The Bruise_Black Sky

by John Wiltshire

  “Yes. They did—do. That’s the slant they’re putting on the film about his life. That he was suffering dark thoughts that led—”

  “Well, they fucking would, wouldn’t they? You know how much damage Katrina did? I’ll tell you—a hundred billion dollars and counting. You know how much the New Orleans tourist industry takes in? I’ll tell you that for free, too—used to have seven million or so visitors a year. 2006? Two million. Now we’re up to nine. Nine million, and they’re coming here ’cause they see this place nightly on their screens and their favourite stars wading around in our swamps. They’re coming here and they’re spending dollars. We getting over a billion dollars a year from people wanting to see swamps on their TV screens. Hell,” she pushed at the card she’d left on the table, “my damn salary being paid for by hushing up the very thing I’m paid to do. How’s that for dramatic fucking irony. Think they’ll make a show about that, Mr Protector?”

  “It’s Nikolas.”

  “Uh-huh. That something else I don’t wanna know?”

  “Yup.”

  “You stay here long enough, you’ll be speakin’ suthern just fine.”

  §§§

  Squeezy told Ben that Santiago Molina was fucking him off big time. Ben had to agree that the guy was challenging. In After the Wars he’d been mute—his tongue cut out by the Family for blaspheming. It made for impressive footage in the arena when he howled as he killed his adversaries—a dumb, soulless animal sound which chilled.

  In real life he was more tedious, as, of course, he wasn’t—mute. He was very talkative and appeared fascinated with Ben, latching onto him and apparently trying to make him his best friend. As Squeezy pointed out, he was Ben’s best friend, so Mr Six-Foot-Six could fuck off. Bigfoot. Squeezy grinned. It had clearly come to him just like that. Diesel, Mergers, The Professor, Kinney, DaddyBark, and now Bigfoot.

  Ben only rolled his eyes and tuned his friend out. He was having a water break. He’d never drunk so much in his life. He was profoundly grateful he’d upped his workout regime for the four weeks before he’d left England. It wasn’t that he couldn’t keep up. He had the most superb physique of them all. But he was the star. Playing the star. Making a tribute to Ollie…that’s what he meant.

  §§§

  An unfortunate incident happened later that day.

  Ben was being put through his paces with a stunt coordinator for a training fight they were going to film between Yoshi and Nalusa Falaya. Being the best two soldiers the Family had in captivity, they’d often trained together.

  Peter was directing. His ex-wife Gina had just arrived and was greeting those she knew from the Wars set. It was one of the extras, the bodybuilders, impressively honed with Maori tattoos covering his face, who’d asked, “When we gonna start filming season four, Gina? Now we got our new Yoshi.”

  Ben missed a block and got whacked on his arm with the training sword. Peter had frozen in place, gazing at Ben. Gina, who’d been speaking with Santiago, broke off and turned to stare at Ben, too.

  Everyone was focusing on Ben.

  Peter clarified, as if dazed, “Ben take over from Ollie? As Yoshi? In the series?”

  And Ben knew that every single person in the room was picturing just that.

  A new Yoshi for After the Wars, indistinguishable from the previous one.

  Gina had immediately gone into a huddle with her ex-husband.

  Ben carried on working, watching with fascination as a vast blue-black bruise rose upon his arm.

  Later that day, Peter apologised—Gina’d already written season four with Santiago Molina in the lead role. Yoshi would die off screen in the first episode, and Nalusa Falaya would find his soul in a thirst for revenge for Yoshi’s murder. Compelling storytelling, so he contended.

  Unfortunate.

  Ben told Peter to forget it. Privately, he’d never been so relieved. He wasn’t very good at saying no, as his relationship with Nikolas proved. If they’d put the offer to him seriously, he’d have possibly agreed.

  He’d almost thought about getting Nikolas to tell them no on his behalf.

  What he was doing now was totally out of character, and he was only doing it because he’d had his nose put out of joint by discovering that Nikolas had had a life before he’d come on the scene. It was all so childish, now, seen in perspective, that if he could go back to the moment outside the marquee when she’d bragged I’m his wife he’d have crowed back, well I’m his boyfriend. Well, not crowed. Murmured, probably, knowing him.

