Die for Me (Killing Eve #3) - Luke Jennings Page 0,53
else. Someone strong, and ruthlessly efficient. Someone like Oxana.
I continue to pull away from Anton with all my strength, grunting with the effort, and then I jump forward, unbalancing him so that he falls heavily backward and cracks his head on the steel door jamb. As he lies there, half-stunned and blinking in the raking torch beam, I shove the pencil as hard as I can up his left nostril.
Anton’s eyes widen, his fingers writhe, and a quavering sound issues from his throat. He tries to lift his head, but I keep hold of the protruding end of the pencil and push downwards, forcing it further and further up his nose. The pencil sticks fast after about ten centimeters, so I put my weight behind it, and it slips in another couple of centimeters. Taking the torch from Anton’s hand, I shine it in his face. His eyes have rolled back into his head, his lips are fluttering, and a worm of blood is crawling from his open nostril into his mouth.
“Fucking women,” I murmur. “What can you do, eh?” The point of the pencil has almost certainly penetrated Anton’s brain, but not lethally. I need something hard and heavy. “Stay there,” I order him, and shine the torch around the canteen. Lying on the bookshelf is a substantial hardback volume. I’m reaching for this, when Anton half-rises to his feet, his eyes staring wildly. Grabbing the book with both hands I draw it back, take aim, and smack the pencil in another inch. He sinks to the floor, his legs moving feebly.
“Eve, sweetie, what’s going on?”
I drop the book with a shriek, and clutch my heart. “Jesus, Oxana.”
“What are you doing?”
“What the fuck does it look like I’m doing? Hammering a pencil into Anton’s brain with a copy of Birds of the North Sea.”
“Is that good?”
“Definitive, according to the Observer.”
“No, that you’re killing Anton. Was he annoying you?”
“He caught me stealing the pencil.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’ll wait. Just hold his legs while I give it one last bash.”
When Anton finally stops shuddering I subside to an exhausted crouch against the container wall.
“Is he dead?” Oxana asks, flicking the end of the pencil with her finger.
“Near enough.”
She hunkers down opposite me, reaches for the torch, and switches it off. “Night vision,” she explains.
I can’t see much, but I can feel the warm bulk of Anton’s body against my feet.
Oxana gives a long, phlegmy sniff. “You really are quite the player, aren’t you, pupsik?”
“Tell me why you’re here.”
“I was looking for you. I went to your cabin and you weren’t there.”
“Why were you looking for me?”
“I missed you.”
“Tough shit. Go and bunk up with Charlie.”
“Charlie’s not you.”
“So why did you fuck them?”
“Well, technically speaking I didn’t. We—”
“I don’t want to know what you did, I just want to know why you did it.”
“I don’t know. I just…” She sniffs again. “Truthfully?”
“Truthfully.”
“Because I was angry with you.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you.”
“God, Oxana. Please.”
“I do. Truly.”
“In that case help me, because I need to get rid of this body? Over the edge of the platform.”
“OK, pupsik. Shall we take a leg each?”
“Don’t call me that. I haven’t forgiven you.”
“It was just a sex thing.”
“Sex things with other people are not OK, Oxana.”
“Sor-ree…” She glances at Anton. “And you can stop looking at me like that, Pinocchio.”
It takes us several minutes to drag Anton out of the canteen to the westward end of the platform.
“Do you still want that pencil?” Oxana shouts, as the wind screams in our ears.
I’ve forgotten that securing the pencil was the point of the whole exercise. I nod and, kneeling beside Anton, try to pull it out of his nose with my fingertips. Anton’s eyes roll in his head but I can’t budge it, it’s stuck tight.
Oxana tries, but does no better. She looks at me. “The only way we’re going to do this is if I hold his head, and you take the end of the pencil between your teeth and pull it out.”
“That’s a really disgusting idea.”
“You’re the one that wants the pencil, babe.”
“Yeah, I know. Fuck.”
“So do it.”
We do it. Oxana locks her fingers under Anton’s jaw, and I lean sideways into his face and close my teeth on the end of the pencil. His lips are dry, his stubble rasps against my cheek, and his breath, now coming in shallow gasps, smells of brandy and curry. I pull at the pencil as hard as I can, but it doesn’t move, and I’m afraid of snapping the end