This Other Country (19 page)

Suddenly, there was a blur of movement on the screen. Nikolas cried out in despair, and they crashed in through a broken window, rolling, making for the brick stairs running up one side. The sound of screaming drove them on.

They arrived to a scene of medieval horror—blood splatters across a white sheet, a rolling head. A body tumbling without its head to guide it gracefully to the floor, ejecting blood to dying heartbeats. Another body, twitching, dying, and two men, one with a knife in his belly screaming, and another cowering and crying over and over, “We’re just actors for fuck’s sake, we’re just actors!”

Ben was listening to him, his hand on the handle of the knife in the other man’s belly, twisting it slowly. He held the body as it slumped, and the blood pumped down his arm, soaking it, adding to the blood that covered him from head to foot. Nikolas caught him and pulled him away. Squeezy smashed the camera, which had been set up to film the action. It had captured more than they’d bargained on. The uninjured man on the ground groaned and began to retch. He’d pissed himself. He curled up, arms around his head, and repeated through tears and snot, “Actors. We’re just actors.”

Ben was watching him, still listening to him. Nikolas eased the knife from the bloody death grip Ben had upon it. The lights behind the smashed camera were painfully bright and created eerie shadows upon the sheet, a shadow dance of three men, two in an embrace and one hovering uneasily. For one moment, Nikolas thought he saw a fourth shadow. It crept across the sheet and…dissipated. Ben slumped in his arms. Beneath the blood, which coated him like a slick blanket, it was impossible to tell if he was injured.

Squeezy called some friends.

They were three hours away by road. They stressed they’d bring a bird and be there within the hour. Favours were pre-promised and expected. That’s what being in the family meant.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Nikolas had no part in cleansing the mill. He knew what Squeezy and his friends would be doing. He’d done it hundreds of times in a previous life. Not now though. Now his job was to stay with Ben.

Kate kept him updated. Apparently “live” TV was never live. Which media mogul waiting for his knighthood could take the risk of the public seeing British politicians being pelted with eggs, see banners being held by protesters denied their right of free speech and trying to get their message over any way they could? Live feed was always fed a few seconds late so a hasty chop job could be done…breakdown in transmission…technical fault…back to
EastEnders
. The British public—those who’d still been watching once they’d been informed of the cancellation of their soap—had seen that first blur of movement. They might have seen an arc of blood. Some claimed they had, and stills of this were appearing on various shockhorror.com websites.

Ben was unconscious. Nikolas drove him to London, and Andrea Gillian was waiting for them. She examined Ben—the only explanation Nikolas could give for his lack of consciousness was that he’d sustained a bang on the head. She could find nothing, but she stayed by the bedside, holding one of Ben’s hands. There was nothing maternal about Andrea Gillian. She was holding the hand like she might have once held a cadaver’s—professionally, thoughtfully.

She had Nikolas tell her the whole story. She was the only one of the ANGEL team who had her Nikolas Mikkelsen lie-radar permanently on. Consequently, he never bothered lying to her anymore, so he told her the truth. She narrowed her eyes and continued to study Ben’s limp fingers. Suddenly, she stood up and straightened her pencil skirt. “Give him time.”

Nikolas folded his arms. She was too small to bully as he did everyone else with his daunting physicality. “Time?”

“Hmm. There’s nothing physically wrong with him. It’s possible they’ve given him some kind of drug…to make him more compliant.” Nikolas thought back to the rolling, severed head, and wondered if his English had finally let him down. Compliant? Didn’t that mean…? She briskly snapped her medical bag closed and left.

Nikolas turned on the news and flicked between channels. No one knew anything. They’d not known where the feed of Ben Rider had been coming from or why it had cut out. He was reported as missing.

Nikolas had a thought, dialled a number, and had a brief conversation with a man at the other end.

Within an hour there was more breaking news. It
hadn’t been
ex-Special-Forces-expert Ben Rider, so their unconfirmed sources were telling them. A man had called anonymously to say he’d been on a course with a professional look-alike.
This
man had gone missing. Suddenly, everyone was saying it hadn’t really looked like Ben Rider at all—blond hair, thinner. Definitely thinner. Ben hadn’t made any TV shows since they’d returned from Russia, and he
was
thinner now than in his documentaries. And, of course, the most important thing as far as identification went—
Ben Rider
wasn’t gay. There was some considerable discussion and laughter about this, and Katie from Essex with the orange skin and cocaine nose got another five minutes of fame telling the world how special Benjamin was to her and denying coyly they were soon to make an announcement.

