The Hardest Thing

of the job, I’d endeavor to give satisfaction. Never let it be said that Major Daniel Stagg refused a challenge.
    Stirling sulked all the way out of town, sitting in the backseat of the car with his shades on, fiddling with his nails, sorting through the contents of his bag and even at one point fixing his hair in a little hand mirror. Every so often he sighed and tutted. He didn’t speak until we were well on the way to Poughkeepsie.
    “Gimme your phone.”
    “No.”
    “I need to make a call.”
    “Sorry.”
    “I said I need to make a call.”
    “And I said no.” This was part of the agreement—no access to phones, nothing that would reveal our location.
Left to his own devices Stirling would have been texting, chatting and tweeting his whereabouts to anyone that cared to listen. Deprived of a phone he quickly ran out of things to do. He filed and polished his nails, brushed his hair, moisturized his hands about twenty times and pulled up his T-shirt to examine his abdominal muscles in detail; from what I could glimpse in the rearview mirror, they were nothing to be ashamed of.
    In the end he got bored.
    “You’re a lousy driver,” he said when a truck cut me off, overtaking us on the inside at about 80 mph.
    “Thanks.”
    “You almost got me killed.”
    “I’ll try harder next time.”
    “You’re only doing this because my boss is paying you.”
    “Correct.”
    “Why haven’t you got a proper job?”
    “Guess I’m not as smart as you.”
    He shut up for ten minutes and shifted around on the backseat, trying various positions—feet up to the left, feet up to the right, feet tucked under him. Finally he attempted to hook his legs over the back of the passenger seat. I swatted them down.
    “Hey! That’s dangerous!”
    “Don’t fucking touch me, man.” From the way he yelped, you’d think I’d just slapped him in the face.
    “Sit still and shut up. Let me drive.”
    More tutting and sighing, more rearranging of limbs and clothes. Every new position revealed more flesh.
    We approached Poughkeepsie and crossed the river, sticking to the quiet roads. Countryside replaced the
urban sprawl, and the air was noticeably cooler. I wound the window down.
    “Hey! Close that.”
    “No.”
    “It’s messing up my hair.” I had no reply for that. “It’s okay for you. You’re bald.” He made it sound like an accusation.
    I ran a hand over the top of my head. “Yes. I’m bald.”
    “How old are you?”
    “Old enough to be your father.”
    He leaned forward, resting his arms on the back of my seat; I could feel his breath on my neck. “I don’t think so. My father’s ancient.”
    “Comes to us all.”
    “So come on. How old are you?”
    On the whole I preferred petulant silence to this taunting interrogation, but perhaps it would pass the time. “I’m thirty seven.”
    He said, “Ha!” as if he’d just scored a major victory, and said, “That’s so old, that’s like nearly forty.”
    “Indeed it is.”
    “And you’re still driving cars for a living.”
    “Looks that way.”
    He picked a bit of thread off the shoulder of my T-shirt. “Didn’t you ever think of doing anything worthwhile ?”
    “Don’t you think this is worthwhile?”
    “You know what I mean. Having a career.”
    “I had a career.” Shit—I hadn’t meant to tell him anything about myself.
    “Oh, yeah?” His tone was jeering. “What?”

    “What do you think?”
    He sniggered through his nose. “Street sweeper? Janitor?”
    “You got it.”
    “No, go on. Tell me.”
    “Why are you so interested all of a sudden?”
    “I’m bored.” He reached out and touched the top of my head. I waved him away.
    “Quit that.”
    He giggled. “Baldie.”
    “Just shut up, McMahon. Go to sleep or something.”
    He threw himself back into his seat, pulled his T-shirt up and rubbed his stomach. “I’m not sleepy.” He caught my eye in the mirror. “I’m hungry.”
    “Okay. We’ll stop soon.” It was after one o’clock, and my stomach was rumbling, too. I need regular feeding, three times a day, plenty of protein, or I get nasty.
    “Where are we sleeping tonight?”
    “Nowhere fancy, I can tell you that.”
    “Where?” He crooked a leg and pushed his crotch forward. He knew exactly what he was doing.
    “Depends how far we get.”
    “I want somewhere with a pool.” He stretched his arms, somehow managing to make his shirt ride up over his tits. “I want to swim.”
    “You’ll be lucky if it