John Wiltshire - [More Heat Than the Sun 07]

by Enduring Night [MLR MM] (epub)

  As far as Peyton could see, no one in the organisation was anything other than what they purported to be—working people with ordinary, plain lives who found something rewarding being part of this group. So, clearly, something was going on that he, as yet, hadn’t discovered. Deep cover. Nikolas told him to keep searching. But it was hard, Peyton complained, investigating people who didn’t appear to use the fucking internet. They had no profiles at all. One member, a Bill Jones, ran his own road services company —Concrete Is Our Concern—and that had a web site, but it did seem to be full of nothing but facts on…cement.

  Peyton’s anxious yet impressed, “Do Christians bury their victims in cement, too?” had been entirely understandable as far as Nikolas was concerned.

  His, “I’m not sure. Holy cement?” in reply had prompted a ramble about Batman-speak from Peyton with chortled, “Holy Cement, Robin,” additions for a while.

  Nikolas had tuned him out. He knew Peyton well enough by now not to encourage any mentions of superheroes or cosplay, the costumes for which, Peyton had recently found out to his intense anguish, only went up to size 8X in the UK. There had only been one noteworthy Comic Con in England the whole year he’d been there. One! But he’d had his photo taken with an actor Nikolas had never heard of who’d been in a show he didn’t care about. Whenever Peyton mentioned this sublime encounter, in which he and the actor had been totally on the same wavelength, apparently, Peyton fingered some plastic dinosaurs on his console and started imaginary conversations between them.

  So, the concrete angle hadn’t been pursued.

  §§§

  Ben had run over early that morning because his bike had no petrol and he didn’t have enough money to buy any more. He was carrying a suit in his rucksack which, when he’d pulled it out, looked exactly like something that had been rolled up in a rucksack for a yomp across Dartmoor. Nikolas had sighed and pointed to a new suit lying over the back of the kitchen chair.

  “I can’t take—”

  “I bought it for Squeezy in London when I went there on Thursday. He said you could borrow it.”

  Ben didn’t respond to this at first. Nikolas was waiting for a question about the inevitable. Why was he buying another man clothes? But to Nikolas’s surprise, Ben chuckled and said, “You called him Squeezy. That’s the first time you’ve ever done that.”

  Nikolas frowned deeply, firstly for the fact that it was true and he hadn’t noticed, but mainly because of the intimate knowledge of the last six years of his life that this observation showed. If Ben left him, did those years exist? No one else would remember them.

  “He still calls me Wassock. I preferred Mergers.”

  Ben laughed again, and Nikolas saw the old Ben under the current, aged stress. He wasn’t that far away. He was being held against his will. That was okay. Nikolas intended to free him. “Hurry up or we’ll be late.”

  “Okay about the shower then?”

  “You have just run across the moors, Ben; it’s not only okay, it would be very welcome. You know where everything is.”

  Of course Ben did. It was his house, after all.

  “Oh and Ben…?”

  Ben turned, his face…was that longing for something? “Give me your phone. I’ll top it up for you. Please, let me do this. I don’t want you…out of touch entirely. In case something happens…” He expected Ben to refuse. What did it say about a man that another had to pay his phone bill for him? But Ben gave it to him. It seemed a significant…cessation of hostilities.

  §§§

  Nikolas sat drinking his obligatory protein shake as he waited in the cool kitchen. There was a promise of snow later. He wondered if Ben Rider had finally had his fill of cold and snow.

  When Ben emerged, he was almost perfect once again. The suit fit him in a way that only bespoke tailoring ever could—tailored for his perfect body. As if he’d buy a three-thousand-pound suit, shirt, and new shoes for the moron…

  “Good, shall we go? Do we need to stop and buy flowers or something?”

  “You really don’t get this church thing, do you?”

  They climbed into the car, Ben into the driving seat, and Nikolas knew that even Ben was finding this hard. How many hours had they spent travelling to places together, just the two of them, their lives being lived in that tiny, confined space?