Nikolas phoned John back and thanked him. They had a brief chat about what had happened. John had gone for his final talk with the good doctor. He’d apparently passed the course with flying colours. Mark appeared to think so, too. They were going to come out at the end of the term—just before the holidays so the kids had time to get over it before the start of the next. You know what kids are like. Nikolas didn’t but was gracious enough to listen to John’s rambling for a while until he got him back on track. Yes, they’d had their final interviews, packed and gone home. They’d thought it strange not to see Nigel or Justin before they left, but assumed they’d already departed.

Nikolas wondered, as he snapped his phone shut, whether plans to recruit from the course had been put on permanent hold once the maniacs had got hold of Ben Rider and the ultimate stunt had occurred to them.

§ § §

Squeezy returned to London the following morning. He let himself into the house at six a.m. and immediately put the kettle on, leaning on the counter, his shoulders hunched. Nikolas was at the kitchen table.

“He still out of it?”

“Yes.”

“He okay?”

“No injuries. No.”

“Okay. Good. Fuck.”

“Yes. Fuck.”

They both knew. They both knew but weren’t saying it. They were soldiers—had been. Still were in many ways, and they knew the impact of stress on the brain. People assume soldiers are inured to horror, doing whatever they’re ordered to do without a qualm. Perhaps they are in some ways. You can get desensitised to the consequences of war. But Ben hadn’t been at war. He’d left that a long way behind him. And these men hadn’t been combatants—even terrorists who surrendered their right to be treated as fellow soldiers. They’d been actors.
Actors
. Christ, Nikolas sank his head into his hands—maybe one had been on the cancelled episode of EastfuckingEnders. Actors. And Ben had killed three of them.

Squeezy brought two mugs of tea to the table and sat down opposite Nikolas. “I need to go see Tim. He’ll be worried.”

Nikolas nodded. “What did you do with the last one?” He didn’t say living, because that only emphasised that three were dead. It didn’t need spelling out.

Squeezy only gave him a look. Nikolas hadn’t been asking after the man’s welfare. He nodded, glad it had been done satisfactorily.

Nikolas put a hand out and laid a finger lightly on Squeezy’s wrist. “Thank you.”

It was clearly the very last thing Squeezy had been expecting to hear. Nikolas opened his mouth to ask what Squeezy knew about the older therapist, Grantley, when a voice from the doorway exclaimed, “Squeezy? Fuck me. You’re back? What are you doing here?”

They rose as one. Ben came into the kitchen, his face a mixture of surprise and wry confusion. “What the fuck? Squeezy?”

Squeezy hugged him then stood back. Nikolas folded his arms, his heart rate returning to normal for the first time since he’d crashed through the window at the mill. “How are you feeling?” He longed to fold Ben in an embrace so tight they would meld together, but he wouldn’t in front of Squeezy.

Ben winced and laughed a little. “I don’t know. I’m…I feel a bit weird.” He gave Squeezy a mock punch. “You bastard.”

Nikolas flicked his gaze over Ben, head to foot. There was something wrong. He touched Ben’s arm lightly. “Sit down. There’s tea.”

“Oh, ta.” Ben straddled a chair. Squeezy frowned briefly and caught Nikolas’s eye. Nikolas put a hand to Ben’s head.

“You weren’t—?”

Ben shied away, laughing. He got to his feet. “Err…” He scratched his neck, seemingly embarrassed at something then sat again. He took a sip of the tea. “Any sugar?”

Nikolas licked his lips. “You don’t take sugar.”

Ben gave him brief glance. It wasn’t the expression he’d been giving Nikolas for eight years, the one that told Nikolas he saw through all his bullshit so “shut the fuck up”. Ben laughed again. “Sorry, but who are you?”

It was something of a showstopper.

Ben looked at Squeezy, brows raised questioningly and with a slight flick of his head to Nikolas, clearly repeating his question to his friend. Squeezy sat very cautiously at the table. Nikolas was incapable of moving. Or speaking, come to that.

Squeezy asked hesitantly, “What do you remember?”

“Remember?”

“Yeah. What were you doing…I don’t know…yesterday?”

“Um. I’m not sure. Fuck, was I drinking? Did I pass out?”

Nikolas perched very slowly on one of the other chairs. Ben stared at him. “So, you are…?”

