. But what prize shall I take when I break your witless skull?"

"Name it," Wixer replied.

Sharmoon looked at Nimi. "My prize is this: that you take this young girl back to her tent and put her to bed before midnight."

Nimi banged her fist on the table. "No!"

But Wixer nodded to Sharmoon. "Agreed. And now it falls to the challenger to choose the venue and the weaponry." He paused, his eyes closing briefly. "I choose the quarterstaff as the weapon and the tavern yard as the place."

"So be it," said Sharmoon.

"One more thing," Wixer added, rising to his feet. "If I win, I take my prize immediately."

Sharmoon raised her eyebrows. "In the tavern yard? Are you kidding?"

Wixer shook his head and grinned, before casting a wink at the two barbarian women. Then he strode off to buy more drink, leading Nimi by the hand as he disappeared into the milling throng of red-garbed soldiery.

Keelam watched him go, then turned to her companion. "He's a mad fellow, isn't he? He knows he can't beat you in a fight, but he issues a challenge regardless. He's so arrogant! I hope you teach him a hard lesson."

"I will indeed," Sharmoon said softly. "But I don't intend to hurt him too much. I like him, Keelam. I like him very much."

"What? You mean you're attracted to that big loudmouth?"

"Yes. And there will come a time when I share his bed. But I'll make him fight for it. Women fall onto his cock too readily. He must learn that his arrogance and good looks don't always reap rewards."

Keelam sighed. "He'd better reappear with a jug for me. If not, he'll find himself dueling with you and me both!"

Wixer and Nimi soon returned but remained standing. Keelam gratefully accepted the two brimming jugs that Wixer placed on the table. Her blue eyes gleamed like pale crystal lamps as she filled her goblet with dark wine.

Wixer bowed before her. "A gift from one warrior to another, in token of the alliance between our two proud nations."

Keelam grinned at his sarcasm. "Alliance? Who cares about alliances? Just keep me supplied with wine and I'll fight anyone whom you name as your enemy."

Sharmoon stood up, hauling a rather reluctant Keelam to her feet. "Ready, Wixer?"

Wixer nodded and led the way out through a rear door into the tavern's small enclosed yard. It was empty, except for a few old barrels stacked along one wall. It seemed very dark after the brightness inside, but the full moon dappled the cobbles with a pale silvery light.

"No need for lamps," said Wixer, sniffing the warm night air. He walked over to a corner near the door and rummaged in a pile of junk. Among the jumble of splintered crates and old broken crocks he found the remains of a wicker fence and selected two sturdy staves of beechwood. They weren't quite straight, but nor did they bend easily when he leaned his weight on them.

"These will suffice," he observed, throwing one of the staves to Sharmoon, who caught it deftly in her left hand.

Keelam and Nimi sat together on a low barrel with their drinks, Nimi swigging from an earthenware ale-bottle while Keelam gulped mouthfuls of wine.

"Good luck, Sergeant Wixer!" Nimi yelled, as the protagonists squared up to each other. Then, turning to Keelam, she asked: "Surely they'll stop fighting before they inflict any serious hurt?"

Keelam shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. But Wixer's skull is thick and hard, so do not fret for his safety."

Nimi gazed at Sharmoon, admiring her supple limbs and athletic form. "I can see why Wixer is so keen to make love to her. She is very beautiful."

Keelam smiled. "Yes. She is."

"Are you her lover?" Nimi inquired.

Keelam nodded. "Occasionally. Whenever the mood takes her. But it is her friendship, not her lovemaking, that I cherish most of all. She is indeed the best of all our warriors: the deadliest swordswoman, the most loyal comrade."

Nimi said nothing, but her eyes remained fixed on Sharmoon, who now assumed a fighting stance: knees bent, shoulders relaxed, swaying gently on her hips. Wixer faced her, his greater height and frame making him seem awkward and ungainly in contrast to his opponent's lithe form and easy grace. Without warning he suddenly lunged at Sharmoon, thrusting his staff at her belly. She dodged the clumsy jab with a twist of her body and repaid it by smashing her own staff across Wixer's back as he stumbled forward. He gave a yell of pain and swung his weapon wildly, aiming for her head. She ducked, and jabbed at his ribs, knocking him off balance so that he staggered. He steadied his feet, but a swift jab to his left knee thwarted his effort to remain upright and he fell heavily to the ground. Keelam loudly applauded her friend's skill, and Sharmoon acknowledged the praise with a wave and a smile.

Nimi frowned. "She's a far better fighter than Wixer. Why does he permit himself to be shamed like this?"

"He lacks the skill," Keelam replied. "He's a fine warrior whose strength usually prevails against his opponents, but strength alone is of no avail against Sharmoon. She's too agile for him."

As if to confirm Keelam's assessment, Sharmoon dodged three more clumsy blows before felling Wixer with a jab to his belly. He sprawled on all fours, coughing and gasping.

Nimi drained her bottle and placed it on the ground near her feet. She shook her head. "This isn't fair. The contest is too uneven!"

Keelam winced as another well-placed jab sent Wixer crashing into a pile of old wooden crates. She laughed, and Sharmoon turned around to wink at her. This proved too much for Nimi, who suspected that Sharmoon was mocking the drunken sergeant.

"That's enough!" she yelled. "Give him a chance to fight back!"

Sharmoon gave her a nod and a smile, then turned to face another wild charge by Wixer. She didn't see Nimi's angry kick, which sent the empty ale-bottle scudding across the ground. It came to a halt behind Sharmoon's feet, even as she stepped backwards to dodge Wixer's attack. She tripped on the bottle and stumbled, just as her opponent's staff swung through the air. The hefty blow struck the side of her head, knocking her to the floor. There she lay, dazed and stunned, her brain spinning and her vision blurred. 

She tried to sit up, but fell back with a groan. Dimly, she became aware of Wixer's staff pressing her throat, and of his voice saying: "Looks like I win the contest?"

"You win," she answered faintly.

Keelam ran over to kneel beside her. "Are you badly hurt, comrade? That was a savage blow!"

Sharmoon closed her eyes for a moment. "I'm fine! Just help me to sit up."

With Keelam's assistance she managed to gain a sitting position. "My head feels like an anvil," she whispered.

Keelam gently ran her fingers through her friend's chestnut hair, feeling the skin above the right ear. "No blood, and no big lump. How bad is your headache?"

"Bearable," Sharmoon replied. "The ale numbs it."

Wixer looked down at her and grinned. "I guess I owe my victory to a well-aimed bottle skidding beneath your feet."

Sharmoon smiled. "I guess so. But the victory is yours nonetheless. No doubt you are eager to claim your prize?"

Wixer shook his head. "Another time, Sharmoon. I am not so ungallant that I would fuck an injured woman. If the war spares us both, we'll find a clean white bed and enjoy a long night of sweet passion."

Sharmoon frowned at him. "I will not have it said of me that I betrayed a promise. The contest was fairly won, and the prize is yours to take. I will be shamed if you do not take it."

Wixer knelt at her feet. He reached out to caress her legs, feeling the calf-muscles smooth and taut beneath her suntanned skin. "My dear Sharmoon! I cannot do this. You are sorely hurt, and you need to rest."

"Do you not want your prize?" she asked.

"More than anything," he replied, his hands moving up to stroke her bare thighs below the hem of her black leather skirt.

Sharmoon drew a sharp breath, and her mouth half-opened, baring her white teeth. She licked her lips and smiled at Wixer. "See? I'm feeling better already."

Wixer leaned over to kiss her. His tongue darted into her mouth and she responded with a small moan, even as his left hand crept under the hem of the skirt to touch her crotch. His fingertips stroked the soft hairs around her pussy as a breathless gasp sighed in her throat.

Keelam remained kneeling beside them for a while, but eventually she got up to rejoin Nimi on the barrels.

"I didn't mean to trip her with that bottle," the girl said apologetically. "It was simply an unfortunate accident. I just got angry, that's all."

"Fear not!" Keelam reassured her. "I imagine Sharmoon is grateful to you for your timely intervention."

"Grateful?" Nimi queried.

Keelam grinned. "Yes, indeed. She's perfectly happy with the outcome of the contest."

"Me too," said Nimi.

"Why so?" asked Keelam. "Have you not seen Wixer naked?"

Nimi nodded. "Of course! The big hairy ox shares my bed. But my gaze tonight will be on Sharmoon."

"Ah!" Keelam whispered knowingly. "Have you fallen under her spell?"

Nimi smiled. "Perhaps so."

They turned their attention to the lovers, who were now slowly undressing each other. Sharmoon eased Wixer's red tunic off his muscular shoulders, while he in turn removed her leather waistcoat and flung it aside. Her firm round breasts, freed from the garment that restrained them, caught the silver moonlight until Wixer's huge hands enveloped them. Her nipples stiffened beneath his thumbs before glistening with his saliva as he gently licked the hard teats and the circles from which they sprouted. Burying his head between her breasts he kissed the underside of each swollen orb before transferring his attentions to her belly, his tongue tracing a line of moisture down to her navel. He licked the crinkled knot of flesh and heard her giggle like a shy maiden. His fingers unfastened the metal clasps at her hips and removed the black leather skirt, his eyes widening with desire at the unveiling of her secret places.

"Hellfire, Sharmoon!" he hissed. "I'll swear you are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen!"

Feeling her strong fingers burrowing into his mop of black hair, Wixer lowered his face to her crotch and planted three kisses: one on the neat triangle of soft bristles above her pussy, another slightly lower on the fleshy lips, the third on the tip of her erect clitoris. This final kiss made her cry out, her spine arching gracefully at the delicious sensation. Almost immediately she cried out again, for Wixer's tongue began licking up and down the length of her slit, his tongue probing ever deeper between her tingling sex-lips. Deeper and deeper he probed, until the entire length of his tongue from root to tip was wriggling feverishly inside her innermost flesh. His upper teeth gently gnawed her clit, coaxing it out of its pink hood so that it stood up proud and stiff. Sharmoon felt her whole lower body throbbing towards an intense climax which, when it came, completely overwhelmed her senses. Even as she lay drowning in waves of pleasure, her bosom heaving and her brow sweating, she felt the weight of Wixer's body on top of her. For a while she lay in a haze of ecstasy, smiling up at him as he showered her face with kisses.

"You're amazing, Sharmoon!" he whispered, as his long hard cock slipped between her thighs to penetrate her womanhood. Supporting his muscular torso on his strong arms, he gave a slow thrust of his hips. At once he felt the clasp of her warm succulent flesh along the full length of his buried phallus. Slowly, he drew himself back, until only the engorged plum of his cockhead still lingered in her pussy. Then, with a gasp of delight, he pushed slowly inside her again. Enthralled by her loveliness he almost climaxed with that second stroke but, with an effort and a tremendous desire to prolong his pleasure, he suppressed the juices that ached to be released from his swollen balls. He eventually managed a further twelve deep thrusts until, with sweat trickling down his face and chest, he could hold back no more. The twelfth stroke released an orgasm so potent that a guttural roar issued from his throat, its noise drowning Sharmoon's soft purring as she quietly enjoyed her second climax. A powerful jet of semen sprayed inside her love-hole and continued to gush at each spasm of Wixer's manhood, each mighty squirt flooding her passage with hot white juice. Moisture oozed from her pussy to dribble down to her anus. Breathless and trembling, Wixer slowly withdrew his semi-flaccid cock and buried his face in Sharmoon's dark mane, his lips brushing her left ear and whispering her praises. Sharmoon felt the touch of his rapidly-shrinking penis on her skin: it lay cool and clammy on her thigh, still spitting a trail of sticky fluid. With a gentle laugh she crawled out from under his body and sat up, slapping his bare buttocks.


The Duel



"Get up, you lazy brute!" she yelled. "We can't lie here all night, in the tavern yard!"

Wixer rolled onto his side, gazing at her as she sat smiling beside him. He reached up to stroke her breasts, feeling the nipples still hard beneath his fingers.

"You're incredible, Sharmoon!" he said softly. "Now I see why you break so many hearts."

Sharmoon bent down to kiss him, then sprang lightly to her feet. Walking over to Keelam and Nimi she stood naked and panting before them. The two spectators had watched the spectacle in silence, making so little sound that at times Sharmoon had been unaware of their presence.

"Well?" Keelam asked. "Was it worth a bump on the head?"

Sharmoon nodded. "The bump was a small price to pay. Sergeant Wixer gave me a fine fucking, and I hope he repeats it soon."

She saw Nimi looking at her and returned the stare, until the young Tilnonese girl spoke. "You hoped to lose the duel, did you not?"

"Of course!" Sharmoon replied, stepping into her skirt and fastening the hip-clasps. "I hope you're not jealous. Maybe you wished to trade places?"

Nimi shook her head. "No, not with you, Sharmoon. But I would gladly have traded places with Wixer."

Keelam raised her eyebrows, and Sharmoon grinned at her before turning back to Nimi.

"Tomorrow you sail to the Zerl Islands," she observed, as she buttoned her leather waistcoat. "Next week I sail there also. If you don't get yourself killed in the first few days, go to the Starfish Inn on the first night of the new moon."

"Will you be there?" Nimi asked, as a strange eager light flickered in her eyes.

Sharmoon nodded, while Keelam helped her to straighten her sword-belt and untangle a small twig from her chestnut tresses.

Nimi looked over at Wixer, who had since managed to haul himself into a kneeling position. He yawned as he peered at the three women.

Keelam got up from her barrel-seat and stretched her limbs, shaking her blonde curls and straightening her buckskin dress. "Let's go, comrade!" she said, patting Sharmoon's shoulder. "I'm ready for a long sleep."

Keelam smiled at Nimi and waved to Wixer, who raised a weary hand in response. Sharmoon blew a kiss to the naked man before following her companion through the door and into the tavern.

Nimi gave a wistful sigh as she watched them disappear. She remained seated on the barrel for a few minutes until Wixer stood up and began putting on his white breeches.

"Where's my tunic?" he muttered.

Nimi handed him the red garment and helped him to put it on. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him, entwining her arms around his neck.

"Can you taste Sharmoon's juices?" he asked.

Nimi licked her lips. "Yes indeed! Your mouth tastes like pussy."

"Some women might find such flavors unpleasant," said Wixer.

"Not me," Nimi replied, taking his hand and leading him back inside the tavern to rejoin the throng.



The Duel



The year is 1820 and a relative peace resides in Europe. It is a time where the Nobility of a handful of Continental families rule over the millions of common people across borders and barriers of language. Living in decadent opulence, their lives consist of balls, operas and hunting parties, an endless series of social gatherings across the great cities of Europe, every man assured in the knowledge that the world and everything in it is placed purely for his own pleasure..

Marie de Solle, now known as Madam van Berkamp, huddled in the coach as it bumped and swayed along the deeply rutted road through the dark Bavarian forest. She hugged her arms to her sides, sinking into the fine leather seat, wrapping the thick furs around her. Her petite figure and tiny, porcelain face were barely visible below the piles of blankets and exquisite furs. The chill in the air that penetrated her shawl and full length coat was eclipsed only by the numbness she felt at her breast, the nerves that made her so sick to her stomach that she had dry heaved a number of times already that morning. Sick from the anticipation that the man she adored, worshipped and indeed relied on for everything in her life may be dead before the sun chased away the cold and darkness. The knowledge that he may well die for no other reason than her very own stupid folly.

The black coach thundered through a sunken part of the road, the horses snorting nostrils spewing plumes of steam, illuminated by the swaying lanterns attached to the drivers post creating an erie glow. The massive frame of McCreedy, her husbands coach driver, batman and manservant; crouched over the reins as he spurred the horses on. Pines, firs and oak branches whipped at the coach windows, fine ribbons of mist were parted with the carriages passing. McCreedy drew in the reins and brought the horses to a trot as the road opened out into a large clearing. Wheeling around a cul-de-sac, the horses came to an impatient stop, invigorated by their exercise, with a stamping of hooves and the jingling of bits, their sides lathered with shining sweat despite the cold.

They were drawn alongside an old hitching rail on the edge of some well manicured grounds, bordered at each end by the towering, mist shrouded forest. To the right, the grass sloped away to a low stone wall, beyond which the ground dropped suddenly into a breathtaking view of the valley below. Thick forest gave way to open pastural lands, a patchwork of different browns and green interspaced with a few tiny hamlets in the very bottom of the valley, visible only by the church spires rising out of the mist. To the left of the small clearing stood a modest chalet, by winter a trappers hut, by summer, as now was approaching; a hunting lodge for some local noble. 

The scene was lit by the lightening sky to the East, above the dark dome of the night sky still remained, stars sparkling. In front of the eves of the Chalet, two groups of coated men stood about fifty yards apart, each surrounded by a pool of light from storm lanterns held by those in each party. MCreedy opened the door to the coach, adorned with the coat of arms of her husbands once great family. He silently held out his hand and helped her down. "A hot coffee Ma'am?" he questioned, holding up a flask of steaming, strong smelling coffee, sweetened by a drab of whiskey.

"Thank you, but I fear I will not be able to stomach it" she spoke faintly.

At that moment, her heart seemed to stop, as below in the valley miles away, a church bell tolled six, the appointed time for this gathering. Her breast tightened and she reached for McCreedy's steel forearm as her head swam with the drama, her breath, already restricted by the corset of her undergarments, shortened. Through the gloom and dispersing mist, she could see the tall frame of her husband in one of the groups. His broad shoulders and easy stance were recognizable anywhere, for a moment she almost forgot her distress as she saw how even in this time of crisis, amongst the bravest and sternest of men, he alone shone brightest, his personality silently commanded those around him. Although she could not see his features in the gloom, she could picture his military length dark hair and stern eyebrows, his laughing green eyes and his distinguished moustache. 

As the bells ceased, echoing in Marie's ears like bells of mourning, the two groups began to move together. Her husband took off his overcoat and hat, handing it to his second. He was now wearing his tailored Hussars trousers, regaled with the blue cavalry stripe of the Hungarian Horse, his current posting; and a white cotton long sleeved undershirt. In the ever increasing light, she could make out the his lips firmly set, a concentration that she had seen many times before. Even from this distance however and for the first time in the time that she had known him, all laughter had left his bright eyes, instead replaced with a cold, piercing stare. Through her nervousness, her heart fluttered with what could only be described as excitement, so this is what he looks like in battle she thought. Finally she had an insight into her impeccably mannered husbands other life. The life of a soldier that he loved so much, had won so much fame, glory and riches. She stirred as the feeling rose, her hands shook beneath her fur hand warmer. Her stomach turned in mixed anxiety, fear and excitement.

The clearing was lit now in a grey light, the last stars were fading and the seconds doused their lamps. The groups split up, the majority withdrew to the front of the chalet. The duel had not been advertised, but those that etiquette dictated had a right to attend had gathered. The host of the ball at which the challenge was made, the local governor, the commanding officer of Bavarian Infantry Regiment and a number of aides took their places under the eves of the chalet, smoking quietly, a few murmurs passing between them as side bets were made. In the centre of the clearing, framed as it was by the mist shrouded forest, stood Captain van Berkamp and his second, Lieutenant Wittengstein. Ten yards opposite Colonel Tachovski and his second also made their preparations. Between them stood old General von Karlson, the venerable and hardened army doctor. His steady old body was set into motion on the last, far off strike of the church bell. He slowly and deliberately carried two cases across the dewy grass with military rigidity, the efficiency that knows accuracy is much better than speed in these situations, as in battle; that one must fight to be overcome by the emotions associated with the presence of death. He placed one to the side, a large leather medical case about twenty paces from where the two antagonists faced each other. He carried the other, small black case back to the centre, pausing and gathering himself. 

"Gentleman" his voice boomed, speaking in the language of the Continent, French, in a barrack room voice, shattering the absolute silence of the spring morning. "Before we go on, is there any way the two parties can be reconciled?". Marie faltered, leaning on McCreedy's strong arm as these words were spoken, bringing her presence by the coach opposite the lawn to attention to all.

"Captain van Berkamp, you as the injured party have the last chance now to withdraw your challenge". Berkamp stood tall, shoulders back, white shirt open at the chest, gently rising and falling with his measured breaths. His eyes showed no change as he stared down his adversary. "Colonel Tachovski, Mr Berkamp here offered to withdraw any challenge the instant you apologized on the honour of his wife, what say you Sir?"

Tachovski spoke in a cracking voice, that gained in confidence as he spoke. "I would like again to protest the presence of a lady at this hour, especially as it is none other than the lady over which this rash challenge has been issued, through no fault of my own, I cannot apologize for something which I cannot be responsible for, I again recommend that Captain van Berkamp keep a tighter rain on Madam" he gestured offhandedly toward the coach "and further more, not meddle in the societies of Europe, it is no place for a mercenary Sir!!" 

There was a slight shuffling and a few murmurs among the onlookers, even in the cold light of dawn, the insult it seemed, had been doubled. Berkamp did not perceivably move a single inch of his body, but a dark cloud seemed to cross his eyes, the glowering of his brow intensified. He had transformed from the cold, steely look of a man becalmed in a crisis, to the hot tempered, furious outlook of a killer. Again he seemed to gather himself, the look of fury quickly subsided and the icy stare returned.

"I will not sully an ounce of my honour by responding to that last remark. As to the first Sir, if my wife is to share any of the blame for this incident, then she is here to share the consequence and I hope, learn a lesson. However, your actions Sir, last night toward my wife, in my opinion have no place in the very society you speak of. Therefore, one of us must be in error. So there is no other option then for one of us to be removed from said society this very morning!!" Berkamp's voice was even and commanding, Marie's little heart fluttered as she heard it for the first time for twelve hours since the dinner last night. Oh how different it sounded to when it whispered his love in her ear, when it spoke to her gaily in the mornings!

