Whatever It Takes Page 10

  Roman felt hands on his backside and spun round. The face in front of him was vaguely appealing but his mood was shot.

  “I’m looking for a Daddy,” the guy said.

  “Fuck off,” Roman snapped and headed back to the kitchen. Once Foley had his cock in Viro’s arse, and he had a picture, he’d leave.

  Zain shuddered on the doorstep, then pulled on his coat. What the hell had that been about? He turned away from the door and hurried down the road, his backside hurting along with his heart. He was having trouble identifying how he felt. Annoyed, frustrated, relieved, confused, unhappy? All of them? Yes and more. He’d seen guys in the kitchen taking drugs. He’d been offered them, invited to have sex, asked to take his clothes off minutes after he came back indoors after he’d let Roman…Oh God, why had he let him do that? Zain had wanted it to mean something and it hadn’t. Not to Roman. Why had he thought it might?

  The older guy who’d cornered him had only talked about sex. What sort of porn did Zain watch? I don’t. How often? Did you not listen? How many guys had fucked him? None of his business. What did he like doing? Don’t know. What was he into? Don’t know. Did he like the taste of come? But the man hadn’t waited for him to answer before more questions came. Can I fuck you? Come on your face? Lick your toes? Suck ice from your arse? Now? Later? Please?

  Then Zain was rescued by a guy wearing nothing but a collar. The relief had been huge until another guy had cornered him. Is this what being gay is like? How naïve he was. He’d been brought up to believe homosexuality was an unnatural, disgusting practice. Gay men passed on diseases, preyed on children. There were no positive gay role models in Syria. No one dared be openly gay. Things were different in England, but Zain still knew next to nothing. Was this party normal behaviour? He might be on the path to coming to terms with what being gay meant, but nowhere near the end of the journey if this was normal.

  He was pretty sure that guy—Glen—had taken drugs. His pupils were huge. Cocaine maybe? Zain couldn’t afford to get mixed up in drugs. Even if he was caught on the edge of it, it might affect his refugee status, maybe not now but when the five years were up and decisions over whether he could stay were being made. It would end his chances of becoming a doctor if he had a criminal record for taking narcotics. He was glad Roman had pushed him out yet annoyed he’d invited him in the first place, and even angrier with himself for going.

  Then there was what had happened outside in the yard. I’m an idiot. He’d been so turned on. But… His head was full of buts. This hadn’t been a party where you got to know people. No table full of food—which was what he’d hoped for though he’d have heeded Roman’s warning if there had been food. No one wanted to be friends. They only wanted to get high and use each other’s bodies to make themselves feel good. What happened when the party was over and gravity pulled them back to reality? Where was their happy ending? Maybe they didn’t care. Maybe that wasn’t what they wanted.

  There was no happy ending for Zain. He’d thought… Well, it didn’t matter what he’d thought. Roman was part of a world Zain had no interest in knowing. He wished he’d said no when Roman told him to get down on his knees. He wished he’d walked away before they’d had sex. He wished he’d demanded the five hundred pounds before he’d been bundled out of the door. He wished…

  He was still beating himself up about having had sex with Roman by the time he got back to his building. His arse felt uncomfortable and though it had felt good after a bit of pain at the time, now he felt cheap. His attention wasn’t where it should have been and the shove in the back was so unexpected, Zain crashed to the pavement, jarring his hands and knees as he saved himself from face-planting. He was hauled upright by the collar of his coat and found himself facing Musa and Latif. Khurrum was the one holding him. The three from the car wash he’d seen here last night.

  “You took money from that wallet,” Musa said.

  Latif held up a bottle of the hydrochloric acid spray that they used to clean alloy wheels, and shivers raced through Zain’s body.

  For fuck’s sake. “I didn’t.”

  “Then why run?” Musa slammed his fist into Zain’s stomach.

  All the air rushed out of Zain’s lungs.

  “Why leave job?” Musa snapped and hit him again.

  Zain would have fallen if Khurrum hadn’t been holding him. Pain splintered his brain.

