They rode slowly until they reached a high point where a smooth valley between two tors allowed them to give their horses free rein. Nikolas closed his eyes for strength for one moment then suggested, “Race?”
Ben grinned. “Winner takes all?”
Nikolas nodded, although he knew Ben couldn’t mean what that usually did between them. Ben suddenly kicked his horse to life. Nikolas laughed. Ben had never once not cheated in any race they’d had. He’d let Ben get a head start and then casually beat him. That’s just the way they were together. He never let Ben beat him in anything. He knew Ben would want that if he could remember.
He galloped his horse alongside Ben’s, nudging him slightly with his thigh so Ben was badly placed to take a jump across the remnant of Drake’s Leat, which crossed this part of the moors. Ben’s horse predictably faltered, so Nikolas, taking the jump cleanly, pulled easily ahead. He heard Ben swearing and then they were close again. The finish line was approaching—a wall built centuries ago by French prisoners of war with a gap in which only one horse could pass through at a time. First one through won.
Nikolas was through a couple of lengths ahead of Ben and slowed his horse, urging her in circles in triumph. He swung one leg up over her neck and slid gracefully to the ground. Ben reined in and copied him, although dismounting more traditionally. They were both panting and laughing. Nikolas’s horse swung her head and nudged him hard, and he was pushed toward Ben. He caught her and fished in his pocket for her treat then offered one to Ben’s horse. This brought them closer still. Nikolas could sense some emotion pouring off Ben at the same rate as the heat from his body—but frustratingly not what it was. Ben was staring around at the moors, which stretched in every direction, smooth, undulating green and golden brown broken only by rocky outcrops. He suddenly turned to Nikolas, his eyes alight. “I feel…I feel happy.” He chuckled. “Isn’t that weird?—considering.”
“It’s this place.”
Ben shook his head. “Maybe. But that’s only part of it. It’s…something else.” He suddenly huffed and brushed at Nikolas’s chest. “Mud.”
Nikolas took a sharp intake of breath, and Ben snatched his hand away.
§ § §
Later that day, Ben discovered Squeezy and the other man, Tim, had returned to London. He was alone in the house with his boss now, which was fine, except he was having a hard time working out what it was he actually did. Nikolas didn’t give him any jobs to do, and there didn’t appear to be any actual guarding needing doing. He was free to roam around and amuse himself. He found himself gravitating to wherever Nikolas was and finally tracked him down in the study, which was part of his boss’s private suite at the back of the vast house, a book-lined extension of the bedroom. Nikolas was talking on the phone, tapping restlessly on his desk with a pen. He didn’t appear to have heard anyone come in, so not wanting to interrupt, Ben sat quietly in the bedroom, waiting. He couldn’t hear what was being said on the other end of the call, but Nikolas snapped, “Did you check his offices?” Then, after a pause, “No! He fucking injected me with something. He knew what was going on. I want him found.” Again, whoever was on the other end of the call spoke rapidly, but Nikolas interjected, “There were other actors—in the pub. Find them, and find out who was paying them and how. We follow the money trail.” He put the handset down and ran his fingers through his hair.
Ben stood up uncertainly.
Nikolas swung around. “Ben?” He glanced at the telephone. “Fuck.”
Swiftly, Nikolas stood and came toward Ben, taking his arm. “Are you all right?”
Ben was thinking, but whatever it was that would make everything make sense was just out of his reach and stayed tantalisingly distant. He toed the carpet for a while. “Strange charity you run.”
Nikolas nodded. “But you’re okay?”
“What were you talking about? Was that about me?”
“Not directly. Are you hungry? Do you want to go out to eat tonight?”
Ben immediately changed tack and nodded happily. As he was leaving to change, he asked, confused, “Do we go out to eat together often?”
Nikolas chuckled. “That I will tell you. Yes—you definitely can’t cook.”
§ § §
It was tricky for Nikolas deciding which restaurant would most likely spark safe memories for Ben and which might bring on more troubling ones. Some of the places they went, Ben had also gone with his newly discovered family, the Redvers, and as they’d subsequently tried to murder him, Nikolas wanted to avoid those now, although Ben didn’t find them troublesome to revisit normally. In the end, he drove them into Exeter to a new bistro that had only just opened in the Cathedral Close and they’d been planning to visit but hadn’t gotten around to. Safe. Neutral.
