For one moment, it paused, as if it had seen him, too. It stood, head lowered, a shadowed mass in the darkness surrounding it.
Ben began to blink, his eyes tearing up in the wind, the cold now making him shudder—bone deep shaking. He gave one long blink and opened his eyes.
The apparition was gone.
There was nothing but flat, icy, rock-strewn ground, bathed in the very faint amber light from the hotel.
Ben refused to believe he’d seen what he had. It was that easy. But should he deny seeing the figure, or that it had vanished? He decided it had been real and therefore he’d not just witnessed it…vaporise. Cautiously, aware of what had happened last time he’d stepped out of the lea of a shed, he let go the wall and allowed the wind to carry him forward. He stayed slightly in the shelter though and managed this time to remain on his feet. He was about twenty metres from where he’d seen the dark, hooded skier disappearing when he registered a noise. He paused in the howl of the wind, trying to separate sounds, and heard distinctly in croaked Danish, “There is no place for you here.”
He whirled around.
The voice was right by him—beside him, beneath him, over him.
Snow, picked out by the light, whirled past him.
He was shivering very badly now. The hand warmer was cold, his fingers beginning to ache from the loss of his glove.
He didn’t want to turn his back on that reproach.
He had to.
He struggled into the gale, each step a victory chipped from the power of the icy force pressing him back. With every stagger, he was aware that what disappeared could reappear just as easily.
He headed straight for the hotel, into its sheltering bulk and then, with no embarrassment at all, dragged himself along using the panels of wood until he was once more at the airlock.
He stumbled through and was hit again by the complete normalcy of the scene. No one was waiting frantically to see if he was still alive. No alarm had been issued, no sirens activated. The contrast seemed more like a fracture in time than merely the difference between being inside and out. Ben twisted around as he shed his layers, looking back to the snow-driven bleakness.
Was it possible?
Had he actually seen the ghost of the Danish polar explorer?
Then the thought occurred to Ben that the contrast between the hotel and the outside wasn’t only in the superficial—the light, the warmth, the vitality of people—but more as if two worlds were possible, side by side. Out there was the domain of the polar explorer: the madness, the stinking hut, and his insane survival on the illusory kindness of strangers. That world was real. He’d found the hut and he’d seen the explorer. Heard him.
That was just as substantial as this existence here in the warmth.
It occurred to Ben that, far from the dead Dane being the ghost, out there, on the ice, he was. Benjamin Rider-Mikkelsen—visitor from the future. There is no place for you here.
Ben toed the ground, thinking about this.
Such confusion about the reality of things was…not wholly unfamiliar to him.
There had been another incident when he’d become turned around about what was real and what was not.
He stared down at the scar on his wrist. Much paler now after five years.
Was it happening again? Was he suffering some kind of psychotic episode?
He glanced up to the galleried landing, picturing Nikolas.
Was the universe sending him a test? Are you strong enough to keep hold of him this time?
Anatoly Aronofsky probably thought Ben was strong enough for pretty much anything.
He curled his lip a little and looked back out to the polar night. Ghosts? Fuck ’em. Bring it on. He didn’t have a mock-up Ghostbusters kit and didn’t think Nikolas would let him wear it if he did, but no fucking polar phantom was going to come near Nikolas Mikkelsen on Ben Rider-Mikkelsen’s watch.
Living or dead, nothing would threaten Nikolas ever again.
It was a promise Ben had made to himself and intended to keep.
Life was learning to swim hard and fast and keep your head above the shit.
Life was having someone alongside you in every single manoeuvre, every fall, every painful rise again, and knowing that, win or lose, the war was never fought alone.
He closed his eyes.
There was nothing like enjoying a spooky story in the dark. He must remember to tell Miles and Emilia this one when he got home.
Whatever he’d seen, he either hadn’t witnessed—had conjured from his frustration with the darkness and inactivity—or it had a perfectly rational explanation, one he simply wasn’t getting yet.
He mentally put his fears into a little box, labelled them fuck you and turned the key.