  He and Squeezy were walking back to his trailer. Ben glanced over gloomily. “You think I pissed them all off not wanting to be Yoshi?”

  Squeezy’s expression was hidden behind his secret service sunglasses. “Tattoo, maybe. Not fucking everyone though. Don’t worry ’bout it.”

  “They might change their minds. They only wrote that new storyline because they didn’t have anyone who could replace Oliver. In theory, now they do. And a mute star isn’t much fun. How are they going to write a tongue back?”

  “They wouldn’t want you if they knew you. You can’t act for shit, Diesel.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No, I mean it. Good body. Love to fuck you, but watch you acting? Wouldn’t pay for it.”

  “You don’t. You download illegally.”

  “Semen.”

  “Huh?”

  “Semen…thingy. Splitting fucking hairs? Jesus, man, you’ve become hard work since you got all famous and shit. So, where we eating tonight? You seen the great seafood places they got everywhere here? All fucking deep-fried. You’ve gotta love ’em.”

  “We have to stay on set. I promised N—I mean, I think it would be—Shut up.”

  Squeezy rearranged his features back to disinterested bodyguard. “In that case, I think we should find Bigfoot’s raft and take up his offer to eat with him.”

  “Huh? You don’t—”

  “Don’t fucking tell me what I do and don’t like, Diesel. We’re only pretending this me-working-for-you thing, yeah?”

  “No, technically you do work for me…ANGEL?”

  “Nope, technically we both work for Mergers. I work vertically but—fucking hell! Ouch! Do you want me to be there at just the critical moment to save your fucking life?”

  Ben could get no further sense out of Squeezy, if he’d got any in the first place, as to why he wanted to eat with the man who, up to then, had been annoying him intensely. But Squeezy insisted.

  Santiago lived on a houseboat when he was filming, which he had moored at Salt Island, and had invited Ben to eat with him almost every night since he’d arrived on the set.

  He hadn’t included Squeezy in the offers, and seemed a little put out when they turned up together. But he invited them on board. Which was a dicey operation, given the swell and the winds. He boasted his boat had outlasted six tropical storms so far; it would survive Dolly.

  Gina was there too and another woman she introduced as her assistant. They now saw why Squeezy’s presence was awkward. Squeezy didn’t seem put out in the least at being a fifth wheel and cosied up to the young woman, leaving Ben the awkward one in a threesome with Santiago and Gina.

  He was starving, though, and took advantage of the impressive spread of takeaway to smooth over the moment. Calling it takeaway made the others laugh, so that was a good start.

  “So, you thinking of progressing the Yoshi idea, Ben?” Santiago was tucking into a family-sized pizza, his chin greasy from olive oil, the smell of garlic strong in the cabin. He’d told Ben only that morning that he lived on pizza and had laughed at Ben’s no-carbs regime, while beating his considerable belly.

  Ben swallowed a mouthful of Som Tam. “Absolutely not. Anyway, I thought you said it had all been writ—”

  “Network TV, we’re talking a cancel-Firefly moment here.”

  Ben had no idea what this meant and didn’t intend to ask. He only shook his head and changed the subject.

  On the way back to their trailer, Squeezy was
uncharacteristically quiet. Ben had to ask him a couple of times about the girl before Squeezy replied absentmindedly, “Sure, we got along famously. Very interesting fucking lass.”

  “You seeing her again?”

  “Yep. Soon as I’ve got you tucked up in beddy-byes and kissed you goodnight, I’m gonna be kissing her. And not where I fucking kiss you.”

  Ben toed the ground for a moment. “Tim going to be okay with this?”

  Squeezy smirked. “Who?”

  Ben wrinkled his nose and thought about intervening on his other friend’s behalf, but, hell, they were big boys. They knew what they were doing. Squeezy was still wearing his dark glasses, despite it now being almost midnight, so Ben couldn’t read him at all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Nikolas drove Major Perry back to her office.

  She leant in the open car window for a while, chewing some gum, before saying, “You’re not gonna tell me when you find out where those threats came from, are ya?”

  Nikolas said nothing.

  She nodded. “Yup. Thought so.”