  In some ways, it was a useful exercise, this…uncoupling. It only brought into extreme focus how coupled their lives had been. Nikolas knew Ben was feeling this. It was a good start to this trip to the enemy camp.

  Peyton had suggested he carry a white flag. He’d told Peyton truces existed only in fiction and ridiculous conventions invented by weak governments to assuage the reality of war.

  If you got a chance to get in the enemy’s stronghold, you used it and destroyed them all.

  §§§

  Nikolas was utterly dismayed by his first experience of attending church when no one had died.

  He’d been greeted like a very special person, a guest, and everyone conformed to how he sometimes wished people would be—gently mannered, unobtrusive, and restful. And they were joyous. He could have spat with resentment. But then they had Ben Rider and he didn’t, so of course they were fucking happy! When they sensed he was suffering, and asked why in their quiet, un-fucking-obtrusive way, he’d told them he’d recently experienced bereavement—that he was in mourning. He’d then been bathed in their soft, loving care and been told they’d pray for him.

  It hadn’t gone well from the beginning because, of course, he and Ben didn’t fit in, and he’d felt this immediately upon being ushered into the living room, where the meeting was taking place. Obviously, not all one hundred of the congregation made it to every meeting, but there were a good fifty people gathered, and even though it was a large house, the press of people made his gut clench and his back prickle, as if every eye was upon him.

  On arrival, he’d been introduced to Martin Grenney. Nikolas had expected him to be oily for some reason, but he wasn’t unduly greasy and had, in fact, a calm, respectful manner about him. He’d asked Nikolas a few questions, which were neither intrusive nor particularly related to God, for which Nikolas was exceedingly grateful. Nikolas made some polite enquiries, too, and was told what he already knew—Martin and Sarah’s parents had both been doctors; hence the generous house in Hartley, one of the well-to-do areas of Plymouth, and Sarah’s job with friends of her mother’s. The parents had tentatively begun the prayer mission, which their children were now continuing. They claimed they had scientific proof of the success of prayer in healing.

  This slightly surprised Nikolas, as he didn’t associate doctors with much other than pain—and thus classed them somewhere in his mind as akin to his previous profession. Only without the cool uniform.

  “And they founded this…club?”

  Martin chuckled. “Yes, sorry, we call it a church, but that’s so frightfully American, isn’t it? We’ll be on TV or something ghastly next, like those odd men with white suits and singsong accents. It is a bit of a club, I suppose. Like-minded people…good point.”

  Nikolas wrinkled his nose and considered his next—and hopefully slightly better—jibe, when the young man continued, “My father had a patient, a little boy called Thomas, who got a brain tumour. He went downhill really rapidly, but then one day he just started to feel better. The tumour had shrunk.”

  “These things happen.”

  “Oh, yes, of course they do. Only, see, Thomas’s parents were part of this Christian fellowship—his father was in the navy. And he’d asked everyone in the organisation to pray for Thomas and they had been. Thousands of people all across the armed forces added him to their prayers every day. So it made my father wonder and he started to—”

  “Bull. Shit.” Nikolas was rarely explicitly rude to anyone, but he couldn’t help it.

  Martin Grenney only nodded. “I know. It is hard to believe. But scientists are now researching the healing power of prayer. There are some very interesti
ng—”

  “Experiments done under strict scientific controls, of course.”

  “I agree. It’s a tricky thing to prove. One woman was cured of thirty years of deafness after a laying on of hands—we call it proximal intercessory prayer: PIP. And I know what you’re going to say…it can’t be proved it was the prayer, and I agree, it can’t. But her hearing can be proved and measured scientifically. There are lots of other examples. I won’t bore you with them.”

  “And you think…what? God is directly intervening in their lives, having given them these various afflictions in the first place—presumably?”

  “I don’t know. But…have you ever been in a situation where you’ve had to dig down deep and find a level of courage you didn’t know you had?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Well, doesn’t that help you survive? Isn’t it better for people to try and keep trying rather than just give up? I think that’s been fairly well established. The emotionally strong survive things that kill people who are sometimes actually physically stronger.”

