The Bruise_Black Sky

by John Wiltshire

  “You have a lot of heroes.”

  “Oh, yes. Kim Dotcom was my absolutess favourite until I met you.”

  Nikolas glanced down at him, the parting from Ben still circling in his mind. “Me?”

  “Absolutely.” Miles screwed up his very grubby face and thought theatrically. “The Wrecker! That could be your superhero name!”

  “If we were following William’s example, perhaps…The Riser?”

  “That would have to be The Raiser, not riser…”

  Nikolas considered his effect on Ben’s cock. “Raiser works too.”

  “It’s brilliant. You could spell it with a Z! Like cutthroat. The Razer!”

  “It’s not me, anyway, Miles. It’s you. You did all this.”

  “No, I only paid—”

  “Miles, who built St Paul’s Cathedral?”

  “Sir Christopher Wren, of course, didn’t you know that? Gosh, you should borrow my book of—”

  “With his bare hands?”

  Miles narrowed his eyes, thinking about this. “No. He must have employed men. I never thought about that. He didn’t build it then.”

  “But he did. Do you see? The men who laid the bricks aren’t remembered. He is. It was his genius, his inspiration, his ten pounds that built the greatest cathedral in the world—except for all the ones in Russia, which are much better.”

  “No they aren’t! No one remembers who built them!”

  “Well, there you go. You’re a historical figure now. A superhero. You need a name.”

  Miles looked down, blushing furiously. “I don’t much like the names that get made up for me. Miles Too…other things.”

  “That’s because they aren’t seeing your secret identity. Hmm, let me think…Chainsaw.”

  “Chainsaw.”

  “Hush. It’s a secret identity.”

  “I wish you didn’t have to go.”

  “Not many people have ever said that to me.”

  “Or me.”

  “Nor me. You should say nor me.”

  “No, you shouldn’t! You only use nor when it’s combined with neither! Everyone knows that! Otherwise it’s or. I think I’d better lend you my Golden Treasury of English Grammar. But you will return it, won’t you? I don’t really like lending my books.”

  §§§

  Nikolas declined the grandmother’s offer of a bed for the night and took himself off to the tiny hotel in the local town. He had one or two things more to sort.

  He called Ben again just before midnight. Once more, Ben took some time to answer. “What?”

  “Hello, Benjamin.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Here.”

  “For fuck’s sake. What do you want, Nik?”

  Nikolas had been going to tell him what he’d been doing all day, his joke about being The Raiser, but some of the fun of the tale went out on Ben’s coldness. “Nothing much. I’ll be home at the end of the week. Something came up. How was the trip?”

  “Okay.”

  The expression pulling teeth crossed Nikolas’s mind. “How is Radulf?”

  “Good. Squeezy and Tim are leaving tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ve gotta go.” Nikolas wondered why, but Ben clicked off before he could ask.

  He lay back on the scratchy brown cover of the bed and contemplated the artex on the ceiling for a while. He’d spent the majority of his forty something years not being the least bit worried what anyone thought about him. As he’d once told Ben, why should he change to suit anyone else’s convenience? Why did it matter so much now what Ben thought about him? Ben was the one at fault, so Ben’s opinion really didn’t count.

  It was utterly irrelevant to them that he’d once been married, that he’d once had a son he’d never seen, hadn’t named and didn’t know where was buried. Moscow had been a good guess and had shut Ben up for a while. Fuck, for all he knew, the baby hadn’t died, and it was all an elaborate lie by his wife’s family.

  It was all history.

  Ben would come around. He always did. Ben couldn’t function without him now. He’d kinda made sure of that…

  He folded his arms under his head and thought about the cutting of the trees for a while, picturing Miles struggling with his chainsaw, the look on his face when the first tree had tumbled. All boys should be given chainsaws. It was good for them.

  If Stefan had lived…

  Not for the first time in his life, Nikolas tried to picture what Stefan would be like now. He’d be…twenty-one?

