The Bruise_Black Sky (12 page)

Which, of course, was why Kristina had come as such a shock.

He hadn’t seen that one coming at all.

But now they were home and on the couch, and he had put the third episode into the DVD player and was explaining the scenario. They entwined as they always did without question, Ben lying in Nikolas arms, because if they swapped, Nikolas would fall asleep secretly, whilst maintaining that he’d actually seen the whole film.

This show appeared to puzzle Nikolas.

“Why is everything so wet?”

“I’m not sure. We don’t know what caused the devastation yet. I think they may have used nuclear weapons in the war, so they’ve had a nuclear winter, maybe? But that’s New Orleans, or was, so it’s all flooded again.”

“Huh.”

Nik was quiet for another few minutes until he said, “If you want to eat someone, you should start with the organs first. They hold the most nutrition. You’d never slice parts off a leg like that.”

“Thank you, Nikolas.”

“You’re welcome.”

Nikolas then sat up a little straighter.

Oliver Whitestone made his first appearance in the episode. Ben had been wondering what Nikolas would think about Oliver. He was uncharacteristically silent, not even commenting on the fighting skills, which he did unfailingly in every other film.

In this episode, one of the children of the Louisiana group had been taken by a wandering party from the centre of the landmass which had been the United States. They were an all-women group, and they’d taken the eight-year-old girl to save her from a marriage to the patriarch of the Voice of God family. Yoshi had to fight their gladiator, an ex-marine, to bring her back for the wedding. For him it was a lose-lose scenario. If he won, she lost. Lose, he died.

Again, Ben saw the indecision in Oliver’s eyes as he made the heartbreaking choice to live—as the girl, ripped from her new protectors, was handed back over to the old man.

Nikolas’s only comment on this episode was, “When you hit a man with a sword, I don’t believe the human body geysers blood. But it’s a good effect.” He was running his fingers through Ben’s hair, and when the credits were done rolling, put his hand onto Ben’s shoulder, shaking him lightly. “Come, I have other geysers in mind.”

Ben patted his hand absentmindedly. “You go on. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Nikolas didn’t seem impressed, but he extricated himself from their entanglement and left Ben to it.

Ben wanted to find out how Oliver Whitestone had killed himself. It was a subject he’d been putting off investigating for various reasons, not least because Peter Cameron had asked him not to concentrate on this aspect of Oliver’s story—just yet. Peter had a theory that if Ben were burdened by the knowledge of the death, other than being vaguely aware Oliver had died, some of that would foreshadow his performance. Also, of course, Ben had the humiliation of remembering his own suicide attempt—although that is not actually how he thought of it himself. He saw it more as a sacrifice he’d been willing to make. After all, where was the dividing line between choosing death deliberately and being willing at any minute to accept it, to bring it on for the greater good? He had spent his life willing to die for a mission, for his buddies. If a friend had been lost, Ben would have died trying to reach him. Those events on Aeroe were no different in his mind. Nikolas had been lost; Ben had been attempting to find him. No different.

Maybe there would be something of this in Oliver’s end. Ben didn’t like the idea of someone choosing to kill himself as a means of running away. He didn’t like cowardice. And to run away from something that seemed on the surface so perfect—fame, fortune, respect, adoration. Not easy to see why anyone would want to escape from those.

He booted up the computer in the TV room and sat watching the familiar swirls and patterns. Then he Googled Oliver Whitestone. He got over three million hits. The first one told him what he wanted to know.

Oliver had been single, which was not that unusual for someone only thirty-three. Ben immediately wondered, as had many other people according to the website he was reading, whether Oliver had been gay. Some people said yes, some said no. He had been seen dating beautiful Hollywood women. That, Ben knew, meant nothing.
He’d
been dating Kate. In fact, he recalled now with some shame that the afternoon she’d mentioned marriage—not a proposal, but more of a wistful
if we were
kind of comment—he’d been due to meet a certain Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen that evening in a hotel in central London. He remembered this because he’d thought, as he’d walked through the lobby to find Nikolas’s room and fuck him, be fucked, that it would make a good venue for a wedding reception…

Ben wrinkled his nose a little at the sour memories and scrolled down some more. Oliver had shot himself with one of his own handguns in the house he’d rented just outside Baton Rouge in Louisiana. Some conspiracy theorists maintained the suicide was just a tragic accident. That he’d been cleaning his guns and one had gone off. Some went further and claimed that he’d been murdered.

