Endean was even angrier. He could not explain that Shannon’s slacking on the job was not what concerned him. “Who’s the girl?” he asked.
Shannon shrugged. “Name’s Julie. Met her in a café two days ago.”
“Picked her up?” asked Endean in horror.
“Yes, you might say that. Why?”
“Oh, nothing. But be careful about girls, all girls. It would be better if you left them alone for a while, that’s all.”
“Harris, don’t worry about my security. There won’t be any indiscretions, in bed or out. Besides, I told her my name was Keith Brown; I’m on leave in London and I’m in the oil business.”
For answer Endean spun round, snapped at Paolo to tell the group he was with that he had been called away, and headed for the stairs to the street before Julie Manson could recognize him.
Shannon watched him leave. “Up yours,” he said quietly, “with Sir Bloody James Manson’s biggest drill.”
On the pavement outside, Endean swore quietly. Apart from that, he could only pray that Shannon had been telling the truth about the Keith Brown business and that Julie Manson would not tell her father about her new boyfriend.
Shannon and his girl danced until shortly before three and had their first quarrel on the way back to Shannon’s flat. He had told her it would be better if she did not tell her father she was going out with a mercenary, or even mention his name. “From what you have already told me about him, he seems to dote on you. He’d probably send you away somewhere, or have you made a ward of court.”
Her response had been to start teasing, keeping a straight face and saying she would be able to handle her father, as she always had, and in any case being made a ward of court would be fun and would get her name in all the papers. Besides, she argued, Shannon could always come and get her, fight his way out, and elope with her.
Shannon was not sure how serious she was and thought he might have gone too far in provoking Endean that evening, although he had not planned on meeting him, anyway. They were still arguing when they reached the living room of his flat.
“Anyway, I’m not being told what I’ll do and what I won’t do,” said the girl as she dropped her coat over the armchair.
“You will be by me,” growled Shannon. “You’ll just keep damn silent about me when you’re with your father. And that’s that.”
For answer the girl stuck her tongue out at him. “I’ll do what I damn well like,” she insisted and, to emphasize her words, stamped her foot. Shannon got angry. He picked her up, spun her around, marched her to the armchair, sat down, and pulled her over his knee. For five minutes there were two conflicting sounds in the sitting room, the girl’s protesting squeals and the crack of Shannon’s hand. When he let her up she scuttled into the bedroom, sobbing loudly, and slammed the door.
Shannon shrugged. The die was cast one way or the other, and there was nothing he could do about it. He went into the kitchen, made coffee, and drank it slowly by the window, looking out at the backs of the houses across the gardens, almost all dark as the respectable folk of St. John’s Wood slept.
When he entered the bedroom it was in darkness. In the far corner of the double bed was a small hump, but no sound, as if she were holding her breath. Halfway across the floor his foot scuffed against her fallen dress, and two paces farther he kicked one of her discarded shoes. He sat on the edge of the bed and as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness he made out her face on the pillow, eyes watching him.
“You’re rotten,” she whispered.
He leaned forward and slipped a hand into the angle of her neck and jaw, stroking slowly and firmly.
“No one’s ever hit me before.”
“That’s why you’ve turned out the way you have,” he murmured.
“How is that?”
“A spoiled little girl.”
“I’m not.” There was a pause. “Yes, I am.”
He continued caressing her.
“Cat.”
“Yes.”
“Did you really think Daddy might take me away from you if I told him?”
“Yes. I still do.”
“And do you think I’d really tell him?”