  Nikolas didn’t respond. He didn’t like being out-manoeuvred.

  Martin appeared to sense his mood and smiled to soften his final words. “It just seems to me that if you know lots of people love you and are actively thinking about you, concentrating on just you, somehow that might give you a strength you didn’t know you had.”

  “So, nothing to do with God then.”

  “Ah, that’s the test of faith. But I can appreciate gravity without being able to see it, prove it, or understand how it works.”

  “So can I. But I don’t let it destroy my entire life either.”

  Martin closed his eyes.

  Nikolas suspected he was being prayed for so he moved swiftly away.

  §§§

  Of course they didn’t fit in.

  They were six foot four, they were powerful—hell, he’d dressed them both in tailored suits, so it was his fault really—and, of course, Ben was a warrior angel, so beautiful it made Nikolas’s heart clench every time he looked at him but couldn’t touch him. And he was—well, he was a fucking Russian general, a billionaire, and he’d walked into a room full of Munchkins. Good-hearted, gracious Munchkins.

  Plymouth was, by and large, a city of small people weathered and fighting the effects of too much salt air and history. He’d often commented on the shrivelled, grizzled appearance of most of its inhabitants to Ben, who’d ignored these slights as he’d learnt to ignore most of his bullshit. But here in this room, in contrast to both of them, it was just too obvious to dismiss. So that hadn’t helped matters. Where do you sit when you are so tall, but all that is available to you is a chair from a kindergarten, or a space on a bench, provided so everyone could sit all squashed up and wishing each other the peace of God?

  What do you say when you are welcomed with hugs and handshakes and being offered just that—the love of your worst enemy, an entity that, as far as Nikolas was concerned, had been fucking him around for some reason since he was a little boy?

  Because, of course, Nikolas actually did believe in God, contrary to what he’d often told Ben. Or if not God, per se—the old man in the sky with a wrinkled, fond expression for mankind—then at least some kind of universal intelligence. For if there wasn’t, then what the hell was there? It was inconceivable to him that his life had been as it had on random chance. No, he’d been most truthful with Ben when, one night, they’d lain under the Danish stars, and he’d admitted to feeling nothing from the universe but cold disinterest. There had to be something there, even for indifference.

  So Nikolas didn’t want to be given blessings now by these people who had stolen Ben from him. He couldn’t kill them—not yet, anyway—so he had to bide his time and smile and be gracious and lie—and he was pretty good at all of those, although his smiles were a bit forced these days. At least he got to sit next to Ben on the little bench, knees bent up and feeling like a golden lion amongst good-meaning hamsters. Ben had the grace to whisper in Danish, “Sorry, I think they’ve turned out in force to meet you. It’s not usually so full. Did you like Martin?”

  “More than I can express. What’s next? Tambourines?”

  Ben gave him a rueful little nose wrinkle that made everything worthwhile for a moment—until the praying began.

  He wanted to send up a heartfelt prayer to be able to stop praying. They had endless lists—“Pray now for Jane and her husband, Arthur, who are travelling to Truro for her sister’s funeral. Pray she has the strength to…Pray for Jim, who is still missing Margie, we wish him…Pray for Julia who goes into hospital tomorrow…” He tuned most of it out, thinking his own bitter thoughts, until he heard, “And we pray for Ben, who is struggling so much with his faith. Who is faltering and so very sad. May he feel the love and strength of our Lord Jesus Christ every day and in every way.”

  Nikolas turned his head slowly and fixed his gaze on Ben.

  “And today we add Nikolas to our prayers.”

  Ben lifted his head sharply at this and then saw that Nikolas was staring at him.

  “Nikolas is in the dark without light to guide him. He cannot find his faith, his place in a world that seems hostile and frightening to him. May he come to know the light of Christ so that he can carry that great illumination forward to be a beacon in his darkness.”