  “I’m assuming they were sent from someone in America, but other than that they could be anywhere. Have you heard of the term jurisdiction?”

  She pursed her lips. “My damn jurisdiction didn’t do Oliver one fucking bit of good. Seems to me I might as well be out of it if necessary.”

  “You ever killed anyone?”

  She gave him an askance look. “Sunshine, I never even pulled this gun in anger. You watch too much TV. You telling me you have? Yeah. Well, we’ll add that to the rapidly expanding list of things I don’t want to know about you, Preacher. I’m gonna have to advise you that—Yeah. Wasting precious air here. You actin’ like a man with a personal agenda. That so? You knew Oliver?”

  “No.”

  “You gonna get the bastard who killed him?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded, appeared to heave up one bra strap thoughtfully, then strode back to her office.

  Nikolas found a motel with Wi-Fi and called Kate. She took a while to answer as he tapped his fingers rapidly on the bedside table. “Hi.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Broken ankle, hello?”

  “Do you have your computer there?”

  “Do I breathe?”

  “Skype me. I have a computer now.”

  “I—I don’t have it on this computer. I’m still working on the emails sent to Peter Cameron’s office before Oliver’s death. They used an anonymiser. But I traced the threat sent about Ben. He didn’t even try to cover his tracks on that one.”

  Nikolas swung his legs off the bed and rose, going to his jacket to fetch a pen. “In the States?”

  “Not only that, in Louisiana. Place called Lake Providence.” She gave him a name and address. “No record of him buying an airline ticket anytime recently.”

  “He may have contracted someone in New Zealand.”

  “Seems—”

  “Unlikely. Yes, I know that, Kate. That has fucking occurred to me, too. This whole thing is like a fucking script in a—” He stopped his rant.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” In the past, he would have shared his theory with her, but not now. He’d shared enough with Kate. He rang off.

  It was like a script. Death threat received in Paradise…

  Images of Ben conveniently captured and used…

  Peter half-heartedly bringing in security…allowing Ben to travel off on his own…

  Publicity stunt?

  But they had been pushed off a mountain. That wasn’t a publicity stunt. They’d only been saved by a fresh fall of snow accumulated on the ridge. He hadn’t pointed this out to Ben. Either Ben had worked out for himself that they’d been a few snowflakes and a gust of wind away from being dead, or he didn’t need to be told. He suspected Ben knew very well just how lucky they’d been…how unlucky the killer had been…

  Lake Providence. It was about to become less providential for one resident.

  §§§

  The location wasn’t what he was expecting. This man, Peyton Garic, lived in a shack. If he’d contracted a killer in New Zealand, he appeared to have paid him out of scrap metal and junk, for the garden—the bit of scrubby dirt around the shack—was filled with the detritus of a failing civilization—broken refrigerators, a television, an old couch.

  Nikolas sat across the street, considering the place, watching. No one came or went for four hours, although he could occasionally see a flickering of lights within the house. There were no direct neighbours, each shack having a good-sized piece of land around it and there were plenty of trees to give cover.

  He glanced at himself in the mirror. It was very possible Peyton Garic knew who he was. But it was one thing sending anonymous threats over the internet and quite another facing down someone in person.

  He climbed out and quickly strode across the sweltering sidewalk and up onto the porch, flattening himself against the rough, peeling paint alongside the front door. He thumped the side of his fist on the screen, half expecting shots in response.

  A wheezy voice called out, “Yeah?”

  Nikolas rattled the frame once more, this time harder, and it slumped on its hinges under the onslaught.

  “Hey, why don’t ya’ll just come in? Break my damn door down, why don’t ya?”

  Nikolas pulled his other army-surplus shop purchase out of his waistband. How absurdly easy did Americans make it for their citizens to murder each other? He’d bought a Glock with less difficulty than buying a pair of good shoes to fit in Exeter.

  He kicked the door in, fly screen and all, and burst into the one-room shack.