After they’d ordered, they had some time to wait for the food to arrive. They usually amused themselves by arguing—Nikolas being irritating and Ben rising it to until he realised he was being had and then retaliating by using the intimate knowledge he had of things Nikolas would prefer not to talk about. Now Nikolas was at something of loss. Every subject seemed fraught with danger. He could have saved himself the trouble of trying to think up a topic to introduce when Ben asked, “Do you have a girlfriend—being divorced, an’ all?”
Nikolas drank his wine quickly and ordered another bottle. The three-glass limit was being temporarily suspended. “Not currently.” Before the conversation spiralled down into things he didn’t want to discuss, he announced, “I’m going back to London tomorrow. I want you to stay here. Rest. Relax.”
“No, I need to come with you. What kind of bloody bodyguard am I if I stay here?”
“A sick one at the moment.”
“I don’t want to be left on my own. What good will that do me?”
“You won’t be alone. I’ve asked my wife—ex-wife—to come over and—”
“Babysit me?”
Nikolas chuckled. “That’s what she said. She warned me you’d be annoyed.”
“She knows me?”
Nikolas hesitated. “Yes, of course.”
“Was I working for you when you were married?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.”
Nikolas caught Ben’s gaze. “Don’t try to bully her into telling you all these things you want to know. She won’t.”
Nikolas felt a private stab of deep pleasure—that’s exactly what Ben had been thinking. Ben was even frowning at the coincidence of Nikolas apparently knowing his thoughts.
“I’ve told her what’s happened—in outline.”
Ben was still frowning, playing with the salt and pepper shakers. “I feel like everyone’s laughing at me. That I’m the butt of a joke I don’t get.”
Nikolas laid his hand over Ben’s for one brief touch. “Don’t. That couldn’t be further from the truth. Ben, look at me.” Ben did, a reluctant pout testing Nikolas’s attempt not to smile openly. “Your friends are very fond of you. This has devastated everyone, and all we want is what’s best for you. If I thought telling you all the things you don’t remember was the right thing to do, I’d tell you now, right here, this minute. But if telling you will hurt you, then I’d rather have you like this than risk losing you again.”
“Again?”
Nikolas took a deep breath, but before he could deflect the question, Ben changed it. “Have me?”
Trying to regroup, Nikolas was blindsided when Ben suddenly exclaimed, “Fucking hell! I’m not a bodyguard at all, am I? That’s why there’s nothing for me to do.”
Nikolas had rarely been glad to see food arriving but he was then. It took some time for the waiter to lay the dishes out and serve them and then check if all was well, and then the wine was refreshed, so by the time they were alone again some of Ben’s urgency about his role had been diverted to other concerns. He began to tackle his meal as if it was about to be stolen off him. Nikolas allowed himself to let his amusement show and picked more delicately at his salad. He was about to introduce a n
eutral topic of conversation to keep Ben’s mind distracted when Ben asked around a mouthful of steak, “So?”
Nikolas flicked his gaze over to Ben’s expectant expression and sighed. “No. You’re not.”
Ben swallowed. “And I—what then? What do I do? Why am I in—am I in ANGEL like the others?”
Nikolas could think of nothing to say to explain it. He was staring at Ben’s green eyes, about to form a lie, a truth, anything to just extend the time Ben didn’t have to know, when a nervous voice piped up, “Hi. I hope you don’t mind, Mum said you were eating, but can I…?” A piece of paper was thrust at Ben. And a pen. Ben stared down at this bizarre offering and then at the young girl who’d made it. She smiled hopefully. “Your autograph? I loved the film you made about the girls’ school in Afghanistan. We raised some money in class for them. Everyone’ll be sooo jealous when I tell them I’ve met you.” Ben signed and handed the paper back to her with a wide-eyed incomprehension that only served to make him seem humble. She thanked him and returned to her table where an older woman gave Ben a nod of thanks as the girl sat back down with her family, showing everyone her prize.
