Killing Eve Die for Me (Killing Eve #3) - Luke Jennings Page 0,37

wife didn’t mind because it meant that she could sit up all night watching Netflix. And Celia and Emma were so sweet. They used to take me out with them in the evening. We’d go to the local pub, get drunk, and then go dog-fighting.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, they were a very traditional, upper-class family. The girls asked me if I had a boyfriend back in Russia, and obviously I said no. I explained that I worked in this quite macho world—I was vague about what I actually did—and I didn’t think of myself as girly and feminine, and didn’t like to be treated that way. So they said why didn’t I change my pronouns, which was kind of funny since I was sent there to improve my English. So I did.”

“How did that go down with the parents?”

“The mother was like ‘why are you referring to Lara as “they,” girls? She hasn’t split in two’ and the father rolled his eyes and talked about the ‘PC Brigade,’ so yeah. And then suddenly I was called back here to Moscow to…” Their hand flies to their mouth. “Shit, you won’t believe it. I was going to say that I was called back to shoot some woman, but then I remembered that the woman was you.”

“Small world. And you missed.”

“You ducked.”

“Was that cheating?”

“You’re so funny. Oxana always said I have no sense of humor.”

“I’m sure you have other wonderful qualities.” Watching them chomping the scallops, I’m reminded of Oxana’s comment about their jaws.

“Yes, many. But we’re quits now, yes? I tried to shoot you—”

“Twice.”

“OK, twice. But you took my girlfriend.”

“She was never yours, Lara, she was always mine.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yes it is. Tell me more about the gender thing.”

“Yes, tell us about it,” says Anton, overhearing. “What is all that about? I mean, you do a man’s job, and nobody makes an issue about it, so what’s the problem?”

“Why is shooting people with a rifle and telescopic sights a man’s job?” asks Lara, spearing another scallop. “Anyone can learn to do it. I’m fed up with being called a female sniper. I’m just a sniper. A torpedo. I don’t want the bullshit that comes with people thinking of me as a woman.”

“Or the privileges?”

“What privileges? Men staring at my tits and talking to me like I’m stupid?”

“No one talks to you like you’re stupid,” says Richard, who’s been listening to these exchanges. “People think you’re clever because you have the best of both worlds. You’re treated with respect as an elite assassin, and also admired as a very spectacular young woman.” He raises his glass to her with creepy gallantry.

Lara regards him doubtfully. “You can say what you like, but my pronouns are my pronouns. If you don’t use them I’m not shooting anyone. I’m going to change my name, too.”

“You’re not becoming a vegetarian, are you?” asks Anton.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

The waiter announces the second course. My Russian vocabulary isn’t wide when it comes to the larger mammals, but it’s something like elk or reindeer. Something that once had antlers, and has now been reduced to dark, bloody steaks in a red berry sauce. Our glasses are exchanged for larger ones and charged with Georgian wine that’s so easy to drink I need a refill almost immediately. On the other side of the table Oxana, animated by the morning’s slaughter, is on sparkling form. She meets Richard’s condescension with demure flirtatiousness, studiously ignores Anton, stares lasciviously at Lara, and shoots tender, soft-eyed glances at me. It’s a performance, a chance to run through her repertoire of learned responses.

When I was a teenager my parents had a cat, a beautiful, murderous creature called Violet, although Violent would have been a better name, who presented them daily with bloodied and dying voles, mice and small birds. I hated the sight of these heartbreaking little tributes, and begged my parents to put a bell on Violet, or give her more food at home, but they were having none of it. “It’s just how cats are,” they told me. “It’s instinctive. She needs to hunt.” Violet died as brutally as she’d lived, under the wheels of a speeding car at night, and looking back on the years she spent with us I think my parents not only tolerated their cat’s savage ways, but were secretly gratified by them. Violet’s behavior was in some sense authentic and enabled them to feel superior to city folk who preferred to avert their eyes from nature’s darker realities. I understand my parents