by Anna Martin
“ID,” one demanded.
Stan wriggled his identity card out of his pocket and handed it over. It was Italian, since he hadn’t got around to ordering a British driving license yet.
The man’s eyes flicked back and forth between the card and the man in front of him. Eventually he handed the card back.
“Alright. Go on.”
Ben insisted on paying the cover charge and kept his hand on Stan’s back as they descended into the dark club, noise and heat and flashing lights immediately enveloping them. Apparently he didn’t care about the fact Stan was all hot and sweaty.
“Do you want a drink?” Ben yelled.
“No! Dance with me.”
Tone nodded and mouthed “go on,” and then dragged Summer off towards the long, shiny bar. The club was huge, spanning several levels, but the main dance floor was within sight of the bar. That was good—Stan didn’t want them all getting separated.
Lights pulsed from every direction as they joined the mass of hot, writhing bodies, and Stan wrapped his arms around Ben’s neck and started to sway to the beat of the music.
“I knew you could dance, really,” Stan said, his mouth close to Ben’s ear so he’d be heard.
“Only with you.”
“Yes. Only with me.”
When their mouths met again, it was slower, Stan gripping the curve of Ben’s strong arms as they rocked back and forth slowly, completely at odds with the regular thump-thump-thump of the music. Ben broke the kiss first, then wrapped his hands around Stan’s waist and lifted him high, so his blond hair fell in a curtain straight down. Stan laughed, then threw his head back and hollered out to the night.
I’m in love!
I’m in love.
Chapter Twelve
Ben was bone-deep tired when he finally, finally got back to the apartment in Bow Quarter. It had been a long drive from, well, London to everywhere and back again.
After letting himself through the gate, Ben shouldered his bag, ignored all the aches and pains, and crossed the courtyard to the stairs that would take him back to Stan.
The weekend they’d spent together in Manchester had been incredible, but not nearly long enough, and that had been a couple of weeks ago now. Ben missed him something crazy.
They had spent the past few days driving down the east coast, stopping for an unscheduled gig in Cambridge. Someone Jez knew had heard about the tour and had booked them in last minute. It had been worth it, from the band’s point of view, but Ben wanted to be home.
They’d last spoken four days ago. Ben had tried texting to tell Stan about the gig but hadn’t got any response. He hadn’t picked up when Ben called either. The phone reception had been shit for the past few days, and even when Ben called again, Stan hadn’t answered. He told himself it wasn’t so unusual—Stan had a way of getting caught up with work, or his friends, or life in general. Ben still missed him though. A deep, hurting ache, that even the sweetest black bunny rabbit couldn’t ease.
“Stan?” Ben called as he let himself into the flat. The air in here was stale, and Ben wrinkled his nose at a bad smell that was coming from somewhere. “Stan?” he tried again. “Baby?”
He didn’t get a response. Ben quickly checked the bedroom, which was neat, as always, then made his way back through to the kitchen. He opened the fridge and nearly gagged—the smell was coming from a tub of unidentifiable leftovers that was starting to turn green.
As he was dealing with the ungodly mess, Ben’s heart rate started to increase. There was no way Stan would have let this happen. He was too fucking anal about keeping the place clean. Once he’d cleared the tub away, Ben grabbed his phone from his pocket and scrolled through his contacts. His last two messages had gone unanswered, but they were just Good night, I love yous, so it wasn’t something he’d necessarily expected a response to.
Hand trembling, Ben pressed the button to dial Stan’s phone. It went straight to voicemail.
He tried Sherrie instead.
“Hiya, Ben,” she said, sounding stressed.
“Hey, Sherrie. Sorry to jump right to it, but have you heard from Stan recently? I just got home, and he’s not here, and his phone is off.”
“Sorry, sweetheart. Emily’s been poorly the past week—I told him not to come over in case he caught anything from her. It’s just a bug, but he’s always looked like a strong wind could knock him over, you know?”
Ben knew.