"Very well. Gentleman, back to back if you please" spoke the Doctor. "On my count, each man will pace out ten paces each and turn, pistol lowered. I will then raise my handkerchief, signaling that you may make ready. A few seconds later the handkerchief will drop, at which point both parties may fire when ready. Any questions?" the old doctor spoke in a loud, measured voice. Once again neither uttered a sound, they both steadily walked forward, turning back to back at the centre of clearing. 

"Colonel, as the challenged party, choose your pistol" the doctor opened the case in front of the Russian Colonel, who had kept his tunic on, adorned with medals from his countries countless campaigns through western Europe and the defense of his homeland at Smolensk, Moscow and the hell at Borodino. He reached out and took a silver and black cavalry pistol, holding it pointing skyward. Berkamp took the second pistol and the doctor calmly walked to his medical case, turning with the handkerchief now in his old, wrinkled hand. 

"Gentleman, ten paces and halt, forward march!"

Marie began to tremble uncontrollably as she watched her husband, magnificent in the early morning gloom, his white cotton shirt barely concealing his lean upper body. She was short of breath, gasping, at the excitement and terror of the moment. Her ears were deaf to the Doctor counting out each pace, she was transfixed by the figure of her husband. Oh how she loved him dearly, now more then ever in their short marriage. So often when he was off on campaign, or playing cards, or hunting, she felt so alone, even bitter towards him. He lived such a man's life, but now she was witnessing him in that world, she was seeing another part of him and it was exciting her, making her yearn for him even more. 

Through those ten short paces, Marie went through every range of emotion that a young woman in love could. She was excited, yet almost in tears in terror at the thought of his death, thinking she would throw herself off the mountain if it happened. However, as she watched, she felt a strange, primitive yearning. She watched the harsh muscle across his shoulders, exposed by the open neck shirt. His form was perfect, his skin dark, his arms and chest clearly outlined beneath the thin cotton. His jaw was set, the muscle at his temple pounding with his heart beat. Suddenly she realised that he was by far the better man, she almost smiled with the ecstasy at this discovery. What man could possibly endanger her husband? He was going to kill the Colonel dead, of this she was sure. She tried to emulate the expression of her husband, glowering, chin jutting out, eyes peering bravely outwards, "... Six! Seven!"

She now felt a tingling deep within her, despite the cold, she was suddenly desperately hot and flushed in her fur hat and long overcoat. Deep beneath the folds of her many layers of clothing, she felt her sex was seeping into her silk under garments, she could feel them becoming sodden, slick, feel the hot moisture around the skin of her thighs dampening at the fine dark triangle of curls. She could feel every surge of blood, moving to her engorged, swelling vagina. She could feel her clitoris enlarge, her lips open like a blooming flower, she could smell herself at her nostrils. She snuck a glance at McCreedy at her arm. He was sternly looking forward within his turned up collar and pulled down cap, ignorant it would seem to her condition. How many times would he have seen his master in battle? When he won his medals on the Peninsula in that bloody charge against the English cannon, or saving Marshall Oudinot crossing the flooded Vistula? Oh she wished she had seen him in all his moments of glory! How she yearned to see what McCreedy's eyes had seen, at his side at every sword thrust, dashing cavalry charge and thunderous clatter of musketry.

Her breast heaved, her breath passing in little whimpering spurts past her swollen lips, red with the cold, her cheeks shining against her porcelain, perfect skin. Her brown freckles shone through across her nose, even the curls of her hair shook as they perfectly framed her face. She shifted her stance, letting out a little cry as her thighs moved, slippery now with sweet musk, rolling her tender lips and now meaty vagina against itself.

"...Nine! Ten!" there was a pause, both men turned in an impeccable drill movement, spinning on their heels. Marie could see the powerful thighs and strong buttocks that come from a life in the saddle of her husband, hugged by his fitted cavalry strides. He stood right foot forward, firm but casually side on, facing his adversary. Marie was panting now, through the hand warmer she pushed slightly at her pelvis, her hips moving with every pant of her shallow, rapid breath. A kaleidoscope of images was rushing through her head as time stood still on that meadow, she saw his body above her, over her, her hands scrabbling at his hairy, broad chest as he took her. She saw his face, howling in anger as he charged into a bloody mass of infantry, cutting at limb after limb with his saber. She saw him tall, handsome in the uniform of Napoleons Hussars, as he had been on their wedding day, her eyes dazzled by his medals.

She watched, her heart pounding in her ears, every surge reaching her clitoris, pushing slimy sex out into her clothes and silky folds of pink skin, as the doctor raised that tiny white handkerchief. Her breath stopped, her vagina flooded, she almost buckled at the knees but for the support of the still oblivious McCreedy, as both men leveled their pistols. Time stood still, another lifetime past, Marie could wait no longer as it felt like she had to relieve some massive pressure within her. A breeze was picking up now as the sun warmed the masses of air on the slopes and in the valleys. Her husbands shirt sleeve, fluttered, his fringe moved. She watched the horrible, trembling, black eye that was Colonel Tachovski's barrel. Her fear rose suddenly again, as the moment neared. The handkerchief fell, fluttered slowly, dancing in the breaths of air that toyed with it. Marie was seeing the scene now detached, her eyes took it in, but she was aware only of her vagina, her clitoris, her lips pulsing out, pushing out a trickle of fluid. Fear in her stomach, turning over, her head swimming. Her panting breath, a longing for him to take her, angry, violent, cold as he was now. A longing to see blood, to see death pass between these two great men.

It was all over in a micro second, but Marie saw it all as if in the acts of a play. The handkerchief hit the ground, landing on a purple alpine orchid. Tachovski's barrel spewed spark and white smoke, expanding out of it like an avalanche of white snow at its full, terrifying speed. An instant later, Berkamp's pan sparked as he too fired. Marie could sense that the balls passed each other, perhaps a third of the distance between them in front of her husband, who stood unflinchingly. She felt a wave of release, withering with a slow moan as her being gave in to her urge to orgasm, a bucking, leaking, crippling wave of sensualism as she watched the red line of the ball grazing her beloved Hans' cheek. She buckled with the relief and ecstasy of her orgasm combined with the sight of her husbands handsome cheek torn open as the hot ball whipped along his skin, a blissful flesh wound only, the blood already running down the line of his jaw, splattering in startling crimson on his shirt. 

An imperceivable fraction of time later, her orgasm was redoubled with a loud cry as with a bloody smack, her husbands ball found its mark at the base of the Colonel's throat. A spurt of crimson blood arched across the dawn sky as he collapsed to his knees, his throat opened with a horrific, jagged gash. He was unconscious before he hit the ground as the ball lodged in his spine, yet he gurgled and spluttered as his being breathed its last breath. Marie crumpled in a shuddering orgasm, the combination of relief, ecstasy at her husbands survival, love of the new man in him she had witnessed and a prime evil blood lust for the death of his adversary. Her vagina sparked with flaming pleasure, as if the intense scenes her eyes witnessed resulted in some physical manipulation of her steaming, seeping sex.

Marie's nostrils were assailed with the sweet, slaughter house stench of death in the clear, cool air, mixed with the pungent smell of her own bodies excretions as the orgasm subsided. Her last thought was of running to her husband, who motionless as he watched his adversary live out the last few seconds of a violent life, with the impossibly peaceful backdrop of the natural beauty of the surrounds. His shoulders were slumped, his pistol dangled from his hand by his side, his cheek bled onto his shoulder and chest, spreading across his shirt, which fluttered silently in the breeze. Marie had taken her first steps to run to him, feeling McCreedy gently hold her back, before she fainted and darkness descended upon her.



The Duel



Foreword

There is not much sex in this story, but it is very much in the loving wives tradition. Actually, unlike many stories in this category, it's about a loving wife, although you may beg to disagree. If it's not for you, move on. My thanks are to the long-dead Chekhov, who wrote a great short story called The Duel. 

One: Bad news day

Stan breathed out the dead air of the clinic and paused at the entrance to enjoy the sun on his face. He'd promised himself a coffee when he was done and crossed the hospital car park to the neglected shopping arcade where two boys on BMX bikes aimlessly circled the security bollards and raced ahead of him up the alleyway showing off their wheelies. He followed slowly, each step an effort of will. Some time later he was staring into the grimy window of a dry cleaner's. Time to get a grip. 

It was bad news as expected and he was numb, his mind trapped in the labour of processing what had been said. He should have brought Suzie with him after all and he tried to remember why he hadn't; his wife would have remembered everything the consultant oncologist said, made proper notes and asked better questions. Now he looked at the boys jumping a broken paving stone and was overcome by emptiness and disgust. It seemed as if no time had passed since he too was an aimless schoolboy waiting for life to start. Now it was finished. Looking round this suburban waste ground he might as well already be ashes. There wasn't even a cafe. 

It was bladder cancer, which had metastasised, with secondary tumours in his hip and chest.  The plan was for urgent surgery on his bladder in three days time and radiation and chemotherapy for the rest. The oncologist hadn't tried to talk up his chances. He said they would take stock after the surgery. 

"You mean I'll most probably die."

The young doctor nodded. "But you're not without hope. We'll do all we can to manage any pain and give you the best from what time you have left. You have to stay positive."

Stan got a grip and took out his phone. A call to Suzie's work went unanswered and he hung on, silently begging someone to pick up. Come on Suzie, pick up this time. I really need to speak to you. Just this once. The phone was eventually answered by an unknown secretary who said that Suzie was unavailable. He patiently explained that he was Suzie's husband, that this was an emergency and he needed to speak to her urgently. There was a long silence and when the woman came back she was brisk. Suzie was on leave that day; he would have to try elsewhere. 

Stan was surprised and momentarily forgot his problems. Suzie was always at work. She never missed a day for illness or anything else. He dialled their home number on the off-chance and listened to it ring until the answerphone switched in. Then he called her mobile. She was never good at answering and he wasn't surprised when it went to her voicemail. Rather than reveal his despair to a machine, he sent a text: "Call me as soon as you see this. Need to speak."

By the time he had reached his car he had a reply: "What's the problem?" Weak as he was, it felt like a blow. Why hadn't she called him? Immediately he phoned, but once more the call went to voicemail. He was feeling very lonely. 

Two: Missed calls

Suzie had no reason to feel guilty, but all the same she worried for most of the train journey to London. Why had she not told Stan about the trip? Clifford wasn't her lover; he was her friend and Stan would have found it perfectly reasonable if she'd told him she wanted to help a friend. Her guilt was irrational; she worked hard and had few hobbies; she deserved to enjoy her day out and it was nothing to do with Stan. She sipped the large coffee she'd bought at the station and flicked through a fashion magazine. The rush-hour was past and the carriage was almost empty. Despite her worry, she was having fun, enjoying her moment of leisure. Yes she had risked a little deceit over the years, but she had harmed no one and it was for the best. 

She'd met Clifford three years before on a difficult day-release course on company law. They'd worked together on a project once a week for a month and got into the habit of sharing their difficulties with the course and problems at work. When the course was over they continued a fitful conversation, mostly by telephone at work to start with, mentoring one another over legal problems. Slowly this developed into a friendship. Clifford had an alert sense of humour and a rational way of dealing with life which was a pleasant counter to Stan's bull-charge and highly individual approach. Interpretation of contract law began to mix with stories about their lives. Suzie told Clifford about their difficulties finding somewhere to live. Stan always rowed with the landlord or the neighbours and they had to move. In return, Clifford contributed wry accounts of his error-prone love-life, which staggered from crisis to farce while his career blossomed. Suzie looked forward to his communications which, once they ceased to be exclusively about work, became emails sent late at night as a way of winding down. They developed an easygoing banter which they both enjoyed as a diversion from the immediate pressures of their lives. 

From the start she knew her feelings for Clifford were unprofessional. He fascinated her because he was so different to the men she knew. Stan was frighteningly sharp and unpredictable; she had to stay on her toes to deal with his mercurial style. Clifford was accomplished, confident and smooth. He never lost his cool or lacked something to say and Suzie found their conversations went much further towards the truth than those with anyone else. It was she who played the agony aunt and asked about his personal life, gratified that he took her advice seriously. He dated wealthy, well connected women he met through work and his love affairs had a swift, predictable trajectory, starting with sparks and a whoosh and ending suddenly for no apparent reason in blackness. She told him it was because he had difficulty committing to relationships, that he couldn't trust others and was happy only when he was in control of a situation. Privately she suspected he liked the fun of the chase and got bored with women after he succeeded. But for a while he would be deeply in love, a man who expressed his feelings openly and with humour, which she liked. 

She'd agonised about this long-distance relationship and decided it was alright as long as they never met. Aware of the risks, she could see no harm as long as she stuck to this rule. Stan had no reason to complain. Nobody would be hurt and everyone gained. She and Clifford were opposites. They were close and trusted one another to share their problems, but there was no way anything more than an affectionate, self-supportive friendship could develop. 

Suzie was breaking her own rule; she was on her way to meet her confidential friend. But the circumstances were exceptional. Clifford, who had finally married, had emailed in desperation. He'd discovered his wife was having an affair and they had split. He was alone, his pleas for help desperate. Suzie knew she had to respond, even if it caused trouble. Clifford was her friend and it was right that she should put herself out for him. 

She could have told Stan without going into the back story of five years' secret correspondence. He only needed to know that Clifford was a work friend. She'd considered it carefully in the way she analysed options at work when faced with a difficult decision. Her conclusion: why take a risk and complicate things with an unnecessary admission? It would be like Stan to leap on some trivial point and get the whole business out of perspective. And anyway, his cussed, gloomy introspection of recent weeks made her unwilling to share her hopes and fears with him.

Later, she wondered if it she was anxious, not because of the deceit, but from fear that meeting Clifford would spoil their friendship. She was hardly in the league of his female conquests and she might disappoint him; or he might irritate her and cause her to be sarcastic. She thought about it carefully and by the time the train reached the outskirts of London, she was happy she had made the right decision; it was time to meet and see whether they really shared a unique understanding. 

Stan's text arrived as she got out of the train at Euston. She felt irritated. Stan never sent her texts: why now? She saw that she had also missed a call from him, but then he knew she didn't want personal calls during work time. She was irrationally cross with him because of course the text fed her guilt. What could be so urgent that they had to speak at once? Hence her reply: "What's the problem?" What she really meant was: "stop trying to ruin my special day". 

Almost at once she received another text. This one she read with relief: "Bistro cafe, John Lewis. Can't wait to see you. Love Cliff."

She dropped a few coins into the hat of a beggar on the way down to the tube to Oxford Circus and forgot Stan's text; there's no mobile phone signal on the London underground, so there was no reply to her text. 

Three: Streets of London

Suzie stopped at the entrance to the top-floor bistro and her spirits lifted when she spotted Clifford seated beneath the window. He was gazing out over the Oxford Street rooftops, but turned as she approached and his smile made her jump. They kissed cheeks, consciously correct in their greetings and Suzie thought: "What have I done? I never expected this." She knew him so well and yet he was almost a stranger. Moments later, they embraced like long-parted lovers, arms round one another, kisses falling all over the face and lips. It was a simple pleasure, an expression of their relief at being together. Suzie couldn't take her eyes from his face and Clifford smiled benignantly, intent on understanding what was happening and making the most of it. 

It was lunchtime and they ate a snack meal – Stan would never have done that. She chose a fresh fruit tart with cream and Clifford had a bottle of beer with a pork pie and pickles. They laughed at one another's choices and after exchanging a few titbits of news, Clifford told his story. It was banal, but she listened in horror to his account of how he'd discovered his wife's affair. She was a marketing executive in a blue chip company and had become friendly with the head of the market research consultancy she employed. He'd been away on business and came home to find she'd moved out, leaving just a note. 

Tears formed as he talked and he gripped his fork like a weapon. It was a long story and there was much Suzie wanted to say in reply. The intensity of the discussion left them exhausted and they agreed to get some air. The meal over, they walking round the men's and women's clothing sections in the department store, then took a taxi to Cleopatra's Needle and walked up, heads together in conversation, from the Thames through Embankment Gardens and up Whitehall past Downing Street to Trafalgar Square, where they went to the National Gallery to look at the new Titian. Suzie had to be home by dinnertime but they were so absorbed in one another that time was forgotten. They sat in the cafe at the Gallery and she enjoyed Clifford's ironic, measured way of speaking and his charming manner of taking up her comments and adding something, never dismissing her point of view. As a break from his personal disaster, he spoke of his work on a complex company take-over and she found this interesting too. They had so much to share.

They moved to a pub, where Suzie accepted a glass of wine and began to talk about Stan. It felt wrong to speak to another man about her relationship with her husband, but she soon got over this, making sure to do Stan credit and emphasise his good points – his generosity and courage, his enthusiasms and manic energy. But she also said how he had been withdrawn lately and was unwilling to talk. She thought he was a depressive and should see a doctor, but was too arrogant to seek help. After work, when she was tired, his sarcasm and short temper was more than she could take. And his language was so violent she felt, she said, as if she had been hit. Clifford was sympathetic and didn't criticise Stan, but supported her with his comments. "We're all entitled to basic respect and he has no right to take things out on you."

They were good for one another. As she talked to Clifford, the shady corners of her life filled with light. She'd not enjoyed herself so much for a long time. Clifford was happy and in return she had a companion who was happy to shop with her and who talked endlessly about work and love and things that interested them both. Clifford said, "It was a mistake not to meet; we've wasted too much time. We need one another." 

She had to agree. Eventually she sorted out her thoughts. "But we can't meet again. I love Stan and being with you puts us in the wrong."

"At least stay to dinner. We have to talk about what's happened to us."  She heard the desperation in Clifford's voice. "For the first time in a week my life has been worth living. I've been in such pain I don't know how I survived. I've been so lonely and thinking of you has kept me going."

She meant to be home before Stan and cook dinner so that he'd never know about her trip to London. It was much the most sensible plan; the late trains were infrequent and populated by drunks and to stay in London would involve another layer of deceit. All the same, Clifford was right; they deserved to have dinner together. Dissatisfied by this conclusion, she knew she was avoiding the main point. She wanted to stay, but she had no idea what, if anything, this meant. 

She didn't mean to flirt, but felt safe and wanted Clifford to admire her. He was gentle, never making her uncomfortable or saying a word against Stan. She sat against him and touched his beautiful hands. Now and then he put his hand over hers and they smiled, delighted with one another. It seemed natural to touch and of course he had her complete attention. He was entranced. Neither was the predator; they equally wanted to discover where this extraordinary adventure would lead them. 

Although Suzie felt justified in what she was doing, her guilt never vanished. The sensible way forward was to cool things and arrange another meeting when they had sorted out their feelings. Staying to dinner was reckless, yet she still wanted to do it and no longer knew what was right. With a heroic effort of will she extracted her hand from Clifford's clutch and excused herself, went to the Ladies and turned on her phone. When the screen lit up she remembered Stan's text asking to speak and was surprised that he'd not followed up her reply. Whatever he wanted couldn't have been urgent after all. She rang his mobile number, thinking out the words of her lie. She'd been called to an urgent meeting in London and it was finishing late. She didn't know when she'd be done. Nothing like this had ever happened, but it was plausible that her work would bring her to London and Stan had no means of checking. It was irrational, but she decided it would be alright to stay if she told Stan where she was. 

He didn't answer his phone. Disappointed, she sent him a text. "Sorry not speak earlier. Urgent meeting. Stuck in London. Back late." 

It was a poor second best to speaking, but gave her some relief to send off the lie. Before she could put her phone in her bag, another text arrived. Stan must have had his phone switched on and handy after all. 

"What meeting is that? Your work said you were on leave."

She flushed and sat down, overcome by the speed with which her lie had had been found out. Why hadn't Stan picked up the phone to speak? What could he know? She tried to concentrate, but was distracted by thinking about her bad luck: one minor indiscretion and she was instantly discovered. Once more she called his number and once more it went unanswered. This gave her confidence. What could Stan expect if he played childish games with her? It was humiliating to be caught in a lie, but she was determined she would not be put in the wrong. She thought carefully before sending another text. "Not want to trouble you. Actually with aunt in Tunbridge Wells. She's unwell and asked for help. Don't worry. Back tomorrow."

Why had she said: "don't worry"? And why: "back tomorrow"? Troubled by her own behaviour and her lies, she knew she couldn't face Stan. In the moment of composing the text she'd decided to stay the night in London. She'd lost control and needed to get a grip before confronting her husband. Moments later, she knew this was wrong. The sensible thing was to stick to her plan and go home. She'd surprise Stan and tell him she'd managed to get the last train back from Tunbridge Wells. To stay would risk everything with Clifford, as well as Stan. Relieved to have made a decision, she put away her phone and hurried to rejoin Clifford. 

Clifford grabbed her urgently when she returned, stroking his hand over her shoulder and neck before kissing her lips.

"You were gone so long I was worried you'd run away," he said. 

She felt better at once and was reassured by Clifford's relief. But after they had cuddled a while, she pulled away, deciding she had to think for both of them. She knew she was in trouble, but again surprised herself. 

"Cliff, I need a hotel tonight. Don't press me, but I'm spending the night in London. It means we can have dinner without worrying about the time. But after dinner I'll say goodnight. You understand? We must protect what we have."