  Latif went through Zain’s pockets and took all his cash. “Where’s the rest?”

  “I didn’t take…any money,” Zain croaked.

  They didn’t like that answer. Zain cried out as Musa thumped him. This time Khurrum didn’t hold him and Zain fell. He doubled up as he was kicked, and as he sprawled on his side, he saw Latif aim the spray gun at him. He rolled away and brought his arms up to cover his face.

  “Get his keys,” Latif hissed.

  Zain struggled as they pulled at his coat. If they got into his room, they’d steal his laptop, his phone, his bank card. He pushed himself up to his knees then swung his fists, trying to fight back. As they pummelled him down onto the ground, he saw a big knife in Musa’s hand and at the same time heard the siren of a police car. Zain pushed to his feet only for Musa to slash at him, then run. Zain dropped back to the pavement.

  The knife had caught his coat. More than his coat? He fumbled with the buttons, his fingers shaking, and realised it had saved him. No blood on his shirt. His coat stank and was wet but the acid hadn’t touched his face. His ribs hurt but he didn’t know if that was from being kicked or the knife.

  The siren grew louder. I can’t get into trouble. He struggled to his feet and staggered towards the steps of his building, but stumbled before he reached the door, biting his lip to keep from crying out. Then the siren grew fainter and he realised the police hadn’t been coming to save him after all. He gave a quiet sobbing laugh and whined when his ribs hurt. He hoped Musa and the others didn’t come back because he couldn’t move. Not yet. In a minute. Or two. Don’t close your eyes. But he did. He had no choice.

  He wasn’t sure how long he lay there before he heard steps close to his head.

  “Oh Christ.”

  Zain knew that voice and opened his eyes to see Roman crouched next to him.

  “What happened?”

  “Fell.”

  Roman scowled. “Try again.”

  “Knocked down by a hippo,” Zain mumbled.

  “Did it stamp on your head? You need to go to hospital.”

  “No. Just need help to my room.” And five hundred pounds.

  Roman unfastened Zain’s coat, lifted his shirt, touched his ribs.

  “Not bleeding am I?” Zain muttered. “Careful. They sprayed acid.”

  “What? Your coat’s been slashed. What the fuck? Who attacked you? Why?” Roman gently eased him to his feet. “Keys?”

  “Coat pocket. Need this coat off. Drop it. Don’t get acid on you.”

  Roman pulled it from his shoulders, found the keys, then let the coat fall to the ground. He helped Zain up the steps. His room was a mile away. As he moved, the pain intensified and the amount of effort required to walk seemed to double. But finally, he could see his bed and he pulled at Roman’s hold to get free. Roman didn’t let go until he’d helped him lie down. No blood. I’m okay. My coat really did save me. As Zain lay on his mattress, trying not to breathe too heavily, he watched Roman. The guy looked around before his gaze settled back on Zain.

  “You’re moving out?”

  Zain didn’t answer.

  “Your drawings are gone. You have bags packed. Where are you going? Why?”

  If Zain hadn’t known laughing would be painful, he’d have laughed. “Why would you care? You only wanted me for a quick fuck.”

  “It wasn’t that quick.”

  Zain whimpered.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Zain wanted to tell him to fuck off but this was all Roman’s fault. Well, partly.

  “Musa from the car wash wanted me to take money from
that wallet I found in your car…” He spoke slowly. “I said no. He still wanted money. He thought I was cheating him. He and two others came here to get it with their fists, an acid cleaner and a knife, and a police siren scared them off.”

  Roman muttered something under his breath in what Zain guessed was Russian. “Even if you’ve found a new place to live, they’ll still see you at work.”

  “I’m not stupid. I don’t work there anymore. And I can’t live here anymore because the guy who came to collect the rent saw you, saw the money you dropped, decided I was selling sex and so I’m out.”

  Roman sighed.

  “But he’s right. I did,” Zain whispered.

  “When do you have to move?”

  “By tomorrow morning.”

  “Have you found somewhere else?”

  “Yeah. And another job so you can go now. Thanks for helping me up the stairs.” Thanks for fucking up my life even more.

