Free What Dies Inside by James Craig Page B

‘with your bloody trousers down.’
    Adjusting his position slightly, he contemplated the pimply white globes in front of his face. ‘Life goes on.’
    ‘Fucking Special Branch could kick the door down at any moment and stick an MP5 in your face.’
    A shit-eating grin spread across Durkan’s face. ‘That just makes it all the more exciting.’ Spitting twice into his palm, he slipped his hand between his comrade’s buttocks and began moving it slowly up and down. ‘Doesn’t it, Becky?’
    Drool trickling down her chin, the girl let out a confused laugh.
    That was it, Rebecca Andrews.
Another trust-fund revolutionary – not, it had to be said, unlike Murray herself. Rose quickly shook that description from her head in favour of another:
Trotskyist slag
. She took another drag on her cigarette. ‘Never mind you, how much has
she
had to drink?’ she asked.
    ‘No idea,’ Durkan shrugged.
    ‘Fuck off,’ Andrews grumbled. ‘Can’t you see we’re busy here? Why don’t you piss off and go and blow one of your WSL pals.’
    Intense irritation swept through Rose. ‘I left the Workers Socialist League months ago,’ she said sharply.
    Andrews’s eyes narrowed as she looked up from the floor. ‘Well, why don’t you go and suck off that Special Branch bastard of yours, bitch?’
    Fuck.
She looked at Durkan. If anything, he seemed to be aroused by the exchange.
    ‘She can’t do that,’ he laughed. ‘I shot the fucker.’
    ‘Ha!’ Andrews cackled. ‘Good for you, Gerry. Good for you.’ She eyed Rose malevolently. ‘Looks like you’ll have to find some other copper to blow, won’t you, you fucking tart?’
    ‘Piss off.’ Rose sent a half-hearted kick in the direction of Andrews’s head, without coming close to making contact.
    ‘Ladies, ladies!’ Durkan protested. ‘Calm down.’ He looked up at Rose more in hope than expectation. ‘Sure you don’t want to play?’
    Half-turning, Murray dropped the butt of her cigarette into the sink behind her. ‘Fuck off, you wanker.’
    ‘Suit yourself.’
    ‘Just imagine that I’m not here.’
    ‘But I like it when you watch.’ Durkan caught her eye as he resumed massaging himself and Rose quickly looked away.
Your gun might have been bigger than Cahill’s,
she thought ruefully,
but your dick certainly isn’t.
    Durkan’s tongue flopped from his mouth as he finally mounted the comrade and began thrusting vigorously. The woman let out a gasp as her head banged against the side of the cubicle.
    Men,
Rose thought sourly.
At the bottom of it all, they are all just the same pigs.
    ‘Urgh!’ Durkan grunted as he entered the home straight. Gritting her teeth, the Luxemburgist slapper held on to the sides of the cubicle for dear life.
    That’s the thing about Trotskyists,
Rose decided.
They’ve got plenty of experience at taking it up the arse.
The Stranglers’ ‘No More Heroes’ started playing in her head and she giggled at the thought of burying an ice-pick in Becky Andrews’s head.
    A few moments later, the door swung open and another woman appeared. Dressed in torn jeans and a Sex Pistols T-shirt, with too much make-up on her face and too much peroxide in her hair, she looked like a refugee from the Kings Road, circa 1977. With a half-empty pint of lager in her hand, the new arrival paused to take in the impressive tableau in front of her. Rose waved her angrily away. ‘Fuck off!’
    ‘But I need a piss,’ the woman protested, her flat Manchester accent sounding out of place in this fine Kilburn establishment. ‘I’m burstin’.’
    ‘Fuck off and use the gents,’ Rose growled, pushing herself off the basin and giving the door a good hard kick.
    ‘Ow!’ the woman complained, before finally retreating down the hallway, just as Durkan let out a cry more of relief than of ecstasy.
    ‘At last,’ Rose mumbled. ‘Mission accomplished.’
    Pulling up his keks, Durkan gave Rose a cheeky smile. ‘Any chance of a smoke?’
    ‘Jesus.’ Rose