He nodded and kissed her. "Thank you Suzie. You're a darling. I don't know how I've managed without you."

Clifford accepted her plan, but Suzie was horrified that even after deciding she must go home, she'd decided to stay. It was cowardice because she knew she couldn't face Stan while her feelings for Clifford were so fresh in her mind. In the morning she'd be stronger. 

While Clifford rang hotels for her, she glanced at her phone, but there was no new text. Unable to relax, she rang Stan's mobile number again and their home number. No answer. Why was Stan being so irritating? They finished their drinks. Clifford had found a hotel and was thinking of places to eat. What the hell. Go for it, thought Suzie. Enjoy the meal and worry about the rest of my life later. She took Clifford's arm and snuggled against his cheek, comforted by his smell. She didn't know what was right any more and didn't care.

At some point over dinner, when Clifford was eating his tarte au citron and Suzie her chocolate panacotta, their talk slipped directly from developments in company law to themselves. 

"Today has been like a miracle," said Clifford. "I never thought I could be so happy again."

"I want so much to be with you," said Suzie. "But you know I can't. It would put us both in a false position and that would ruin everything. We have to be realistic about when we can be together and not be greedy."

"You're right," replied Clifford earnestly. "The few chances we have to express our feelings will be very precious. Everything else doesn't matter – it's a lie. Staying apart is a self-inflicted wound." 

This time, when they kissed, he put his palm across her breast, discretely, with their bodies close.

"No sex," she insisted. "The feeling we have for one another isn't about sex." 

"Then what is it Suzie? I love you."

She felt the pressure of his hand over her clothing and his warm and powerful presence so close beside her. It seemed right to her but she was cautious of taking unnecessary risks. When he put his hand on her knee, she put her hand over his. 

"Clifford, please. Don't spoil dinner. I've enjoyed it so much. You're adorable, I like you so much, but I'm married. I'm not free like you to express my feelings."




The Duel



"But you can say it. You must tell me. Do you love me one little bit?"

"You know the answer to that. Would I do this if I didn't love you?"

She kissed him again, then pushed him away. Looking at Clifford's dark curls on his collar and alert, thoughtful eyes she knew without doubt that she loved him. It was a shock because she had imagined that loving Stan inoculated her against loving another man. And she had lied; sex was a natural part of her feelings for Clifford. It wasn't about the pleasure, but about developing the bond they shared. She couldn't believe that at her age, after so much education and training and with years of experience of doing the right thing, she could think like a teenager with a crush. She had to think hard and her cynical, knowing, adult mind told her the right thing was to share her bed with Clifford. Anything else was a gross lie provoked by loyalty to Stan and a wish to avoid being put in the wrong. She had lost her bearings and in this confusion of thoughts and feelings she continued to say "no". Clifford was very understanding. 

They finished their coffee and it was ten o'clock. Agitated now and feeling that she would have done better to have stuck with one glass of wine, Suzie went again to the Ladies. If only she could speak to Stan she was sure she could make things right. She took out her phone and there was no reply to her previous text. She rang home, then Stan's mobile, once more without a reply. Stan had to be home now: why didn't he answer? Guilt clutched at her, suddenly convinced he knew – that he knew she was with her lover. It was enough. She could deal with the guilt, but not the disgust at finding herself in such a sordid intrigue. She knew the sharpness of Stan's intelligence. Sometimes it frightened her when he picked out things everybody else had missed. Stan knew she was a cheat and his contempt would be unbearable. He would demolish her and she would crawl from the smash a cripple. 

She returned to the table as Clifford finished paying the bill. "Clifford, I want to but I can't. I'm sorry. We must say goodbye. This is all too sudden for me and I can't cope. It's just not right."

Relief flooded into her as she said it. She rushed outside into the fresh air with Clifford hurrying after her. It was dark, the theatres were emptying and they were drawn into a tide of people flowing past them on the way to the tube. Clifford had hold of her arm and was saying something. She could see tears in his eyes and she felt strong again, able to make a concession.

"We can have a last drink at my hotel, but that's it. We've had a wonderful day. I'll never forget it. And who knows what comes next? Nothing can be certain."

Until that moment there was no way she could have ended up in bed with Clifford. She was not drunk; she'd made clear she wasn't sleeping with him. Sex in itself would be harmless and gratifying, but she had no wish to live with the fear of discovery, of having to weigh every word she used with Stan and of the guilt that would stay with her forever.  

They went into the hotel bar and Clifford bought champagne to celebrate a great day, one that would stand out for both among the grey endurance race of work. Relieved to have got a grip and made a sensible decision, she enjoyed their drink, kissed Clifford seductively because she loved him and was grateful for his understanding and because it was right; he deserved her affection and she wanted him to love her. Stan could spare him that much without taking hurt.  Everything was fine and she'd deal with Stan without being crippled by shame. 

She was back in control and must have let down her guard, because two hours later Clifford was asleep beside her in her hotel bed. He was smiling in his sleep, his breathing like a cat purring. 

It wasn't clear to Suzie how it happened. She must have acted like a teenage virgin. They'd embraced in the hotel bar, dreading the moment they must say goodbye, but shy and uncomfortable at displaying so much passion in public. They'd finished the champagne, it was late and they were locked on one another's arms, tearful and desperate. 

'This matters so much. We must do whatever it takes to hold onto this feeling,' said Suzie.

'I'll treasure this moment to the day I die,' said Clifford. 'Nothing matters so much as this.'

'We deserve this moment. I want you to know how much I care for you. I love Stan but you mustn't doubt the feelings I have for you.'

'Show me,' said Clifford. 'You're the smartest girl I know. Show me those aren't just a lawyer's clever, manipulative words.'

Minutes later they were in the bedroom, on the bed, and Clifford's hand was inside Suzie's blouse. She lay back, happy that her indecision was past. Clifford was clumsy and unathletic, but on the other hand he must have learned something from his serial failed relationships. She let him take the lead and could even enjoy his clumsiness; it was a part of his character. He was more eager than Stan and tried harder. It seemed nothing to give away pleasure and Suzie tried her hardest. Already Clifford was her man and she was anxious that he felt satisfied with her. 

Both wanted it to be a special moment in their lives, but it wasn't. They were tired and had drunk too much and in any case both knew even if they couldn't say it that the sex was a mistake. Suzie loved Clifford and that's why she took him to bed; she wanted to please him and it had seemed the right way to express her feelings. Now it was done, she knew that was wrong and marvelled that she could have thrown away so much for so little. Sex didn't strengthen her bond with Clifford; it confused things. She'd lie to Stan – it was necessary – but she'd taken a step that would change the rest of her life and already she regretted it.

Four: Beautiful England 

Stan sat in his empty house working out what it meant to have three days to live. Or, at least, three days with his full capabilities. By seven o'clock he stopped expecting Suzie to walk in and began to think carefully about what her absence meant. He wasn't a fool and knew things weren't right between them. There was no aunt or business meeting and he knew she had gone to London for reasons of her own. He re-read her texts and was only surprised she made up such a careless lie. That morning she'd been too preoccupied to notice his anxious state and he'd watched her put a change of clothes in her work bag. Why would she go to work dressed one way and then change into something more casual? Because she wasn't staying at work. Why make the effort to change? Because there was someone she wanted to impress. Why not dress at home for her date? Because she wanted to hide her intentions. He wasn't dead yet but already he was left behind and she was moving on.

Details which had puzzled him at the time now returned to goad him. That morning, when she left for work, she'd not responded to his familiar parting kiss, but had then checked herself and made a point of kissing him warmly. And he recalled an argument a few nights before about whether they should buy organic rather than the cheapest milk. He said they should buy organic because it guaranteed the cows had been allowed out to pasture. She said that allowing grazing land for animals reduced food productivity and this accounted for starvation across the world, an argument he'd never heard her use before and which was contrary to her usual concern for animal health. When he said it was rubbish, she'd been angry and said lots of people believed it. And when he asked her to say who, she was silent. She didn't mind losing an argument, but she did mind him rubbishing and destroying this particular argument. Was that because it came from a special friend whose opinions she listened to with admiration and who she couldn't name? He knew Suzie. 

He'd had all day to think and by the middle of the evening he knew without doubt, with all the prescience of a mind freed from a body purged by disease, that she was with her lover. He needed no more proof and a spasm of anxiety gripped his chest. He'd put his trust him her and she'd let him down when he needed her most. 

For months there had been something wrong, but he'd distrusted his feelings, confusing her coldness with his fears about his health. They were a close couple, spending most of their time when not at work in cosy intimacy. They shared friends and enjoyed one another's families. But since the turn of the year they'd had little to say to one another and neither had made the effort to arrange meals or weekend holidays or evenings at the theatre. He'd thought it was because he was tired from his illness but now he wasn't so sure. Suzie was a clever woman. If she had still been close she would have noticed that he was in a bad way and would have know it was her job to help, just as they had each helped the other at moments of crisis. 

Stan knew he must get a grip. He didn't want to waste his remaining time paralysed by hatred and self-pity. Far better stop this maundering and get on with the stub of his life. Eventually he was disgusted by his depression and made coffee and forced himself to be cheerful. He put on some music: London Calling by The Clash. It suited his mood. His wife had walked out on him. Well, he would walk out on her. Dying was a very final separation. 

He sipped coffee and thought about what he enjoyed doing the most. It took a while to decide he would miss the moment of surprise and delight on reaching a mountain summit on a clear day, that rare instant when a new vista opens ahead and the effort of climbing is over. If there was one place he had to go before he died, it was the English Lake District, a place of happy memories of walking and mountain climbing when young and too poor to go abroad. There was nothing to stop him driving there now. He thought about it. He'd camped many times at the top of Wastwater in the rain and cold and had envied the people wealthy enough to stay in the isolated Wastwater Hotel. A quick check for details on the internet and he phoned the hotel. They surprised him by having a room available for the following night. 

It seemed like destiny. He finished his coffee, wrote a brief note to Suzie, packed a bag with his warmest clothes and left home at about midnight. When he set his phone to charge in the car he saw he'd missed another call. This time he felt no curiosity about where Suzie was. She'd not replied to his plea for her to call and he had no wish to hear her lies. 

It took four hours driving on empty roads. He stopped half way for breakfast in a sleepy motorway services. Dawn was lightening the air from beyond the mountains as he drove the last miles along the edge of Wast Water. He parked the car, changed into boots and walked along the lakeside before breakfast in the hotel bar. Already he was feeling better. The pain was gone. His energy returned in the upland air and he relaxed knowing he had the whole day ahead of him to do just as he pleased. He paced himself. He'd not brought a map and refreshed his memory of the route he wanted to follow from the map on the wall of the bar. The summit of Scafell via the Lord's Rake, the Mikeldore and then Scafell Pikes. He bought a pre-prepared packed lunch, bars of chocolate and Kendall Mint Cake to be sure he'd not run out of fuel. Then he set out.

It was still early but there were other walkers on the path taking advantage of clear weather for the walk to the summit of England's highest peak. After a few hundred feet of climb, his hip began to ache and he had to slow down, measuring each step with care. He swallowed a couple of ibuprofen flushed down with a mouthful of beck water and decided he could cope with the pain. He even found himself overtaking one or two of the slower walkers. 

It was more peaceful after he turned off the main path onto the track to the Lord's Rake, an ascent up a narrow fissure in the rock face to the summit of Scafell. The climb to the start of the rocky chute became steeper and more difficult underfoot and he slowed even more, knowing the rock scramble would test his hip. After a struggle, he came to the base of the climb and found two young women dressed in bright yellow and pink examining the route, looking up at the rock and down at their map. Struggling for breath, he rested when he came up to them and said hello.

"Do you know if this is the way up to the summit of Scafell?" asked the girl in pink leggings and ear muffs.

It was good to see a pretty face. He smiled and pointed to where they were on her map.

"This is the Lord's Rake. It's a fine route if you've a reasonable head for heights and don't mind rock scrambling," he replied. 

"Is it safe?" asked the girl in a yellow fleece. She too seemed delighted with her day.

"The main risk is from someone dislodging stones above you. If we climb together we can make sure we don't harm one another."

It was agreed and Stan led the way. He explained his disability because he had to pause ever dozen feet of climb. The two girls were solicitous and asked him sensible questions. By the time they reached the top of the chimney and came out onto the open fell they knew about his cancer and in return he knew that Bella and Simone and had just finished their final exams in Psychology at Lancaster Uni. Both were eager for fresh air and open country after continual study since Easter. 

They stayed together for the slog to the summit of Scafell and he felt guilty for sucking up so much good cheer from the two girls – their enjoyment in their surroundings, their youth and beauty and their willingness to be his nurses. He shared his chocolate with them on the top of Scafell and they huddled together, hoods up against the sharp wind from the Irish Sea. Then they descended to the Mickeldore, a saddle between the summits, before joining the well-trodden path to the large summit cairn on Scafell Pikes. They took their time and at points he had to steady himself with a hand on the shoulder of each girl, but they made it and joined the excited throng milling round the cairn and looking out over the mountain tops to Scotland. Not once on the way had he thought of Suzie or of death. For the moment, in spite of the pain, he felt complete again. 

Five: Return of the native

Suzie slept well after the excitement of her night with Clifford. She made him leave at two in the morning, woke early in excellent spirits, showered, ate her hotel breakfast, caught the train back from London and drove home to change. Relieved that her adventure had been a success, she was now in a hurry, conscious that she was late for work. With the benefit of a night's sleep she was beginning to believe that she had handled herself well. So what if she had succumbed to temptation? It was behind her and the task now was to insert herself back into her ordinary life. She'd behaved true to herself and had survived. 

On the drive home from the station, she stopped and changed back into the outfit she wore when she left the day before. Once more in control of her story, she was eager to explain herself to Stan. The dreadful moment of panic, when she hadn't known what to do, was forgotten. For better or for worse, she'd done the deed and now she had to follow through. 

Stan wasn't home; the house was empty. Suzie was disappointed because she'd rather have got her explanation off her chest. Now she'd have to remember her speech till the evening. She showered quickly and put on a new dark blue business suit. Already she was thinking about work. She couldn't make a habit of being late and if she and Clifford were to meet again she would suggest a mid-point meeting to make it a day trip – a treat to look forward to once in a while. She'd always wanted to visit Cambridge, with time for a proper look at the Fitzwilliam Museum and King's College Chapel. She'd suggest it to Clifford. Stan didn't like looking round country towns or shopping or spending a lot for an average meal in a country pub. And however they chose to spend their day she'd make sure she was home at the usual time and ready for work the following morning. 

Uniformed and feeling fresh, Suzie hurried downstairs and searched for her phone and keys. In the kitchen she paused to look through the previous day's post clipped to the notice board. There, beside the mail, she found a pencilled note: "Had some bad news. Gone away to think it through. Not sure when I'll be back. Friday latest. Hope you enjoyed your night out in London. Say hello to your friend for me. Stan."

She read this more than once and her immediate response was irritation. What's Stan playing at now? Then she read it again carefully. What bad news? Why couldn't Stan say what he meant? She sat down on the stairs out of breath. Could Stan's aged mother have died? She dismissed the idea. Stan wouldn't have rushed off without telling her. Had he lost his job? Possible. He worked for an aggressive telecommunications company who were always fiddling with their middle management structures. He'd survived many bloody battles but always said he'd run out of luck one day. Or he might have lost his temper and been dismissed on grounds of conduct. Stan was smart, but his temper was never fully under control. 

She read the sarcastic bit about a friend a number of times. Stan was trying to mess with her and, piqued by not being able to voice her defence, she went to the phone and rang his mobile. There was no answer. Then she called his work and spoke to his secretary, who she knew by name. The girl seemed a little put out, as if Suzie was attempting to involve her in some dubious intrigue.

"Stan's on sick leave," said the girl.

"You mean annual leave." 

"Sick leave. He's signed off until the end of next week."

"Rubbish Mary. Stan's not sick." Suzie missed the girl's confusion at having to tell the wife that her husband was sick.

"He's not told me what the matter is, but he's in pain. He can't hide that all day and it shows when he's tired. You must have seen." 

The girl clearly found the subject upsetting. In pain? Suzie put down the phone. This conversation was surreal and she wondered what Stan was plotting. Stan couldn't be sick; she would have noticed. She closed her eyes and swallowed. Yes he could. That's exactly what had happened. Now she bothered to think, she had noticed. In recent weeks Stan had stopped running upstairs as he had always done. She could picture him toiling as if carrying a box of books. And he'd been getting up in the night to go to the toilet and he found it difficult to get out of bed in the morning, moaning and protesting about how tired he was. Most unlike Stan. And there was the pain. He'd never said anything to her, but she remembered how he'd bent to get something from under the sink in the kitchen and had winced and been unable to straighten up. She'd laughed at him and told him he was getting old. Now it didn't seem funny; in fact she was mortified to realise how much she had seen without drawing the obvious conclusion. What had she been thinking? 

Then she began to feel sick. Had Stan really found out about Clifford? He knew about computers and might have read her emails, although it wasn't something she could imagine Stan doing. Was his illness a cover for the emotional pain she had caused? This was becoming a nightmare and she took off her jacket and went to the kitchen to get some water. It was too awful to imagine, but she couldn't dismiss the idea. Shaking her head and angry with the unfairness of her situation, she tried to concentrate on what to do. Her mind was paralysed, but she knew she must speak to Stan. 

She stared at the phone. Why did they keep failing to talk on the phone? She pressed the button to display the recent calls. In the list, among the unanswered calls from her mobile, was an unknown number called yesterday afternoon. She picked up the receiver and dialled the number. It was answered immediately.




The Duel



"Good morning. Wastwater Hotel. How can I help you?"

Suzie thought quickly. This kind of puzzle she could deal with. She gave her name. "Do you have a booking made by my husband? He forgot to tell me. Stanley Marshall." 

"Yes madam. For tonight, but it was for one person, a single room."

"That's fine." Suzie replaced the phone and began to think. Okay, Stan might be under the weather, but there was little wrong with him if he had rushed off to the Lake District to climb mountains. Stan went walking and climbing when life got too much for him, not when he was ill. He must have lied to his work. In which case, why? There could only be one reason to make him do such a thing on impulse and without telling her. Now she was crying – bitter tears of self-pity and denial. And tears for the damage she had caused. Stan knew.

She rang work and told them she needed time off to deal with a family emergency. She didn't consider the meetings she would have to rearrange or the deadlines that would pass unfulfilled. Once more she changed her clothes. She wasn't a walker, but she had sensible shoes, a fleece and waterproofs. She made coffee, studied the map and the hotel web site, programmed her sat-nav and checked her cash. Looking at her mobile phone, she saw two texts from Clifford and left them unread. Still nothing from Stan. Finishing her coffee, she went out to the car.

Six: Wast Water

There was a dull pain in Stan's hip, which was better than the shooting, gouging agony he felt driving up the motorway. He needed to sit down and gave Bella money to buy drinks while he and Simone pushed through the crowded and noisy hotel bar and squeezed onto the end of a bench near the coal fire. The warmth in the bar acted like a drug and he relaxed. Boots, walking sticks, packs and climbing gear were stacked in corners and against walls. Everywhere there were broad backs, pints of beer gripped firmly, red cheeks and people laughing as they recounted the day's exploits on the mountains. Bella chatted and Stan did his best to smile, but he felt ill and exhausted. Only when Simone returned and he sipped his beer did he feel better. It was agreed that in a while the two girls would borrow the bath in his room to clean up before driving back to uni. They settled back and examined the food menu, enjoying the warmth and escape from the sun and the wind. 

When they had recovered a little, they ordered food. Stan had a steak pie and chips. It was the right idea, but he was unable to eat much. The girls did much better and finished his chips. He wanted another drink and looked over to the bar to see which of the beers to try next. Clear as anything, through the scrum of mountaineers, he saw Suzie. It was the oddest thing. She looked out of place and he thought how can she be here? In that instant before she saw him, her fear and uncertainty was unmasked and he knew she would make him miserable again. On impulse he reached out and took the hands of his two companions.

"Before you rush off, I want to thank you for being with me today. I hope we all remember today as special." He leaned forward and kissed each girl on the cheek. 

'Stan!" Suzie was beside him, fear replaced by indignation. 

He rose to his feet with difficulty and kissed his wife. "How did you find me Suzie? You're just in time for a drink. Let me introduce Bella and Simone. They're my friends and are looking after me, so don't worry."

All three women looked bewildered. 

"Maybe this is a good time for you girls to get your bath. Come back and say goodbye before you go."

Simone nodded and smiled uncertainly. "Thank you Stan. Do take care. You're a great guy. We'll say goodbye when we bring the room key back."

"Keep fighting Stan," said Bella, tapping his shoulder. "Keep climbing those mountains. I'll remember the summit of Scafell Pikes for the rest of my life, especially you climbing onto the cairn and shaking your fist at the sky and shouting "Fuck you God!" She bent and kissed him on the bald spot on his scalp, tears on her cheek.

Alone together, Stan and Suzie looked at one another.

"Stan, what's the matter with you, and who were those girls? I read your note but what does it mean?"

"They're friends of mine, psychology students at Lancaster University. We made friends on the Lord's Rake. Lovely girls. Their enthusiasm carried me over the top of Scafell Pikes. How about you? I think you've had a wasted journey. I texted that I had to talk to you but it doesn't matter now. There was no need to come after me. A phone call yesterday would have been enough. So why are you here?"