  Roman took a step towards the door and Zain’s heart cramped. Don’t go.

  “Why did you push me out of the party?” Zain asked.

  “Did you want to stay?”

  “No.”

  Roman shrugged. “Then you got what you wanted.” He took out his wallet, counted out some notes, dropped them next to the mattress and left.

  Zain wanted to wish he’d never met Roman but he couldn’t, even though the guy had brought him nothing but trouble. If it hadn’t been for that wallet, none of this would have happened. He’d still have a job and a place to live. So why was he still glad he’d met him? I’m not. Not glad but…

  Roman intrigued him. A guy in a mask who pretended not to care, maybe didn’t want to care but Zain thought he did. A guy determined to keep his secrets tight to his chest and yet revealed a little more of himself each time Zain met him. He’d warned him about the drugs. He’d pushed him out of the party because he was jealous. What other reason could there be? Maybe a little guilt when he saw Zain was out of his depth? Or had he thought Zain was too naïve and wouldn’t be able to go through with whatever it was he’d wanted him to do?

  Zain sighed. That was the more likely. There’d been a tiny flame of hope in his heart that he could get to know Roman, that they might be friends, even though Roman would be a dangerous one. Still, nowhere near as dangerous as Qashim.

  Thinking about Qashim made his heart beat faster. Zain couldn’t help wondering sometimes what had happened to him. Had he died with Zain’s mother and sisters? Been killed in a different airstrike? Taken by government forces, the rebels, IS? Was he still alive? Wondering what had happened to me? Maybe Qashim had come to London looking for him, but Zain felt safe from discovery. He wasn’t on social media. Qashim would have nowhere to look.

  Would he? If he were looking for Qashim, what would he do? There would be no legal way to find him. Maybe Qashim would pay a private detective who could find a way to access government records. But no one knew where Zain lived. Except for Musa and his mates. And Roman.

  Syria seemed so far away. Islamic State had been defeated now, but an organisation like that morphed into a different sort of enemy. It was like cutting the head off a Hydra. All those fighters who wouldn’t give up the cause and hadn’t been captured would slither away to hide in holes and live to strike another day in a different way.

  Zain wouldn’t give up either. By tomorrow, he’d be feeling better. But his one night in a hotel was going to be two, so he could leave his bags and have somewhere to come back to after searching for a place to live. At least the five hundred pounds had given him that option. He should be grateful to Roman, but he wasn’t.

  Chapter Six

  Roman sat in his car tapping his fingers on the wheel. His first plan had been to pick Zain up this morning when he emerged and drive him to his flat because he could keep him safe there. He hoped. His second plan had been to follow Zain to his new address without Zain knowing and ensure he was somewhere secure, then never see him again. His third idea was to drive Zain to wherever he wanted to go because after the beating he’d had last night, he’d still be hurting. His fourth idea was to drive the fuck home and stop being a compete and utter fuckhead.

  All of those were followed by the thought what then?

  Why the fuck couldn’t he just leave this guy alone? Walk away? Drive away in this particular instance? If Arkady or Dima discovered he was gay, he’d have no chance of continuing with this until the end. What end? asked the devil on his right shoulder. Up to you said the devil on his left. The moment he’d said yes to the wrong people all those years ago, he’d tied himself into a world that half scared and half thrilled him. Currently, he was more than half scared.

  Even though Roman had a girlfriend-who-wasn’t, Dima might still be wondering about his sexuality. Roman could claim to be bi, though he wasn’t, nor was he sure being bi would make any difference to the way Arkady would react. Roman couldn’t help wondering what his father would have said. Then he cursed himself for doubting. His father would have been fine with a son who was gay. He’d have worried because of attitudes in Russia, but he’d have accepted.

  Roman stopped tapping his fingers. The decision had been made. The mere fact that he’d parked down a side street away from Zain’s place told him which plan his brain had settled on. He was going to follow Zain without him knowing. Then he registered his stupidity. Was he going to kerb crawl after him? Because the guy would almost definitely be on foot, assuming he could walk after that beating. He’d probably use public transport—bus or Tube—which meant there were too many ways of losing sight of him. The prospect of having no problem finding a parking place so he could follow Zain onto the underground seemed remote if not impossible.