Nikolas had killed his only son for him.
Commitment worked both ways.
Ben was never going to be caught off-guard again. He was never going to cease his unremitting care for Nikolas.
He nodded to himself, stowed his mental key somewhere he couldn’t reach it easily, and jogged up the stairs to the bedroom.
CHAPTER NINE
Nikolas had discovered the internet was still down. Although he let Ben think he missed being connected because he was addicted to porn or gambling, it wasn’t true at all. Who needed anonymous naked bodies when they had Benjamin Rider-Mikkelsen in their bed every night? Clearly, he couldn’t put it in those terms to Ben, and, anyway, it was amusing making Ben jealous. In reality, he had a far more addictive reason for needing to be continually in touch with the real world. Possibly a dependence that was more dangerous and more difficult to overcome than porn.
Normally, by this time on any holiday, he’d have known exactly who their fellow guests were. He’d be aware of their secrets, understand the reasons why they were there, anticipated what they wanted from him—if anything. That he didn’t know any of this now, that he was essentially blind to everything, metaphorical as well as literal darkness, set all his nerves on edge.
He’d never explained this to Ben, but no one, not one single person could be taken at face value. Ben seemed to think there was something strange about the fact that he’d been a shadow man when they’d first met. What Nikolas found odd was that Ben didn’t realise the whole world was like this. Everyone was living a life of pretence, wearing masks to hide their real, inner self. What frustrated Nikolas now was he couldn’t have his very reasonable belief that nothing was as it seemed backed up by Peyton Garic. His inability to talk to Peyton, which was something he ordinarily did many times a day, was like a splinter under a nail he couldn’t tweeze out and remove. It made all his other demons sit up and murmur gleefully. Nicotine that wanted to be absorbed into his blood, vodka singing quietly familiar songs in his native language that he’d once crooned on alcohol-fuelled nights of debauchery.
But he wasn’t the only one going stir-crazy. Ben was too.
Ben Rider-Mikkelsen seeing ghosts?
Ben was not…fanciful. Yes, he believed in fate in a ridiculous way, but over their years together, even Nikolas had come to see some merit in Ben’s belief in predestination. However many times he told Ben that they made their own paths in life, the sneaking suspicion often hit Nikolas that there was, in fact, a very sure and certain hand at the helm of his. Someone had given him Ben, after all.
Something frightening Benjamin Rider-Mikkelsen, therefore, worried Nikolas. Ben seemed determined not to dismiss his experience as a dream.
Left alone after breakfast, Ben in a foul mood and clearly wanting some space, Nikolas returned to their room. He regarded his side of the bed where the ghost had apparently lain and considered it for a while.
Unsurprisingly, the rumpled sheets told him nothing.
It reminded him of something, however. Messed up beds always made him think of Ben. Where his thoughts went from there was only too predictable. Ben was probably in the gym. Nikolas smirked faintly to himself. Ben in a gym had become a whole new world of fun recently. It had be
gun just after the bad time, the time Nikolas didn’t think about but which now haunted his dreams. Not the snapping of a neck, but cloying mud taking his life from him—taking Ben, who was his life.
He’d hurt his back and torn his shoulder pulling Ben and Radulf from their suffocating death in the Dartmoor bog. For the first two weeks after the event, he’d been almost immobile, fearing he’d done permanent damage that no one was admitting to him. But after that, he’d begun to heal rapidly. Ben, of course, put this reversal down to the fact that the injury hadn’t been as bad as Nikolas had made it out to be—implying, therefore, that he was a hypochondriac, or that the pain had been psychosomatic and brought on by…stress. Nikolas knew better. His recovery had begun sitting alongside a bog on Dartmoor when he’d put on a ring. Symbols held a great deal of power—everyone in the military knew that. Perhaps Ben was right. Maybe the wounds had mostly been in his mind and due to something else entirely. Who knew the actual truth? But he wore Ben’s ring night and day and healed quickly. As Nikolas always claimed—truth was highly overrated.
