Enduring Night E-Book

John Wiltshire

• Herausgeber: Decent Fellows Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting. Nikolas has always liked art. You'd have thought that Ben and Nikolas would have learnt that their romantic holidays inevitably end up as disasters. A short break on the polar ice sees them trapped in a nightmare of murder and deceit. Neither of them, however, foresees the long-term impact that endless winter has on their relationship. They return with a metaphorical darkness that threatens everything they have created together. Desperate and fearing for Nikolas's life, Ben makes a bargain with a surprising ally. For the first time, Nikolas meets an enemy more powerful than he is. But fortunately, not as sneaky...

Leseprobe

Inhaltsverzeichnis

Bishop Charles Henry Brent

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

ENDURING

NIGHT

MORE HEAT THAN THE SUN #7

JOHN WILTSHIRE

WWW.DECENTFELLOWSPRESS.COM

Copyright © 2021-2023 Decent Fellows Press

ISBN: 9783757950118

Second Edition

All rights reserved worldwide. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the Author, except for the purposes of reviews. The reviewer may quote brief passages for the review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

The characters and events described in this book are fictional. Any resemblance between characters and any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Enduring Night, Copyright © 2021-2023 Decent Fellows Press

Cover Art Design by Isobel Starling

What is dying?

A ship sails and I stand watching

till she fades on the horizon,

and someone at my side

says, "She is gone".

Gone where?

Gone from my sight,

that is all; she is just as large

as when I saw her…

the diminished size and total

loss of sight is in me,

not in her,

and just at the moment

when someone at my side

says "she is gone",

there are others

who are watching her coming,

and other voices take up the glad shout,

"there she comes!"

and that is dying.

Bishop Charles Henry Brent

Prologue

The view from the window hadn’t changed since the last time Ben had studied it—one grey, depressing wing of the building, the car park below, and some scraggly trees, still bare in January. Farther away, he could see the roofs of some houses, and perhaps, if he let his imagination run away with it, the distant hills of Bodmin moor. He didn’t speculate much in the realms of fiction these days though. He brought his gaze back to the utilitarian architecture.

The seagull was back, perched on the sill, as it had been day after day. Sometimes, it tapped the window with its beak. Ben was never sure if the gull wanted in, or for him to open the window and join it outside, flying or falling. Freedom either way.

Secretly, Ben thought the gull was an albatross. It was so vast, so impressive, that it seemed inconceivable it could be an ordinary gull blown in from Plymouth Sound and sitting on the grimy ledge. The first albatross perhaps to make it to England, tossed on ocean currents all the way from the Chatham Islands, lost, alone. If it was, then it was in good company. Ben had never felt so lost or so alone, and he had spent a fair proportion of his life being buffeted by metaphorical winds far stronger than those that prowled the vast oceans of the world.

The wind ruffled one immaculate white feather, and an immediate adjustment was made, beak ferreting and smoothing, replacing and realigning. Then the beady eyes fixed back upon Ben. One sharp tap on the glass.

Ben peered down at the drop below the window. He was four storeys up with unforgiving concrete beneath. He shook his head at the gull. He wasn’t ready to join it quite yet. One day perhaps.

There was a sound from the bed behind him, but Ben didn’t turn with eyes wide with expectation. He’d done that for the first few days. The noises had never meant what he’d thought, and so disappointment had gradually crushed bright hope. Now, he heard every small shift or exhale, but stored the knowledge away, staying unresponsive.

Unresponsive. That’s what Nikolas had been when he’d laid him gently down on the floor in the little medical centre.

Of course, it’s difficult to be responsive when you’re dead.

The gull gave him one last, baleful glare and then just tipped away from the glass, launching itself into the cold air currents, wings unfurling, catching and lifting. A little bit of Ben’s heart went with it. It did every day he watched the same display of effortless escape. It wasn’t that he thought about doing so himself. He had tried that once in Denmark and had failed. It was more that he wondered if the bird took something else away with it when it flew so fluently into the air. For if Nikolas had once fallen from heaven, as Ben had accused him of once or twice in private moments, then wasn’t it equally possible that he could one day rise again? Ben had no doubt that if souls did ascend, then Nikolas’s would be riding thermals, fast and furious, just as he’d ridden pathways on solid ground. But no soul as big and as powerful as Nikolas Mikkelsen’s could rise in a single moment of graceful beauty. No, it would ease away day-by-day, small flutters upon the currents of the earth until it was entirely free.

