The Bruise_Black Sky

by John Wiltshire

  It was as good as blood. Nikolas lowered his head and fed from Ben’s belly, a sleek golden predator, entirely welcomed by its prey. Ben tugged him up and kissed him, not because he particularly liked the taste, but because even that was shared between them. That’s just the way they were.

  They spent most of the night, which was daytime back in their world, lying entwined on the sofa, following the unfolding story. Philipa was never mentioned, of course. The Prince, the commentators stressed, was grieving and in seclusion, so their sources confirmed—being comforted by his family. Nikolas snorted at that.

  A full announcement from the Palace was expected. Parliament had been recalled from its summer recess. It was a constitutional crisis. They saw Radulf a couple of times more and they cheered him, finding it incredibly funny that he kept popping up in the least expected places. Once, they saw him being lifted out of the back of a Daimler just before a small, stocky, very familiar figure in a headscarf got out. Ben’s only comment was that The Queen might be missing her corgis and had possibly taken a shine to a blind wolfhound who was helping her through her eldest son’s marriage crisis.

  Nikolas replied that she’d better give him back.

  Ben could tell Nikolas wanted a cigarette. By now he’d have been halfway through a pack. He let him drink more wine than usual, to reward him for the supreme effort he was making. Life was a series of roundabouts with Nikolas, Ben decided. He preferred things linear. He wondered what else Nikolas might rediscover from his past to get him over this latest setback. He brushed the blond fringe away, combing it with his fingers. For once, Nikolas was lying in his arms, as it really didn’t matter if he fell asleep and missed some of the drama. It was all speculation based on nothing more than that first announcement, with some old video footage being repeated and embellished every few minutes. “Tell me about Kristina. I can hear about her now. She doesn’t matter. Like you said.”

  “I didn’t say she didn’t matter. I said she didn’t matter to us.”

  “That’s what I meant. Why do you say it like that?”

  “I don’t trust her reappearance. That’s all. It won’t affect us in the way you are concerned about, but it might have some effect in other ways—I am suspicious of her timing, that’s all.”

  “The likelihood of her just turning up like that?”

  “Yes. She doesn’t have a child in the school. That I have ascertained. Kate is working on it for me.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Yes, are we not amusing? Your ex investigating mine.”

  “Hilarious.”

  “She’ll update me when we get to the States next week.”

  “We’re meeting Kate?”

  “I had planned on it being me meeting her, but I suppose you can come if you wish. It would have to be daylight and with other people…” He trailed off on the threat of pain. “I found America decidedly odd on my brief visit last month.”

  “What did you see of it?”

  “The airport, a taxi, and a security firm’s office.”

  “Enough to judge then.”

  “Exactly. Odd.”

  “I like Americans.”

  “You would.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, go on…”

  “Well, they are…not European, are they?”

  Ben decided not to get into this with Nikolas. He was too tired and too happy, but more importantly, he realised he’d been totally deflected from Kristina. That Nikolas could still do this when it suited him annoyed Ben—he thought he’d got wise to this tactic. He prodded a rib. “So, Kristina? Did you love her?”

  Nikolas snorted.

  “Tell me!”

  “God. She was a princess, Ben.” He quickly waved his hand at the screen. “Not like these, not real, but a daddy’s girl? Even when she was told what her father was, what he had done to me, she refused to believe it.”

  “Christ. You told her?”

  Nikolas hesitated for a moment then conceded, “No, Gregory told her.”

  “He was…angry for you?”

  Nikolas snorted again. “I think he was annoyed he’d missed the fun. Look, Ben, please, it’s late. I don’t want to think about this now. See if there is a movie on, maybe?”

  There was. A Peter Cameron blockbuster filmed in New Zealand.

  The irony was too much.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  When Nikolas woke, bright sun was streaking in through Ben’s stubble, making individual hairs almost translucent. At some time after their TV marathon, he had apparently turned in Ben’s arms and they were now belly-to-belly, his face on Ben’s shoulder. Ben was still asleep.