He’d recovered but he’d lost the strength and mobility he’d once had. At the beginning of December, a physio, an old friend of Ben’s from the Regiment, had given him a set of exercises to do—did he have a good gym close? Nikolas did. He had a very well equipped one on the other side of his equally nicely fitted out bathroom, which he’d built for Ben Rider-Mikkelsen.
So Nikolas had begun to join Ben in the gym every day. At first, he’d worked hard, following the regime he’d been given. But eventually, more intriguing things had taken his focus from the repetitive lifting and stretching. One interesting thing, anyway.
Nikolas had never watched Ben work out before.
He’d run with him.
He’d done many other things with him that involved physical effort, of course.
But he’d never observed up close how Ben gained the anatomical perfection they both enjoyed every day.
Gradually, Nikolas’s workouts had tailed off to nothing more energetic than sitting astride a bench studying Ben.
That hadn’t lasted long either, of course.
Who could see lean, tanned, sleek, sweating muscle swell and flex without succumbing to its siren call? Nikolas couldn’t. Hadn’t.
Wasn’t this the very definition of what they were that the body of a man, displayed in all its glory, aroused them?
That first day, forgoing his own exercises, studying Ben, everything had risen and swelled in such a rush of blood going south that Nikolas had actually felt lightheaded. He had been steady enough to seize Ben, however, strong enough and fit enough to take him down to a training mat and taste his sweat.
Once begun, the atmosphere between them every day in the gym had been charged. Ben had clearly been torn between wanting to fuck Nikolas and wanting to complete his routine, and Nikolas knew that Ben had been very well aware he was being watched, assessed, wanted, and so the sweat had dripped and the muscles had flexed with consciousness of the desire sparking between them, and then they’d been tangled and fighting for dominance and fucking, and only Nikolas’s injury had seemed to prevent Ben from using his healing body as another piece of equipment that he could pound, heave, test…punish.
It hadn’t done his shoulder much good, but Nikolas had felt better in most other ways from his daily Ben routine.
So, although Nikolas had begun with good intentions to explore the rational explanation behind Ben’s ghost, he allowed himself to become distracted and wonder if Ben was alone in the gym, and, if he was, whether he’d like some…company.
Ben wasn’t there.
Nikolas pursed his lips, considering the other alternatives to sex and decided there weren’t any so he checked the TV room and the dining room. Ben wasn’t in the lobby either. Looking for one of the owners to ask, Nikolas noticed the drying room door was open and peered in at the row of hanging jackets. This room was situated directly over the furnace and benefited from constant hot air circulation. Nikolas noticed the door to the basement was also ajar. It seemed odd to him that Ben might decide to explore the basement, but then he chuckled and remembered the look of worry creasing Ben’s perfect features at the thought of the food running out.
Nikolas made his way cautiously down the stairs into the darkness. He couldn’t find a light switch, his lack of vision absolute at first, but then his eyes gradually adjusted to the faint light. He followed its source and discovered the vast furnace that provided heat to the whole building. “Ben, where are you?” His voice was lost under the steady roar.
The basement was large and filled with shelves, most of which were empty, Nikolas noted, Ben’s assertion that the owners were genuinely worried coming back to him. He wasn’t concerned about being hungry. No alcohol was unthinkable though, and he stood for a while, frowning at the evidence of such poor management. Or was it lack of funds? How much did it cost to ship coal, wood, and food to Svalbard? Once he began to ponder this, the anachronism of the hotel in such a place struck him. It survived purely on the desire of wealthy people to be taken out of their comfort zones—to experience the thrill of polar night, polar ice, without the physical risk that self-absorption ought to entail, perhaps. What if the wealthy stopped coming? Six guests. Now eight, according to Ben. Hardly enough to break even.
He was debating conducting a search of the stores to locate and reposition any finds of vodka when he felt a distinct and odd change in temperature in the room. It was as if tiny, icy fingers played a scale upon his neck. It was a particularly unpleasant sensation, given the room was so hot otherwise, and he moved a little closer to the faint light.