  Nikolas saw himself at twenty-one, emaciated, lice-ridden, feral…

  If Stefan had lived, he might have gone to Nikolas’s old school.

  He’d have taught him how to…

  He stood up and went to lean on the window to look out at the dreary granite street.

  He rang Ben’s number again.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Why should something be wrong?”

  “I don’t know. I just thought…look, I’m sorry, okay? I’ve been…we’ll talk when you get home?”

  “Okay.”

  “What’s wrong, Nik? Seriously.”

  “Nothing. I told you, nothing. I’ve been thinking, that’s all.”

  “Don’t take up new hobbies when you’re on your own then.”

  Nikolas smiled a little. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. So am I. Will you come home soon?”

  “Yes, if everything goes to plan, in a couple of days.”

  “What the hell are you doing? He only paid ten pounds, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Don’t swear at me, and he’s not had full value yet. A contract is a contract.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “When am I ever not okay?”

  “I guess. Nik…?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I love you. Whatever. You know that, right? Even when I don’t like you very much.”

  Nikolas laughed. “My mother used to say that to me.” Suddenly, seeing connections he didn’t like, he added, “You’re okay, yes? Squeezy and Tim are there with you?”

  “Jesus. I’m okay! Look, just come home, and I’ll show you how okay I am, all right?”

  “Excellent. Tell me how you’re going to do that…”

  §§§

  Later that night, denied the phone sex he’d attempted to initiate, Nikolas tried to fall asleep on the tiny single bed. He was fairly certain sleep was off the agenda. He was forgiven, which was, in some ways, worse than still being in the doghouse. Now, he had no excuse to blame Ben. Now, he had to examine his own behaviour. Should he now tell Ben other things about his life to circumvent Ben finding out about them later? It was a bit of a dilemma. Who knew the damn woman would turn up like that? The coincidence was too fantastic, even for fiction. Then an uncomfortable thought occurred to Nikolas. What if it hadn’t been chance? She’d seemed startled. But then she’d always been a good actress. Maybe she hadn’t known, but someone else had. It was entirely possible they were still legally married, in which case, she would have some considerable interest in him…or his money.

  He could hear Ben’s voice in his head. “You’re not killing her.”

  Yeah.

  What Ben Rider-Mikkelsen didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. Which neatly answered the question he’d posed earlier. No, he wouldn’t tell Ben the other things about his life that Ben would probably find…upsetting. They weren’t relevant to them.

  Nikolas began to plan about Kristina.

  §§§

  Things went very well the next morning. Nikolas was back on site at six, but it was quite light, being June and very far north. Miles met him, and they waited together for the next set of trucks to arrive.

  The house was entirely gone now, just the foundations left with a lot of damage to the surrounding area.

  At seven, as agreed, the landscapers arrived. Nikolas had been shocked how much the cost of turf had increased since he’d had the lawns around the glass house installed, ready-m
ade, just like this. Still, needs must.

  By the end of the morning, there was no evidence of where the house had stood at all, except for an unnaturally green swath in the middle of a Scottish hillside. It was actually rather attractive.

  The bungalow wasn’t in anyone’s view now.

  It had been the only fix Nikolas could come up with.

  Chainsaw had agreed: it was the only practical solution.

  So they’d done it.

  One more thing to sort, though, but that couldn’t be done until the owner returned in three days’ time.

  Nikolas asked Chainsaw if he liked swimming. He admitted he did, but not if anyone else was there.

  Iceland was quiet this time of year, Nikolas maintained…

  They took Mrs Toogood as well, for as Nikolas pointed out, it was best not to travel with little boys who weren’t related to you.

  Miles appeared to forget his anxiety about swimming in public when he got the chance to do it in a geothermal pool.

  When they ate in the luxury hotel spa that Nikolas had booked them into, Miles copied Nikolas in everything and ate lobster but no carbs at all. He didn’t drink any alcohol though, which Nikolas agreed was wise—superheroes needed to stay alert.

  Enid Toogood also swam in the thermal pool and claimed her arthritis was better that evening.