  Nikolas turned his head to look out and discovered it was snowing heavily. Ben smelt nice and he pressed his nose into the strong, muscular shoulder. With a deep breath, Ben woke, blinking for a moment as he assessed his surroundings. He too glanced out of the window, and he suddenly sat up, tipping Nikolas off onto the floor. “It’s snowing!”

  Nikolas could never understand Ben’s endless fascination with snow. He guessed it was an English thing. It certainly wasn’t Russian. He’d seen more snow in one lifetime than anyone could possibly want.

  “Let’s go skiing!”

  Nikolas suddenly grinned. He’d forgotten. Snow was superb.

  §§§

  Nikolas didn’t want to hire old equipment like Ben had done with Hayden, so they went into Wanaka to a sports shop to buy something good. They hadn’t anticipated Ben being recognised, but he was, so they had to stay in their roles, and Ben had to pay for everything, much to Nikolas’s amusement. Fully kitted out, they headed back out and loaded everything into the car.

  Nikolas wrinkled his nose at the small sedan. Ben occasionally accused him of liking cars that were big enough to fit his ego, but in this case a large off-roader would definitely be more suitable. The day was getting away from them, however, and Ben didn’t want to waste any more of it, vociferously arguing against his suggestion to rent something bigger. With snow tyres.

  They loaded the vehicle as best they could and headed up Cardrona Valley towards the slopes. Nikolas had to sit sideward in his seat, skis pressed right up against the windscreen. He didn’t mind. He got to watch Ben.

  §§§

  They’d never skied together before. Ben could ski very well, as he’d done a lot in the army recreationally. Nikolas, of course, had been born on skis (as he told Ben), raised on skis (also mentioned) and trained in Russian Special Forces on skis (added as an afterthought). And was half Scandinavian. That didn’t need any addition.

  They were naturally competitive most of the time, but this was something else. Nik had once accused Ben of skiing like a pussy, and this comment had not been forgotten. He was out to prove something.

  They wound up the fearsome track to the lodge at the top of the mountain. No guardrail, no safety features at all, they were in whiteout with what appeared to be a thousand foot drop one side of the icy trail. Ben negotiated the track slowly, taking the precipitous turns cautiously, both of them peering over the edge. At one point, where there was room to turn around and retreat, he paused and murmured, “You should have let me get a proper jeep. We can’t make it in this.”

  Nikolas chuckled. “Do you want me to drive?”

  The challenge was too much. Ben gritted his teeth and put the car back into gear. No snow-chains, two-wheel drive, it was almost impossible to stay on the track. Only the freshly fallen snow gave them enough grip to continue.

  Halfway up, they emerged out of the clouds and snow to a day of brilliant sun and blue skies, and views that seemed to stretch to heaven. The going was just as difficult, but now sunshine gave it the illusion of being easy.

  §§§

  Nikolas felt a surge of adrenaline when they reached the lodge and pulled into a parking space. Then he saw Ben wriggling into his ski suit and knew he’d just redefined the meaning of pleasure. Ben looked like a model on a photo shoot. And
the real beauty of this? Ben didn’t even know it. He was totally unaware that he’d been recognised, that a few people were surreptitiously taking photos of him, that he was so incredibly beautiful. No doubt he’d be appearing on the internet within seconds, copied and resent around the world. He’d probably be hashtagged. It was frustrating for Nikolas, but at the same time…exhilarating.

  “You’re staring at me.”

  Nikolas shook himself. “No, I’m not. I was wondering if you needed some help with your skis…fixing them properly?”

  Ben narrowed his eyes. “No, thank you. Are you ready?”

  Nikolas nodded and they slid smoothly to the lift.

  When they reached the very top of the mountain and skied off the lift, it was eerily silent, as if sound couldn’t compete with such awesome beauty and had retreated to lower places to sulk. They could see along Lake Wakatipu almost as far as Paradise. Nikolas glanced over at Ben. The green of his eyes should have been illegal in a place of such whiteness. Ben was too tempting for mortal man. He huffed at his own gayness. “Off piste?”

  Ben flicked his gaze over from the scenery. “Absolutely not. When’s the last time you skied?”