Neither of these speculations was supported by the evidence.

Although Oliver hadn’t left a note, which, the police agreed, was…unfortunate.

Unfortunate, but not unique.

In “self-harm by personal weapon”, which is the phrase they used, the split-second ability to end the life was the telling factor—by default, suicides by gunshot often didn’t leave notes.

Ben rounded up his depressing research by looking at some of the pictures of Oliver gathered on this memorial site. The resemblance was still striking, mainly because Oliver Whitestone’s natural expression was a smile—a wide-eyed, delighted with the world innocence that he’d exuded in every twist of his lips. Ben’s friends said that about him sometimes. When he
wasn’t
smiling it was always commented on. “
Hey, what’s up, Diesel?
” Nikolas could tell his mood from just a glance. He and Oliver were cut from the same cloth—dealt an extremely good hand in life, which they were only too willing to share.

A generous soul.

And now he was dead.

Ben wanted to give him life again.

If he’d been wavering in his decision, lying in Nikolas’s arms, laughing with him about the show, enveloped in his warmth and the pleasure of his company, now he was determined once again.

Something about Oliver Whitestone called to Ben.

Kindred spirits maybe.

Ben shivered a little and turned the computer off.

He had to tell Nikolas. He couldn’t put it off. There was a lot to arrange.

He
had
to tell Nikolas.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Nikolas spent the next day wondering if Ben would tell him or whether he would have to ask.

Sometimes, Nikolas wondered whether Ben, like a small goldfish swimming happily around in his bowl, forget on each loop of life what he’d remembered the time before. Did Ben really think that he, Aleksey Primakov, would watch Ben being handed a DVD by a strange man at a party and not find out what it was? Did he then think that Aleksey Primakov wouldn’t know the same DVD when he saw it? Or not recognise the similarities between the actor Oliver Whitestone and Ben Rider-Mikkelsen? Or then not find out all there was to know about
After the Wars
, the production team, and then the link to the pervert who’d started the whole debacle?

If Ben had thought any of that, then he was way off base.

Nikolas knew Peter Cameron was a director. Unlike Ben, Nikolas read the fucking quality newspapers. He’d even seen the man’s name on the Forbes World’s Billionaire’s list—well below his own, he was pleased to see. He also knew who Oliver Whitestone had been—again, hello—could he just say quality newspaper? The arts section? Being able to actually fucking read? The death had run in the paper for days, literally days. Why was it so fascinating when the rich, famous, and beautiful did something? It was beyond him.

So, the thought that occupied him all day whilst riding with Emilia, giving Emilia her first tennis lesson, and avoiding Babushka until he’d mulled over the ramifications of her being younger than Philipa—and thank God he’d removed some of the incriminating pictures of him and Philipa from Ben’s Christmas box; they might be very hard to explain—was when was Ben going to fucking tell him what was going on? Nikolas had the ridiculous suspicion that somehow they wanted Ben, his Ben, to take over from Oliver as the gladiator Sushi, or whatever his dumb name had been. Putting all the pieces of the puzzle together, it was all he could come up with. But that was so ridiculous he was trying hard not to think it, which, of course, ensured it went around and around in his head all day.

That afternoon he went in search of his errant lover and discovered him at the computer, which was unlike Ben—even sitting down during the day was uncharacteristic for him. It was also odd for him to immediately close down all his tabs—unless he was looking at porn. Nikolas despaired at Ben sometimes. He genuinely didn’t know about Ctrl.Shift.N. How pathetic could anyone be?—and he’d been an
actual
spy…
incognito
…

“We’re going to Exeter. To look at paint.”

“What?”

“Emilia wants to decorate her own room in the new cottage. It’s a…what is that expression? In English?”

“Way too big and expensive a room for a thirteen-year-old girl?”

“No, that’s not it. Hmm, let me think. Blank picture. It’s a blank picture, and I said she could decorate it any way she chooses.”