  And that gave Nikolas something else to plan.

  §§§

  They arrived at the bungalow an hour or so before the owner of the house returned—a Romanian who owned a chain of betting shops in Glasgow, Nikolas had discovered through Kate. The views were particularly spectacular from the little cottage that evening. The loch was perfectly still with the mountains reflected in it as if mirrored in glass. Miles took a photo of it and then one of Nikolas, which, blushing, he stressed was for Emilia.

  Miles wanted to accompany Nikolas to wait for Ion Boc’s return, but Nikolas maintained he needed him to stay with his grandmother—that she would be worried.

  He sat in the warm sunshine on the new turf and made a mental note to check that the landscaper was remembering to water it. Instant lawns needed a lot of care.

  The view was even better this high on the hill. There wasn’t another house in sight except for the little bungalow, now basking in the light. He saw a vehicle approaching. A gold Cadillac Escalade. With go-faster stripes. It must have been imported from the States. Typical. If there was one thing Nikolas loathed, it was ostentatious display of wealth. He checked his watch. Two o’clock. With luck, he’d be back home that night.

  The car paused at the turning in the lane, the first place where you could see the bungalow—well, you could see it now. Before, of course, you’d just seen hedge.

  It crept forward to the place where you could also see the big house—or you could have if it was still there.

  Nikolas was there instead.

  He had a very interesting conversation with Ion Boc. He was very glad the man spoke English—or the Scottish equivalent, anyway, because Nikolas didn’t speak Romanian. He could speak Romanian, of course. But he was Russian, so just didn’t.

  A very short part of the exchange took place on the sunny hillside. That was mostly hysterical shouting accompanied by arm waving.

  The rest took place in a dilapidated warehouse Nikolas had “borrowed”. He’d have preferred an abattoir. Nothing said pleasant chat like a killing shed, but the town didn’t stretch to such luxuries. The warehouse was okay though. Atmospheric.

  After a couple of hours, Ion Boc agreed that the hill looked much nicer now, and that, had he thought of it himself, he would have cut down the trees and moved his house.

  He was unsure what he could do to apologise to the old lady—what restored seven years of a life ruined? Nikolas made a few suggestions, and Ion Boc was very willing to go along with such excellent ideas.

  One thing they both decided very easily was that Romania was a nice country, but becoming increasingly empty, and that Ion Boc should reverse the current flow of migration. Boc conceded, yes, there was surely a need for a good bookie now in Bucharest. Lots of gambling needing to be done.

  Would he like some help with relocating?

  No, that was a kind offer. He could manage.

  Nikolas assured him that he had every confidence he would.

  §§§

  There was only one task remaining.

  He was a little stiff and tired now, but determined to see it through.

  He returned to the bungalow to be met by anxious faces.

  He promised them they would not see Ion Boc again.

  “Why are you wearing gloves? It’s hot.”

  “Because. And superheroes don’t ask questions.”

  “I think they do. That’s exactly what they do, especially to baddies. Did you ask him lots of questions?”

  “Not really. I knew all the answers anyway.”

  “What’s that? It’s another truck. What’s it doing? It’s stopping!”

  He’d been tempted to try and install a geothermal pool on the site of the big house, but that had been beyond even his planning ability, as he wanted to catch the plane home to Ben that evening. He’d had to make do with a Scandinavian hot tub, which he had installed behind the bungalow, just high enough so the view from it was the very best it could be and hot enough for even the worst case of arthritis.

  And big enough for a slightly larger than average superhero.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Ben heard Nikolas’s taxi arrive.

  He hadn’t waited up for him, of course, that would be too…needy.

  Nikolas hadn’t phoned ahead and told Ben what time to expect him, hoping he’d wait up, because that would be too…uncharacteristic.

  They both seemed to realise at the same time that their lives had been on hold since the discovery at the ball and that not breathing, heartbeats stopping, were very painful things to have happen. They both wanted the pain to stop.

