What had happened after he’d seen John? He swore some more and tried to force the memory but it wouldn’t come.
But if he wasn’t missing, the obvious needed to be considered: Nikolas must think he’d left him of his own accord. What had Natasha persuaded Nikolas to believe?
His thoughts were becoming increasingly random and scattered. Why was he thinking about Natasha shivering? He’d given her his jacket. Nikolas had once given her his jacket, which was very unlike him. He didn’t like women. Ben chuckled, a dry, hoarse sound. He’d liked Ulyana Ivanovna. He wanted to see Ulyana Ivanovna now. She’d take on Natasha, and there’d be very little left of that scrap of mischief and harm.
She’d been shivering before he told her about John’s death.
Ben sat up and hit his head yet again.
Concentrate! Don’t let the thought go again!
Natasha had been primed to pick John up. She must have gone out in a boat and plucked him from the sea. John must have known the beach after all. But why do any of this? What could they gain by doing this? Fake his disappearance…tell Nikolas he’d left him…Screaming in frustration didn’t help at all now. He had nothing to scream with, and his throat was so sore it felt like it was bleeding. Five a.m. He’d been conscious for four hours.
Where was Nikolas?
What was he thinking?
Ben then had an epiphany. Nikolas wouldn’t believe them. It was Ben Rider-Mikkelsen. Nikolas knew now, if he hadn’t known before, that Ben loved him. He wouldn’t believe their lies. So why wasn’t he here? He wouldn’t suffer Natasha and John to lie to him. They’d eventually tell him the truth. Why wasn’t he here? Ben kicked again and again at the roof.
It was better than crying dry tears that hurt.
§ § §
Nikolas needed to find Natasha, and he needed to find John. He didn’t believe John had died in the accident in the rip. He’d faked his death and together they’d murdered Ben. They’d set the fire and then they’d fled. But they wouldn’t be able to elude him for long. This was good. He knew there was something else he should be thinking about, some other emotion he should be allowing in. But this was better. He didn’t want other emotions or other thoughts. Finding Natasha and John was all he could focus on.
He had a thought and went to the old woman’s phone where he’d thrown it. He found John’s number, still not deleted, and dialled it. No service on that number. He did the same to Natasha’s. No service. He eyed the old woman. She stiffened. He heard Philipa say warningly, “Nikolas,” but then the door to the sitting room burst open and Squeezy, Tim and Jackson came through.
Tim closed his eyes in relief. “Thank God.”
Nikolas was in something of a dilemma. He was convinced the old woman knew where Natasha and John were, but now he’d be prevented from finding out that information.
He hustled them back into the hallway and briefly explained what he suspected about John’s fake drowning. He expected some reaction, but not the one he got. They glanced at each other, seeming to be puzzled and worried, and Squeezy ventured hesitantly, “So?”
Nikolas frowned. “What do you fucking mean, so? It’s obvious.” Suddenly, he couldn’t remember why it was obvious at all. Why was he concentrating on finding John and Natasha? There was something nagging at the edge of his consciousness…something he was trying to forget. He had the sudden sensation of being once more in a small boat in a lagoon. If he turned to confront this errant thought, he’d face a tsunami of reality. He could feel the pressure in his head, the irresistible desire to just let it through. Focus on John and Natasha instead.
There was a knock at the door. Jackson answered it. Two police officers wanted to speak with Camilla. Jackson claimed she was in bed and that he was the family lawyer and they could speak with him. Natasha, apparently, had been found. She’d floated to the surface of a small pond at the back of the ruined house. She had eighty percent burns, and it was believed she’d run there to try and save herself from the flames. They were very sorry.
Jackson relayed this information to Camilla. She began to moan, but it was a rigid controlled sound, and her body didn’t move from its studied position of preciseness. Nikolas had one less thing to focus on.
One less thing to keep the tsunami at bay.