Something stood in the shadows slightly behind the glow from the large firebox.
Nikolas felt every hair on his neck so recently toyed with stand to attention, the prickling desire for fight or flight overwhelming him. It was a man, a figure deeply hooded in an old parka and trousers so padded and ancient that it was hard to tell the apparition’s size.
For one moment, Nikolas told himself he was seeing an ancient snowsuit left hanging to dry by the furnace. Until the hood began to rise slowly.
He stepped back.
The shadowy form came forward. A shuffling, dragging gait that did nothing whatsoever to endear itself to Nikolas.
His mouth dry, he backed into a wooden roof support. It was solid behind him, its splintery surface welcome against his hands.
He had seen many ghosts in his time, but he did know, intellectually, that they were merely figments of his disordered mind, his stress, his terrifying memories, his guilt at the things he had done to survive his life. Real because his brain conjured them but not substantial like this! The shuffling! The sealskin parka! The fucking melting snow dripping on the floor!
It was getting even colder as the form approached, as if the boiler was absorbing something wrong, heat being supplanted by frigid emissions. With his nails digging into the wood, Nikolas said as clearly as he could, “There is no place for you here.”
What had he spoken—English? Danish? Russian? One of the other fucking languages that sometimes crept into his brain? Danish. Always Danish, the terrified child’s language. The approach stopped. For one moment, the shadows under the hood shifted. It was turning its head to look behind it.
Nikolas didn’t need another invitation. He bolted—it was the first, most trusted survival mechanism he knew: running when it was entirely appropriate.
CHAPTER TEN
Nikolas was standing by the window, staring out over the view of snow and ice in perpetual darkness when Ben arrived back in the room. He seemed deep in thought, not registering Ben’s arrival until he slid his icy, freezing hands up under Nik’s shirt to seek warmth.
Nikolas’s skin was equally cold.
He turned.
His face was pale, the amber light from the bulb above their heads making his cheekbones more pronounced, carving lines of worry from shadows.
He said, his voice a little remote, “You’re cold.”<
br />
Ben brushed this aside and began, “I—”
And Nikolas finished, “—saw the ghost.”
Ben blinked. “What did you say?” It was a good interruption. He had to admit that.
Then the lights went off and it was even better.
Sharp, immediate alarm at being plunged into darkness jolted through both of them. But they were side by side, and then even closer as Ben hooked his fingers into Nikolas’s belt and murmured, “You’re not funny, by the way.”
Nikolas nodded. “Good. I’m not trying to be. I saw it. In the basement.”
Ben frowned. “But I saw it. Out on the ice.”
“You were out on the ice? Why? When?”
“Focus maybe?”
“Oh, trust me, I am fucking focused. I saw a fucking ghost. A real one. It wasn’t playing the piano either.”
“Stop swearing.”
“What the—?” Nikolas suddenly laughed. “Why are we whispering?”
Ben snorted and squeezed in even tighter, their body warmth mingling. “So the scary thing won’t hear us?”
“Stop it. You’re not being funny.”
“That’s my line.”
“Ack, we’re interchangeable.”
Ben embraced the chuckling figure, kissing into Nikolas’s neck. “Tell me what you saw. Bet yours didn’t speak.”
“Yours did?”
“Sure did. In Danish, too. I saw the explorer, Nik. He warned us away from here.”
Nikolas was still for a moment, holding Ben’s roving hands. “What did he say?”
“He said we should leave.”
“In those words?”
“This is no place for you.”
Nikolas repeated it without the spooky intonation, but in Danish, and the actual words the ghost had used.
Ben held Nikolas off, unable to see his expression in the dark. “You heard that, too?”
“No, I said it.”
“Huh?”
“Where is my fucking lighter?” Nikolas rummaged in his pocket, flicked it with his thumb, and his pupils suddenly looked vast in the eerie light. “I was in the basement. I saw…something…and—”
John Wiltshire - [More Heat Than the Sun 07] Page 9