"I'm worried. What's happened? What did you want to say to me?"

"Relax. My two beautiful helpers made sure I was okay. All I needed was a little human sympathy and support and they're stars. I went to the hospital – was it yesterday? I've had some pain in my belly and they did some tests. I've got cancer in my bladder."

Suzie gripped the edge of the table. She had still to sit down. "I knew it. Why didn't you say something? You should have told me."

"I did my best to tell you, but you wouldn't answer your phone or call me when I asked. Remember, you were visiting your aunt in Tunbridge Wells. Which aunt is that? I forget. Your mother was an only child, I remember. Then I waited to tell you when you got home; but you didn't come home last night. And there's no phone signal here."

Suzie shook her head wearily. "But what did the doctors say? Surely they can get the cancer. And what are you doing here?"

"I'm having an operation on Friday so I thought I'd do some walking while I could. The thing is, the cancer's metastasized. It can only get worse so I'm doing this while I can. But tell me what happened to you. How is your aunt?"

Suzie ignored the question and closed her eyes. This was worse than a nightmare. How could everything go so badly wrong so quickly? 

"Stan, I'm so sorry. I should have answered my phone. I wasn't there when you needed me. I feel dreadful."

Stan looked at her curiously. This was quite unlike his wife. She rarely admitted mistakes and on principle she never admitted weakness.  "It doesn't matter. This is about me, not about making sure you don't feel guilty. Anyway, we all die alone. Now tell me what happened to you."

He was looking directly into her face and she dropped her gaze. Ashamed, she forced herself to look at him.

"Please Stan, this is not the time. I want to take care of you. Let me take you home and then we'll talk. I'm so worried about you."

"Take it from me. If you've got three days only, you know what's important. And I want to know what happened to you. Is your aunt better? I hope you were able to help her."

The tears spilled down her cheeks and fell on her hand. "I came to find you Stan as soon as I could. But I had to go to London." She spoke slowly, unsure what she would say next. She was ashamed of her lies. "I wasn't visiting an aunt. You knew that and it was stupid of me to lie. But this is the worst possible time to make you listen to my story."

"I don't have any other time. I can bear it."

They were silent. Stan nudged the back of a burly mountaineer standing with a youthful group behind them and asked if he would mind getting them drinks. 

"My leg's done in," he explained, handing over a twenty pound note. "Get drinks for yourselves."

"What's wrong with your leg?" demanded Suzie.

"Done too much walking and the hip's shot through."

She watched him closely and it was clear that he was in pain. His face was lined and grey, his eyes sunken and dull. The nightmare feeling wouldn't go away. If there was a god who served out retribution, he was certainly exacting a high price for her sins. Leaning over the table, she kissed him.

"Listen to my confession Stan. Don't think badly of me, at least until I've told it all. I love you. I'm so sorry for what's happened and I'll never forgive myself for not being with you when you needed me. I'll not leave your side."

"...until I'm dead. What is it Suzie?"

Stan felt cold. He really didn't want this, but it was better to know than not to know. Suzie began her story hesitantly and he found himself prompting her. When she wouldn't give her lover's name he told her to shut up; he wasn't interesting in listening to lies and half-truths. Again she began to cry, but he didn't comfort her and after a bit she continued.

"He's called Clifford and I met him on a legal course and we've exchanged emails now and then about work but we've not met again until yesterday. It's not an affair."

In the circumstances, she decided that the whole truth was more than Stan needed.

"How many emails is that? Ten; a hundred; a thousand?"

"More like a thousand. We were never going to meet. It wasn't like that. But then something went wrong for him and he needed to speak to me."

"Another problem with work? One to add to the thousand?"

She shook her head. "His wife walked out on him." 

"You said yours was a professional relationship. He came to you with his marital problems? And you reciprocated? And his problems required you to spend the night?"

"Only because it was late. There was a lot to talk about and I didn't want to rush for a late train. He was in a dreadful state. He'd no idea he had a problem with his marriage. We're not lovers. I don't love him."

Lies, lies, lies. 

"He'd not realised that his secret affair with a married woman might piss off his wife?"

"No Stan. She didn't leave because of us – she didn't know about us. And it's not an affair. It's not fair to say it is."

"You comforted one another – agreed with him that his wife couldn't have known about the two of your because you're both so smart. You said what a bitch his wife was for giving up on him and you consoled him by saying that he still had you. And you needed the night to show Cliff how much solace you had in you."

"Stan! Don't be bitter. I spent the night on my own. And our correspondence had nothing to do with Clifford's marriage. It's wicked to say that."

He stared at her and she knew he could tell she was lying. They knew one another too well. 

"How do I know that Suzie? Because you tell me so? If you spent the night with you're lover you'd lie about it. There'd be some hard-headed rationale to justify that to yourself. Not hurt the old man unnecessarily, or something like that. But I know you. You're a cheater as long as you think you can get away with it."

She shook her head wearily. 

"Like this professional relationship was nothing to be ashamed about – nothing happened that needed to be kept secret from a trusting spouse. So why was it secret? Was it really just professional respect between you or was there more? When you kissed him goodnight was it cheeks or lips? And confiding his grubby secrets to you instead of his wife, having you feed him with easy reassurance that he wasn't the reason for the failure of his marriage – you really don't think that was part of what was wrong? And it wasn't love, but you chose to be with him rather than your husband who you claim to love. It's a slippery word, love."

She couldn't reply and there was silence. 

"Did you talk about our marriage when Cliff wasn't talking about his – the things about me that make you angry; all the little wounds you have suffered over the years; the hopes that have been disappointed? How women have such a hard time?"

Still she couldn't answer. 

"You're in love with him but you want to find a more genteel, self-serving word that adultery."

It seemed like a long time before she spoke. 

"I don't know. Yes I love Clifford. It's wrong to deny it. But it doesn't take anything from my love for you. It never will."

"I understand. It doesn't alter a thing, that when I needed you you weren't there because you were giving your comfort to your lover. I guess you never thought marriage conferred obligations as well as benefits."

"No Stan. If I'd known you needed me I'd have dropped everything to come to you. You know that."

"Now you're making conditions: you'd have come if you'd known you would be needed. Sorry, that's not the deal. Marriage is an unconditional bond of mutual support. Anyway, I did my best to tell you, but you were too preoccupied with your lover to make yourself available and answer your phone."

"Come with me now. I'll show you I mean it. There's no way I'll let you down again. We'll see this through together."

Stan shook his head. The mountain climbing rugby player with the easy grin had finally brought their drinks and spilled some coins onto the table.

"Enjoy," he said, smiling at Suzie. "And get out on those fells tomorrow."

Stan sipped his beer and thought. "It's good you have a lover. I enjoyed myself today, although it was hard work at times. I'm not the man I was but I don't need your charity. There's a health service to look after me. I'll have to come home to get things for hospital, but I won't disturb your new life."

"Come back with me," said Suzie. "We can pick up your car later."

He shook his head. "I'll stay here as long as I can. As long as the weather's fine. You get back to Clifford. You need to think ahead."

"I'll stay with you. We'll manage somehow in your room."

Again he shook his head. "I don't want you here. I don't want to feel angry, I want peace. Why would I want you round to remind me of everything that's gone wrong with my life? You're as much a symptom of a disease as the pain of my cancer. I don't want your pity, or your spare time from your lover."

They were interrupted by the return of Bella and Simone. Ashen-faced and desperate, Stan persuaded them to have another drink before leaving, and when they were seated, he asked them to stay another day.

"It's only one day and it would mean a lot to me. You can have my room. I'll sleep in your tent. Don't make me beg, but you know how it is with me. I need you here and in return we can have a good time. I've got money and you have youth and vigour. What better combination?"

Suzie clutched his hand. "I'm here darling. I came because I love you Stan. I'd have followed you to the end of the earth."

"Sent on your way by the kisses and caresses of your lover. No wonder you have so much to give."

The two students exchanged looks, trying to work out what was going on and uncomfortable at being in the middle of an awkward situation. 

"We have tutorials tomorrow," said Bella. "We'll get the drinks." She and Simone went to the bar, no doubt to talk, leaving Stan and Suzie alone together.

Suzie gripped his hand. "Stan, I've let you down. I'll never forgive myself and I'm not going to make things worse by lying to you. Now let me do the best I can to make things better. I want to look after you and you need me." 

Stan climbed to his feet with difficulty. "Nice offer, but I don't want to waste time negotiating the free slots in your schedule with your lover. I'm dead meat. Women are the rational ones in the mating game and Cliff's a much better bet. Stick with him. For now I'm going to do what I want. I don't know why you tracked me down but go home. I don't want you here."

He walked over to the bar. The crowd had thinned out as people went off for an early night. The girls had bought their drinks but were evidently unwilling to interrupt Stan and Suzie's discussion. He put his arm round both. 

"Don't mind me. You must go if you've got things to do at uni tomorrow. I'll manage fine by myself."

"Isn't your wife staying?" asked Bella.

He shook his head. "It's a hard life managing a sick husband as well as a lover. She needs to get back."

"We've decided to stay. We can spare the time and enjoyed today's walk so much we'd like to do more tomorrow. But we'll not take your bed. We'll sleep on our mats on the floor of your room. If we all get up early we'll walk with you in the morning and drive back to uni straight after. That's early enough for us." 

It was Stan's turn to feel the tears on his cheeks. How was it that strangers could be so kind? They'd even made an effort to protect his pride by suggesting they were staying for themselves, not for him. 

"Let's climb Pillar and Steeple.  I've climbed them in cloud and I'd like to see them in their glory. But only if this what you want. I'm a vampire, sucking the life out of you young women. I can only do it with your help."

They assured him it was a great plan and they went to bed. Suzie had left without Stan noticing. 

Seven: Carry on regardless

Suzie took no interest in her surroundings as she drove home. On the narrow roads out of the Lake District she was tense with tiredness and humiliation. Stan had more or less told her to go away. And why had Stan put on that act with those girls? It was clearly intended to humiliate her. The roads were empty and by the time she reached the motorway she'd come to accept that there was some justification for Stan's attitude. She hadn't meant to hurt him, but she had. To put things right she needed time to show she still cared for him and that she would do everything in her power to help him through his illness. It was just bad luck that she'd not answered her phone when he got his diagnosis. But then, if he'd let her come with him to the hospital there wouldn't have been a problem. 

Stan would realise this when he'd had time to calm down. She was proud of herself for telling him the truth about Clifford. Whatever happened next, Stan could not accuse her of dishonesty. She'd be ready for him when he came home, confident she could put things right. It was after all so much in his interests to let her take care of him, visit him while he was in hospital and nurse him when he came home. He'd see sense. She'd speak to her employers and was sure they'd give her compassionate leave so that she could devote herself to his care. Tomorrow she'd let Clifford know what had happened. He'd help her put it all in a true perspective and he'd understand that her husband had to take priority for now. 

She reached home at three in the morning and fell exhausted and unwashed into bed convinced she'd done the right thing. She slept soundly.

Eight: The duel

Stan was back in hospital seated alone on a plastic chair in the reception area of the oncology ward. Tests done at his doctor's surgery had gone astray and he could not be admitted for surgery until they were found. For an hour he waited to be seen and thought he'd been forgotten. Then a clerk told him someone was waiting in the prep room to redo the tests. He sat down again on a trolley in the small prep room and continued to wait, feeling that he'd signed away his life when he entered the hospital. There was nothing to read, no window to look out of, and after another hour he was still waiting. 

Of course there was plenty to fill his mind. Alone in the silent room, his unease began to feel like panic. He must be a coward because every muscle and nerve in his body urged him to get out. Why let the doctors cut him apart when there was no hope? 

He also tried to understand his few minutes with Suzie. He'd driven back from the north through the night and arrived home at seven to find her waiting for him, seated at the kitchen table ready to leave for work. She told him she'd packed him a bag for the hospital and that she'd visit in the evening. He refused coffee because he wasn't meant to eat or drink before admittance, and told her not to bother visiting; he'd still be drugged from the anaesthetic. She asked for details of the surgery and what special arrangements he'd need when he came home. Clifford was not mentioned although he stood between them like the Berlin Wall. 

"Don't come at all," Stan said. "I don't want your pity and I might think you're only there to check I'm dying fast enough."

Bitter words, but they gave him satisfaction. Suzie looked as if he'd assaulted her. 




The Duel



Many thanks to Guinahart, my wonderful editor, whose advice was priceless and without whom it would have been impossible to finish this story.

*****

She's wearing the pink-white chemise, which he thinks is astonishing. Hasn't Marie - a sophisticated as well as good looking graduate student in her final year - just made it clear that it is over? It wasn't a nice scene. Of course, it wasn't the first time in their 2 month relationship that, like a hailstorm out of the blue sky, a plethora of accusations and insults lashed down on him.

As usual, her allegations sounded somewhat confused and had no basis in reality. Nevertheless, they were directed at him with an explosive energy that made him feel chilly inside. He knew that in these situations it was useless to appeal to her common sense. When she had one of her fits she was inaccessible to any kind of logical reasoning. At the end there was only one thing that was certain: never, ever again could there be anything resembling a relationship between them. She isn't talking to him anymore; and naturally, sex is totally out of the question.

Nonetheless, fifteen minutes later she comes out of the bathroom, and of all things she is wearing the pink-white chemise. The pink-white chemise is the most flimsy garment she possesses, a kind of T-shirt which is so short, it doesn't even properly cover her bum. Plus, she is well aware of its effect on him. It just drives him crazy with lust when she's wearing this thing! Especially when, like now, she isn't wearing anything underneath. He couldn't help noticing that when she emerged out of the bathroom and strutted directly past him, ostensibly ignoring his presence. Right now she is lying quietly in the bed, as if there had never been any disagreement between them. She appears to be waiting for him.

He's unsure what to do. She looks at him with this melancholy and analysing gaze of hers, watching as he hesitates to accept what he perceives as an unspoken invitation. His hesitation is short-lived. Her slender body with its pale skin, smallish breasts and long legs, has always attracted him like a magnet. To him, she is the embodiment of female-provocative sexuality; and she knows it.

He thinks of her lying under the sheets practically naked. It's enough to make his longing for her stir. Ignoring the flashing warning lights in his head, he slowly and deliberately undresses. He makes sure she can see him take off all of his clothes, so there are no doubts about his intentions. Then he joins her in the bed, naked as he is. He cuddles up to her and puts his arm around her shoulder in a placatory gesture. She permits it but doesn't react. She seems distant. What is going on in her mind?

He has often asked himself that question during those last weeks. Frequently he has been at a complete loss to explain her behaviour, especially when she has one of her unpredictable fits of rage. More often than not, these fits result in her declaring the end of their relationship; something she usually seems to forget after a short while. In short, their relationship resembles a perpetual roller coaster ride. He has never experienced anything like this in his life. He has a feeling that being with her has not only turned his every day life upside down but also is having an effect on how he behaves as a person in general.

Oh dear God. If only he wouldn't be so besotted with her. She could be the most charming, imaginative woman he had ever met. Their impetuous affair had carried him to previously unknown emotional and sexual heights; only to be crushed down to earth with all might. These crushing moments were the times when he wished he had never met her. He has come to realize that with her, he couldn't be sure of anything, ever. Occasionally, he has quietly been asking himself which one of them actually was of sound mind. Was it her, or was it him who was - well, crazy?

He lifts up the duvet, supports his weight on his elbow and stretches one of his legs across her. He looks at her musingly and starts running his hand slowly across her. He traces the shape of her torso, feels the delicate skin under the thin fabric of her chemise. She does not resist but she keeps her legs fiercely crossed - as if to emphasise that these legs are never again going to open for him.

He's now doing his best to seduce her by way of tenderness; he strokes her hair, delicately touches her small breasts through the soft cloth. She turns her head sideways and stares at the wall. Her expression is that of the silently suffering martyr. Her mind seems to be in a different world - a world that no one except her has access to. He pushes his hand lightly between her knees. She responds by emphatically pressing them together. All the while, she does not look at him and doesn't say a word. She demonstrates that she is refusing his advances, but something is wrong.

So she doesn't want to be shagged? Well yes, she said as much, didn't she. But then why is she, right now, lying in bed with him? How can she not realise that her chemise is less of a garment, but rather an invitation to jump on her and just fuck her? Doesn't she notice that this flimsy thing has already ridden up to her navel, and that her uncovered mimi is only inches from his hard cock?

Mimi. This childlike euphemism she's always using when she refers to her genitalia! As if it were a harmless, innocent part of her body; something that good girls like her would only deal with when they needed to go for a wee. Ha, innocent! A lure would be more like it! That's it, her mimi is a Venus flytrap, more than anything else! He considers his comparison to be rather funny, at the same time, it annoys him. He is uncomfortably aware that it is her mimi which gives her power over him.

He frowns. He is angry with himself over his weakness. He is irritated because he has a distinct premonition that she is playing a game on him. However, his male, straightforward way of thinking can't progress on this line of reasoning. To him, nothing makes sense, which makes him even more angry. Are you having a great time, messing around with me? All the irrational scenes, the hysteric fits, the punitive measures, like not talking to him for hours? That's it, I've had it with you, he suddenly decides. Today is the day, enough is enough.

He feels the urge to punish her. Pushing himself on his arms, he lies on top of her body. This time, it's not a question. It's an announcement, a declaration of war. His hands are slipping under the thin fabric of her chemise and gliding upwards. His roaming fingers reach the sensitive breasts, and without hesitation he touches them and feels them up in a possessive way. He knows she absolutely loves the feeling of his hands on her breasts, but now her facial expression is as if he were trying to poison her. Bitch! Of course he doesn't say that. He never talks like that, least of all with her. She puts a high value on formalities. Still, right now the word just pops into his mind. Bitch.

He pushes his thigh forward to part her legs. Again, her clenched knees are blocking his access. He persists. He has never used force on her before, but today she has gone too far. She thinks she can get away with everything? He is going to teach her a lesson!

With these thoughts on his mind, he repeats his advance with greater resoluteness. Meeting her resistance with sheer power, he quickly succeeds. The physical fight and the electrifying feeling of her bare skin on his, heighten his arousal. With a sense of triumph, he spreads her legs and moves between them. She doesn't give up yet, so he grips her buttocks in both his hands to keep her still.

She breathes heavily, and he feels the muscles of her bum under his fingers. He is holding her with a vice-like grip, to align her body for the assault. Oddly enough, she remains silent during all this, not saying a word. She, who is so brilliant in battling with words, engages in a physical fight with him that she can only lose. It even seems as if she would accept the result of the duel without a question.

His cock thrusts forward into the darkness between her legs. Her pelvis eludes with a swift sidewards movement. He quickly pushes again, and once more, and then there is her suppressed moan and the defensive tightening of her vaginal muscles around his tip. Every woman knows, it's impossible to prevent a man from entering her vagina by just tensing her muscles. Yet that's exactly what she is doing; and she is now actually saying, "No... no". She still doesn't look at him when she says "no", but her torso is trying to evade his attack...

...In vain. The tip of his angrily swollen cock is stuck in her entrance, and each of her wriggling movements make him enter the tight channel even further. She can't do anything. With short, controlled, forward-backward-movements, his painfully hard erection is making its way into her womanhood. Her elaborate tensing and squeezing is slowing down his intrusion, but cannot stop it. It actually heightens the intensity of his pleasure. At one point, he props himself up and watches her, lying under him and letting herself be penetrated with a defeated expression.

While he is watching her face, suddenly the thought crosses his mind that she is playing a role. Finally, he understands. He recognizes that he has been manipulated in a twofold way. That she purposely incited his rage. Ha! That's what gives you the thrill - to present yourself as the defenceless victim, and me as the brute? That arouses you, does it? You are a bitch! That it took him so long to solve the riddle makes him even more furious. He shoves into her so violently that she pleadingly grabs his forearm.

She is still murmuring, "No! No!" though more to herself than to him. He completely ignores her and takes her by the shoulders. You were going to fuck with me? Listen. I'm going to get back at you and your pretty, clean, rosy cunt. I'm going to fuck you. That's right. I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't be able to walk tomorrow! This will make you think twice before you mess around with me again. 

Vindictively, he rams his cock into her. He does it with deliberate, slow movements, his manhood tightly embedded in her womanhood. He is savouring the feeling of friction which he is causing within her, not letting her forget about the presence of the intruder. That's his revenge. Her eyes and mouth are half open, she appears like in trance, as his massive pole fills up her body.

He grasps her buttocks, trying to make her respond to his movements. He doesn't want her to succeed in playing the role of the victim until the end! He accelerates his pace. The sensation of her unwilling, tight walls around his penis is very strong. Strangely enough, during his assault, he feels a kind of growing bond with her. As if, via his cock and her vagina, he was connected to her soul.

Acting on a sudden impulse, he puts his mouth close to her ear and whispers, "Slut!!... You are a little slut, aren't you?" For the first time, she looks directly at him. In her gaze, there is something unfathomable. She looks straight into his eyes while he is deeply penetrating her. As if he were letting her in on a secret, he whispers, barely audible, "Show me that you are a good slut. Open your legs for me!"

The effect is immediate. She obediently loosens her long legs, opens them wide, moves them a little and slowly shuts them again. Her head is falling back. She moans. His cock feels squeezed by her strong muscles, and he senses a sudden wetness. He is baffled, but quickly recovers. His thrusts become more relentless. With all the contempt he can put into his voice, he hisses at her, "You filthy whore!!"