§ § §
Ben was so thirsty he was considering biting at his hands to lick the blood. He’d tasted plenty of blood before, so why not now? He and Nikolas played blood games sometimes. It wasn’t something they’d admit to anyone. Both felt it troubling afterward but, just occasionally, the fun turned harder and one or other of them would bite and mean it, licking at the blood. It frightened them, so they never talked about it. He wished Nikolas were here now to talk about anything. Because, at last, Ben’s water-deprived brain had finally made the connections.
If Nikolas didn’t believe he’d gone of his own accord but hadn’t already found him, there was only one explanation: Nikolas believed him to be dead.
This was a thought that had been seeping slowly into Ben’s increasingly fragmented and unstable mind over the past few hours. Nikolas thought he was dead and would, therefore, not be coming for him. Never be coming for him again.
But why? Why would he believe him dead? It made no sense. Had they told Nikolas he’d gone surfing? Another fake death? Another funeral without a body? Surely he wouldn’t fall for that? Nikolas wouldn’t rest until he’d seen his body. Unless…
He’d fought them. When they’d reached the chapel, it’d taken them a long time to open the slab in the aisle, even though it had been prepared and released for the internment. And while they’d struggled to lift it, he’d sobered in the cold air. He’d tried to run. He’d made it to the door on his hands and knees, but…why had he stopped? He’d seen something. The house…
He’d seen the house on fire. John and Natasha had seen it too. But then something had hit him. John must have returned to the house…
Ben began to moan and thrash, fighting the confines of his coffin. John must be dead. Nikolas thought he was dead, because he did have a body. John Redvers.
He had a sudden and wonderful, deceptive stab of hope. A funeral! They’d hold a funeral for him but it wouldn’t be him. They’d open the vault, and they’d hear him! John could then take his rightful place.
But then he remembered. He wasn’t a Redvers. He was a Rider-Mikkelsen. Nikolas wouldn’t allow him to stay here. Nikolas would…what would Nikolas do with his remains? Keep them in a plastic Ben box and release him over some lake? Fly, you bastard. They’d never discussed these things. They should’ve, maybe. There were so many things he wanted to tell Nikolas, have Nikolas tell him. Too late now.
Nikolas thought he was dead and no one was coming for him.
§ § §
The tsunami hit Nikolas in the middle of the next night. They’d all gone to the hotel they’d been using for these terrible days. He’d been unable to convince them John was still alive. They tried to persuade him to come back to London. Jackson confirmed the inquest into the fire was not for another three days. Nikolas had asked, genuinely puzzled, what inquest? And Tim had innocently articulated the fatal words, “Ben’s inquest. To determine cause of death?” And the wall of grief hit him as forcibly as that great wall of water once had. He was entirely swept away by it, tumbling over and over and washed up on its shore as naked and vulnerable as he’d once washed up on a mud bank with Ben at his side. Ben would never again be at his side. Ben was the only person in his whole life who’d loved him with no strings attached whatsoever. Ben had never hurt him, abused him, used him, or betrayed him.
Nikolas wanted to destroy everything.
He wanted to bring it all down, see it burn.
But in the end, he was just one man. For the first time, he’d come across something he couldn’t fight. Ben’s death. It levelled him. He destroyed nothing, but was destroyed. He brought nothing down, but was laid so low he couldn’t rise again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
He dreamt of Ben all night. He’d never experienced dreams, or if he had, he didn’t remember them on waking, but that first night of true realisation Ben was gone was so painful part of his mind seemed to remain awake, on guard, desperately seeking for the source of the pain, and the source was memories of Ben. So memory became dream. The dreams were so vivid he could hear Ben’s voice and feel the touch of him under his fingers when he woke. For someone who’d never had a dream before it was utterly terrifying and combined with that was the morning remembrance that Ben was dead. He’d cried more in the past few days than he’d cried in his entire life, and life had given him plenty to cry about over the years. He was unable to control it, which scared him. How did you stop when the source of the pain wouldn’t go away?
There was one way.
But he wasn’t ready for that yet.