So Ben watched the gull rise over the roof of the grey hospital and wondered if a tiny slice of Nikolas was leaving with it, borne aloft upon those perfect white wings.

He turned away from the view and sat once more in the armchair alongside the bed.

He took the unresponsive hand in his and lowered his head.

Once more, he repeated his promise.

Then he waited for a sign, which, so far, had been noticeable by its absence.

* * *

Chapter One

It had been an almost perfect Christmas. No one had been murdered. No one kidnapped. No torturing had been necessary. They had celebrated together in the big glass house in Devon. It was fortunate it was spacious. They had an extensive family now, lots of guests—Babushka and Emilia, Miles and Enid Toogood, Squeezy, Tim, Jennifer and Reginald Armstrong and, of course, their daughter, Molly Rose Rider-Mikkelsen.

Perfection didn’t necessarily mean peaceful, however. As Ben had pointed out to Nikolas one night, when they’d lain too exhausted to do much more than gaze at cold stars through the glass ceiling of their room, Christmas was supposed to be chaotic, exhausting, fuelled by family disagreements and too much food. They were too eclectic a bunch to glide through the holiday like a fictional family on pleasantries and goodwill, but their arguments were robust and carried on good-naturedly enough.

In contrast to their first Christmas together, when neither had mentioned the day nor changed their routines in any way, both he and Nikolas agreed this was…better.

They welcomed the noise in some ways. There were too many silences that needed to be filled. Ben heard them in Nikolas’s head—the spaces of cold terror that could not be eased, even by his unfailing love and attention. But he knew he was the source of some of Nikolas’s pain as well. Nikolas shouldered the weight of the world and resented anyone else sharing his burdens. Ben had not only shared them, he’d taken them on and destroyed them. Ben knew Nikolas was still skirting around the discovery that he had not known him as well as he’d thought.

So it was with some genuine pleasure that when Ben opened his Christmas present from Peter Cameron, thinking it might be tickets to the director’s latest movie—a film which, as he’d written to Ben, had more explosions than dialogue, especially for him—it turned out to be a holiday. Ben couldn’t remember the last time it had been just him and Nikolas. Time to reassess, perhaps, reacquaint themselves with who they were.

He’d actually forgotten to open the envelope during the loud, messy exploration of presents earlier. It had almost been cast aside with some other cards. But now, lying on his back next to Nikolas, contemplating the stars, he saw it on the bedside table.

Nikolas turned his head, watching him unstick the flap. When Ben huffed in pleased surprise at the contents, Nik plucked the letter away from him. He couldn’t read it without his glasses, and definitely not in the low light, so he handed it back as Ben asked, “Where’s Jasper Bay?”

“Hmm?”

“Peter’s bought me a holiday in somewhere called Jasper Bay. An arctic experience.”

He felt Nikolas shudder theatrically.

“Jasper Bay?”

“It sounds familiar but I do not recollect from where. Does he not say?”

Ben sat up so he could read better, his strong, powerful muscles stark in the starlight. Nikolas placed a hand on him, moving it slowly up and down Ben’s spine.

“Svalbard.”

“What!” Nikolas sat up and took the letter again, as if he could see the offending name.

“Where’s Svalbard?”

“Somewhere we’re not going.”

Ben retrieved the letter and stowed it for safety in the drawer next to the bed. He eased over Nikolas, propped up on one elbow, considering him. He snorted.

“What?”

“Very blond for midwinter.”

Nikolas shoved him off. “Give the holiday to your moronic friends. I think they would appreciate it.”

Ben chuckled, thinking about Tim and Squeezy. They had entered a new phase of their relationship—Tim’s words. Squeezy had privately confided to Ben he was banned from shagging away from home. The jury was still out, he moaned, on whether this meant he could bring people back to shag. Tim said they might commit. Squeezy said he might go back to women—they were less clingy and nagged less, in his vast experience. Ben listened to their various complaints, occasionally relaying salient points to Nikolas.

It would be a good idea for his friends to have a holiday together.

The more he thought about it, the more he could see the advantages of being shut up in a luxury hotel, surrounded by snow, with nothing to do but have sex. And eat…

Bugger Squeezy and Tim.

Not literally, of course.

That was reserved for Nikolas.

* * *

The next morning, Ben discovered Nikolas at the breakfast table with Molly Rose. Nikolas was studying Peter’s letter. Molly was reading a thick biography in Danish, which Peter had given Ben earlier that year. Ben rolled his eyes and took it off her then gave her back her small cloth book, which she immediately stuffed in her mouth. Nikolas only commented,

“She was enjoying that.”

