Worst. Person. Ever(34)

“Hello, Raymond.”

I turned around and saw Peggy on the other side of the bars. She looked softer and had makeup on, as well as civilian clothing—one of those muscle dresses favoured by Mrs. Obama.

“I see you got my note,” she said.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

“Raymond, Raymond, Raymond. You don’t honestly think Homeland Security would swap a possible threat to national security like yourself for a pair of theatre tickets?” Peggy’s crisp, unironic tone reminded me of being on hold with United Airlines. She began twirling her hair. I didn’t like where this seemed to be going.

“But I must say, your ex-wife is a terrific bargainer. I wanted tickets for the evening performance, but she drew the line at a matinée.”

“Did she?”

“Fortunately, back in the cell at LAX, you confided to me where you were going. The moment I heard that, I knew you were mine. There was no way I was going to let your plane pass by my island empire here.”

“You grounded our flight just for me?”

“Is that so wrong?” She licked an index finger and then trailed it down her cleavage, and I felt as if someone were walking over my grave. “Don’t be coy, Raymond. You know there’s something between us.”

Here’s the thing: Peggy Nielson—or rather, Jennifer Healey—is the first nubile woman I’ve encountered since puberty whom I haven’t repeatedly mind-boffed, or even considered mind-boffing. I fought for time and said, “Tell me more.”

She looked both ways and then came closer to the bars. “In all my undercover years, nobody has ever seen through my Peggy Nielson persona, not one person. Only you.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“But I am. You get me like nobody else ever has.”

My brain went into Jason Bourne car-chase mode: Reverse the BMW into the taxi queue? Plough forward at triple speed? Haul arse the wrong way on a busy Moscow thoroughfare? Am I willing to mow down a few pedestrians?

Peggy—no, Jennifer—reached for my shoulder through the bars and caressed it. “I thought we might watch Billy Elliot … together.”

Christ, this woman really had a massive pulsating lady-boner for me. I needed to start thinking of her as fuckable or I was never going to get out of here. But she had as much sexual allure for me as Mr. Bean. Why, oh why, did she leave me cold when, to be honest, I’ve even mind-shagged Margaret Thatcher—well, come on, let’s be totally honest here, who hasn’t? All you need is the right lighting, a nice bottle of Italian red, shovel-loads of ketamine and maybe one of those autoerotic asphyxiation getups Fiona’s clients are always dying in. I mean, I’ve mind-shagged female restroom logos all around the planet. I’ve mind-shagged the boot at the southern tip of Italy on Google Maps. So to not be able to contemplate getting it up for Peggy/Jennifer was cruelty beyond measure, especially as I was technically now her love slave—and who out there hasn’t wanted to be a love slave at some point or other? But failure to perform carried potentially life-threatening consequences.

“Have you ever seen Billy Elliot, Ray?” Her fingers, still inserted through the bars, were now rubbing my neck.

“Um, yes, I watched it—or part of it—on a Singapore Airlines flight back in ’04.”

“Singapore?”

“They were revising their chewing gum laws, and the BBC wanted arrest footage.”

“You’re a fascinating man, Raymond Gunt.” Her hand slid down towards my gentleman’s region. “My, my … you’re so tense.”

“It’s been a week of airports and hospital beds.”

“Go on. Tell me what you thought of Billy Elliot, then.” I could smell her breath: Listerine.

“Well, to me it all boils down to whether Billy is a poofter or not. I mean, if he were a flat-out flamer, there’d have been no movie. He simply would have looked at his small town, said, ‘Right then,’ moved to London, entered the sex trade and gone to dancing class at night, but where’s the uplifting story in that? I think viewers are really thinking, What if Billy’s a poofter, even though he says he isn’t? But because he’s underage, you’re not allowed to mention sex, so instead you have to say how heartwarming it all is and be inspired. And the thing is, in real life, a small-town Billy Elliot would most likely lure you out into the bramble hedge for a good tussle, save some DNA from the crime scene, and then blackmail the bejeezus out of you to pay for his dancing lessons, until you justifiably went out and slit his throat.”

Jennifer looked at me with eyes that beamed with admiration. “Raymond, you have such imagination.” She pulled me closer by the belt and started to fondle my gentleman’s bits, which were about as aroused as a small bag of sun-dried apricots.