  “Ack. Pussy.” Nikolas took off, gliding effortlessly towards the edge, and then he just…dropped off.

  §§§

  Later, after the accident, Nikolas reflected that it was his insistence on skiing off piste all day that had been partially to blame. Although Ben was driving, he had been too shattered by the extreme physicality of the day to react in time either. He’d been showing off to Ben. Off piste. He admitted it, in Danish, as they sat bloodied and shocked in the stranger’s car back to Wanaka. My fault.

  Ben reminded him through gritted teeth, also in Danish, that they’d been fucking pushed off the mountain.

  Which was true as well.

  Ben was good like that. Not apportioning blame even though Nikolas felt guilty. He should never have suggested the black runs. Not for the first time on skis in over fifteen years.

  When they’d got in the car to return down the mountain, he’d been only playing at still being alive. Everything was battered and exhausted from the snow. Showing off. Proving to himself, to Ben, that twelve years between them made no difference. But they did. Smoking heavily didn’t help either.

  So, although Ben didn’t point the finger at him, Nikolas accused himself.

  When they’d come around the curve of the mountain, now with the drop on their left—the side they were on, of course, this being New Zealand and having the same side for driving as England—another vehicle had been coming up towards them. This car was driving directly into the setting sun and the windscreen was just a glare of light. There wasn’t room for two to pass safely, so Ben had paused.

  Nikolas was on the drop-off side and was peering warily over the edge when he heard Ben swear, “What the fuck?”

  The large off-roader was coming towards them. They couldn’t see the driver, but the jeep loomed large in front of them, bumped them and then…started to push.

  It had snow chains and was four-wheel drive. They didn’t stand a chance. With the ease of sliding a curling stone, the jeep slid them off the side of the mountain.

  They didn’t even have time to jump. Nikolas couldn’t anyway, as he only had empty air on one side and was jammed in with skis on the other. The car just tipped, and then they were rolling over and over and over, seatbelts holding, but a sickening churning and breaking of windows, glass everywhere, and a terrible remembrance of the drop into space, until they’d slammed to a stop, snow pouring in through the smashed windscreen. It wasn’t a thousand-foot cliff after all. But they’d come to a halt in a huge drift that had built up on the ledge that led to the thousand foot of nothing…

  Nikolas couldn’t orientate himself. He heard a grunt beneath him. They were on their side, and he was hanging in his belt over Ben. He struggled free, kicking open the distorted door, pulling up and then falling into the snow. Ben hauled himself up and tumbled out the same way, landing on him.

  After the fall, the silence in the freezing whiteness was confusing.

  Then there was terrible colour. Ben was entirely red, his face and hands covered in blood.

  Nikolas remembered howling, but denied to Ben later that he’d done this. He’d had visions of Ben’s face being sliced off by the glass that had shattered in on them. But when he’d tried to reach Ben and wipe the mess off, Ben had pushed him away so he could examine his neck. “You’re bleeding!” It was his blood. He couldn’t feel it at all but his neck was pumping the viscous red liquid, or so it seemed in the whiteness, and, hanging sideward, it had soaked down over Ben. Ben was entirely unharmed, which was all that was important.

  They were rescued fairly quickly, for there were a number of other cars on the track down the mountain, returning from a day’s skiing, just as they had been—better kitted out with winches, snow chains, and tow ropes.

  They abandoned the wrecked vehicle and the blood-stained snow and accepted a ride to Wanaka. Nikolas was profoundly grateful that they’d had their accident in New Zealand—a country full of competent people with a pioneer spirit who relished the opportunity to lend a hand to a mate and expected nothing in return for such genuine generosity except someone repaying the favour one day, when they were in need. Their new best friend kept glancing uneasily across at Nikolas, who was very pale and holding his neck. “You just fell asleep at the wheel, mate?”

  Nikolas shrugged and wished he hadn’t.

  “You sure you don’t want to go to hospital?”

  Ben insisted they didn’t.

  Their rescuer dropped them off at a night pharmacy.

  Ben called for a taxi.

