The waiter rolled in the trolley at the same moment Smith stepped out of the bathroom. The amount of food surprised me: potato dish, smoked salmon, roasted chicken wings, Caesar salad, and a cheese plate.
"Orange juice? Hm, I thought I asked Mark for wine," Smith muttered.
"I told him to bring orange juice. I don't want you getting drunk. Besides, you're still under arrest. No alcohol for you," I retorted. I didn't look at him, but I knew he was smirking. No matter what I said or did, that was his default reaction.
"Your friend is extremely generous. Have you told him we don't have any money?" I asked. We positioned the trolley between the bed where I sat, and the desk chair Smith took.
"Mark knows we're in some kind of trouble. I haven't told him exactly what happened, but he's got my back. He's a good friend - he won't charge me for this," Smith replied.
Smith sounded utterly confident in his friend, but I had lived long enough in Gaul to know how risky it was to rely on anyone's loyalty. I kept the thought to myself and changed the subject.
"I don't think you've been completely honest with me, Smith. This insane pursuit isn't just about the money you stole from the mob. They wouldn't send an army of assassins after a simple thief. How did they find us? I assume they saw us on the thrift-store security cameras. The manager gave them the driver's address. Thank God the man and his family weren't home — something tells me the Arnavuts wouldn't spare anyone, whether they caught us or not. I can't shake the feeling this is far too much trouble for an Anglo-Saxon fraud. So, I ask you again: what have you done, Smith?"
Smith began eating his potato dish while I laid out my thoughts. He listened attentively, exaggerating his interest in every word as he chewed on a piece of chicken. When I finished, he took a napkin from the trolley and wiped his mouth with theatrical flair.
"I'm so privileged to be in the presence of such a beautiful — and smart — woman. You're right. I haven't told you everything. It's not just about the money. But before I explain what really happened, you should know that once you hear the truth, you'll stop being a clueless kidnapped cop and become a witness instead. A witness the mob will have to eliminate." He fell silent, waiting for my reaction.
I don't know what I was thinking. Perhaps I craved adventure in my dull life. Any normal person would have backed away the moment Arnavut mob was mentioned. But I didn't. Curiosity killed the cat, they say — yet I couldn't stop myself. I wanted to know what Smith was involved in, so I nodded.
"The file in your database isn't complete. Recently the Marshes police arrested me, but you won't have seen any record of it. They made me a deal: if I brought them evidence of the head of Shortridge police taking a cut from the Arnavut mob business, they would overlook some of my past offences. So, I agreed."
He paused to eat some Caesar salad.
"So, you gathered evidence?" I asked impatiently.
"Yes." He opened the collar of his bathrobe, revealing a silver necklace with a cylindrical pendant. "See this? It's a USB drive. The footage I recorded on my phone of the transaction between the police and the mob is on it."
"And now we're in the heart of the lion's den," I whispered, glancing at the room-service menu with the hotel's address printed on it. I didn't know where the local police station was. Shortridge was a big, dense city. Yet the realisation of being on enemy ground made the place feel suffocatingly small.
I watched Smith eat and chatter about trivial things while I waited for him to explain how he had posed as a drug dealer to get close to the mob. He didn't seem eager to share that part. I decided to shower and then sleep — I was exhausted.
"Don't you have to handcuff me, Officer?" Smith asked with a cheeky smile.
"No. After what you've told me, I don't think it's necessary. There's nowhere for you to run except the Marshes. If we stay together, we might both survive." I opened the bathroom door.
"Wait, Officer! I think I'll be asleep by the time you're finished. I should warn you: I'm a sleepwalker. If something unusual happens at night, don't be scared and don't try to wake me."
"Oh, really? And what if you start strangling me? I don't know your sleepwalking habits, but if it threatens my life, I'll kick your arse!" I didn't fully believe him, though I had heard him talk in his sleep the previous night. Maybe it was true; maybe not. Smith lied about so many things.
"Don't worry. Usually, I just get out of bed, stand facing a wall for an hour, or pace the room. Make sure to lock the door so I don't wander outside!" he chuckled.