  §§§

  Afterwards, Nikolas made a mental note to apologise to Miles Toogood, because, for one minute, as he’d rolled to his feet, gun level, he’d thought it was Miles, twenty years and a considerable number of pounds on. The man was…vast. He was so securely wedged into his computer chair that he couldn’t have responded to Nikolas’s unorthodox entry even if he’d wanted to. He just stared, mouth open, joystick in his hand. For one moment, he flicked his eyes back to his screen where a blond-haired, computer-generated man in black body armour was shooting everyone in sight, but then he fastened his gaze on Nikolas once more. Suddenly, he grinned. “Jedi, man! He fucking rocks!”

  Nikolas licked his lips, seeking possible danger and put his back to the wall, the weapon level on the enormous man’s head.

  “Awesome, dude. How much he payin’ ya? Jedi’s my man!” He screeched in glee and did a jiggle in his seat. Suddenly, he lunged for something on his desk.

  Again, afterward, Nikolas sent a small prayer of thanks to the universe that he’d seen the phone before he blew Peyton Garic’s brains out. He blinked as the flash went off. “Thanks, man. This is so awesome. Hey, you’re not gonna strip or anything, are ya? ’Cus I’m not into that shit no more. Know what I mean? Got a few issues now.”

  Nikolas repeated, “Strip?” because it was the only thing he could think to say.

  The room was an altar to alternative reality. Every inch was packed with high-end computer equipment, one wall totally taken up with screens. Cables snaked everywhere across the floor, and in the very middle of this web was Peyton Garic. Four hundred pounds and counting…if the vast stack of pizza boxes was anything to go by.

  Nikolas didn’t know what he’d walked into, but he was fairly sure this man had not recently flown to New Zealand and pushed him off a cliff.

  He gestured with the gun for the phone and when it was handed over, deleted the photo. Before Peyton Garic could object, he put the barrel of the Glock to the fleshy, sweaty forehead and enunciated carefully, “I think we have a language problem. Do not speak to me again unless it is to answer my questions. Do you understand?”

  Peyton Garic nodded, a drip dampening the dull metal of the pistol. Nikolas would have stood further away, as his training dictated, had the man’s arms not been wedged to his sides by flesh. “Oliver Whitestone.�
��

  Silence.

  Nikolas frowned.

  Peyton Garic’s eyes widened. “Was that a question? Fuck man! A question goes up at the end! Like this? Well, more like…this?”

  It was Miles! Was it something about him that trumpeted: try my patience?

  “Oliver?”

  “Sure, I know who he is! What the fuck is this, man? See, question? Up? Jedi didn’t send you, did he? You’re not gonna strip? Even though…? Could you maybe…the gun? Question? Oh! Fuck! It was you who got to ask the questions. I got it mixed up, man, thought it was okay to speak so long as I was asking…”

  Nikolas put the gun back in his waistband. He reckoned this was going to take a little longer than he’d planned.

  Peyton’s face was bathed in sweat, watching the gun disappear. “Shit, man. I gotta go.” He began to struggle to pull himself out of his chair.

  “Go where?”

  “The bathroom! Fucking shock.” Suddenly, he sank back down. “Too late.”

  Nikolas took a step away, but realised he was back against the wall already.

  “What you wanna know about Ollie for? He’s dead.”

  “Tell me about the death threat.” Nikolas tried to keep his focus off the rapidly spreading stain in the man’s track pants. It used to be more fun making people piss themselves with fear. He was getting old.

  Peyton’s brow creased up so much his eyes completely disappeared. “Threat? Threat? It wasn’t a threat. That’s a question by the way? Weren’t a threat? Up at the—”

  “Stop talking about questions! Shut up for a minute! What you do you mean, it wasn’t a threat?” When no reply was forthcoming, with a sigh, Nikolas sank down onto his haunches and put his head briefly into his hands. “You can answer that.”

  “Oh, okay. Only you said…It was like…man…you’re gonna make such an awesome Ollie. Fuck.” He turned to his computer and suddenly fat digits flew to life, clicking around on the keyboard faster than Nikolas could follow. And there in front of him was Ben’s death once more, played out on the large screen…standing by the lake…blending seamlessly with Oliver as the gladiator, and then falling to his death, bleeding out on the pebbles of the beach. “He’s awesome, fucking awesome. He’s called Ben Rider. I’ve got his name first. Claimed it.”