  Ben didn’t fling himself on Nikolas, because that’s not what they did, but he did take his bag, help him with his jacket, and then envelop him in a hug so deep and so tight that no further apologies were necessary. It was only when he felt Nikolas stiffen that he pulled away and saw Nikolas’s hands. “What the fuck? What have you done?”

  “Don’t swear at me. I was challenged to a bare-knuckle fight in a bar and had to accept. Russian honour was at stake.”

  “Fucking hell! Did you win?”

  Nikolas smiled. “What do you think? Come to bed, Ben. You have something to show me, if I recall.”

  §§§

  They didn’t often have make-up sex.

  They didn’t often argue for real, and make-up sex wasn’t needed for the constant low level bickering they enjoyed.

  This was different. It had been a genuine rift over a real issue that could have broken them. Nikolas knew this, and his profound gratitude at being back in his own bed and back in Ben was so extreme that he even murmured some endearments as he forced himself into the muscular body clenching so conveniently in time to his thrusts. After a few moments, though, he heard himself, the disconnect between the shallow sentiments and what he actually felt. For the first time ever in their long association he faltered—a thrust badly timed, a hand on sweaty flesh slipping, and then missing his target entirely. Slipping out, in fact—not a deliberate, slow easing out done to tease and elicit begging from Ben, either.

  Ben turned his head. “Wha—?”

  “I—” Nikolas lay down on Ben’s back, unable to articulate one word of the thoughts in his head. What this man in their bed meant to him. How immensely lucky he was to have him. But, most of all, the realisation, at last, that he genuinely didn’t deserve him. That if he loved Ben, he should tell him to leave, for if Ben stayed, he would only get hurt again and again and again…Nikolas thought he would rather die than hurt Ben Rider-Mikkelsen, and that was something he had never ever thought about anyone. Everyone in his life had been sacrificed to the Aleksey Primakov altar. Everyone.
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br />   He sniffed and rolled off Ben, all thoughts of sex forgotten. That was a first for him, too.

  Ben turned onto his side, watching him.

  Nikolas put an arm over his face. He didn’t want to be observed. He felt a finger trailing through the sweat on his stomach. It tickled, and he held the hand still.

  “I didn’t mean it when I said I didn’t like you. You know that, right?” Ben’s quiet voice sounded right next to Nikolas’s ear. “I like you too much, which has always been my mistake. I liked you before I loved you, which is why I fell in love with you, even when you were an obnoxious bastard no one could’ve liked. But I did. I’ve always liked you, and I’ve always loved you, and that’s why you hurt me when…”

  Nikolas nodded quickly. He didn’t want to hear Kristina’s name in their bed.

  “When you gave me the box at Christmas…?” Nikolas stiffened and not in the good way of that. “Did you go through and select those photos from a larger pile—are there other photos of your life you decided not to include?” Nikolas gestured in assent again, a small jerk of his chin so as not to dislodge the arm over his face. “Because they were of…Kristina?” And other things. “And other things?” Nikolas swallowed. He didn’t like being read so easily.

  Ben sighed and levered himself up onto Nikolas, lying lower down so his ear was over Nikolas’s heart. They often slept like this, despite Ben being so heavy, so it wasn’t that unusual, but to Nikolas then it felt as if Ben lay like his protector, his shield against the world. For was that not, when you got right down to the fundamentals, what all this was about? Photographs, ex-wives, dead babies—they were the real world—his life before the dreamtime. Before Ben. There was a visceral cut off in Nikolas’s mind where darkness turned into light, from where he swam in a sewer, only just holding his head above the shit, to where he met Ben on the sunlit uplands of a Dartmoor tor, and everything in his world became…perfect. And now a tiny lap of shit had tried to slop over the edge and sully this perfection. Ben wasn’t letting it.

  He began to comb the fingers of his free hand through Ben’s hair, dragging each long strand to the end before letting it bounce back. Ben had showered apparently, just before he’d arrived home, and his hair was still slightly damp. It smelt of vanilla and coconut, Nikolas’s expensive shampoo that Ben derided as being for poofs.