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It had been a bad decision. He should have found an excuse when Ann had called, but he had already been too drunk and too tired to find one that wouldn't make her think he was snubbing her, which he would have been. George was gone on yet another trip on Control's bidding, conveniently for Ann and, in this case, inconveniently for him.
He attempted to focus, trying to maintain a flagging erection that Ann's energetic bouncing wasn't managing to keep alive. Ann's flesh was soft and white under his hands, which were somewhat lazily placed on her hips, with the occasional trip up to fondle one of her breasts. He was too old, he thought. Too old and too drunk and too tired not to remember why he was there, which had nothing to do with the quanta of pleasure that he was trying to grasp on, or the by now faded excitement of getting the best of George. He felt himself slip out of her, half soft, and wholly useless.
“Everything alright, darling?” Ann asked, kind enough not to seem too offended by his failure.
“All good,” he replied, “just give me a second.”
He took himself in hand. It was a miserable fuck, but giving up would have been against who he was. Who he was to Ann, her cadish lover, always rearing to go, selfish enough for her to feel used just the right amount, but always ready to provide her with whatever she chased. He was a paradox, he had decided. More exciting, wilder than poor old George, dangerous because he was Circus, he was Set, but safe because he was still the same Bill that she'd sneaked biscuits to when his father had declared he hadn't behaved well enough to earn the benefit of a meal. He'd even enjoyed it, for a while, the excitement of an assignment well done mixing with an odd sense of revenge, he wasn't sure against whom. And he liked Ann. Just not like that, not tonight, not when the nights were numbered until either Jim left for Czecho, or Control smelled a rat and figured out who his Judas was.
“We can stop, if you'd rather,” she said, rather curtly.
“No. Just had a couple too many whiskeys, that's all. You're as charming as always, I promise.”
He stroked himself.
If he had been with Jim, he wouldn't have been struggling as much. Or struggling at all, really. Jim had a way with his hands, so different from his own, rough and strong and so very careful. Jim would lie behind him, envelop him in his arms, one hand working Bill's cock, and another one that more often than not ended up holding his own against his beating heart, as if they were still schoolboys. He'd feel his cock against his arse, hot and wet and neglected because all Jim cared about was extracting a whole scale of moans from Bill. Jim never gave anything less than his full attention, and Bill had never gotten tired from being the target of his intense focus. As much as sex as a whole was a light pastime for Bill, meaning very little more than a good meal or a fine bottle of port, it had always meant something to Jim. It mattered to him, and as far as Bill knew- and desperately hoped- he'd never found anyone he thought deserved to bestow himself upon. No one but Bill.
He moaned.
“Why don't you get back here, darling?”
Gladly, Ann sat astride of him again, lowering herself onto him.
He gave her a few cursory strokes, and closed his eyes. Jim liked to ride him like that, sometimes. To be fair, in the thirty years they'd been exploring the many possibilities of lovemaking, there was very little they hadn't tried, at least once. There'd been a time after the war where they were so full of the echoes of it that they'd taken their pleasure in hurting each other, slaps and bites and pulled hair, but never canings, because Bill had had quite enough of those at school. He'd worn the marks Jim left on him like medals for being alive, for having made it through that hell and come back at least mostly human, and shuddered at the thought of Jim hiding his under his thin, white shirt, a millimetre away from being exposed to all. God, he wished that Jim had hit him, bit him, anything harsh enough to brand him. Anything to show Ann and possibly the whole world who he gave himself to.
But it was Ann he was with, elegant, distinguished Ann, her skin unblemished and perfect. Nothing like Jim's, no mysterious scars he could pore over as he explored his body like it was new every time, with the worrying addition of a brand new one every so often, Bill playing it up but worried, Jim grumbling that it was nothing, it hadn't killed him, had it? Not yet, it hasn't killed you yet, darling. Bill shuddered. It had always loomed above them, more so when they were young, colliding between missions they were never sure they'd come back from. Jim, fucking him into the mattress that time he'd come back from Minsk, without saying a word because he needed to feel Bill first to know he'd truly made it back, and Bill taking it all and trying to push the memory of the days past his announced return when he thought the only way he'd be with him again was if he took his gun from his desk drawer and pressed its cannon against his temple. Was that how it would be, when Karla gave him Jim back?
Ann faltered, her hand between her own legs, having given up on Bill's assistance, and Bill knew she was close. Watching Jim take his own pleasure had always driven him insane like nothing else. He took pride in pushing Jim, kind, attentive Jim, to the point he managed to forget about anything but himself. Jim, close to climax, finally selfish in his pleasure, his hand running up and down his red, weeping cock, eyelids half closed as he used Bill to bring himself over the edge, coming with a shout, his hips going up and down frantically and then slowly, punishingly, trying to chase the very last of his orgasm, his arse contracting rhythmically around Bill. It was the way he looked in those moments, covered in a shine of sweat, rogue strands of hair across his brow, pure, shameless satisfaction written on his face. And then he'd cup his face, and tell him he loved him, as if their lives were nothing more than that moment.
“Jim,” he moaned, and came.
Slowly, Bill came back to the here and now, and to Ann. She pulled away, lying with her back to her. Bill was quite confused. It was not in her habit to let him off the hook as soon as he'd finished, or to give up on her own climax because he'd reached his earlier.
“Everything alright?”
“Yes. Go away.”
Everything was most clearly not alright, but he didn't especially want to investigate exactly in what way he'd disappointed her. His growing hangover dawned upon him, and his own bed appealed to him very strongly. Or Jim's, but he didn't feel like he had it in him tonight to pretend he didn't notice Jim's hurt when he realised he'd just been shaken out of another lover's bedsheets.