Ben glanced at the book, which he had yet to even open. He’d been a little busy since Peter had given it to him. But they didn’t talk much about that. “Enduring Night?”

Nikolas shrugged. “Eclectic tastes in literature. Unlike her father. It is a very interesting book.”

Nikolas read a great deal more than Ben did, and quickly, consuming words as avidly as Ben demolished food. But Ben had forgotten Nikolas had read his book from Peter and felt guilty he hadn’t made a similar effort.

The kitchen would soon be full of hungry people demanding a traditional Boxing Day breakfast, so he put on a pan and filled it with sausages, cracking eggs into a bowl with his free hand. As he cooked, he scanned the first few pages, glad his Danish was still good enough.

The story appeared to be set on Svalbard—the tribulations of a Danish polar explorer who had experienced the isolation, the terror, of being abandoned by his companions on the coast of that remote place.

Nikolas was giving him amused consideration and said wryly in Danish, “I think Peter has decided his next film project.”

“A movie of this book?”

“And guess who he wants to play the doomed Danish explorer?”

“You?” Ben couldn’t decide whether he was impressed or dismayed by this possibility. Nikolas rolled his eyes, and Ben then got it. “Me? But I’m not…Danish.”

Nikolas chuckled. “I was worrying more about your woeful acting ability.”

“I’m not that bad.” He held Nikolas’s gaze, and knew Nikolas got exactly what he meant. When it suited him, Ben could act very well indeed.

He brought the sausages over to the table, separating out a fair few to cool for Radulf before the vultures arrived and fell on them.

Nikolas took the book off him. “I remembered this morning where I had heard of Jasper Bay. The similarities are too much of a coincidence, no? I wonder what his next tactic will be.”

“You’re being ridiculous. He gives me a book, then sees a holiday in the same place—a coincidence—and thinks about me again. That’s all this is. It’s your phobia about me becoming a Hollywood star that’s putting two and two together and making five.”

There was some justification for Nikolas being slightly wary of Ben’s fame, but also some truth to Ben’s assertion that he was being ridiculous. Nikolas’s recent, largest, acquisition ensured Ben mostly stayed anonymous. Peyton Garic ran benrider.com. It had been Peyton’s idea. He controlled access to any information on Ben whilst at the same time using his more unique and unethical skills to subvert anything Nikolas didn’t want coming out or being available for too long on other sites.

Nikolas was saved from making a reply and pointing any of this out, however, as Emilia and Miles came in from the grounds, stamping snow off their boots. They’d been to see to Mr Darcy, Emilia’s horse. Nikolas employed a full time groom for his horses, who lived in nearby Ashburton, but during the holidays Emilia took care of her own animal and she was, apparently, training Miles.

Miles had yet to see the point of horses, claiming they were extremely dangerous, even to superheroes, but he liked studying things and had become something of a theoretical expert on the creatures. Although he had yet to ride one, he could knowledgeably discuss their most likely injuries and illnesses. Now, however, he was eyeing the sausages with something akin to grief. Miles channelled his inner Nikolas at all times, but at mealtimes he found this particularly stressful.

Ben heard a faint, annoyed, yet at the same time resigned and amused huff from Nikolas as he helped himself to some of the cooling sausages. Sometimes Ben loved Nikolas so much it was a wonder he didn’t tell him more.

With this tacit permission, Miles now happily joined Emilia in demolishing the rest of the English breakfast, so with a sound very similar to the one Nikolas had just made, Ben rose to make another batch for the lazier adults who were yet to join them.

He liked cooking.

He’d recently questioned this hobby, wondering if it…unmanned him somehow. After recent events in a redbrick house in London, he’d decided there was nothing much going to do that, and if it did, no one would dare call him on it anyway. Besides, sometimes Ben reckoned that if he didn’t cook, Nikolas wouldn’t ever eat. He only seemed to now because he liked the whole process of observing Ben, being his taster, and making irritating assessments on things Ben suspected he knew nothing about.