He wondered if it was too extreme to go down to Stan’s office. Probably, but he had a gnawing sort of panic in his stomach now, and he didn’t like it one bit. After trying Stan’s mobile again, with still no response, he made up his mind and only stopped to change his shirt before heading back down to the Tube.
The office was only a few stops away from Stan’s apartment, walking distance really, if it was a nice day and no one was wearing high-heeled shoes. Ben thought about that—the maybe forty-minute walk from Stan’s apartment to his office, and if Stan was on the Tube somewhere. No one got phone reception down here so….
The train pulled into the station, and Ben stumbled off it, headed up through the barriers, and blinked in the sunlight. He was only vaguely aware of where the office was, and it took him a moment, frantically looking around, to get his bearings.
He spotted the magazine’s logo before anything else and his heart clenched again as he jogged across the street to the glass-fronted building.
“I’m sorry,” Ben said, stopping at the reception desk and pushing his fingers through his hair, aware he was still fairly disgusting from being on a tour bus for the past few months. “I’m looking for Stan Novikov. He works here.”
The receptionist gave him a slow, even stare.
“Stan hasn’t been here for about a week. He’s off sick.” Her eyes were piercing, unnatural purple, contrasting with her copper-coloured skin and straight dark hair. Ben got the impression she dressed to intimidate.
He nodded, trying to keep his rising panic in check. “Okay. Well, I’m his partner, and I’ve just come from our flat, and he isn’t there, so I’m getting a bit worried. Can I speak to his manager or something?”
The girl gave him another disparaging look and started flicking through a list of contacts in a laminated file. When she found the right name, she pushed a short series of numbers into the phone with taloned fingernails and waited for a response on the other end before picking up the receiver.
Ben stood back, waiting for the short conversation to be over, not wanting to appear too pushy.
“What’s your name?” the receptionist snapped.
“Ben. Benjamin Easton.”
She repeated the name to whomever she was talking to, then put the phone down.
“Victoria is on her way,” she said. “You can sit down. Over there.”
Ben nodded and took a seat on the very white sofa, aware his black jeans were dirty and would probably leave marks.
It didn’t take long for a very tall, very slim black woman to appear. She made a beeline for Ben and hovered for a moment before sitting down.
“You’re Ben,” she said.
“Yes. Victoria?”
“Yes.” The woman hesitated again, and Ben wondered just how bad it could possibly be. “Stan’s in the hospital.”
Pretty bad, then. “What happened?”
Victoria looked down at her hands. Her fingernails were painted purple and filed into points. “I’m not sure how much I should tell you. We have procedures in place to protect our employees’ confidentiality. ”
“Stan’s my partner.” Ben’s chest felt tight; the words came out in a voice he didn’t recognise. “I—we—we’re sort of engaged. You don’t have to tell me everything, but I can’t… I can’t….”
Before he completely broke down, Victoria nodded and straightened her spine. “Stan collapsed at work a few days ago. We called an ambulance, and they took him into hospital. I don’t know many details, but they were having trouble getting hold of his medical records. He
has some kind of… mental health….”
“He used to have anorexia,” Ben said bluntly.
“Yes,” Victoria said and ducked her head. “I don’t know all of the details, but it seems like he’s relapsed. For lack of a better word.”
“And he’s been taken to hospital?”
“Whitechapel. The hospital there.”
“Who’s with him?”
Victoria looked confused. “I’m sorry?”
“Who’s there with him? Who’s looking after him?”
“Well, the doctors….”
“There’s no one there?”
“No.”
Ben stood abruptly. “Thank you for your time,” he said stiffly. Without giving Victoria a chance to respond, he turned and strode out of the office.
From Stan’s office, it was only a short Tube ride to Whitechapel, and the hospital was directly opposite the Tube station, so he didn’t have far to walk.
Run.
There was no time to waste, not now that he knew Stan was alone. Something had happened, and he was in hospital, and he was alone, and Ben hadn’t known anything about it. The sickness and anger and bone-shaking fear were colliding in his nervous system, making his heart pound and fingers tremble, and something in his belly churned.