  He felt guilty for leaving him last night after he’d been attacked. He ought to have checked more carefully to see if he’d been stabbed, made sure no acid had touched him. Fucking Musa. What the hell had he been thinking? More to the point was Musa thinking for himself or had someone told him to silence Zain? That someone being Arkady or Dima? Musa had done work for both of them in the past. Nothing legal. Although the information he’d seen about Zain had implied Musa was deducting money for tax and insurance, Roman knew that was unlikely.

  A car pulled up outside Zain’s building and Roman tensed. If Musa had returned, Roman would have to intervene and be damned with the consequences. But Zain came down the steps carrying a holdall and a backpack, a bulging plastic bag looped over his arm. Each step he took was slow and considered. He’s in pain.

  There was a bruise on his cheek, a scrape on his chin and Roman almost wished Musa had appeared because he’d end up with a lot more than a bruised face. A guy Roman didn’t recognise got out of the car and opened the boot. He took the bags from Zain and dropped them inside. Zain climbed into the back of the car—not a friend then—and when it pulled away, Roman followed.

  Uber? Maybe Zain couldn’t face a journey by any other means. It made things much easier for Roman. The silver Renault wasn’t hard to follow. There was only one car between them, sometimes none because on a Sunday morning, the traffic was light. He hoped the chances of the driver registering the same vehicle had stayed on his tail were small. Roman sometimes let a couple of cars move between them but he didn’t want to risk more. If he was held up at lights and the Renault wasn’t, he might lose them.

  After a few close shaves when he’d thought he’d fucked up, the Renault stopped outside a Victorian terraced townhouse near Paddington. The Raven Budget Hotel. Roman pulled in some way behind. The driver took the bags from the boot, dropped them on the curb and Zain picked them up and slowly headed into the building. He’s fine. Leave this. Go. Roman hesitated but drove back to his flat. He wished he felt happy Zain was at least safe where he was, but he wished Zain was safe with him.

  I need a brain transplant.

  When he got back, he changed and went straight out for a run. Down to Canary Wharf, around the Isle of Dogs and along the foot tunnel under the Thames to Greenwich, then back on the o
ther side of the river, staying next to the water whenever he could until he reached Tower Bridge. From there he ran home, only stopping to buy The Times from the corner shop.

  So much for a run emptying his mind. All he’d been able to think about was Zain. Roman’s lack of control of his emotions scared him. The pull was so strong he needed to understand why. So strong that he should have been breaking away without even thinking of why, but he still wanted him, couldn’t stop wanting him. Shit. He needed to go back on Grindr, find someone to fuck and all these feelings would go away.

  Except I don’t want to.

  Zain hadn’t really lied to him when he said he had somewhere to go. Roman hadn’t specifically asked him if he had a place to live. But even a cheap hotel would eat his money and Roman suspected Zain hadn’t intended the seven hundred he’d ended up giving him to be spent on a hotel. Seven hundred pounds. Fuck. Only the two hundred was Roman’s money but he’d need to pay Viro out of his own pocket.

  He showered, dressed, made himself coffee and toast and switched on the TV. He was half listening, half reading the paper when his attention was caught by a news item and he looked up. The reporter stood on a bridge overlooking the M20. A body found yesterday in undergrowth a couple of hundred yards from where she stood had been confirmed to be that of the missing Russian businessman, Artur Sheripov.

  Shit. When the section had finished, Roman pushed to his feet and retrieved his phone from the bedroom. Four missed calls and one voicemail from Arkady. Roman gave a heavy sigh and listened to the voicemail.

  “Where are you? Call me.”

  Roman switched off the TV and made the call. “What’s wrong?”

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “Running. What is it?”

  “Get over here right now.”

  Arkady didn’t wait for him to respond.

  Roman called Helen and said, “Dragon.”

  “You heard,” she said.

  “I just saw it on the TV. Would have been nice to have had a head’s up.”