I spent extra time in the bathroom, letting hot water soak away the day's filth until I felt light-headed. I hoped Smith would be asleep when I returned — I didn't want to deal with him. And indeed, when I emerged after drying my hair, the room was dark, the TV off, and Smith fast asleep.
It wasn't even that late, but we were both drained. I felt my way to bed and crawled under the covers in my bathrobe. The soft pillow pulled me under almost instantly.
It must have been past midnight when I woke. Something heavy lay across my shoulder — I thought it was numbness at first. The chilly air in the poorly heated room made me shiver. I reached to pull the covers higher and realised the weight was Smith's head.
He had tugged down the right side of my bathrobe and was sucking on my breast. Groggy from sleep, the shock of what was happening jolted me fully awake.
"Smith? Smith! Stop! Wake up!" I whimpered.
The obscene slurping noises as his wet lips worked my nipple made my skin crawl. He grabbed my other breast and kneaded it gently. I struggled to push him off, but he was too heavy. He didn't respond to my slaps. I realised he was sleepwalking. The more I fought, the more his weight pinned me. At one point I nearly slipped free, but he slid his huge hands down my back to my shoulders, gripped me, and forced me back underneath him.
"Oh, no! Smith! Don't!" I gasped as he parted his lips and took my breast deeper into his mouth.
Thankfully, I still wore underwear, but Smith — ever the free-spirited Anglo-Saxon — wore nothing beneath his bathrobe. He grew more excited in his sleep and began grinding his hips against mine.
"Mummy, I love you so much," he mumbled between slurps.
Goosebumps rose on my skin; my body tensed at the words. From the first day I had suspected Smith was mad, but I hadn't grasped how deep it ran. I tried using his Oedipus complex to reach his subconscious.
"John? Johnny?" I whispered, attempting to connect, "Mummy's tired, Johnny. Be a good boy and let Mummy sleep."
I caressed his face, ran my fingers through his hair, lightly scratched his scalp as his head moved up and down.
"Please, Mummy!" he moaned, increasing the thrust of his pelvis.
"No, Johnny!" I tried to sound stern despite the panic. "Mummy was sleeping, and you woke her! Mummy is very tired. Go back to sleep or she'll have to punish you!"
I was improvising, with no idea what effect it would have — but he responded. He stopped sucking and rested his head on my chest. I listened to his heartbeat slow, mirroring the feverish pulse pounding in my veins.
"Okay, Mummy. I'll be a good boy," he hummed, then rolled off me. He turned onto his right side, back to me. I heard him murmur something unintelligible before he began snoring.
"Jezus Christ, Smith!"
I leapt out of bed and locked myself in the bathroom. I needed another shower to wash away his saliva. Worse — to my shame, the incident had aroused me. There was no way I would sleep after that. Sharing the bed with Smith was out of the question. My clothes had dried. I dressed, took a pillow, and made a bed on the floor, using the bathrobe as a blanket.
Somehow, I managed a few hours of sleep. I woke to knocking at the door and a subdued voice calling Smith's name. It was four o'clock in the morning. I stood, switched on the light. Smith complained and buried his face under the blanket.
When I opened the door, Mark stood on the threshold. The guilty look in his eyes told me everything: he had betrayed us. I smirked and turned away.
"Smith? Mark wants to tell you something," I sneered. Mark stepped into the bedroom and nearly tripped over my pillow on the floor. He gave me a sidelong glance but avoided my eyes.
"John! I'm so sorry, buddy! I had to tell them you were here. If they found out I was hiding you, they would kill me!" he whined.
I couldn't stand his pathetic voice. I began gathering my things to keep from punching the Gaul.
"How could you, Mark? I trusted you!" Smith sat up, dishevelled from sleep, looking devastated at the man he had called a friend.
"I'm sorry, man," Mark repeated. "They're on their way to the hotel now. You still have time to escape. Take my car." He held out his keys.
"No. They'll track the licence plate. Smith, get dressed. We're leaving – now."
Mark stood in the corner, watching us hurriedly prepare to flee his hospitable guesthouse. We slipped out through a back door in the kitchen. Using side streets, we escaped the tourist district and headed for the train station.