Another reception desk, another receptionist. This time an older man with soft, smiling features.
“I’ve been out of town, and I just learned my partner has been brought in here,” Ben said, forcing calm into his voice. “Stanislav Novikov.”
He was directed to a third-floor ward, ignoring the signs on the walls that labelled Stan’s condition before Ben even got to a doctor. The panic that had been churning in his belly and clawing at his chest almost peaked when he saw the words “Eating Disorder Ward,” and Ben forced himself to stop, pressed his back against the wall, and took deep, slow breaths to calm down. There was no point in going to see Stan when he was having a panic attack.
Someone was waiting for him just inside the door. Apparently the nice man at reception had called up for him.
“Ben Easton?” she asked.
Ben nodded.
“I’m Leslie. I’m one of the nurses taking care of Stan.”
Leslie looked like his mother. She was short-ish, middle-aged, her ash-coloured hair styled neatly around her face. She had wrinkles around her eyes, just light ones, and her skin looked soft with age and care. She wore a nurse’s uniform, and Ben wanted to cry.
“Can you—” Ben choked. “Can you tell me what happened? Can I see him?”
“Stan’s condition is critical,” Leslie said, folding her arms across her chest. “We’re tube-feeding him at the moment, and he’s on an IV drip. We’re running tests every twelve hours or so, but at the moment, it doesn’t look good for his liver and kidneys.”
“What does that mean?”
Leslie sighed and led him to the nurse’s station. She rifled through a stack of files and pulled one free. “His internal organs started shutting down. All we can do is try to keep him stable at the moment, and once he’s out of the woods, we can look at repairing some of that damage.”
“Is he going to make it?”
“Mr. Easton.”
“Ben.”
“Ben.” She looked over her shoulder, making sure things on the ward were still calm. She scratched at her hair and turned back to him. “We’re going to do our very best—”
“Please don’t bullshit me,” Ben said, interrupting her. “Please. Is he going to make it?”
“I don’t think Stan is going to die. However, I don’t know what sort of condition he will be in, physically and mentally, when he comes through the other side of this. Look, I’m just a nurse, but I’ve worked with eating disorders patients for nearly twenty years now. When he gets out of the woods, Stan has to change. He has to. There is no more relapsing. If he does this again, he will die, and there’s nothing any of us can do to change that.”
Ben slumped back against the wall and pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. He felt a warm hand squeeze his shoulder in what he thought was comfort, and then the squeeze got harder.
“Look at me,” Leslie said. Ben opened his eyes and sniffed. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned working on this ward, it’s that the people who make it are the ones who have something to fight for. Anorexia is a disease that is fought, tooth and nail. Stan has something to fight for, Ben, if you give it to him.”
Ben nodded. “Can I see him now?”
“Yeah,” she said kindly. “Of course you can.”
She led him through the maze-like ward to a small room. Stan was the only one in it, asleep on a bed that looked far too big for him, hooked up to an astonishing number of tubes and drips and monitors.
“Stan is sleeping a lot at the moment,” Leslie said softly. “Which is a good thing. When he’s asleep, he’ll be recovering.”
“When will he wake up?”
“I’m not sure. Possibly not while you’re here. It’s not a good idea to wake him, especially since his mental state is pretty fragile at the moment.”
Ben stepped towards the bed and gently stroked the back of Stan’s hand with his fingertip. “He’s always been skinny,” he murmured, almost to himself. “And I knew about the anorexia. He told me about it. He doesn’t look….”
“Anorexia is a mental disease, not a physical one,” Leslie said. She hadn’t moved from her spot next to the open door. “It turns the people you love into liars.”
“I only saw him a few weeks ago. He felt so strong then. He was doing yoga, and he said he felt great.”
“I don’t know what happened. One of the biggest challenges we’ve had with treating Stan is understanding what has been going on in the past couple of years. We only just got hold of his medical records and they’re patchy at best, and in Italian or Russian at worst.”