He’d thought he would be ready to follow Ben. But now, only three days after the fire, it wasn’t so easy for him to just stop. He’d been born with an incredibly powerful life force. It’d been a curse as much as a blessing. Nothing had been able to defeat him until this, and even this was having a hard time against that life force. It was a constant battle raging in his head—give in and go to be with Ben, or fight and survive. And that life force was a tricky combatant when it wanted to be. It would lie and cheat to survive. For it was telling him now, in a deceptive little whisper, to just hold on…that maybe it was just a nightmare? A mistake? Ben was still alive. Can’t you sense him? Calling out to you? Listen, that tiny rustle, that’s Ben calling to you…So he listened to his life force and believed its lies and didn’t go to Ben. To all the grief, therefore, he added shame and guilt, for he wasn’t who he thought he was. He wasn’t strong. He didn’t love Ben as much as he’d always pretended to, because when the test had come, he couldn’t stand up and be counted.
He didn’t want to die.
§ § §
The call came in that afternoon.
Tim, Squeezy and Jackson were in an adjoining room, hovering over Nikolas, monitoring him whilst at the same time giving him his privacy. Besides, they had their own levels of grief to cope with, and seeing a man so utterly distraught and laid low wasn’t doing any of them any good. Jackson got the call because, being Nikolas’s lawyer in ANGEL, his number had been lodged with the police. He listened intently, watching the other two as they sat together at the table clearly trying to process what he was hearing. Finally, he put the phone down and stated simply, “It wasn’t Ben. The death was referred to the coroner and they did an autopsy. It was John Redvers.”
Squeezy shot to his feet. “I fucking saw him! I saw him fall. It was Ben.”
Tim stared between them, bewildered. “You know he looked liked Ben, yeah?”
Squeezy turned so fast to him that his neck crick was audible to all of them. “What? What the fuck, Tim? This John bloke looked enough like Ben for me to mistake them? Oh fuck, oh fuck! This is all my fault.”
Tim put a hand on his arm. “Shut up. You’re missing the bloody point. If that wasn’t Ben then—”
They stared at each other, but it was Jackson who finished the obvious question. “Then where’s Ben?”
It was Tim who pointed out the obvious answer. Just because that body hadn’t been Ben’s didn’t mean Ben wasn’t dead. It’d been a vast fire. It hadn’t all been searched yet, for no one had been thought…unaccounted for…Three days. John was dead. Natasha was dead. What was the likelihood of a happy ending to this scenario? Grief was a terrible thing, but there was one thing worse: hope. Did they have the right to give it to Nikolas only to see it cruelly stripped away as they all feared—knew—it would be?
No one wanted to go next door and tell Nikolas. One broken arm and a hairline crack in your jaw didn’t make you volunteer to be the bearer of news to Nikolas Mikkelsen these days—good or bad…or he wasn’t sure which. In the end, Squeezy muttered he’d do it. He’d been trained for this kind of thing in the army, the visiting-officer supportive routine.
He didn’t knock but just let himself in. Nikolas was lying in the same place on the bed as he’d been the last time Squeezy had checked on him. He sat down on the edge. Nikolas had his arm thrown over his face but Squeezy knew he knew he was there and listening. He poked him in the thigh. “Get the fuck up and stop feeling sorry for yourself, you big wuzzock. Ben’s going to bust your balls when I tell him what a girl’s blouse you’ve been. It wasn’t him in the fire. It was that fucking bastard inbred cousin of his. So, Ben’s out there somewhere probably throwing just as much of a ‘oh-God-I-miss-him-so-fucking-much’ routine as you are. Get your butt off that bed, suck it the fuck up, and let’s go find him, yeah?”
Hope was a powerful emotion, and he reckoned they needed to harness it. If there was the slightest chance Ben was alive, he wanted Nikolas Mikkelsen firing on all barrels while they rescued him. If he was dead? Well, he’d offer up his other arm later. Fuck supportive-officer routines.
This was war.
He poked Nikolas again but wished he hadn’t when his finger was seized. Nikolas sat up. “Tell me that again in English.”
“It wasn’t Ben. It was John’s body in the fire. Ben is now MIA. And…ow! Fuck?”
Nikolas didn’t let up from bending the finger back. “You swore it was Ben. You insisted you saw Ben.”