Perhaps, Ben reflected in quiet moments, watching Nikolas trying the things he’d cooked, he’d only adopted this new hobby because he wanted, needed, to feed Nikolas. In even more private thoughts, Ben wondered what would happen to Nikolas if something ever happened to him…Who would feed him then? Dear God, was he mothering Nikolas Mikkelsen? But if he was, then maybe it was the first time Nikolas had enjoyed that kind of care. Despite Ben’s occasional gentle suggestion that Nina had not killed herself, that some more sinister fate had befallen her, Nikolas seemed sanguine about his belief in her suicide. This spoke volumes to Ben. Although he had not voiced this opinion to Nikolas, for obvious reasons, it seemed to him that there was a great deal more to Nikolas’s experiences with his mother than he had ever related. Ben could only imagine what a ten-year-old boy had witnessed that would lead the adult man to so calmly accept that his mother had made the ultimate statement about his worth to her.

Ben shook himself from the unpleasant introspection and glanced at the table.

Miles was now studying Ben’s letter as he ate. “Did you know—?”

At Ben’s faint groan, Miles stopped and turned. Ben regrouped and smiled. “What? Did I know what? Bet I did.”

“That a polar bear’s fur isn’t white at all—it’s transparent.”

Ben’s jaw dropped open a little. “No, it’s not. It’s white.” He glanced to Nikolas for support, but as with all his conversations with Miles, Nikolas was conveniently busy doing something else. He was smirking though.

“No, honestly. Transparent. It’s actually reflected sunlight that makes it appear white.”

“But what about dead ones? What if you skinned one and put the pelt in…a purple room? It would be a purple bear?”

It was Miles’s turn to appear puzzled. “Did you actually do physics at school?”

Ben was tempted to say he’d only just done school, but realised in time that he’d only be giving the boy more ammunition. “Bet you’ve never seen a polar bear.”

Miles looked aggrieved at this but countered, “Have you?”

Ben narrowed his eyes at the boy, and was considering lying, when Nikolas said nonchalantly, “I shot one once.”

All eyes swivelled to him. Miles and Emilia were vociferously angry with him, Emilia as a defender of whales and all species other than boys, and Miles because heroes weren’t allowed to have dark sides.

Nikolas went back to his newspaper, claiming if they didn’t want to hear the story then… A chorus of annoyance ensued, including Ben muttering testily, “I hope it shot back.”

Nikolas appeared theatrically wounded. “What? I had no choice. It was stalking us. For weeks we…”

Ben rolled his eyes and tuned out what he could tell was the start of an unlikely and unsuitably gory story, and went back to cooking breakfast, glad when Squeezy emerged so he had another adult to talk to. Squeezy listened to the conversation at the table for a moment, leaning on the counter. Nikolas was up to the part where he’d hidden from the bear under the polar ice in the frozen arctic sea, staring up at it through the translucence, as its blood-soaked muzzle had tried unsuccessfully to scent him.

Squeezy seemed gloomy. Ben gave him a freshly cooked sausage to cheer him up.

As he was munching it, Squeezy mumbled around a mouthful, “It’s all his fault, by the way. Wassock’s.”

Nikolas was to blame for a lot of things, Ben knew, but narrowing them down was always a little tricky, so he gave a non-committal grunt and cracked some eggs into the pan.

“All this fucking domestication. Kids.” Squeezy shuddered.

Ben snorted. “Feeling the pinch?”

Tim came out of the bedroom he shared with Squeezy, pulling on a sweater, and Squeezy’s expression changed, a smirk of delighted imprisonment creasing one corner of his mouth. Ben shook his head. It was one of Squeezy’s sweaters. They were wearing each other’s clothes. No coming back from that.

One by one, the others wandered in for breakfast. Enid was the last to arrive, mainly because she took a long time to make it to the table with her walking frame. It was Nikolas’s present to her for Christmas. He’d said he’d be really upset if she didn’t use it, and being from the generation she was, good manners always outweighed personal preferences, and so she was finally able to get around the vast glass house with relative, if slow, ease. That he’d also given her the plans for a purpose-built, adapted bungalow he was going to have built in the grounds for her, so she and Miles would live with them, Miles’s future thereby being assured when she had passed on, had gone some way to make this Zimmer-frame gift very acceptable indeed. That he’d decorated it with tartan bows, Ben reckoned, had been the clincher.

They made a noisy group around the table, drinking vast quantities of tea, and debating what to do for the day.

Nikolas appeared to take no part in either the noise or the decision-making, quietly reading his quality newspaper, but somehow all suggestions were weighed and assessed and filtered through him until it was decided that they would go to the zoo, which is what Ben knew he’d wanted to do in the first place. Tim and Squeezy immediately begged off, saying they were going to a party, and Enid preferred not to put her new present to that much of a test.