She moans loudly, then embraces him with fierce passion and crosses her legs behind his back. She kisses him directly on the mouth. The abrupt change of emotions shocks him. After what they had done to each other, he perceives the sudden intimacy almost as repulsive.

At the same time he is overcome by a strange, unknown excitement. Something in him is saying, Why not? Don't be so uptight. He decides to go along with her game. He answers her kiss, an immature, teenager-like and devoted kiss. The kiss gets more and more feverish, while their sexual organs, united in deadly, passionate combat, are struggling to find a common rhythm.



The Duellist



For Lian.

'It is not enough that I succeed, everyone else must fail.' Genghis Khan.

'Be the change you want to see in the world.' Gandhi.

******

Cool air. 

He smelt damp and old stone, a little musty. Beneath it, fainter, the resinous smell of wood.

"You alright, Jayden?" Gentle Irish lilt.

"Yes, Father." He swallowed, nodded briefly, Father O'Connell's eyes already lifting to scan the church, the people packing the pews. Silence dragged. 

Fashionably late, he told himself, she was just making sure of an entrance. He fought the urge to look around, afraid to meet his mother's eyes, to see her friends' faces - petrified of what he might find there.

Minutes passed like hours. All the while he felt hotter, more aware of the sounds, of shuffling, of the creak of the old wooden pews as people became restive. Every now and then an occasional snort, a stifled cough. Somewhere towards the back a baby cried. Shushing sounds.

Kyle appeared beside him, faintly ridiculous in his tux, his face telling. The first signs of pity appearing. 

Pity? 

Jayden blinked. Why did he need pity? It was meant to be a fairytale romance, classic Romeo and Juliet. Girl from the best part of town, boy from the reclamation estates. Boy meets girl, they fall in love, get married, everyone lives happily ever after.

"Is she there?" he said, just the faintest hint of desperation now, heat working its way up his neck, touching his face. He could feel every eye, every face looking, watching. Pitying.

Kyle shook his head, said, "There's still time..." Jayden tugged at his cuffs, nodded agreement.

But of course there wasn't. Father O'Connell had his hand on his shoulder now, just a light grip, just enough to steady him, to keep him grounded.

From the back came a rattle of aged iron, impossibly loud in the quiet church, a brief, warm breeze as the door opened. Even without looking around he knew who it was, knew the steady thump of his feet, knew what it meant. The steps stopped next to him, just behind him, just out of sight. He could smell cologne, expensive, stylish. Before him his eyes found the tortured face of Christ looking down - anguished, forgiving. For the first time in his life, Jayden felt real kinship with him. Hanging there, everyone watching his pain.

"It seems that my daughter has finally seen sense," the voice said, no attempt to lower it, no attempt at comfort. Hard. A voice used to command, used to loudness. "She's not coming."

Behind him he heard somebody snigger softly.

Not coming. As simple as that.

He wanted to say something, make some snappy rejoinder, but something was choking him, something that wouldn't let the words out. He felt his eyes sting, squeezed them shut. Not in front of him, not in front of her father.

"It's okay, son, it's okay," Father O'Connell said gently. "Come on, you're only nineteen, you've your whole life ahead of you... Come on."

Then he was being led away, towards the back of the church, away from the suddenly loud crowd, their gossiping following him, taunting him.

Pity. He deserved their pity.

The door closed behind him, the peace of the vestry closing around him and he was sobbing, tears flooding out like they were never going to stop. Sobbing like a child who just wants it all to stop, all to go away.

And in his mind a single thought, one thing repeating over and over. This is never happening again, I will never be this weak again, not ever, not for anyone.

******

Glass crunched underfoot. Mike glanced around frantically, eyes scanning the litter strewn stairwell - the broken windows, the gang graffiti sprayed on every surface. Nervous glance at his wrist monitor, no location trace - he was close. 

Shit. 

He felt cold sweat on his back, his clothes clinging to him under his armour. He kept his back against the wall of the stairwell, working his way slowly up towards the next landing. Eyes flicking nervously up and down. He felt sweat trickle into his eyes, stinging, burning.

Shit. 

It was hard to see anything at all in the blasted helmet. It felt claustrophobic, unnatural. For a moment he was tempted to discard it but in the end he feared the vulnerability more than the awkwardness.

He reached the landing, peering anxiously through the smashed window of the a fire door at the top of the stairwell. The corridor seemed clear. He clutched his duelling pistol - large calibre, single shot - toed the door open. Nothing. He couldn't see anything and his breathing was so loud, echoing around the helmet, that he doubted whether he could ever have heard anything even if there was anything to hear.

There was a window at the end of the concrete corridor, smashed, but it would allow him to orientate himself. He glanced back down the stairwell, it was still clear. Slowly he crept into the corridor, pistol held before him. Along both sides were a number of doors, steel covered wood painted in different colours, numbers hung or painted or scratched on each one. None was free of damage - dented, battered, disfigured with spray paint. Another glance at his wrist, still no trace. 

Fuck. Where was he?

He was almost at the window when the door opened. A sound of shouting, screaming. He spun raising his pistol, a spike of adrenalin lending him speed -- felt his finger on the trigger, squeezing - faced a petrified resident, young girl shrieking in terror, face stricken. For a second they both froze, his heart racing, gasping for breath, pistol in her face. He was suddenly shaky with relief, weakness flooding his body. Gradually he lowered his hands, breathing as if he'd run a marathon.

"It's okay," he said, helmet muffling his voice, hands raised, placatory. "Sorry."

Slowly, far too slowly, it dawned on him that she wasn't looking at him. She was looking over his shoulder. Too late he realised what that meant. He spun on his heel, knowing even as he did it that he was too slow, too late.

He had just enough time to make out the custom grey armour, the muzzle of the pistol like a yawning cavern right in front of his face, then Jayden blew his brains out all over the girl and the filthy, battered, disfigured door of her apartment.

******

"Are you still awake, John?" she said groggily, rolling onto her back next to him.

"Yeah, can't sleep," he whispered. He'd been awake for hours, didn't think he'd slept at all. "It's on my mind."

"I know, honey. I know you'll do good, you always do." She stroked his chest, snuggling in close, resting her head on his shoulder.

He smiled. "I know, it's just a big pitch. Big change - Achilles has never done environmental protection before..."

"You'll persuade 'em," she said sleepily. He wrapped his arm around her. 

"It's the right thing, Tanya, it is..." he said softly. "We need to put it right for our boy, for all the children, for their children, too."

He felt his passion surface, sleep receding further from him, leaving him stranded - staring into space. He looked down but Tanya was already asleep, her breathing steady, her head nestled on his chest.

Gently he kissed her head, stroking her shoulder, as far from sleep as ever.

******

He stared out of the window fighting his nerves, sipping water trying to keep his mouth moist.

Below him the city stretched away in all directions. Smaller than the original New York, little more than the core of Manhattan, the roads narrower, marked by little traffic - only orbital authority vehicles, electric cabs, buses, practically no private cars. Above him, stretching to the horizon in all directions, the enormous geodesic dome that enclosed them and, beyond it, hanging in space, the reason for all this - Planet Earth.

It was a bigger crowd than he'd anticipated.

He scanned the room, picked out his boss, Niamh - junior partner, Director of Commercial Exploitation - next to her Robert Harding - divisional head - his squat pugilist's frame squashed into a seat in the back three quarter.

Down the centre of the room the long glass topped table filled the boardroom, junior executives from every division filling it, washing out in chairs on both sides like flood waters. There were even people standing along the edges of the picture windows, their shapes silhouettes against the view of the orbital stretching away below them, the poisoned green of Planet Earth, hanging like a rotting grape in the sky above.

He sipped his water, straightened his tie nervously. Behind him the clear screen switched to show a view of the Earth. He nodded to the techie and gradually the filters descended over the windows, dimming the room, bathing everyone in the sickly green of his presentation screen.

"Good afternoon everyone," he said, grateful to find his voice steady. "For those of you who don't know me, I'm John Fitzpatrick, executive manager in Commercial Exploitation..."

Once he started speaking it came easily. He'd always been good at public speaking ever since he'd started as a salesman all those years ago. He walked the room, pacing about the screen, punctuating each point with a gesture or an emphasis - a glance at the screen, new images contrasting the poisoned hell they'd created with the Eden like condition of the original Earth.

"The damage was not irreparable" - flash to pictures of atmosphere plants scrubbing the air, removing Carbon Dioxide - "plants could be made to flourish" - image of Lunar Base One's geodesic dome, the hydroponic farms - "people could return" - flash to images of the new domes being constructed in the remains of Washington. He could gauge them, sense the audience, could feel that he had them.

"...remains true that investing in rehabitation of Planet Earth is both good for business and good for Achilles Corp.," John said, rubbing his hands together, the presentation to his rear switching to show Planet Earth as it once was, blue skies, swirling white clouds. "To this end, where we are exploiting the resources of tin, copper, cobalt, gold and, of course, diamonds, we will make a 'no-worsening' commitment. Furthermore we will return ten percent of all takings to fund local environmental protection efforts and take some steps toward returning the planet, our planet, to its native condition" He paused, letting the silence build for dramatic effect. "I believe that this is not only right for the environment , it is right for the world and it is right for Achilles Corp... Thank you."

He subsided, the lights remaining dim, filter closing out the sun and the magnificent view. In the reflected light from the screen the faces around the table all looked green, washed out. Eyes swivelled, flicking between him and the screen, their colleagues. Nobody spoke.

After a second Harding got to his feet, his Ernesto Saddachi light suit immaculate on his squat frame, his dark hair short and tightly curled above his boxer's nose, his scarred face. "Thank you, John. Quite impressive stuff. Are there any questions?" He looked around the room.

"I've got a question," Jayden said easily, his eyes flicking over the assembled faces.

John looked him over, suspicion dawning. Jayden? What was Jayden doing here? 

He was incongruous, a dark neo-Armani suit, open collar shirt, the right hand side of his face covered with a duellist tattoo - a stylised black wing curling over his cheek and around his eye like a malign shadow - the broad shoulders and narrow hips of a natural athlete. For some reason John had a sudden sick feeling in his stomach.

"Go ahead..." Harding said, sitting once again.

"When did we turn into a bunch of bleeding heart environmentalists?" he said, staring at John across the table.

John stared at him, struggling to think of a suitable response. Looking along the table he saw heads lift - there was a scent of blood in the water, attracting the sharks. He looked over at Niamh, saw her glance at Harding. The sick feeling became a solid cold lump - suspicion coalescing. 

Oh my God, they'd set him up. They were going to feed him to Jayden. 

"Give ten percent back to fucking environmental concerns?" Jayden continued. "That ten percent is our profit." His voice became sarcastic. "In case you hadn't noticed, John, Achilles is a business. Who gives a shit about fucking environmental concerns? Ten per cent? No way." Jayden looked about, caught Niamh's eye, watching him intently, saw Harding nodding. "I say fuck the environment, the planet is already screwed why are we taking that burden on ourselves? Let's move to full span commercial exploitation, if the Earth First groups want to get all weepy about it, let them - we save our ten percent."

"That's quite tempting, Jay." Harding said. "John?"

Oh, fuck, he thought. He felt the room begin to shift. The faces were smiling now, enjoying the show, their attention more rapt that during his presentation. 

Blood in the water.

"Uh... The effect on the environment... on Achilles Corp's press if this-"

"On our press? This is Poison Planet, John. Who gives a shit what happens there?" Jayden chuckled. "And who the fuck do you think will report it anyway?"

"Uh..." John licked his lips nervously. It was all slipping away, sliding into the abyss. He thought of his family, his wife and son. Little Harry was only two for fuck's sake. Who was going to look after his son? Around him John could see the heads moving, swivelling waiting for the next move.

Jayden grinned. Feral. Cruel. "John, you're done. I'm calling you out."

For a moment John felt utterly flustered, the room seemed to tilt under him. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. He grasped at straws. "Uh, you can't. You work in Response Solutions, not Commercial Exploitation," he said, looking at Niamh to back him up, his face betraying his desperation.

Harding spoke first. "It's hardly unusual. Niamh, it's your division. Will you sanction the challenge?"

For a moment Niamh looked at them both intently, emerald green eyes assessing them, weighing them up. At forty four she was amongst the youngest junior partners, known as a shrewd operator. "Pull up the last three performance appraisals for Jayden, please," she said.

A tech scuttled to the terminal at the side of the room. In a moment Planet Earth gave way to Jayden's appraisals. For a moment Niamh looked at the screen, tapping her nails on the table. "He's qualified to junior exec level, scores are good." She glanced across at Jayden, smiled. "Yes, I'll sanction the challenge."

John swallowed. Oh fuck. "You don't scare me, Jayden," he said, meaning exactly the opposite. Jayden smiled. 

"When?" he said to Harding.

"Wednesday now... Uh, Saturday morning slot is open. Nine sharp," Harding said, consulting his handheld terminal. He glanced at both of them, a smile on his face. "Normal rules apply? Good. Now, to the rest of today's business..."

******

The house was unlocked, dark and quiet from the outside. Jayden pushed the door closed behind him. It was only nine, he could see the flickering light of the TV from the living room.

"Anyone could come in here," he said, locking the door.

"Not in this fucking neighbourhood," Niamh said, emerging from the living room, drink in hand, smiling mischievously. She was wearing a short black negligee under a silk robe, her long gymnast's legs flashing white through the black fabric.

He grinned. "I suppose not." 

She handed him a drink, sipping from her own glass, cocking her head at him a small smile playing about her lips.

"So is your husband home?" Jayden said, grinning as he sipped his best whisky.

"Oh, don't be like that," she said, giggling a little.

"You're drunk," he said.

"That's right," she said, moving closer, eyes looking up at him. "Drunk and horny and waiting for you..."

He smiled. She looked up at him, face flushed, dark brown hair chopped short. He fingered it, lifting it to his nose, inhaling her scent. "And how long have we got until hubby comes home this time?"

"Overnight. He's away in Boston Orbital." She smiled at him again.

He kissed her, tugging her robe loose with his free hand. She tasted of oranges - the Cointreau she was drinking.

"There, that's better," she said, slipping the robe free of her shoulders to fall about her ankles. Her negligee was short and strappy, barely covering her ass, clinging to her slim body, outlining her firm tits, her hardened nipples. Under the straps her shoulders were soft and creamy, a dusting of freckles.

She fumbled to undo the buttons on his shirt one handed, her drink clutched in the other.

"Here." He shucked his suit jacket, unbuttoning his shirt before pulling it over his head. "Is that better?"

She kissed his chest, her tongue touching him after each kiss. "Much," she whispered. She ran her hands over his body, stroking the hard muscles of his belly, his smooth chest. Her hands dropped to his crotch, pressing his cock through his pants, rubbing it, looking at him intently. "Come on..."

She led him through the large house to the bedroom, his hand in hers. It was decorated in neutral tones - teal and cream - one wall given to a capacious walk in wardrobe, the doors a polished wood. On the cabinet next to the bed was a picture of her and her husband taken against a forest backdrop - one of the hyroponic domes, he thought. Seeing it, he grinned triumphantly - a predator to his prey - saluting her husband with his own whisky. Niamh sighed, rolling her eyes - came into his arms, pressing herself against him.

"What am I, then, some kind of trophy?" She looked up at him, eyes wide.

"That's right. Victor's spoils," he said.

Her tongue was hot in his mouth, her arms looping around his neck. He pulled her negligee up, sliding it over her raised arms - breaking the kiss for long enough to strip it from her. Her tits were large, creamy with dark nipples, a dusting of freckles on their upper surface. He dropped his mouth to her neck, kissing her softly, teasing along her skin. He could feel her hands fumbling at his belt, struggling to get his trousers off while still holding her drink.

Gently he took it from her, swigging the last mouthful himself, placing it on the cabinet. Even as he did so he could feel her undoing his pants, pushing them down, his cock swinging free.

She looked up at him again, smiling slightly, her little hand wrapped around his cock, stroking him. "Spoils of war is it?" she said, face so close he could feel her breath on his skin, the end of his cock brushing the soft skin of her thighs, her hand working him expertly. "So what are you going to do with your trophy, then?" Breathless.

"I'm going to fuck you in the bed of my enemy..." She giggled slightly. Without warning he wrapped his arms under her ass, lifting her up and dumping her, squealing, onto the surface of the bed. Even as he discarded the rest of his clothing she was stripping her panties, pushing them down and off, spreading herself open.

When he straightened she was watching him closely, her eyes bright, her fingers in her cunt, rubbing herself. He felt her gaze stroke over the long muscles of his thighs, lingering on his erect cock, the smooth plane of his belly, the black tattoo across his chest, sweeping up onto his cheek. "Fuck, Jay," she said hoarsely, sexily, fingers sliding inside herself, rubbing her clit. "You've got the sexiest body I've ever seen..."

He grinned, clambered onto the bed, his weight sending her rocking. She splayed herself around him, below him the neat covering of dark hair giving way to the pink flesh of her cunt, moist and glistening. One hand reached for him, pulling at him, dragging him down to kiss her mouth, her other hand held his cock, stroking it, guiding it into her.

"Come on, then, Jayden," she said breathlessly, her hand sliding around to his ass, pressing him into her, his cock inside her. "Fuck me in Conor's bed."




The Duellist



He drove into her, his cock sliding easily into her wet cunt, her legs wrapping themselves around his waist, pulling him into her with a soft grunt. He slid his hands under her shoulders, gripping her wrists, pulling her hands above her head, pinioning her. She grinned, her tongue dancing in his mouth, her hips thrusting to meet his, his cock scything into her willing flesh.

"Oh, come on, Jay" she whispered. "Fuck me harder." Her lips brushing his ears, her tongue flicking over his lobe.

He grinned, driving into her so that she gasped, her muscular legs gripping him, pulling him into her harder, faster. He felt sweat prickle his skin, her teeth nipping his neck, her tongue stroking over his cheek, following the outline of his tattoo.

"Mm. That's it - come on, fuck me hard, Jay, fuck me hard..." She shrugged her hands free of his grip, sliding them around his shoulders, into his hair, her tongue driving into his mouth, grunting gently with each breath. Her hand slipped to his ass, caressing him, on the small of his back guiding his rhythm, pushing him into her willing body, the room full of the wet, slick sounds of their fucking. Her neck tasted of perfume and sweat, his tongue licking her soft skin.

Her body rocked with the rhythm, jerking under him with a sexy little gasp each time he thrust into her. She whispered small fuck sounds into his ear, teasing him with her tongue - pushing against him, her legs levering her against his body - meeting each stroke with one of her own. Slowly her sounds increased, sighs turning to gasps, becoming moans. She rubbed her tits against his chest, slick with sweat, moaning as she clutched at him.

"Oh, fuck! You're making me cum..." she said sexily, her voice earthy. He bit her neck gently, alternating his teeth and his tongue. She groaned. "Fuck, Jay, I'm going to cum..."

Felt his own climax building, her body gripping him, sliding wetly along his cock, her cunt sliding easily along him. Moaned with her, his mouth seeking hers, their tongues leaping together - a new intensity entering their kissing - sounds of fucking turning to moaning, grunting. 

With a low squeal she came, her body going rigid beneath him, her legs gripping him like a vice, pinning him deep inside her body, shaking, shuddering against him. For a while, they lay still like that, his cock still rigid inside her. Slowly, she released him, her eyes opening, looking at him, a sexy little smile turning her lips.

"Fuck, Jayden," she said, grinning enigmatically. "You didn't cum"

"Nobody's perfect," he said, grinning. He pulled his cock from her, sliding it slickly from her wet flesh, his eyes bright. "What you going to do about it?"

She smiled playfully. "Don't know. Maybe nothing." She looked at him, one finger on her lips, mock pensive, her eyes on his cock.

He grinned stroked his cock, kneeling between her thighs, thick fluid dripping from the end. "If you don't do something, I'll cum all over you in about a minute," he said.

"Fucking cum on my tits, then," she said, laughing. She reached up, knocking his hand away, took hold of his cock - jerking him off slowly. "That's my job I think," she said, a knowing smile on her lips.

"They're very nice tits," he said, staring at the creamy flesh of her chest, her nipples hard. With her free hand she pushed them together, examining them.

"They should be, they cost enough," she said. He nodded, unable to speak. Her hand stroked his cock, a mischievous grin on her face. "You going to cum, Jay?"

He grunted. 

"Good," she said, grinning. Her body was supine below him, his eyes following her slim belly, the curve of her thighs, kneeling between her still splayed legs. He felt his climax come on quickly, her hand firm and clever with his cock, stroking him expertly. She was watching him closely, gauging his arousal with expert eyes. "Right on my tits," she said breathlessly. 

As if on cue he came - hot ribbons of semen jetting over her tits and belly, draping her hand in white strings, pooling on her chest, dripping over her tits. "Fuck," he said, sensation spasming through his body. He felt suddenly weak, limbs rubbery. 

She laughed, milking his cock, squeezing thick drops of cum from the end, drawing a moan of pleasure from him. Holding his eyes she lifted her hand to her mouth, tasted his cum. "Mmm. Salty," she said quietly. 

"What did you expect, Laphroaig?" he said, laughing, flopping onto the bed next to her.

"If it was Laphroaig I'd have let you cum in my mouth," she said, shifting over so that she lay with her head on his chest, his cum dripping onto the bed, dripping over his body.

"Promises, promises," he said. 

She laughed. "Did you see the look on John's face this afternoon, when you asked your question?"

Jayden laughed along with her. "He knew he'd been set up."