He turned to her and bit his lip. “I talk to him almost every day. I mean, if we miss a day or two, it doesn’t matter, we usually text a lot too. I can’t help but think if I’d called him, or got someone to check on him, or something.”
“The ‘what if’ game will destroy you,” Leslie said bluntly. “Don’t play it.”
“I missed him so much.”
“He’s not going anywhere. You can stay for a while.”
Ben nodded and took a seat next to the bed, reaching out again to touch Stan’s skin. It was a funny colour, greyish, though warm. He was alive.
Leslie had backed quietly out of the room, and the door snicked shut behind her. Ben slumped in his chair, exhaustion stealing the last of his energy.
“Fucking hell, baby,” Ben whispered, pushing the heels of his hands against his face. “What the hell happened?”
Chapter Thirteen
There was something about the smell of an empty venue that Ben had always found intoxicating. Sure, at night, when the place was packed full of people and the lights and the heat and the smell of the smoke machine hung thick in the air—that was magic.
During the day, though, that all got stripped back. With the harsh fluorescent lights on instead of the multicoloured stage lights, the place looked oddly sad. The black paint on the walls was flaking and peeling, thousands of years’ worth of cobwebs tangled together on the ceiling, and the smell: stale sweat, the lingering acridness from those smoke machines, the sickly sweetness of spilled drinks.
Ben looked out over the venue, standing on a stage that, a few months ago, he was dreaming of playing on. Now it didn’t matter. None of it did.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Tone said, dumping one of his bags on the stage as he looked out over the empty room. “Bit of a dive, innit?”
Ben turned to him incredulously, then shook his head when he saw Tone was joking. He’d seen enough bands play here over the years that being booked to play at the Brixton Academy made him feel like this was it. They had made it. Sort of.
“Okay,” Ben said. “Can we do this as quickly as possible? I want to go and see Stan.”
The others gathered on stage, dragging bags of equipment and guitar cases. Summer planted her hands on her hips and glowered at him.
“Ben. This is the biggest gig of our fucking lives. You can’t half-arse your way through a sound check and make it up as we go along tonight. It needs to be good. This gig could launch us.”
“If Stan wakes up, I won’t even be going to the fucking gig,” Ben bit back.
Anger flashed across Summer’s eyes, and Tone grabbed Ben’s wrist before either he or Summer could start something they couldn’t resolve. “Come on,” Tone mumbled and dragged Ben off the stage, down to the side door where they could sit on the step and share a cigarette.
“Call the hospital,” Tone said simply as he rolled loose tobacco in thin white paper.
“I only spoke to them this morning,” Ben said. He turned his phone around in his hand, over and over.
“Doesn’t matter. Ask for that nurse—what’s her name?”
“Leslie?”
“Yeah. Her. Ask for her.”
Ben sighed but dialled the number anyway and waited to be connected to the nurse who was taking care of Stan. A few moments of conversation confirmed what he’d been told earlier—there had been no change since Ben had gone in for the first time, a few days ago. Stan was stable but still in a critical situation.
“Thanks,” Ben mumbled and rang off, then accepted the cigarette Tone handed him as he thumbed an update text to Kirsty. There was still something nasty clawing at his belly—the knowledge that apart from him, and Tone, and Kirsty, there wasn’t anyone else Ben could go to about this.
“So?”
“He’s the same as earlier.”
“Are you going to come in and do the sound check and not be a dick to Summer?”
Ben nodded. “Yeah, alright.”
“I get it,” Tone said, then exhaled a lungful of smoke, looking at the grimy brick wall opposite the stage door. “I really do. Stan matters to you. He fucking well matters to all of us, mate. But you’re the linchpin of this band.”
“I’m not,” Ben muttered.
“Mate. You so are. I know we’ve never really put anyone out there up front, and you do more harmonies than lead vocals, but when you get on stage, fucking magic happens. When we take that out of the equation, even when we rehearse without you, it’s not the same. This band relies on you.”