Molly’s grandparents opted out of the trip as well, Jennifer wanting to visit her friend in Exeter. Her absence always cheered Ben up a little. He felt intimidated around his daughter whenever Jennifer was present, always afraid he’d drop Molly, drown her, lose her to child traffickers, or some other mishap that her fragility and beauty seemed to invite. Consequently, he avoided holding her or playing with her when her grandparents were around.

Now, he was free to take control of her, carrying her on his back. He marvelled how he had gone from carrying nearly two hundred pounds across mountains in Afghanistan to this feather-light creature, who, in many ways, weighed him down more. Once or twice in his past he’d had to shed his kit and run, fast and light. He couldn’t shed this burden. His daughter.

* * *

They wandered around with no particular direction or aim, but knowing that Emilia and Miles wanted to see the big cats. They weren’t in cages; this was a world-respected zoo, and they’d attempted, as best they could in Devon, to recreate a natural environment for the lions and tigers. The main selling point for the visitors were the glass panels around certain points of the enclosures, which enabled them to stand only a few centimetres away from such majesty.

Ben was watching the tiger. It was watching him. It seemed confused to be there. He knew how it felt.

“Did you know—” Ben closed his eyes and prayed for strength “—that if you shaved a tiger, its stripes are on its skin too?”

He considered Miles’s contention and parried, “How do they know? Who’s ever shaved a tiger?”

Miles conceded this was better than Ben’s usual efforts in their interesting conversations and wandered off to find a member of staff to ask. Ben felt Nik’s presence at his side, and Molly was lifted out of her carrier. She was wearing a tiny little ski suit in ice white with a fur-lined hood, which Nikolas had bought her for Christmas. With her black curls and green eyes, she was incredibly striking. In Nikolas’s arms, her ice-white jacket against his black cashmere overcoat, the impression was startling. Nikolas kissed into Molly’s hair—something he always did with a small, challenging, wicked smile at Ben, as if daring him to be jealous.

Apparently satisfied at something he saw in Ben’s lip curl of annoyance, Nikolas put Molly down on the ground and she leant against the glass that was separating the visitors from the tiger enclosure. Ben was fairly sure if it hadn’t been for the fascination of the huge cat staring at her, she’d have been off, attempting to run with her oddly puppet-like, dancing-leg gait to escape their control.

Nikolas gave a quick glance around, ensured they were relatively unobserved, and tugged Ben a little closer by the lapel of his jacket. He wouldn’t kiss him, not in public, even in Devon where they were relatively safe from celebrity culture, but even this much was uncharacteristic. Nikolas pouted for a moment and began to speak.

Suddenly, there was an ear-splitting hiss.

The tiger launched itself at Molly Rose. The accelerated mass of five hundred pounds of muscle, fur, and claw slammed into the glass, one inch from her tiny body. Ben and Nikolas both flinched and averted their faces, an instinctive reaction of any human to such a ferocious attack, but then Nikolas recovered before Ben and scooped Molly up and pressed her to his coat, covering her, turning her away.

Delayed by shock, muffled against Nikolas, Molly’s scream was nevertheless piercing and drew all eyes.

Ben thought he’d heard a crack. Armoured as it was, he thought he’d heard the panel crack.

Visitors who hadn’t actually been that close were laughing and taking photos of the tiger. Molly was still screaming, and Ben heard a few muttered comments about fathers and speculation about what she’d done to cause the animal to attack. He wanted to punch them and was glad when he felt a hand on his arm. It was usually him restraining Nikolas, but this was equally effective.

Ben then realised Nikolas was only handing him the distraught baby—Nikolas didn’t do scenes. Ben took Molly and gave a small prayer of thanks when Babushka whisked her away from him and began to shush her in the secret language known only to midwives.

Ben took his first breath for what seemed like a very long time. “What the fuck?”

Nikolas raised his brows but for once didn’t pick Ben up for swearing.

“Did you know—?”

“Miles! Not now!” Ben turned away and began to march to the nearest concession stand with a view to buying his daughter something—anything—to stop the screaming, to stop the thump, thump of his heart. Nikolas went with him, his hands thrust into the pockets of his overcoat, his amusement at Ben’s reaction both obvious and infuriating. Ben wanted to ask Nikolas what he should get, but instead chose the first thing he saw without stripes and fur, and at the laughter he knew was being suppressed behind his back, snapped, “What?”

His hand was shaking. Drowned, dropped, kidnapped, and now eaten by a tiger. He was crap at this.