Nikolas felt a weight being lifted from him, and before Ben could ask the obvious, announced, “That’s what you do. You’re my spokesman for ANGEL—the face of ANGEL. You’ve become quite famous.”
Ben leant back in his seat. He seemed to be having trouble computing this and Nikolas couldn’t blame him. As far as Ben was concerned, he was his twenty-two-year-old self. Nikolas wouldn’t have trusted twenty-two-year-old Ben to buy a TV, let alone appear on one. He’d been good at what he did: killing things.
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why the secrecy and the bodyguard crap?”
It was useful sometimes, Nikolas reflected, being a professional, practiced liar. “Because you’d have wanted to see all the films you’ve made for me—the documentaries. Andrea Gillian contended they would be too much for your shattered—damaged—resting mind to cope with.”
“Resting?” Ben repeated it with such wry derision that Nikolas had to smile to hide a more embarrassing response. Ben was his heart and, occasionally, as in that expression, it beat exactly as it should.
Nikolas paid the bill, which didn’t seem at all odd to him, as he’d been paying for them both since he’d met Ben, but Ben immediately fumbled for a wallet, which he didn’t have, and then seemed mortified out of all proportion to the offence. He was even more humiliated when the bill was just over five hundred pounds. He didn’t comment on this until they were walking back to the car, but then asked in a very quiet voice, “Has the economy crashed since I can remember?”
Nikolas frowned. It was the first time in his memory he’d heard Ben use the word economy. It was novel. “Some. Gold had a slump recently. Why?”
“Five hundred pounds! Shit. Last meal I ate out was, I don’t know, twenty quid? And that was for four of us. Ask Squeezy! He was there. I’ll pay you back when I get sorted, ’k?”
Nikolas gave him an odd look and in his mind, just for amusement, began to try and work out how much money Ben owed him. If he counted holidays, first class air travel, presents, the bike, clothes, general living and, of course, a house, he reckoned about fifty million would cover it nicely. He gravely accepted the offer of the two hundred and twenty five pounds and made a note to actually collect it when Ben was himself once more. He snorted at this thought, and Ben immediately protested angrily, “What? I will.”
“No, I was just wondering whether, when you regain your memory, you will remember this moment.”
“That’s not what’s worrying me.”
Nikolas stopped walking and took the opportunity to light a cigarette before encouraging Ben to continue. “I was thinking today. This is a bit like taking a holiday, isn’t it? A holiday from being me. Don’t people sometimes change when they’re on holiday? What if I get my memories back but I don’t want the same old things anymore. What if I don’t want to be that Ben Rider anymore? Do you see what I mean?”
Nikolas did—unfortunately. He saw very well indeed. He’d been thinking the same thing for most of the day.
They carried on. Ben took the keys to drive. “You have copies of all my films?”
Nikolas agreed they did before he saw his error.
It was inevitable when they got home, therefore, that Ben wanted to see them. Once more, Nikolas had to fumble with buttons and remotes until with a sigh of exasperation Ben put out his hand. “You can’t see those without your glasses. Gimme.” Nikolas handed them over, wondering if Ben would realise what he’d just said, the intimate knowledge he’d thoughtlessly revealed, but he was intent on the start of the first film—the ANGEL logo, copyright details—and then on himself, on screen. A stranger in a strange place speaking words Ben didn’t remember saying.
Nikolas leant back in the sofa as he had earlier, studying Ben. It was like living with a Ben mannequin with the real man trapped inside and desperately signalling his existence—a light of awareness and knowledge flashing occasionally from inside. Nikolas saw this concept as a tangible reality and wanted to smash open this impostor and drag his Ben to freedom. But what damage would ensue from that destruction? Ben had encapsulated this succinctly, if unconsciously, tonight. What if he didn’t want the same things when he came back? What if Ben didn’t want him? Wouldn’t Ben’s state of mind upon return be entirely dependent on how his memories were returned to him? As desperate as Nikolas was to tell Ben the truth (show him the truth also—Nikolas’s body was beginning to suggest very physical ways to return Ben to his lost life), he believed Andrea Gillian—Ben needed to come back gradually and naturally, not be forced.