"Of course he did, where would the fun be otherwise," she said quietly, her hand stroking his muscular chest. "Will you kill him?"

"Yes."

She smiled, snuggling close to him. "Just like that."

"Just like that."

"And then you'll be working for me," she said. 

He stroked her back, feeling the velvet softness of her skin, damp with sweat, nuzzled her hair. "So you'll get to bust my balls at work and at home, is that it?"

"That's it." He heard the laugh in her voice. She paused, said, "I knew you would."

"What?"

"Kill him."

He grinned. "Of course you did, that's why you get off on duellists."

She hesitated, looking at him. "Is that what you think?"

He made no reply. 

For a time they lay in the quiet, snuggled together. Eventually she laughed, twisting to face him, her eyes shining. "You'd better go, I'll be falling asleep in a minute then I'll never get these sheets clean before Conor gets in."

He sighed. He felt tired, sleepy. "Sure," he said, extricating himself from her embrace. He pulled his pants over his damp flesh, feeling her eyes tracing his muscled body as he moved.

"Oh, poor baby's been kicked out," she said, laughing, not quite hiding an undercurrent of tension. "Don't worry, he's away part of next week, you can fuck me then." She stretched out on the bed, showing her lean, athletic body to its best effect. The sales pitch wasn't lost on him.

"What's the matter, Niamh, worried some duellist groupie will seduce me away?"

She glared at him, half playful. "You'd better not..."

He sat on the edge of the bed, stroked her thigh, ran his hand over her damp pubic hair. "Guess you'll have to wait and see..."

He scooped some of his dripping cum from her nipple, felt her shiver slightly. For a second he rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, feeling it - slimy, viscous, still warm from her body - then he held it against her lips. For just a moment she didn't react, staring up at him with hard green eyes, then her mouth opened ever so slightly and she licked his fingers clean, her tongue lapping at him gently.

"Bastard," she whispered, glaring at him above her grin.

"It's a duellist thing," he said.

******

He wore Mitsue to work the next morning. Black suit, matching shirt and tie. Italian shoes - always Italian but never loafers - Japanese chic.

There were eight messages waiting for him, the communication panel light blinking like an angry red eye. He ignored it, twisting in his chair, putting the industrial look table with its glass top and brushed steel frame behind him, staring from the window across the dome below him.

From his vantage point the arching roof of the gigantic geodesic seemed almost close enough to touch, looking like nothing so much as being trapped inside a multi-faceted diamond like some fly in amber. Beyond it the sun burned brightly, obscuring the star field but making Planet Earth shine like an enormous emerald moon.

He could see only one more dome from here - Boston, he thought. It was too far distant to make out the city itself - shining brightly in the sun, but he knew that there were nearly a thousand in orbit now and talk of adding more as the population grew, as Earth got worse.

"Tea, boss?"

With a small sigh he turned his back on the view, back to face the day's work and his secretary.

"No, coffee. Black and strong, please Toni," he said.

"Sure thing," she smiled, her brown eyes sparkling, long red hair contrasting with her dark eyebrows. "Bad night?"

"No, actually. Quite productive," he said. "Coffee..."

She took the hint.

Four of the eight messages were from the same guy, a Wim De Vries, his recorded image showing a man in his mid thirties, tangled sandy hair, a small goatee, cornflower blue eyes and the rugged look of a man used to outdoor activity. Even if he hadn't said it his woollen roll neck and jeans, his trimmed beard and floppy hair would have identified him as an environmental bleeding heart. For a moment he listened to him waffle about wanting a meeting then he deleted him for the more productive sound of silence.

One of the remaining messages was from an old duelling buddy, telling him he'd heard about his upcoming challenge on Dome Radio and wishing him luck. Jayden smiled at that, but he still deleted it. He glanced at the media pod on the desk, he'd downloaded the sports from last night, so he could enjoy hearing it himself later.

By the time he reached the final three Toni had delivered his coffee and he was at least able to listen to Niamh invite him to the divisional party tomorrow evening and to his boss mouthing platitudes about being sorry to lose him, with the comfort of a coffee in hand.

The last message was from her. Her face filling the screen without warning, hitting him like a hammer in the gut. He stared, his whole body gone cold, his skin tingling, gooseflesh running across his arms. Emma Louise Peyton.

"Hi Jay," her image said. "It's me. Emma... But I guess you know that right? Look, I guess you're not in right now, which is why I'm leaving this message, right?" Her image smiled, cocking its head in the way the Emma he used to know did, her blond hair falling to one side. "Look, I need to talk to you, Jay... Call me okay?" She smiled again, blue eyes like lapis lazuli, sparkling, a flash of white teeth against her smooth tan, her red lips, then she was gone.

He sipped his coffee too quickly, the hot liquid burning his throat. 

Had it really been eight years? It felt like yesterday. 

Shit.

Slowly he got up from the desk, closed his office door, flicked the transmit button off on his screen and punched redial.

It took a moment to connect, then her face reappeared. "Hi, Emma Peyton." She was in a house, bedroom in the background, white blouse, hair long and loose.

"Hello Emma," he said.

"Jay, is that you? Screen's blank this end..." she peered at the machine her end, looking for a problem.

"Yeah, it's me. You're on an unsecured line, Achilles disables visual to prevent espionage," he lied.

"Oh, right." Her face reappeared in the centre, smiling a little nervously. "Uh, I heard about you on the radio, Jay."

"Yeah?" That wasn't why she was calling, he'd been radio profiled many times, all duellists were.

"Yeah..." She looked unsure, awkward, talking to a blank screen. No body language to gauge his demeanour. "Look, uh, this is hard to do like this, uh, can I meet you, Jay?"

He paused, curious. "If you like." He leaned back in his chair, sipped his coffee. "What you doing tonight?"

She looked about. "Few things on... Tomorrow or Saturday would be better."

"Busy tomorrow, duelling Saturday," he said, flat, businesslike. "Tonight or next week."

"Right, sure. Uh, tonight then... Where, when, Jay?"

He grinned wolfishly. "Bitter End, ten pm."

"The Bitter End?" She looked thoughtful. "That's in New York Dome, right?"

"Yeah."

"Uh, okay... Ten pm."

"Good. See you then." He hung up.

He turned back to staring out of the window, all thoughts of work banished. Emma Louise Peyton. He sipped his coffee. Had it really been eight years?

******

"...and for those baseball fans amongst you, the Boston Dome Blue Sox will be playing the New Delhi Raiders in the second round play offs. Sox need this game, fans. Turn out for 'em, 'eh? Now duelling groupies we've got some news hot off the press at Achilles..."

Jayden stopped towelling his hair, turned the volume of the media pod up, the DJ's banal tones echoing about the shower room.

"...our favourite poacher turned gamekeeper Jayden Carney is on the move again."

He grinned, one leg on the low bench, drying his thigh.

"Word is he called out senior exec John Fitzpatrick and the duel is slotted for Saturday morning. For stats lovers amongst you, Jayden is running at three kills and one blink, so he'll be looking for his first ring out of this..."

Jayden glanced at his hand, the tattoo on the web between thumb and forefinger. Four small circles - three full one hollow - forming a partial flower shape. One more would complete the flower, make a complete ring. When you shook hands with a duellist you knew who you faced.

"...Fitzpatrick, good luck - rather you than me," the DJ said. Jayden grinned, knocked it off.

He dumped the used towel in the laundry, opened the pale wooden door of his wardrobe. For this evening, he thought, Ernesto Saddachi. Black suit, thick white shirt to contrast his tattoo. No tie. He stared back at himself from the mirror above the sink - tanned skin, black hair, eyes as grey and hard as brushed steel.

Emma Louise Peyton, look what you missed, he thought.

******

The Bitter End was a duellist club - a hang out for the pros, not executives with a couple of promotions under their belt. For the pros and for the wannabees and the admirers. Duellist groupies. When Achilles' driver dropped him off there was already a queue snaking from the door along the narrow lane, confined behind grey barriers, lining the backs of redbrick buildings - ankle deep in litter and discarded fast food containers.

He walked straight to the door.

"Hey Jay," he touched fists with the bulky black man standing at the entrance, noted the ring plus two on his hand.

"Hey Carl, busy?"

"Yeah, man. Heard 'bout you and Saturday."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You watch yourself, yeah... No such thing as an easy kill, man."

Jayden nodded. "I'll be careful."

Carl grinned. "Yeah, man... Keep chill, yeah?" He stepped aside and Jayden slipped past him into the dim light of the interior.

Inside was busy, mostly groupies and corporate execs on the piss, he recognised a couple of pros, drinking hard at a table in the far corner, groupies hovering like flies. Emma wasn't hard to spot. Amongst the duellist chic she stood out like a missionary at a cannibal soiree - her simple white blouse a stark contrast to the cheap suits, tattoos and wildly dyed hair that most groupies sported. She was sitting at a table near the front, just above the dance floor, elbow leaning on the chrome railing. Across from her sat the rugged features of Wim the Bleeding Heart, utterly out of place in his poverty chic jumper and jeans.

For a second he watched them from across the club - the music loud but not shattering, people dancing, swaying around the floor in front of him, light alternately bathing everything in red and green and blue. Their body language said all that he needed to know. He turned to the bar, bought a rum, neat.

She didn't smile when she saw him approach, coming from Wim's offside. She just sort of stared, moved in her seat, looking at him, her face unreadable. Wim looked around, stood, was the first to speak.

"Jayden? I'm Wim De Vries." His handshake was like a vice. No tatts.

Jayden nodded, all the while watching Emma. "Nice to meet you, Wim." 

Wim's eyes flickered between the two of them, the silence filled with a strange tension. Finally Emma said, "Hello Jayden." Offered him her hand. She was looking at him carefully, her voice as enigmatic as her face. "Thanks for coming."

He nodded, took her hand briefly, the contact strangely familiar even after all these years. He pulled up a seat, sat on it backwards - leaning on the seatback - saw them exchange a glance. There was obviously an understanding between them.

"Right, I'll, uh, leave you to it then," Wim said, pushing his chair back, standing. Jayden said nothing, watching him neutrally. Wim paused, unsure. "Okay, then. Uh, see you later," he said to Emma. She nodded almost imperceptibly.

Jayden tracked him across the club with his eyes, letting the silence stretch, watched him settle by the bar, a bear amongst wolves.

"Well, this is awkward," Emma said after a while, brushing her long hair back from her face, hooking it behind her ear. Her hand toyed with a half empty bottle of beer on the table in front of her.

He looked at her. Sipped his rum. She needed him for something. Wanted him for something. Advantage Jayden, he thought.

The silence stretched. She laughed nervously. "You aren't making this easy, you know."

"And I'd want to do that why?"

She shrugged. "So... How've you been, Jay?"

He stared at her. "That has got to be the dumbest question I've ever heard."

Her eyes flashed. "Hey, fuck you! You got a better one?" she said angrily.

"I heard you got married."

She stopped. The anger seemed to drain out of her as quickly as it had come. "Yes," she said. "It didn't work out."

"Shame," he said evenly. Sipped his rum, watching the dance floor.

She glared at him. "That's right, Jay, it's a shame. A fucking shame, but life moves on..."

He nodded. "Where'd you get that? The book of banalities and platitudes?"

She gave him a murderous look. "Oh, listen to Jayden the duellist," she said, dripping sarcasm. "How many innocent people have you killed now? Care to share that fucking wisdom with us, hotshot?"

"I've done what I had to do."

"Like you haven't enjoyed it, right?" she said, eyes angry, face flushed. "Mister Bigshot fucking duellist, name on the fucking radio, groupies getting all wet over your fucking picture every night-"

"That's right!" he said savagely. "And it's far fucking better than the place you fucking left me. I've had to get where I am with no fucking hand-up from Governor William James fucking Peyton the third, no fucking silver dildo shoved up my fucking ass..."

She leaned back, eyes wide. "Ooh... I was born poor, I was born in the reclamation estates," head rocking, dripping sarcasm, "I've got a get out of jail free card... It's not my fault I'm a fucking killer!"

"Spoilt rich bitch," he said quietly. "What do you know about what I've had to do?"

She looked at him. Took a breath, letting the silence leak in, music from the club wailing in the background. "You're right, I don't know anything about your life." She drank some beer, calmed her breathing. "Look, I didn't come here to fight-"

"Yeah? Well it feels like a fight to me." He looked at his watch. "Unless you've got something else to say, I'm going."

She sighed. "I want your help, Jay."

"So that shouting," he gestured with his glass, "that was some kind of sales pitch was it?"

She stared at him. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to fight with you. Will you hear me out?"

For a moment he paused, poised to leave, then gradually the tension leaked out of him. "Sure, why not?" he said at last.

"Thank you." She sipped her beer. "Wim-"

"He your boyfriend?" he said, his eyes picking an uncomfortable looking Wim out from amongst a group of young groupies near the bar.

Emma followed his eyes. Looked back, challenging him. "Yes."

Jayden nodded.

"He works for the United Nations Commission on Planetary Rehabitation..."

"You always were one for lost causes."

She took a breath, almost visibly willing herself to remain calm. "Look, he's been working with the corporations for ages, trying to get them to take notice, to commit. Nobody would. Then he met with a young executive at Achilles-"




The Duellist



"John Fitzpatrick?"

She nodded. "That's right, John. He listened to Wim, heard him out. It changed his mind, his view. He offered to bring Achilles on board." Her voice was passionate now, her enthusiasm obvious. "If just one corporation would commit we know that others would follow, it would really change things, give rehabitation a chance-"

"Except that I happen along and call out your pet exec and derail the whole thing."

She smiled slightly. "That's right. Look, Jay, if Achilles don't commit we're back to square one - nowhere. You can see why I want your help."

"You want me to withdraw the challenge, let John stay and change Achilles' policy?" He grinned.

Emma's smile widened, she cocked her head. He'd always loved it when she looked at him like that. "Yes. Please, Jay. Not for me, for Planet Earth."

He smiled gently. "You should listen to yourself... For Planet Earth." He sipped his rum, shook his head. "I'm afraid noble causes aren't my thing," he said. "Just so you understand, I'll make this simple for you - I don't care about Planet Earth or any other member of your lost causes club." He watched her face fall, flush red. "John Fitzpatrick is as dead as your fucking planetary rehabitation project." He finished his rum, stood. "Anything else?"

"At least I care about something," she said bitterly. "What do you care about, Jay?"

He smiled at her, a smile as cold as vacuum.

"Fucking wanker," she said, her eyes bright.

When he looked back from the door, she was still looking at him, her face as enigmatic as before. At least they hadn't lost the ability to get under each other's skin, he thought.

******

John rubbed at his eyes, vainly pretending to dust or grit. Harry was running on the grass a short distance from them, chasing a rainbow coloured ball. Around them, in the open space at the heart of the park, people were going about their business as if they had not a care in the world - students reading, young couples walking hand in hand, or lying next to one another, atop one another, older people strolling. If it wasn't for the glittering dome sparkling far above them, the absence of animal life, it could have been any park from any part of Earth history.

"He's going to kill me, Tanya."

She shifted, knelt up next to him, rubbed his back, her face as stricken as his. "No, John. You can't let that happen, you can't..."

"Tanya..." he took her hand, holding it on his shoulder. "He was a pro. He's faster than me, he's better than me, he's more ruthless than me... I don't stand a chance."

She winced. "What about a proxy?"

John shook his head. "I've thought about it. Achilles' pros only defend partners, I'd have to pay for my own," he said quietly. "We can't afford it... Nowhere near. And besides, execs who don't fight their own duels don't last long."

She swallowed. "What about blinking?"

His head dropped. "I'd be out of a job, it'd take me years to get back to where I am now... The money..."

She took his head in her hands, turning him to face her, to see that she was crying, too. "Fuck the money, John. Harry needs his father... I need you. If it means having you safe and sound we'll go live in a box, I don't care. But I won't lose you - do you understand?"

He nodded, tears soaking his cheeks.

******

"So, do you think the boy wonder will fit in in Commercial Exploitation?" Harding said, sipping his drink. Niamh glanced across to where Jayden was chatting to a group of people from her division, mixed men and women. Between them the long table of the boardroom stretched, the far wall broken open to form a makeshift bar, the bar counter the top of a couple of purpose-built dollies.

"So far so good," she said neutrally, watching Jayden intently. "His ideas are certainly ruthless enough and he's made a real success out of Response Solutions."

"Hmm. Gordon will certainly be sorry to see him go."

"Yes, I've no doubt. Still... His loss, our gain." Jayden glanced up, caught her eye from across the room, raised his drink in a salute. She nodded, careful not to give too much away in front of Harding.

"You'll have to watch him, Niamh," he said easily, smiling. "He'll be after your job next."

She looked up sharply. "Not likely. He needs to have enough money to buy a partnership," she said. "And he's nowhere near yet."

Harding chuckled. She looked at him. "Just kidding, Niamh, no need to be so touchy..." 

She smiled but her eyes drifted back to Jayden, watching him thoughtfully.

Jayden could feel her eyes on him. Feel her watching him as he chatted to some of the younger women from the division, the group loud with conversation, verbal fencing. Jealousy. Or something else? he wondered.

"Hey Jayden, you hear the news?" The newcomer shouldered his way into the group, towering over it. His voice was heavy, Eastern European accent. Jayden looked up, touched fists, two rings plus four. Stanislav.

"Not yet..." Jayden said. Stanislav grinned, face splitting, a webwork of scars and tattoos like a Maori warrior. Professional duellist on retainer to Achilles.

"John Fitzpatrick blinked," he said, grin turning to a smile. He stood a head taller than Jayden, massive body muscled like a wrestler, black hair slicked back into a ponytail, absurd in a grey pinstripe. "Fucking pussy."

Around him, the group murmured congratulations, a few patting him on the back, a couple of 'welcome aboards' from people he didn't know, a few whispered derogatory comments about John.

Jayden smiled. "Easy money... No such thing as an easy kill, Stan."

"What, you a fucking pussy, too, Jay?" Stanislav laughed, a rumbling like rocks rubbing together.

Jayden laughed. "Here, get you a drink, big guy..." He poured a second rum, passed it to Stanislav, topped his own up. Achilles didn't have the best rums, but some of them were passable. 

He raised his glass. "Here's to pussies..." Laughter swept the group, joining in the toast.

Niamh appeared at the edge, an empty glass in hand, tight green dress strappy across her shoulders. "Have I missed something?" she said.

"Fitzpatrick has blinked," he said, taking her glass. "What'll you have... Boss?"

Niamh grinned. "Gin and tonic. I heard about John, wanted to say congratulations..."

He handed her the drink, holding on to it for just slightly longer than he needed to. "Thank you. Guess I'm working for you now..."

"That's right." She smiled at him, her eyes intent. "Come on, there are some people you need to meet."

"Sure." He nodded his farewells to the group.

By the time the lift doors closed behind them she was in his arms, her mouth hard on his, her tongue pushing into his mouth. He smelt her perfume, ran his hands over her body, feeling the play of her muscles, her firm ass. 

"Where we going, your office?" he said quietly.

She shook her head. "Too obvious. Upstairs," her hand slipped to the back of his head, pulling him against her, her tongue frantic, "...boardroom."

He punched the button, sliding the strap of her dress off her shoulder, pushing the dress down over her tits, exposing the lace of her matching bra, his hand kneading her through the fabric.

She moaned slightly. "Stop, might be someone-"

He kissed her, driving his tongue into her mouth, pushed the hold button, felt the elevator lurch to a standstill.

"Oh..." she breathed. He unfastened her bra, pushing it off her tits, his hands lifting them free. She fumbled with his belt.

"This what you wanted?" he said, kissing her neck - bitter taste of her scent - teeth on her soft skin. Her hands were on his cock, inside his pants, grabbing him roughly.

"Do me here..." She gasped, his teeth closing on her neck, his tongue stroking her skin. She released him, pulling her dress up around her waist. He pulled her panties down, dropping to his knees as he slid them down her legs. Even before she'd kicked them free of her ankles his mouth was on her cunt, his tongue sliding into her moist flesh, his fingers on her ass, gripping her cheeks.

She moaned, sliding back against the wall of the elevator, her legs splayed open, hands dropping to hold his head against her, pressing him into her cunt. "Mm, feels nice," she said, little more than a breath, her hips rubbing her flesh against his face. He pushed into her, his tongue sliding deep into her body. "Oh, fuck, Jay..." Her head fell back against the wall with a thump.

"Turn around," he said, standing, his hands on her waist, turning her.

"What? Fuck..." She looked dazed, befuddled. Obediently she turned, leaning against the wall, legs open. For a second he fingered her, his hand finding her clit, rubbing it, pushing inside her. She moaned, hips pushing against his hand. "Come on, Jay, fuck me..."

He guided his cock into her with a moan, her body pushing back against him. 

"That what you want, boss?" he said, breathless, driving his cock into her, holding it there, hands on her hips.

She grunted. "Fuck, yes... Oh." Arched her back, driving her body into him, impaling herself further. 

He slid out, used her hips to drive himself home once again, heard her grunt. "Like that, do you?" he said, fucking her hard, hands gripping her hips - guiding her body, driving her onto him, holding her passive.

"Fucking bastard, " she said, gasping as his cock scythed into her. "Fucking bastard... oh, fuck!"

He released her hips, lifting his hands and grabbing her tits hard - caressing them, fingering her nipples - pulling her back against him, his mouth closing on her neck.

"Oh, fuck, Jay..." She broke off, moaning, grinding her hips into his, grunting with each thrust against him. He felt his body responding, his climax igniting.