Before Squeezy could speak, Nikolas interjected quickly, “My name is Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen. Do you remember me?”

“Nope. Sorry, sir, should I?” He suddenly looked around, and his eyes widened. “Where is this? Did—?”

“Ben?” Squeezy immediately laid his hand on Ben’s arm. “Fucking chill out, okay. There’s nothing wrong here. We were on an op together. You got injured. Bang on the noggin’. You’ve been out of it for a while. It’s all good now. Few days, and the doc says you’ll remember everything.”

Ben visibly relaxed. “Okay. We were on an op together? But you were in the States on the Apache course. Did you get booted off? Tosser.”

Squeezy blinked at Nikolas and spread his fingers on the table. Ten. He’d been on the Apache course ten years ago.

Ben regarded Nikolas more fully. “So…sorry, I’m being a pillock, but you are…?”

Once more Squeezy appeared to be about to answer, but suddenly they heard the front door being opened and Tim came in. Squeezy rose so fast a mug of tea slopped over the table. He caught Tim around the waist and propelled him out of the room, an urgently whispered conversation ensuing. Ben kept his gaze on Nikolas. “I wasn’t injured, was I?”

Nikolas started. “What?”

“I’m not fucking stupid.” He tapped his head. “No injury. No headache. What the fuck is going on, sir? Hey, are you okay? You look…shit!” Ben grabbed a towel draped over the counter and handed it to Nikolas as he threw up. He patted him a few times on the back then sympathised wryly, “I hope that’s your sink.” Nikolas nodded then straightened, running himself a glass of water.

“This is my house, yes. The op was running from here. You may have been drugged. That’s why you can’t…why you can’t remember…can’t remember…”

“Anything?”

“Yes. Thank you. Can’t remember anything. That’s what I was going to say.”

§ § §

Nikolas had his hand on the phone to call Andrea Gillian, but Squeezy had already done it. She came into the kitchen half an hour later with a very subdued Tim and Squeezy, and made Ben sit at the table once more. She sat opposite him.

“My name is Dr Gillian. Do you remember me?”

Ben shook his head. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologise. I’m going to ask you a series of questions. They may confuse you. Please just answer truthfully to the best of your knowledge and try not worry too much about them.” She actually managed a smile. “I might throw some trick ones in just to try and catch you out and test if you’re fooling around…how old are you?”

Ben nodded as if glad to start with an easy one. “Twenty-two. I’m taking this seriously, trust me.” If he felt the tension in the room rise a notch at that answer, he didn’t show it. He did occasionally flick his eyes to one side, as if trying to see Nikolas, who had moved to stand in a darker part of the kitchen.

“What’s your name?”

“Ben Rider. Benjamin, although only my mother calls me that.”

“Where is your mother?”

Ben sniffed audibly. “I don’t know. She ran off years ago. When I was eight.”

“Is your father still alive?”

“No.”

“What do you do for a living?”

Ben hesitated and glanced at Squeezy. Squeezy nodded. “I’m in the army.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

Ben seemed to find this more difficult to answer. He began to draw small patterns on the table in the spilt tea. “I’m not sure. It’s all kinda jumbled like a fucking great…sorry, ma’am.”

“Don’t apologise, Ben. I’m a doctor, not a nun. Tell me your impressions if that’s all they are. Anything you can remember.”

“I don’t remember being on an op. I think I was home—at my cottage, maybe? Yeah, I must’ve been at home. Was I on sick leave? Was I shot maybe?”

“Okay, we’ll leave it there for a while. Ben, go out into the hallway, please. Please don’t wander around this house—stay in the hallway. I’d like to speak with Sir Nikolas privately. Is that all right with you?”

She was wasting her time with the bedside manner. Ben was a soldier. If a doctor told him to bend over and spread, he did—with a smart salute on the way down. He rose and went dutifully out of the door. Tim and Squeezy made to follow him, but Nikolas intercepted them by grabbing Tim’s sleeve. “Say nothing.”

Tim’s eyebrows rose in confusion, anger, horror—all the emotions he’d clearly been suppressing since bursting in expecting to see all his friends back and safe, only to be told by Squeezy that Ben was back but he was not the Ben they knew. “Say nothing about what? Where do I start not telling him? His life, Nikolas! He’s lost his whole…” He looked down at the hand on his arm. This time it was Squeezy’s. Perhaps that’s how he got his nickname. It obviously hurt.