Nikolas was extremely wary, therefore, of Ben watching these films but knew there was nothing incriminating about their relationship in them. It was ironic when he thought about it, which he did whilst staring at Ben’s flickering expressions as he followed the life of this beautiful stranger on the screen, that after eight plus years together there was nothing anywhere to show this relationship. Once Ben’s clothes had been moved from one wardrobe to another, their entwined life was, on the surface, entirely separate. Had he not recently sat on a tor and congratulated himself on this?
They were onto the tsunami now. Nikolas had forgotten. A few frames, one moment when Ben was to the side of the shot as a spokesman for the Philippines government had been talking to camera, and Ben turned to look at a tall, blond man leaning against a signpost. Ben stopped the film. “That’s you!”
Nikolas shrugged. “I often go to ANGEL projects.”
Ben studied him. “This was before ANGEL. This is a Channel 4 documentary.”
Nikolas began to light a cigarette, hoping to distract Ben into an argument about him smoking, but Ben jiggled the frame-by-frame button to where the figure on screen began to turn and played the sequence again—frame by frame. Done like that, each tiny facial muscle evident, it was obvious to Nikolas what he was seeing. He wondered if Ben would see it, given he had only the visual to go on and not the knowledge of what those smiles, the light in the eyes, the slight change of stance meant. Ben wound it back and played it again. Nikolas blew some smoke between them, waiting. Ben pursed his lips, tapping the remote on his wrist then leant back, very carefully studying both of them caught on eighty-four-inch high definition, declaring a love which in the real world made no appearance in the day to day.
Nikolas took the remote from him and switched the picture off. “You look tired. You’ve had a long day. I’m leaving early—probably before you’ll be up. Philipa will be here by nine. The cleaning service—”
“You have a cleaning service?”
“Will be here for the whole morning. Philipa plans to take you out.”
“Fucking hell. Will she make sure to hold my hand if I have to cross a road?”
“I’ll be back late—probably after you’ve gone to bed.”
“No, I’ll wait up. Hey, I know, I’ll get this Philipa to take me to a shop, and I’ll cook somethi
ng for dinner.”
“That would be—nice.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Nikolas was in London by midmorning. He’d summoned his whole team—except for Andrea Gillian, who wasn’t involved in the Lancashire business. He was swiftly updated by Squeezy—Doctor Wood’s London office was closed. The website was temporarily disabled for maintenance. The doctor’s receptionist didn’t know where her boss was but thought he’d had an emergency in the family and would probably be back in a few days. Could she make them an appointment?
The manor house in Lancashire was empty. It had been stripped bare of cameras and what little furniture there’d been. The American psychologist, Grantley, was apparently back in the States. He wasn’t practising—his licence had been revoked in 2006 for moral turpitude. As no one knew what this was, including Nikolas, they glossed over it to discuss the actors.
Kate was having trouble following the money trail. She excused herself from the meeting after her update and promised she’d carry on working from home.
§ § §
Philipa arrived at exactly nine a.m. Ben was watching for her. In a glass house this wasn’t hard to do. She was not what he’d been expecting. He’d pictured an extremely thin, glamorous, exceptionally beautiful and stylish woman. He had the distinct impression Nikolas Mikkelsen wouldn’t want anything but perfection in his life—in his bed—as everything else in his life was exquisite and just so. He’d clearly done the man an injustice because this woman wasn’t even pretty. She clamoured out of an old Land Rover wearing tweed, sturdy shoes, and a headscarf. For one bizarre moment, Ben felt as if the Queen were visiting him. He went to the door and she embraced him. “Hello, Ben, darling. Dreadful business, but you’ll bounce back. You always do. Now, Niki’s decreed I can’t tell you anything, so don’t try to badger me. What have you done to your hair? Ghastly. Right, that’s the first thing we can do today. You look like a bloody badger. What’s that appalling thing on your neck? Oh, don’t tell me you got his—so, how are you, other than the obvious? Right, are you ready? Where’s that smelly old dog? Where’s my best boy? Hello, darling, good boy, yes, you’re a good boy. You want to come out with us? No, don’t do that, darling.”
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