"Oh... I'm going to cum," he said, grunting.

"Fucking cum in me, cum in me, you bastard, cum in me." 

He pinned her, one hand looping around her body, pulling her back into him, his cock slamming into her, his other hand dropping to her cunt, fingering her clit - working her sopping flesh.

"Ah, fuck - I'm cumming, Jay..." Breathless, panting.

He came, his cock pumping inside her. She groaned, driving her cunt against him. "Don't stop... Fuck, don't fucking stop..." He worked her cunt with his finger, felt her tremble.

"Fuck... Oh, I'm cumming..." She gasped, her body suddenly rigid, driving into him. "Oh, fuck, Jay... Oh, fuck."

After a moment she giggled, turned to face him. "I guess I should declare that as a perk of the job..."

He smiled. "Does this mean I get an easy ride on Monday?"

"That was your easy ride, Jay," she said, smiling at him over her shoulder. "Remember, business is business, pleasure is pleasure."

He slapped her ass playfully. She squealed, wriggling on his cock still embedded inside her. "Bitch," he said.

"It's a boss thing."

******

Monday morning he found Niamh waiting in the carefully elegant surroundings of her chrome and glass office. She was sitting behind a gleaming black desk like a piece of modern sculpture, computer monitor incongruous on its surface, a slim audiophone pressed to her ear. The windows behind her were tinted from dark at the bottom to light at the top, filtering the sun to give the room a relaxed, shaded feel.

As he entered she pointed to the small black sofa in front of her desk, gesturing for him to sit. He nodded, crossed to a desk on the side strewn with glasses, poured himself a water. He looked over at her, raising his glass in invitation, sat when she shook her head.

"Okay, Wim, yeah. That's right, a new guy is taking over from John..." Jay tuned in, paying attention. "No, I don't think that Achilles' policies will remain unchanged, but that's something-" she made impatient gestures over the audiophone, waiting, "well I'm sorry you feel that way Wim, that isn't our intention... Yeah, okay. I'll ask him to phone you."

She hung up, Jayden raised his eyebrows in query.

"Environmental nut, works for United Nations or something," she said dismissively. "Been trying to get hold of John, concerned now that the approach that he'd been following will change under your leadership."

"Well, he's right there."

"Yes." She looked at a file open on her desk, touching it lightly. "You've made quite a name for yourself in Response Solutions..."

"Yes, I have, Niamh." He held her eyes.

She nodded, grinning, her eyes appraising. Playing the game. "Good. I hate false modesty. Commercial Exploitation is different, though. Here we're all about stability, Jay - the right kind of stability, the kind that lets us take what we want for the minimum outlay."

He nodded.

"You'll have the environment portfolio - make sure you phone Wim back, I'll send you his number - but you'll also have to look after the commercial concerns we have going, don't lose sight of that."

"Okay."

"You'll need some time to get up to speed. Your office is on the fortieth floor. Take your time, I'll expect a briefing from you tomorrow at four pm - only an email, just an outline summary of the direction you'll be taking. Got it?"

He nodded again. "Sure, four pm tomorrow."

The phone rang. "Anything else?"

"Uh, no. I suppose not."

She picked it up, smiling a farewell at him. "Niamh O'Hara."

Jayden shrugged, standing. Niamh covered the receiver with her hand. "Conor's away until Thursday," she said, smiling, her eyes bright. "If you want to..."

"Sure," he said, but she was already talking with the person on the phone.

******

John's office hadn't been cleared, his presence pervasive. He sat in John's leather swivel chair, behind John's expensive rosewood desk and stared at John's wife and baby son in the framed picture on the desk. She was an attractive woman, petite and dark, his son still with the fair hair of babyhood.

It probably explained why he'd gone soft, Jayden thought. Kids, family - reason to worry about the future. He glanced down at his hand, the fresh hollow circle completing the flower. One ring.

There was a soft tap at the door. "Hi, need to change your computer over for you..."

Jayden glanced up, young man in the blue polo shirt of Technical Services, 'Pete' stitched in gold letters on the left breast.

"Be my guest, Pete." He dropped John's picture in the trash with a crack of glass.

There were four messages waiting for him. Three were from Wim asking for clarity around Achilles' environmental stance, one was from Minister Mulele of the Congolese interior ministry.

He phoned Mulele first.

******

The foyer of the United Nations' building in New York Dome was a study in marble, Jayden thought. Marble floor in golden tones, marble walls in white shot with grey, marble reception desk to match the floor, marble statues in niches to match the marble walls, marble steps leading to a balcony with a marble railing. Scattered about it were any number of meeting tables - all dark wood, leather chairs to match. If this was meant to persuade him of the need to fight poverty, he thought, it wasn't working.

Mulele had been easy, he'd just wanted to confirm that Achilles would continue to pay the generous bribes he demanded for allowing them to rip what was left of his country to shreds in search of its valuable mineral wealth. Nothing new there.

Wim was a little different. Despite his dyed in the organic green wool outfit, he couched his pitch in business language. Talked about proposals, about presentations, about official United Nations input. In the end, Jayden had agreed to meet him the next day in New York Dome, at his home base - the United Nations building.

He sipped from a glass of water, watching the people stroll by. In the main, he thought, they were of three types. Corporate visitors in expensive suits, UN employees in cheap suits and activists in whatever they happened to find in the laundry that morning. 

"Enjoying the view?" Wim said, sitting opposite.

"You an activist, Wim?" he said smoothly.

Wim raised his eyebrow quizzically. "I'm sorry?"

"You don't strike me as Emma's type."

Wim sighed. "Are you going to start a fight with me, too, Jayden? Is that your tactic whenever people try to discuss things you don't like?" he said.

Jayden looked at him, thought for a moment, shrugged. "Okay. On the phone you said that you needed to talk to me officially, as the new Achilles lead."

"That's right. Same pep talk we give to all corporate leads... Try and persuade you the easy way."

"There's a hard way?"

"No," Wim looked at him, resigned. "But while we sit up here in space doing nothing, our planet is dying down there..."

"Spare me," he said, sipping his drink. "Emma tried that already... Is there anything new, or can I get back to work?"

"Yes, she said." Wim rubbed his face with his hands. "Jayden, I know you don't give a fuck, Emma doesn't believe it yet. She wants me to make the pitch, okay? Will you come?"

"Where?" he said.

"Home, of course, Planet Earth."

Jayden looked at him, curiosity on his face. "What, now?"

"No. We'll need to arrange shuttles. Tomorrow?"

"Okay." He smiled, easily. He'd never seen Earth except from space. First time for everything.

"Good. Thank you," Wim looked relieved. 

******

"What if Conor hears about this?"

Niamh looked around, raised an eyebrow. "What, hears about me taking my latest management acquisition to dinner on the company?"

The restaurant revolved slowly, the view outside twisting to take in the reduced splash of green that was all that was left of Central Park, the geodesic dark now - Earth between them and the sun's light. Above the star field was bright, visible even through the dome's diamond panes.

"So you take all your new managers out to dinner, do you?" he said, bringing his gaze back to Niamh. She was holding her glass before her, elbow resting on the crisp white cloth, the remains of dinner strewn before them.

"Not all."

"Just the ones you're fucking, right?"

She smiled mischievously. "Jealous?"

He weighed her up. She was wearing a short, tight Chanel number - cut low to show her firm cleavage to its best - tits large on her slim, toned body. She was trying just a little too hard, he thought, a touch of desperation about her outfit, her look. "No, not jealous," he said. "Realistic."

She said nothing to that, turning to look out of the window. "You can stay tonight, if you like. You won't need to leave."

"You want me to stay?"

She looked at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He sipped his wine, took his time. "You asked me if I wanted to stay. I'm asking you if you want me to stay. I've been kicked out of your place often enough-"

"Yes. Yes, okay?" she said quickly, taking a drink. "I want you to stay."

He grinned and turned to look out of the window. In the distance he could see the green ball of Planet Earth slide into view, with the sun behind it it seemed to glow against the night.

"Do you think they could ever make it like it was?" he said quietly.

"What?" she followed his eyes. "Planet Earth?"

"Yes."

She said nothing for a while. "I don't know. It's been a long time getting out of shape... If they do, it'll take more investment than anybody is ever likely to make."

"What if the corporations all came together?"

Niamh looked at him. "You been talking to John?"

"No, Wim."

"Well forget it. He's full of shit, they all are. They've spent decades measuring everything, throwing theories around that convince nobody, trotting out all that bullshit about 'personal responsibility'. You'd swear they'd never heard of Pareto's law or game theory..."

Jayden looked at her. "Eighty - twenty and hawks with doves, right?"

She smiled, sipping her wine. "You got it. All this personal responsibility bollocks only holds if everyone wants to play dove, the minute you get a hawk - bye bye stability." She looked out of the window, tracking the planet. "Get twenty percent hawks and there goes the neighbourhood," she said. "Only totally fucking unrealistic bleeding heart environmentalists like Wim even think it's worth trying."




The Duellist



He followed her eyes. "I guess market forces and environmental concerns were never supposed to meet."

"They already did, Jay," she said slowly. "You're looking at the result."

He stared at the planet. For a time the silence lay on them, quiet against the gentle sounds of other diners' conversation, the clink of cutlery. After a while he said, "So, do you want to be a hawk or a dove?"

She smiled. "I thought I was a trophy?"

"Well, whatever you are," he said steadily. "I want to fuck you."

"I thought you'd never ask..." She gestured for the waiter.

******

"Do you think he'll go for it?"

Emma sighed, rolled over, the bed creaking. "Wim, it's half past one..."

"I know, I know. But will he go for it?"

She pushed her hair back from her forehead, paused for a moment. "No."

"Shit." He rubbed his hands over his face. After a moment he sighed, his voice becoming resigned. "We were so close, so fucking close."

She propped herself up on her arm, pushing the duvet down, faced him. The room was dim but not completely dark, her eyes able to see enough to pick out his face, his expression in the bed next to her. "There'll be other chances."

"I know. I thought we had them, I really did. We were so close this time, closer than we've ever been." He looked at her, his eyes shining in the shadows. "Emma, if we can get just one to come on board..."

"I know, Wim, you've said." She rubbed his arm, trying to keep impatience from her voice. "It'll happen, don't lose faith."

"But when? How long can the planet last while all these corporate Neanderthals stand by talking money and profit and investment returns?" 

She stifled a yawn. "It's lasted this far."

Wim lay still, staring off a the ceiling. For a long while he said nothing, then, "What's it like... Seeing him again?"

"Who, Jayden?" she said, stalling, buying time, the question unexpected.

"Who else?"

She allowed herself to lie back on her pillow, not trusting herself to keep looking at him while she answered. "Strange," she said.

"Yeah?" She felt his eyes on her. "He doesn't seem your type..." he said tentatively. "I find it hard to believe you almost married him. What did you see in him?"

Again the silence stretched. "He was a fun guy," she said at last.

"Fun? That's a bit shallow for you. Guy's a Neanderthal."

"Wim," she said, cautionary. "Don't make me defend him, I'm not the villain here."

"Why would you defend him?" he said. 

She could feel the new tension in the room, settling slowly on them both. Recognised the signs of another fight brewing between them. They spent more time fighting than fucking these days, she thought.

She sighed, resigned to it now. "I loved him once."

"Once, maybe. Look what he's become?" 

Despite herself, she found she wanted to defend him, felt herself getting angry for him. All of a sudden she felt like she was back home, rehashing the same arguments she'd had with her father all those years before. 

"What? He's twenty seven years old and he's senior executive at Achilles. What's so bad about that?"

"He's a killer, Emma, remember? His road to the top is stained with blood."

Emma laughed. "Oh, fucking spare me. I haven't forgotten, but that's the society we created, Wim. He didn't invent duelling, you can't blame him for being good at it."

"There are other paths..." he said, his self-satisfied voice, looking at her oddly.

Emma felt a flush of annoyance, propped herself up again. "Fucking other paths, Wim? He's from the reclamation estates, what chances has he had? How many guys on your team are from the reclamation estates? What, none? Well, there's a fucking surprise..."

"What does that mean?"

"It means, Wim, in case you hadn't noticed, that your team is made up of self-satisfied kids from good backgrounds. There's not a one of them has made it there from the reclamation estates, not a fucking one."

He sighed. "You sound just like him, you know."

"What?" she said evenly, anger evaporating.

"When you're angry, you sound like him," he said quietly.

"Do I?" She lay back, thought about that for a moment. "Go to sleep, Wim, I'm tired."

"Yes, okay," he said, his voice as tired as she felt. Then, after a moment, "I'm sorry, Emma. You were right, I shouldn't have made you defend him, I shouldn't have said anything."

The silence built between them. Emma wondered if it was her imagination, but there seemed to be a new distance in it, a new separation that hadn't been there a few days before. She shrugged it off. It was just a feeling, it would pass...

"I guess I was upset at having him back in your life," Wim said finally. "Bit of Neanderthal jealousy." He tried for a self-deprecating laugh, it sounded forced.

"It's okay. No harm done," she lied.

******

The shuttle bay was located beneath the domed city, cut into the bedrock underneath, sealed from the vacuum with enormous airlock doors. There was too much risk to the domes from a rogue shuttle to allow the port to have been located on the upper surface - all orbital cities following the same pattern. 

Located above it, the terminal building sprawled at the edge of the geodesic, within the city but as close to the edge as could be. It was a low, thick walled structure with a massive over-preoccupation with security. Plate glass doors let Jayden into a sprawling foyer done out in industrial grey with little attempt at comfort and musty with the smell of too many people and too little air. Dotted about the hall were a variety of pieces of commonplace artwork - surrealist sculpture, an occasional mural - displaying an almost reckless lack of imagination. All about were hovering boards crammed with departure details, arrival times, the names of domes and travel estimates. Very few, he noticed, went to Earth. 

There was a covered booth selling coffee near the entrance, a cream and brown striped awning reaching down to give it a false intimacy in the soulless surroundings. He bought himself a double-shot cappuccino in a cardboard cup, paying the exorbitant price with only a raised brow for protest. For a time he loitered near the entrance, sipping the bitter liquid, watching people coming and going. 

He was surprised when Emma emerged from the crowd, looking about until she saw him, walking over to meet him in the foyer. He smiled at her as she approached - she seemed to have changed her look, he thought. She was wearing a smart charcoal trouser suit cut duellist style - tight about the body, loose on the limbs -, her hair scraped back into a bun, big sunglasses and a Gucci bag completing the look. Classy. Sexy.

"Hi," she said, smiling at him a little warily.

"Hi Em," he said easily, pausing to admire her. Smiled. "You look sensational." She flushed a little, her smile less guarded. He looked about. "No Wim?"

"No. He's gone on ahead. We'll meet him there."

He nodded, looking at her. A group of people passed close by, their voices loud, braying. After a moment she said, "What?" Looked herself up and down, smiling.

"Nothing..." He grinned. "Do we need tickets or something?" he said.

"What, oh, uh, I've got your ticket, Jay," she said, starting, reaching into her Gucci bag. "Come on, the elevator is over here..."

He followed her through the terminal, weaving through the crowds of travellers, dodging luggage or running kids. A series of openings were set along the side of the corridor, each one numbered, each one closed off with a set of sliding doors in aluminium. A number were open, disgorging or swallowing passengers depending on whether it was an arrival or a departure. They stopped outside number twenty three. Emma handed him his ticket, a small plastic chip card. There was a small crowd gathered by the doors, mostly people in the casual clothes of off-duty scientists and activists - the de-rigeur fleeces and jeans, chunky boots - a couple of suited business types. No families. To one side a small desk had been set up, a couple of uniformed shuttle staff waiting nearby.

They didn't have long to wait. In a matter of a few minutes the doors opened and a similar small group disembarked, moving noisily through the foyer towards the main terminal. Once they were away, the staff became more animated, beckoning them forward, checking tickets, cramming them into the elevator.

The shuttle bay had more presence, he thought. The elevator opened into a cavern lit by myriad spotlights set about its natural rock walls and floor. Sitting in the centre of the cavern was the sleek outline of the shuttle itself - gleaming white, its body connected to any number of umbilicals, a set of steps pressed against the side. Around it people in overalls busied themselves with a thousand tasks, each one apparently requiring at least two people to check, ticking items off on a handheld terminal.

"It shouldn't be crowded," Emma said, walking alongside him. "The Earth flights rarely are."

"You been down often?"

"Uh-huh. With, uh, with Wim." For some reason she felt unreasonably unwilling to mention him - as if she was bringing a ghost to the feast.

"Right."

They crossed the cavern, climbing the steps into the cabin. Emma was right, there were many more seats than people, the interior not large but easily capable of seating twice the number present on its cramped accommodation.

"You'll want a window seat if you've not seen it before," she said, smiling.

"Okay." He shuffled along the narrow aisle, taking a seat just forward of the stubby wing.

Emma pushed her Gucci bag into the overhead locker. She hesitated, looking unsure about which seat to take. Finally she shuffled into his row, taking the seat next to him. It was cramped and close, her arm brushing his as she sat, hands so close they were almost touching on the seat's arms. They both affected not to notice.

Lift off was far less dramatic than the name suggested. In keeping with his previous experience of inter-orbital flight, the shuttle seemed to just fall out of the launch tunnel, requiring barely any thrust to clear the orbital's gravity once the generated field was breached. From his window he saw the star field emerge, slowly shifting to bring the orbital into view as the shuttle's ion thrusters ignited. 

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" he said, staring at the city receding behind them. A collection of towering buildings, a splash of green, all contained in a gigantic crystal dome, its surface the million facets of a diamond, set on a base of cold rock, for all the world as if a city had been scooped wholesale from Mother Earth.

Emma leaned across, her face close enough that he felt her breath tickle his cheek. "Yes. Wait until you see Earth."

In the distance he could see the flashes of other orbitals, winking in the sun's light, an occasional shuttle glinting like a fish as it moved between them. Gradually the distance between the shuttle and the orbital increased, New York fading to a simple bright spot in the dark sky.

"Why did you give up duelling?" she said after a while.

He turned, meeting her bright blue eyes - mere inches from his. He could see the pulse in her neck, her soft skin trembling slightly. He shrugged, looked away. " I haven't given up, I still duel."

"You know what I mean. Stopped being a professional, became an executive?"

"It's self-limiting." He didn't turn around. "Duellists have a limited life, what happens to you when you lose the edge? At least as an executive you can choose your own duels."

He turned back, faced her again. She hadn't moved, staring at him. The scent of her perfume was strong, sexy. He swallowed. "What about you. How did you end up..." He tailed off, the thought unfinished.

This time it was her that looked away. She shrugged. "When I... When Alex and I separated I got involved with a few causes. You know what I'm like." She smiled.

He nodded. "And Wim, of course."

"Yes," she said guardedly. "And Wim."

He said nothing for a while then, thinking. Finally he said, "Do you believe it can be done?"

"Make the Earth suitable for rehabitation?" She looked past him, out of the window of the shuttle. "Honestly, I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "I mean the problems are huge, overwhelming. In the face of that it's easy to feel powerless, to give up."  

"You don't seem like someone who's given up."

Her eyes flicked back to him, staring into his. "No, I haven't. I believe that I've got to do what I can, make the differences I can make, hope I influence others by my example and trust others to do the same." She grinned shyly, suddenly self-conscious, looked away. "I guess I haven't changed much from when I was in college."

He smiled. "I guess not."

Beyond the portal the Earth was swinging into view. From space the green seemed less vivid, more the colour of a fading bruise than an emerald.

"Sad, isn't it?" she said, leaning across him.

He shrugged, saw her look at him from the corner of his eye. 

"Don't tell me you're not affected by that?" she said, looking at him curiously. "I mean, look at it, that's our home..."

"Emma, I didn't say I wasn't affected," he said slowly. "I think it's terrible, awful. So are a lot of things... So are the reclamation estates. But I'm not an activist, I'm a businessman. Being affected doesn't make it a good investment."

She sighed. "It's not all about money, Jay."

"Not all, no," he said carefully. "But this is."

For a long time they were quiet, staring together at the Earth as it grew in size beyond the small window. Gradually the shuttle shifted position, preparing for reentry, placing the Earth directly underneath them - so large it filled the sky.

"Why did you leave me in the church?" he said quietly, looking out of the window.

Emma stared at him, swallowing. Shrugged. "We..." she stopped, was quiet for a long time. Then: "I was too young, Jay. We both were. I wasn't ready, not really."

He turned to face her. "It took you until the day of the wedding to figure that out?" he said, voice tight. He saw the tension at the corner of her eyes.

"Jay, it was eight years ago." She looked down, not turning away but not meeting his eyes, either. "I'm not proud of what I did. I wish it could have been otherwise."

He nodded slightly. "Eight years, Em. Eight years. And in all that time I never heard from you. Not a word. No explanation. No apology. Nothing."

For a long time she said nothing, the silence tight about them. Finally she said, "You want an apology, Jay?" She lifted her eyes, met his. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I left you in the church, I'm sorry I never contacted you, never explained. I never wanted to hurt you."

Jayden watched her, not sure how he should feel, not sure if it should make a difference or not. "Yeah, we're all sorry," he said eventually, turned away.

******

Jayden's first view of the Earth's surface was disappointing. When the shuttle levelled out following reentry - its ramjet screaming to life as it bit on the atmosphere - it was raining, the skies leaden, as dark as twilight. Below them he could just make out the surface of the sea, boiling in the downpour, waves swaying it sluggishly, more like a thick broth than water. The shuttle streaked across its surface, making for a distant slash of brown against the horizon.