  It was only when they got home and Ben had gently peeled off Nikolas’s jacket and shirt that they saw the gash for the first time. Ben winced. “Glass?”

  Nikolas grunted. “Ski.”

  Ben’s eyes widened. The edge of the ski had cut Nikolas as sharp and deep as a knife—which explained the bleeding, and actually made him feel better in terms of not dying, but worse when he was then free to think about other things. He was exhausted. Someone had tried to kill them. He had an excuse for being a little slow on the uptake!

  Someone pushed us off the fucking mountain.

  Or, more to the point, someone had pushed Ben off. Nikolas had no doubt this was linked to the death threat against Ben. How could it not be? Who was unlucky enough to have two fucking psychos stalking them?

  Nikolas instantly saw all his faults—not taking the guarding of Ben seriously once they were away from the film set. Tripping merrily around announcing their whereabouts to everyone. Fucking hell, they’d only been on the slopes for five minutes and anyone in the world interested enough in knowing where Ben Rider was could have found him.

  He was getting old.

  He’d never have been this careless in the past.

  He hadn’t even known what hashtagged meant until Emilia had explained it to him a few weeks previous, clearly only repressing an eye roll because she found his aged incompetence endearing. Last time he’d been on skis, a photograph took about a month to return to you after the holiday. Phones were attached to walls with thick cables. He was too old for this.

  He felt a touch on his thigh and lifted his eyes to Ben. Ben hadn’t had a chance to wash yet. “Hold this.”

  Nikolas put his hand up and took the wadding Ben had been holding against the cut. “Just like old times.”

  Ben wrinkled his nose and added ironically, “Good times.”

  Ben handed him the bottle of vodka they’d stopped to buy after the first aid supplies.

  The bleeding had stopped. He’d had a lot worse in the past. “Stitch me up and stick a plaster on, Ben. I’m fine.”

  “We need to phone the police!”

  Nikolas sighed. “We can’t. How long do you think it would take for them to discover Yuri Bronislav doesn’t exist?”

  “Sodding hell! Not again! I had to go throug
h all this with Christian!”

  “You bring up your relationship with Christian now? That is so—”

  “Stop it. Take it seriously, Nik. We have to—”

  “No.”

  “They’ll have the car! The witnesses!”

  “I rented the car in a different name. It will take them a while to track that down, maybe never. It was an accident. You fell asleep at the wheel. We will leave tonight and fly to the States early.”

  “Fucking hell!”

  For once, Nikolas didn’t pick Ben up on his choice of language. It was fucked up. Of course, they should contact the authorities. Someone had just tried to kill Ben. But Nikolas had no faith in the police. He certainly didn’t have faith in some local bobbies in fucking Wanaka. He didn’t want the resultant publicity either.

  “We have to tell Peter at least.”

  Nikolas had an evil thought that he’d take a picture of Ben covered as he still was in dried blood and send it to Peter. Probably give him a heart attack, and then they could end this fucking farce and go home. But the irony suddenly hit him, and he began to laugh. Ben frowned, little flakes of rust-red shedding as his face creased. Nikolas fished into Ben’s pocket for his phone and took a photo of him, turning the screen so Ben could see it. Ben slumped. He was the spitting image of Oliver Whitestone as Yoshi. Life imitating art, imitating fucking life. Who knew anymore? It was all so fucked up. They’d been pushed off a mountain! On a mountain in the middle of fucking nowhere, someone had managed to nearly kill Ben Rider-Mikkelsen.

  His Ben.

  Nikolas was totally empty now. Very little sleep the night before, a day on the slopes showing off and now blood loss. And they needed to move—leave Wanaka, leave New Zealand.

  They needed to stop and think about what had happened. How had they been found? By whom? Ben’s stalker was in New Zealand, not the States? He felt things greying out around him but managed to say, “We’ll fly to Auckland tonight.”

  §§§

  They’d missed the last flight out of Queenstown. They got seats on one the following morning.

  For the first time since dropping off the edge of the snow ledge, showing off, Nikolas felt he could be still for just a moment.