“Very well, then,” he said, and got up, rinsed himself off in the bathroom sink, and put on his crumpled suit. Ann was still on the bed, now facing the other way to make sure she wouldn't have to gaze upon him.
“Goodbye,” he said. “You know where to find me.”
Whatever had miffed her would at least give him the time to find his cool again. He closed the door behind him, and thought of Jim in his bed.
*
Smiley and Ann were finishing clearing off a dinner of roast chicken and potatoes, chatting amiably about nothing that truly mattered. It had become a rare occurrence since he had moved into the guest bedroom, but Ann had insisted, which told him she wanted something more than his company. Soon enough, there was no food to fiddle with left to delay whatever it was she was so hesitant about. He served them both another glass of wine, hoping to make it easier for them both.
“Say, does Bill have a friend named Jim?” she asked, on the tone of the conversation, despite the fact that Smiley had no idea anymore of what they had been talking about.
“As a matter of fact, he does,” Smiley answered, slightly startled. God, had Jim become mixed up in his domestic life as well?
“What is he like?”
He rattled across adjectives he could use to describe Jim. Loyal was the first one. To the Circus, to Bill. Lonely was another, at least compared to Bill's constant social adventures since, in the thirty years he'd known them both, Bill seemed to be his one and only true friend. A third one came to mind, in all likeliness, but it wasn't his place to speculate, much less to Ann.
“Competent,” he settled on.
“Is that all?”
“Well, he is very competent. One of our best. Distinguished service since the war.”
“I thought he'd be younger than that,” she said, seemingly unhappy at Smiley's answer.
Jim was indeed an exception to the average age of the company that Bill kept, at least in certain domains. But then again, so was Ann.
“He's of an age with Bill, actually. They met at Oxford and have been fast friends ever since,” he said, taking another sip of wine, waiting for Ann's reaction, and immediately regretting it when a flash of pained surprise came across her face.
“Is he handsome?”
“I certainly can't be the judge of that,” Smiley said, wishing they had never started talking about this. “He's tall, taller than Bill. Quite strong, too. Excellent cricket player. He could have played for the county if the war hadn't started. Less hair since, but he's kept in quite good shape.”
A grimace of displeasure, quickly erased. It wasn't enough, he knew. He saw where this conversation was going to end, and he wished he could steer it away. Not for Bill, certainly. Maybe for Ann, beautiful Ann, lost Ann, who would never have what she wanted or want what she had. Maybe for Jim, steadfast and silent, who would never have the privilege of getting hurt by any of it.
Bill had many friends, many more handsome -or beautiful- than poor old Jim Prideaux, and Ann knew it. She'd seen them congregating around him like idolaters around the golden calf, worshipping him in all the ways a man can be worshipped.
“Does he…” she hesitated, quite unusually. She was not a woman to search for words, or consider too carefully a lash of her tongue. But this time, she was the one who would be hurt, if she asked what she truly wanted to know. “Does he matter?”
“As much as anyone can matter to Bill, I think. But you would have to ask him about it.”
Tears shone in Ann's eyes, and he added that moment to the many that he cursed Bill for.
*
Ann had been nagging him for a rendezvous since their last meeting. With the benefit of a clear head, he'd managed to come up with reasonable excuses each time. There had been a lull as Control, then George, lost their jobs, the blood price for Jim's sacrifice. But now she was calling him again. Quite right, he thought, dispassionately. It was time to break it off.
George was out, maybe on one of his endless walks through London that Karla – years ago – had had him catalogue for a very boring month, years ago. The more troubled George was, the longer and more aimless the walk. And George was very troubled at the moment.
As he walked up the steps leading to the house, he pondered if it would be better to break it off before they reached the bedroom, or after. Maybe he could talk her into letting him fuck her from the back, so he could easily imagine that it was Jim. But Jim was shot, by now in Moscow, with Karla and his goons.
Shot but alive.
That was alright.
He'd get him back.
“Hello, Ann, dear,” he said as she opened the door.
She didn't kiss him before she led him to the living room, purposefully sitting in an armchair and not the couch where he'd had her a few times.
“What's wrong?” he asked. Had George's waning fortune caused a renewed flame of marital fidelity in Ann? Had she found herself a more exotic lover, an acrobat or a tiger tamer or whatever it was she found exciting?
“Who's Jim?”
Bill prided himself on his composure, but it failed him.
Who was Jim? His lover, his friend, the other half of his soul, the man he'd sent to slaughter, his pawn in the game he was leading against the whole bloody country. How had it all gone so wrong?
“Sorry?” he replied, feebly.
How did she know about Jim? What had George, that infuriating sentimentalist, told her?
“You said his name, the other time. When you came. Does he matter?”
Jim, alone at a party in Oxford, beaming when Bill handed him a too warm pint. Jim watching him put his hand under the skirt of a girl at a party a few months after the war. Jim, quietly resigning himself to the scalphunters when Bill was called to the fifth floor. Jim, now doing his part from a KGB gaol, a hole in his chest.
Did Jim matter?
Ann looked at him. He lounged back on George's sofa, nonchalantly put a foot up on the polished surface of a rosewood coffee table. She reeked of jealousy. He was flattered, he really was. If she fancied him enough to care about who he thought of when he came, he'd done a better job of it than he'd thought.
He'd get Jim back. That was what mattered.
“No, he doesn't,” he answered. “Say, would you like to go upstairs? I quite missed you, darling.”