  Nikolas rose and pushed past the heads-bowed people on the bench. He strode to the door and ripped it open, emerging into a grey world. He sensed Ben behind him but didn’t want to hear his apologies again. He sought desperately for refuge and spotted a gate leading to the side of the house and presumably the back garden. He headed for it, and it opened onto a sloping lawn that led down to some railway tracks.

  He fished out his cigarettes and tried to light one with a shaking hand. Ben took the lighter from him and held the little flame steady so he could take the calming smoke deep into his lungs. He regarded Ben through narrowed eyes, the redolent smoke between them, like their shared life, dissipating. “Struggling?”

  Ben toed the ground. “What did you think? That I was doing this lightly?”

  “I don’t know. To be honest, I haven’t been thinking too much about how this has affected you.”

  Ben squinted off into the distance, his shoulders hunched against the cold. “When I came over on Thursday, I think I was going to…I was weak…but then there you were—you look like God has touched you, Nik, that he put down his finger and restored you. Which is what I’ve been praying for. I can’t believe how beau…anyway. You were dead. Now you’re not. One day we’ll both die, but we’ll be restored and together. You’ve proved to me that what I’m doing must be right—that we’ve pleased God. Both of us.” He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “He’s rewarding you, anyway.”

  Fucking hell.

  Nikolas closed his eyes for a moment, thinking over the previous month of pain and effort and constant, unrelenting, physical punishment, of enduring the sickening diet and the weighing and the moron. He’d done it to win Ben back, but it had apparently only confirmed him in his delusions.

  He began to laugh.

  Score one for God. The irony was too much for him.

  “Are you okay? Do you want to go?”

  “Yes. Are you allowed to leave with the peace of God, or do you have to give it back now?”

  Ben began to walk toward the house, apparently tired of Nikolas’s jibes, and Nikolas followed more slowly. He felt something light drift over his face and looked up to discover it had started to snow.

  “Can you drop me off at the cottage on your way back?”

  Nikolas shrugged but knew Ben couldn’t see this.

  The meeting was breaking up as they rounded the house, people spilling out the front door and hugging their good-byes, wrapping coats tightly around themselves and talking about getting home before the snow settled. A young woman broke off from a group laughing and chatting and came over to Ben, taking his arm. “Are you staying for Bible study, Ben?”

  N
ikolas saw Ben grimace, which cheered him up enough to say, “Do stay, Benjamin, if you would like. I know how you’ve always loved the Bible. And studying.”

  Ben shook his head and mumbled, “This is Sarah, Martin’s sister. This is Nikolas. A friend.”

  Sarah hadn’t let go Ben’s arm yet. Perhaps she needed it to stay upright, being so weirdly shaped. Maybe her hair, which looked as if it had never been cut and which hung heavy and Biblical down beyond her waist, overbalanced her and she needed Ben’s support. “Hello. Sorry I wasn’t there to greet you when you arrived. I had to babysit. Did you enjoy the meeting? Martin is so pleased you came.”

  “Good. We have to go, Ben.”

  Ben smiled down at her honest, eager expression. “I’m right at the top of Dartmoor and it’ll settle fast. I’m sorry. I’ll stay longer next week.”

  “Don’t forget Tuesday! You promised! And don’t worry about bringing something. I’ll be really cross if you buy anything at all. I mean it!” She slapped him playfully and with an implied intimacy that made Nikolas need another cigarette.

  Ben nodded at the girl, and Nikolas knew he was trying not to catch his eye.

  Sarah proceeded to hug Ben, and then she lifted her face. Ben hesitated, and he was definitely trying to not look at Nikolas but then, almost as if he felt he had no option without making something that was nothing appear a great deal more, he bent and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”

  Nikolas had seen more passionate kisses from Ben. He had to concede that. Hell, he’d been on the receiving end of all of them. But, on the other hand, Ben’s lips had willingly pressed to her face, not his. There had possibly even been a slight smacking noise, so it suited Nikolas’s mood to invent a scenario where he hadn’t been present and where, obviously, the kissing had consequently been entirely different. Rolling on the frozen ground came into it, until the hair very satisfactorily strangled Ben.