“Well, yeah. Focusing on the wrong thing here maybe? Ow? Again?”
Nikolas let the finger go. They stared at one another for a moment. Suddenly Nikolas swore. “That fucking bitch. She must know where he is.” Squeezy breathed a private sigh of relief. It didn’t appear to have occurred to Nikolas Ben could still be dead.
Nikolas Mikkelsen was back in the game.
§ § §
Ben was mostly unconscious now. He occasionally came round for brief moments of semi-lucidity, but he wasn’t ever really sure if he was just dreaming. His dreams were very, very good, so he was quite looking forward to passing over now. It was being awake that was horrible. He’d thought he’d dream about the physical. After all, their lives had played out against a backdrop of almost constant, perfect physical expression, which for a man was in many ways the most important thing. But he didn’t. He was dreaming about the quiet times when Nikolas was just there with him. He thought it might be preparation for his transition and that dream-Nikolas was going to be with him once more to help him through. For if he imagined him, dreamt him, wouldn’t he be real again in a world of the imagination?
So when he heard the voice, it mingled with his dreams at first, but it was jarring, because he then realised he’d been dreaming in Danish, their private language, and this voice was speaking in English. It was a woman. He tried to make a sound, but his mouth was entirely beyond forming words, so he kicked weakly at the roof of the coffin.
He was hoping he’d be heard but didn’t expect the voice to spit, “Why didn’t you just die?” in response to his desperate plea.
He tried to form the word, “Camilla?” but couldn’t. He kicked again.
She thumped the coffin in response. “Stop it! Why wasn’t it you? No one wanted you, not from the very first! We were a family, and then she came along and ruined everything. You weren’t supposed to be born! She made me leave the house. Said I made her uncomfortable. Said she’d seen my boy hurt you…The stupid little fool, she didn’t realise we’d have killed you if we could. Easier to make her leave. So I told her—her husband was mine. Mine first. My first.” Ben heard something being scraped over the stone flags of the crypt. He thumped weakly again, but his throat was too dry to make a sound.
“I know you can hear me.” Thump again. “Benjamin Rider-Mikkelsen. You’ve ruined everything. It’s all gone. The house is gone. Why couldn’t you have just fitted in? You were Ben Redvers. You could have married Natasha and everything would’ve been perfect again, but you…my God. That man. He’s a devil. A devil. Well, you can go to hell!”
Ben heard a sound like water, beautiful, clear water—but it wasn’t water. He could
smell it. Petrol. He almost laughed. It hadn’t been him in the fire, but it would be now. He made an insane giggling sound.
Premature cremation.
He heard a whoosh of sound and a faint roar.
She’d lit him up. It was a bit late for Bonfire Night, but he’d make a pretty Guy.
§ § §
Nikolas and his team drove to Camilla’s in silence, each apparently lost to his own thoughts. Nikolas’s were blood red. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to this woman now to find out where Ben was. Tim appeared to be fighting ethical dilemmas. Nikolas knew Ben’s friend wouldn’t condone torture, but he’d once condoned Ben killing a man…Would Tim try to stop him or help him? Nikolas was well aware what a terrible thing it was for a man to realise he was a hypocrite. When it came to finding Ben, though, Nikolas thought there was nothing any of them wouldn’t do. Squeezy was easier to read. He looked as if he was relishing killing something. It was an expression Nikolas knew well. He wondered if it was on his face as well. He couldn’t read Jackson at all, but suspected he was wishing he’d never taken a plane ride to go hunting in Siberia. Then he’d never have met either Nikolas Mikkelsen or Ben Rider.
When they reached the house it was empty.
Nikolas thumped the car. It left a noticeable dent. It didn’t do his broken wrist much good either. Tears of frustration and pain ran down his face. He kicked in the front door. “Fucking find something, anything! Something here will tell us where the bitch is.” They ransacked the place—desk, bookshelves, drawers. There was a blizzard of paper on the floor by the time they’d finished, but nothing.
The Bridge of Silver Wings Page 26