Ben frowned. “Are you sure? I doubt she’ll be thinking unicorns and fairies and clouds, Nik. This is Emilia, yeah?”

Nikolas frowned, too. “I have no objection to not seeing unicorns. I suggested something along the lines of a cultural theme…”

“Ah. What you mean is you’ll have it exactly how you want on the pretext of advising her. Seriously, this is Emmy. She’s
your
creation. I’d be wary letting her have free rein. I’m seeing body parts? Did you actually watch that movie yesterday?”

Nikolas raised his brows. “Do you want to come?”

“To a decorating shop in Exeter? Er, let me think, no.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to work out for a while.”

“Work out. Again?” Nikolas had a fleeting image of Mr Whitestone in his gladiatorial perfection. No, it was too ridiculous to worry about. What a great opportunity to offer Ben a prompt though. “Why all this sudden exercise…?”

“I’ve got lazy. See ya then. Good luck. You taking Radulf?”

“Of course. I value his judgement on all issues, particularly the selection of paint colours.” He was waiting for Ben to pick up on the joke and comment that the dog was blind (and being a dog possibly didn’t have opinions on paint), but he didn’t. He’d turned his back and was scrolling again.

“We should watch some more of that show tonight…”

“Yeah. I’ll cook. Pick some stuff up on the way home, will you?”

Fuck. He’d have to just ask, which would then give Ben the upper hand in the ensuing conversation…
Fuck
.

Emilia came in to look for him. The moment was lost.

Driving to Exeter, Nikolas convinced himself that Peter Cameron and Oliver Whitestone had been conducting a secret, doomed affair, and that when he’d lost Oliver (closet gay suicide), Cameron had searched the world for a look-alike to take Ollie’s place in his bed. And found Ben. His fucking Ben.

It was more likely than wanting Ben to star in a fucking TV show about a gladiator called Sushi Bar!

He forgot to stop and send Babushka and Emilia to do some shopping.

Which would not have been so bad in the old days, when they either ate out or ordered in. Now Ben wanted to cook. He’d said homemade was essential if you wanted to eat the good fats. The good ones? This was news to Nikolas, who’d been forced to eat all sorts of lardy substances over the years and never found any of it good.

Not stopping for the supplies was very bad now, however, because Ben immediately said they’d have to go—shopping. The huge Tesco that was only half an hour from them was open twenty-four hours a day, apparently. How did Ben know all these mysterious things? Nikolas had missed the
we
in Ben’s comment. Tuned it out. We meant…them both. Go shopping. To…
Tesco
. He could hardly think the word let alone picture himself entering such a place. He’d never once in his whole pseudo existence in England stepped inside a supermarket. If he had, he’d have possibly graced Fortnum & Mason with his presence, but fortunately they delivered.

It was seven o’clock but the car park was packed. Nikolas suggested they go home and order in instead. Ben refused. He wanted to cook.

They walked in. Nikolas was never so grateful for being dressed only in jeans and a T-shirt. It was still a little over-dressed, even so. Who knew tracksuits had so many uses? Or came in so many sizes?

Ben handed him a basket. This was different. Nikolas always tried to find the novel in everything they did. He could think of some other untried activities, watching Ben’s incredibly nice arse in his jeans, that he’d rather be doing, but carrying a basket around Tesco had to be appreciated for what it was.

And, in its own way, it was quite interesting. Nikolas made straight for the seafood counter and selected some very nice local lobster. Then he drifted to the very end of the store and found the alcohol. His favourite vodka! He was beginning to enjoy this experience. Who knew you could just wander around and pick up food? He went to the wines and selected a few. The basket was getting heavy. Where was Ben when he was needed?

Ben was standing with an armful of stuff, annoyed. Nikolas fetched a trolley, which was even more fun, and wheeled it back to Ben. Ben was talking to a young man. Nikolas narrowed his eyes. Then he glanced around. There were an unusual number of young men, he thought, for a supermarket, which should be full of women. Obviously.

He moved closer. So close the trolley did a little damage to said young man. Ben put his armful of food items into it.

“Why are there so many men here and who was that?”

Ben shrugged. “It’s Friday. It’s kinda singles’ night? It’s traditional.”