"Where are we heading?" he said. They were the first words spoken since orbit, the atmosphere tense between them.

"The Congo," she said. He thought she sounded relieved.

"The Congo?"

"Yes, uh, Wim says Achilles has big concerns in Congo. He wanted to make his pitch personal."

Jayden nodded, smiled, breaking the tension between them. "Does Uhwim know anything about business?"

She chuckled slightly. "Not a lot, no." 

He grinned, found her grinning back.

Wim was waiting for them when they landed. 

In contrast with the orbital shuttle bay the Earthside bay was in the open, the shuttle port no more than a converted airport - a rather poor one at that, Jayden thought. They taxied to a vacant bay, a long metal arm dotted with rust reaching out to dock with the shuttle doors at the rear of the craft. Through the window he could see Wim, standing passive behind the glass of the shuttle port window. 

With most of the other passengers already queuing at the back, Jayden made to stand. Emma's hand touched his arm, resting lightly on the back of his hand. He looked at her. She stared back, her face uncertain - as if she wasn't sure how he would react. "It's okay, there's no hurry. Why don't we wait until they've gone," she said.

"Okay." He relaxed, sitting back in his seat. She didn't remove her hand so he turned his over, letting his fingers slip between hers, holding her hand gently. She turned to face him, swallowing.

The doors opened with a metallic hiss, swinging out into the waiting umbilical. Slowly the passengers filed out, an occasional comment or conversation piece audible as they passed. 

"There you are," Wim said eventually, from the back of the shuttle. 

Emma's hand shot away as if she'd been scalded, she almost leapt from the seat.

"Uh, yes, hi... We were just coming." She looked flustered. Jayden smiled, standing slowly.

Wim looked at them oddly, glancing at Emma's outfit nonplussed.

"So, I've had Emma proselytising all the way down, are you going to give it your best shot now, Wim?"

"I'm going to do my best," he said, smiling. "Follow me." He waited for Emma, took her hand, leading her away. As they reached the door she looked back, shot him a grateful look.

Jayden smiled, getting Emma's Gucci from the overhead locker before following behind. 

There was a window in the side of the umbilical, it afforded a view over the shuttle port into the country beyond. Jayden paused, vaguely aware of the other two walking away deep in a hushed conversation.

Below him the concrete of the port was broken and cracked, great rain filled craters scattered across its surface, beyond it a broken and rusted chainlink fence and then what was left of the jungle, he supposed. From where he was standing it was impossible to be sure - a great sea of mud stretched away as far as he could see, dotted within it an occasional tree, or the skeletal remains of the same - drowned or poisoned, he thought. On the horizon he could just make out a series of plumes of smoke or gas and the silhouette of what could have been a building. At least the rain had stopped, he thought.

"Oh, my bag," Emma said. "Thanks, Jay." She took it from him. "I completely forgot..."

"Not a pretty sight is it," Wim said.

Jayden shrugged. "That's why we moved out, Wim," he said. He glanced between the two of them. "Look, if you two have got things you want to discuss, I can make my own way back." 

"No. It's okay, we have nothing to discuss, Jayden," Wim said, glancing at an uneasy looking Emma. "Come on, there's more to see than that."

******

Like the shuttle port, the helicopter was sealed against the atmosphere, the doors shutting with a reassuring hiss. It had been painted white, a big UN in black stencilled on the side, but it was obviously former military gear - its look industrial and uncomfortable. A number of masks were located about the cockpit, big bulbous respirators in white. Jayden looked at them dubiously.

"A few decades ago you could breathe the air without concern," Wim said, strapping himself in opposite Jayden. Emma secreted herself near the cockpit, behind Wim, staring thoughtfully out of the window. "Now, if we have to go outside, you'll want one of those."

"I know you're dying explain," Jayden said, resigned.

Wim chuckled. "Oh you can breathe the air, or what passes for it, Jayden. Millions of people around the globe still do - those too poor to join your orbital utopia. The legacy is chronic illness, birth defects, infertility. Use the mask, eh?"

"Sure."




The Duellist



There was a roar as the copter's engines burst to life, the whole body rattling as the blades got up to speed. It was deafening.

"Is this thing safe?" Jayden shouted.

Wim smiled.

They took off, lurching into the air like a drunken bumblebee. Jayden winced, gripping the seat. "Is that pilot even qualified?" he said.

"What?" Wim shouted.

Jayden shook his head. "Forget it," he said. He looked out of the window.

Despite his misgivings they cleared the patchwork fence about the port, heading with reasonable smoothness over the surrounding land. Below them the muddy remains of the jungle stretched in all directions, the powering smoke stacks on the horizon coming closer.

Wim leaned forward, calling Jayden towards him. He shouted, "Back in the twentieth century, Jayden, the land below us was all rainforest. As big as Western Europe, as big as the Amazonian rainforest. The two together were called the Earth's lungs." He pointed down at the mud. "Guess we ripped its lungs out."

Jayden looked. The noise was giving him a headache. "You saying the Congo was some kind of utopia?"

Wim leaned back. Ignored him.

The helicopter closed the distance to the smoke stacks quickly, the images coalescing slowly through the pervasive smoke, great clouds of it roiling around, filling the air long before they reached the source. What emerged resembled a massive insect - four huge legs supporting a massive metalwork platform high above the mud below. From it multiple metal drills reached down into the gelatinous surface below, an army of people in brightly coloured overalls, masks, swarming over its surface or working in the mud. A constant stream of trucks were winding from the mud towards the far horizon, an equal number returning.

The helicopter banked, swinging around the platform. High on the metalwork of the he could just make out as it did so a filthy Achilles Corp. symbol.

"What is it?" he shouted. Wim looked at him.

"I thought the Congo was your area?" Wim said loudly, leaning close to speak.

"Only since Friday night."

"Right." He looked out of the window, pointed. "That is a mining construct. It drills into the ground, plants explosives in the holes and blows the ground to pieces. The trucks come in and pick up it up and dump it on the platform's conveyors. The spoil then goes into the platform where the extraction processes take place." He sighed. "No more inefficient old practices. That thing gets the lot."

Jayden stared. From the pattern on the ground it was clear that the operation was gradually cutting the ground away in a huge swathe, taking every piece of mineral wealth hidden beneath it. "What happens to the slag?"

"Gets dumped." Wim turned, shouted to the pilot and the helicopter lurched about heading off after the trucks. A short time later the site of the dumping became clear. Behind the mining construct a whole new land surface was emerging, baked and lifeless, a sea of steaming mud and slag stretching away into the distance. Even as they watched, trucks added more steaming muck to the devastation.

Wim stared at him. "Well Mister Achilles, this is your responsibility now. Your legacy."

"That's right, Wim. Mine." He pointed out of the window. "And over there will be another construct belonging to Collister Maclean." Pointed in the other direction. "Over there one belonging to Mariner Sketch. Do you see?"

"Well, there's always competition, Jayden."

He shook his head. "Wim, this isn't just competition, this is survival of the fittest."

Wim nodded. "I can't pitch this in the helicopter, Jay," he said, shouting. "Let me take you to the UN base."

"Your day out, Wim," he said quietly, watching Emma. She was looking at him, her face neutral. Wim stared out of the window.

******

"The beans in the coffee you're drinking were grown here on Earth, decades ago," Wim said. "When it was still possible to grow things outside of the domes. They were expensive at the time, now they're nearly beyond price."

Jayden sipped his coffee. It was very good. Wim stood in front of a presentation screen, on it an image of the Earth as it was. Jayden had the strangest feeling that he'd seen this presentation before. It hadn't convinced him then, either. At least the coffee was good, he thought.

He stared out of the window as Wim waxed lyrical behind him, his voice betraying his tension. Beyond the window the UN dome was visible overhead, not a permanent structure like the geodesics over the orbitals. This was more like an enormous tent, a semi-rigid resin bubble. Huge steel pylons and cables surrounded it like a skeletal metal hand, anchoring it against the mother-storms that ripped around the globe.

"...atmosphere scrubbers built on an industrial scale could conceivably restore the atmosphere in twenty years, but without new plant growth..."

In the compound below him a myriad people were going about their business, soldiers in UN uniform, people in white overalls. The far side of the dome seemed to have a hospital of sorts set up in it - a series of steel cargo pods joined together with a huge red cross painted on one. At its door were the usual cluster of white overalls, a queue of people in scraps of clothing, beaten, wretched, stretched from its door. It appeared to be some kind of immunisation program - white coated techs administering shots as fast as the confused rabble would allow.

"...so what we need is for the corporations to come on board, with their money we might make the kind of difference the planet needs to restart the repair process. We anticipate results will start to show between twenty and thirty years from now. With the most optimistic projection it would be fully self-sustaining in fifty years."

He finished. Jayden didn't react, sipped his coffee.

"Jay?" Emma said softly.

"Forget it," he said. "You're living in a world of your own. You're so far away from reality you haven't even noticed that nobody else has come with you."

Wim sighed heavily. "I told you this was a waste of time..."

"Jay, how can you say that?" she said tiredly, resigned. "Look out of the window..."

"I am looking out of your window, Emma," he said quietly. "And do you know what I see?"

"What?"

"I see refugees. I see sick people. I see people in need now. Now. What do they care about fifty years from now?" he said, sipping his coffee, staring into the distance. "You're so hung up on solving the problems we may have in the future that you've forgotten about the ones we know we have right now..."

Wim snorted. "What? A lecture from the voice of business, Jayden?" A bitter chuckle. "Those refugees you're so concerned with, who do you think is administering to them - your corporations?" Wim said, mocking. "No, it's us. Don't lecture me Jayden. Go look at yourself in the mirror first."

Jayden smiled. Turned to face them, meeting Emma's eyes across the sparse interior of the demountable office. "Okay. No lectures," he said finally. "The proposal you've placed on the table holds no interest for the Achilles Corporation." He put the cup down on a low table. "We're done. I have work to do," he said. "Thanks for the coffee."

Wim sighed again, shared a long look with Emma. Finally he turned away, facing the wall, running his hands through his hair. She turned back to look at Jayden, her face serious. "What if we funded a partnership bid for you?" she said quietly.

Jayden stopped, eyes flicking between them. "What?"

"In return for your cooperation with this initiative, we would buy you a partnership at Achilles Corp.," Emma said evenly. "You'd be the youngest partner in their history, that's got to tempt a man like you."

"That's illegal," he said grinning.

Emma smiled. "We can work out the details of how we conceal the payment," she said. "I have some ideas on that. But are you interested?" 

Behind her he could see Wim turn, looking at him intently.

He paused, thoughts racing. "I'd have to think about it," he said slowly. "And what you've got on the table is still unattractive - there's no way I'd sign off ten percent, partnership or not, you'd need to move on that before I could even consider it."

"There's room for negotiation, Jayden," Wim said.

He nodded. "Okay, at this stage I'll think about it. When you have a firmer proposal, come and talk to me and we'll discuss options. I'm not ruling it out."

A partner at twenty seven? he thought. Unheard of. As they left the office he couldn't help grinning. He caught Emma's eye, saw her smile gently at him behind Wim's back.

******

Jayden stifled a yawn, rubbing his forehead, an old duellist trick.

Around him the party was in full swing, besuited executives loitering in the dimly lit Achilles' Conference Suite, drinks in hand - chatting business. He checked his watch, half ten. Where the hell had Niamh gone? he thought, although he had a suspicion he already knew.

"So, how do you find Commercial Exploitation?" Brandon said, smiling. 

Jayden sipped his rum. Brandon was one of the other senior executives, a man he had seen about but hardly spoken to since he'd arrived. Tall, slim, immaculate in a grey Todori Nakamura suit, margarita in hand. He looked more than a little drunk, Jayden thought. Face flushed, pupils dilated.

"Yeah, it's good," he said, noncomittally. 

Brandon sniggered. Jayden revised his estimate of drunkenness upward. "Good?" he said. "Commercial Exploitation is the business, man!"

Jayden nodded. He'd had enough of Commercial Exploitation to last him a lifetime, busting his balls all week to get up to speed. Sacrificing his Friday night on its altar was definitely not on the agenda. "Which, portfolios are you managing then?" he said blandly.

"All the big ones, Jay," he said, waving his margarita to emphasise the point. "I've got South America and North America." Strong emphasis on the 'and'.

Jayden sighed. An hour, Niamh had said, an hour, just for the boss to show willing. That was three hours ago and she hadn't been seen since. Probably found some new fucktoy to play with, he thought bitterly. "That's nice, Brand. How are those working out for you?" he said.

Brandon chuckled. "They're a bitch, the whole fucking place has fallen apart and they're too fucking stupid to see it." He swigged his margarita. "Can you believe they keep asking for environmental concessions? Environmental concessions - place is a fucking toilet." He laughed loudly. "Not as bad as Europe, though. Just ask Philip." He pointed at a squat balding man in his forties standing near the spotlit bar. Philip looked over as he heard his name called.

"Yeah, life's a bitch." Especially when you're dating one, he thought. If you could call what they did dating. He smiled bitterly. Checked his watch again.

"Not for you though, eh, Jayden?" Brandon said, sniggering. He swigged his margarita.

Jayden looked at him. "What do you mean?"

"Senior executive at twenty seven, fucking the boss, light load to carry..." he said easily. "Guess that's got to feel nice."

Jayden stared, a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. "What do you mean 'light load to carry'?"

"Man, what have you got to manage... The fucking Congo? Who has ever given a fuck about the Congo?" he said, laughing. "Nobody cared a fuck about that place before the Earth went to ratshit, now it's easy pickings. Pay your bribes, take your spoils - the fucking interior minister doesn't even live in the Congo, did you know that?"

He knew it. Worthless bastard had a nice place in the Brussels Dome. "I've got Environment, too."

Brandon laughed. "Environment? Much profit in that is there?"

Jayden felt cold, a knot of cold anger settling in his gut. He looked around for Niamh, scanning the crowd around the room. He picked out a few people he knew, spotted Harding at the back with some of the other senior partners. "Brandon, I would love to stay and talk, but you're boring me fucking rigid," he said, voice icy. He patted him on the cheek, as he might do a small child, handed him his empty rum glass. "So I'm going before I feel the need to hit you."

Brandon stared at him, unsure whether he should laugh along or take it seriously.

Jayden didn't give him time to formulate a response, he stalked from the room. He tried Niamh's office, but wherever she'd gone to fuck her latest acquisition it wasn't there. Probably in the elevator he reflected. 

He took the elevator down, resisting the urge to press all the call buttons to see if any were on hold. The receptionist disavowed all knowledge of her whereabouts when he asked. Swearing, his anger impotent, he grabbed his cell, dialled her number. She answered after six rings, video at her end had been disabled.

"Niamh, where the fuck are you?"

"Uh, what? That..." She broke off, breathless. "Uh, that you Jay?"

"Fucking hell, Niamh..." he said coldly. "If you want to go and fuck someone at least let me know first."

"Uh, Jay, I'm, uh, not..."

"You think I'm fucking stupid?" he barked. 

"No... It's, uh..."

"Oh, shut up," he said. "I'm going home. Have a nice fucking night."

"Jay, wait, I-" 

He hung up.

******

He wasn't asleep when she called, but he was in bed - lying on his back, staring into space. Eventually the angry buzzing of the intercom forced him to take action. He rolled out of bed, still wearing his pants, padded through into the living room.

He pressed the intercom. "Yeah?"

"Jay, it's me," Niamh said. "Let me up."

He buzzed her in, unlatching the door for her at the top of the stairs as he did so. The apartment was small, something he'd started renting when he was duelling, but it was located in New York Dome, which meant that the size was worth the tradeoff with the convenience. He went to the small open plan kitchen, flicking the coffee machine on, waiting as it started bubbling.

The door opened. "Hey Jay," she said. She looked good, he had to admit, a black catsuit cut short at her knees and elbows, clinging to her athletic body, her short hair leaving the long pale expanse of her neck on view. "I'm sorry about... You know? We okay?"

"You were fucking then?" She flushed, looked away. Closed the door behind her.

He sighed. "Who was it?"

"Does it matter?"

"No, not really," he said. "You could have fucking warned me..."

She shrugged. "It just sort of happened."

He laughed hollowly. "Thank fuck I'm not married to you."

"Don't say that, Jay." She looked hurt.

He poured himself a coffee. "Want one?"

"Sure, why not?"

He sat on the sofa, flicked the TV on, the room filling with flickering blue light, volume right down.

"You're really pissed, aren't you?" she said after a moment, her expression guarded.

"Niamh..."

"Look, don't be," she said. "I know we were never, you know, exclusive. But if it pisses you off this much, I'll stop, Jay-"

"It's not about that. Not all, anyway."

"Oh." She stopped, sat down next to him on the sofa. "What then, what have I done that's pissed you off this time?"

For a while he looked at the TV screen, watching the images flash, not really seeing them. "Are you carrying me, Niamh?"

She looked at him. "What the fuck are you talking about, Jay?"

"Work. Brandon suggested that you were carrying me - not giving me the full workload I should have." He looked at her.

She shrugged. "You're not up to speed with the division, of course you haven't got a full portfolio, how could you?"

"And that's all?"

She nodded. "Sure, yeah. Brandon's full of shit."

"So what will I be getting and when, then?" he said, carefully, watching her.

"Uh, I don't know, yet. We'll see how things go."

He exhaled. So that was it then - he wasn't trusted, wasn't up to the grade. "You bitch," he said, voice hard.

"Fuck you." Angry.

He glared at her. Through gritted teeth said, "Do you know how hard I fucking worked to get these fucking business qualifications? Do you have any idea of the hours I put in?"

"Jay..." Placatory.

"I don't deserve to be carried, Niamh, I'm sharper than half those fuckwits you've got working for you. Better qualified, better results, so what is it?"

She shrugged.

"I don't look right, is that it?" he pointed to his face, the duellist tattoo. "Don't fit in."

"Jay, you were a duellist, not a business analyst. You did really well at Response Solutions, it suited you, you've got to do the same here. It's different, Jay, not as fast, longer term. You're not used to it yet."

He sighed, leaned back in the sofa, his head rolling backwards, looking at the ceiling. He felt her hand on his chest, stroking his skin. "I won't fuck anyone else, Jay, okay? And I won't carry you, either. Once you're up and running properly, you'll get Europe. Deal?"

For a time he was quiet, staring upward. Her hand was more insistent, sliding over the hard muscle of his stomach, tracing the tattoo across his skin. She was breathing hard. "Come on, Jay. I'll make it worth your while, honest," she whispered, eyes pleading. With her free hand she unfastened the top catch of her catsuit, her firm cleavage bulging. He felt himself getting hard.

He looked across at her and she shuffled over, straddling him. "Honest," she said quietly, leaning towards him. She unbuttoned another button, her tits spilling out of the top, no bra to contain them. She reached up, pulling the suit down her arms to her waist, leaving herself topless, small nipples hard, wrinkled.

"Come on, Jay, don't make me beg..." She cupped her tits, massaging the tips, teasing her nipples. His cock was so hard it hurt, crushed against his pants, her weight pressing into him.

"Bitch," he said, softly, his breathing hard. She smiled, rocking gently against his erection.

"See, your body wants you to agree..." Slowly, her eyes holding his, she lifted her tits, her tongue flicking out to touch her nipples. She circled each of them slowly, leaving her skin wet with saliva. "Come on, Jay, please don't be pissed with me."

He watched her closely, his heart racing. From this close he could see the faint freckles dusting the bridge of her nose, sprinkled on her chest. "Okay, I'll deal," he said quietly, smiling.

She smiled lasciviously. "I knew you'd see it my way," she said throatily. She leaned in close, her mouth closing on his, her tongue sliding into his mouth. He slid his hands up, fondling her tits, teasing the nipples with his thumbs. Her hands were on his chest, rubbing his skin, fingernails scratching lightly.

With a sudden movement he twisted, pushing her backwards onto the sofa, his body pinning her. She squealed. "What, want me helpless is that it?" she said. "So I can't get away?"

"You got it, Niamh," he said, kissing her neck. "This is my place, my party... And you've got some making up to do."

She giggled. "I'm at your mercy, you could do anything..." He licked along her collar bone, kissing her under her chin, heard her moan slightly, tilting her head back offering him her soft neck.

"That's right. Anything."

Her hands looped around his back, pulling him into her, her tongue searching out his mouth. He reached down, slipping his hands between them grabbed her catsuit. With her tongue still twisting in his mouth he ripped it open, the sound of tearing fabric loud in the small room. She broke off kissing him, looked down at her ruined outfit. "Fuck," she said. "That cost a thousand dollars." She was naked underneath.

Jayden grinned. "You can afford it."

"Bastard," she said without rancour, smiling, her hands still around his back.

He stood, pulling the remains of the ruined catsuit from her, leaving her naked on the sofa. Discarded his pants and shorts on the floor. "Fuck, Jayden, you know you've got the sexiest body I've ever seen," she said, reaching for him, splaying herself on the sofa.

He stood next to her, his cock next to her head. She looked up at him, wordlessly took his cock in her mouth, sucking him, her hand gripping the base of him. He could feel her tongue licking, twisting about his cock, her jaw working, sucking him gently. He leaned forward, pushing his cock further in, forcing her head back. For a second she pulled him out, glared at him, called him a bastard. Then she slipped his cock back in, her mouth working him willingly.