Nikolas took the kaleidoscope Ben had bought, putting it to his eye with apparent interest. “Nothing. I was merely wondering what you were doing next week.”

Ben snatched the toy back. “What I’m always doing. What do you mean?”

“Oh, I thought I might go and see the Northern Lights. A romantic break in a luxury hotel would be rather sad on my own.”

Ben felt his whole body droop for a moment. He wanted to lean against Nikolas, suck up his essence, his strength. He closed his eyes. “This is harder than I’d thought it would be.”

Nikolas huffed. “Since our house has been full of children, I’ve been harder than I ever wish to be.”

A tingle of lust and anticipation trickled down Ben’s spine. He gave Nikolas a quick, penetrating glance. “Well, now that you mention it, sir, I’m not doing anything next week.”

“Excellent. Benjamin Rider-Mikkelsen, would you like to accompany me on a polar night experience?”

“Can you guarantee it’s only the two of us?”

“Oh, I think once I mention the tiger incident, Jennifer will agree Molly should return home, don’t you? Even though St Albans is…not what it once was.”

For one moment, Nikolas mimicked Jennifer Armstrong’s cut-glass English vowels, and the imitation was so perfect Ben spluttered. Nikolas smirked and plucked the kaleidoscope from Ben once more.

He suddenly added privately in Ben’s ear, “I cannot imagine what we will do to pass a week in perpetual darkness, can you?”

Ben looked puzzled. “Watch TV?”

Nikolas snorted and began to walk back to their small family group.

Ben offered helpfully, “Read? I could finally get around to Peter’s book.” Nikolas handed Molly her new toy as Ben added, “Catch up on our sleep?”

He was still making useful suggestions when they got home, none of which Nikolas took up, as he’d worked out his own plan in the car and claimed he needed to make a start on it that night. As he said, practise for when it was dark all day.

Ben reckoned Nikolas didn’t need practise.

He was a natural.

* * *

Chapter Two

There was one distinct advantage of their new family lifestyle, Ben reflected, as they cruised at thirty thousand feet above the North Sea heading for Longyearbyen and the Svalbard airport—they could up and leave at very short notice and have plenty of volunteers to perform Radulf and house-sitting duty.

Squeezy and Tim were only too happy to be left on their own in their friends’ twenty-million-pound house, even if it came with a slightly incontinent, blind wolfhound.

As Squeezy was Radulf’s favourite person after Ben and Nikolas, the one he’d put the most training into, he was always more than happy to have him left in his care. Babushka and Enid being in the house, too, while theirs were being built in the grounds, only ensured that the two men were safe from Emilia and Miles, one who had a tendency to plague them to death with very interesting questions and one who thought they’d be tolerable when they grew up.

Ben and Nikolas packed and left them all to it.

Ben actually felt a sense of physical weight dropping off him as they boarded the plane. He grinned, staring down at the retreating ground as they took off.

Nikolas nudged him, not ostensibly looking at him. “I hope you brought your orange ski suit.”

Ben huffed. “The one that nearly got us killed in New Zealand?”

“It’s minus sixteen on Spitsbergen today. Please don’t visit any libraries.”

Ben chuckled and leant back in his seat. Sometimes it did seem as if their lives had been unduly burdened with calamity. Who knew? Perhaps everyone’s lives resembled theirs.

Nikolas added wryly, “I must remember to write and thank Peter.”

“For my Christmas present?”

“No, for my boyfriend. I think he’s back.”

Ben turned to Nik, as astonished to hear himself openly termed so, as for the implication that he’d been…absent. Nikolas shrugged, sensing the scrutiny, although he carried on reading his book.

Recently, Ben had found it very hard to talk to Nikolas about how he felt. He found it difficult to admit how constrained and constricted everything made him feel, because in doing so he’d inevitably have to touch on Molly Rose, on being a father…and, of course, Nikolas was no longer one of those…

Once again a shiver of horror rippled down Ben’s spine as he recalled the moment on the moors when Nikolas had killed his own son. Ben wasn’t religious by any means, but there was something almost Biblical in the wrongness of this. Even dying as he’d been, thinking his life with Nikolas was effectively over, Ben wouldn’t have wanted Nikolas to sacrifice his son to save him had he been given the choice. The shudder of dread came every time Ben remembered that day, because he feared some atonement might be required, some balancing of the scales. Fate. He’d always believed in fate, if not in God, and fate had a way of calling you to account just as easily as a righteous god.

So he couldn’t tell Nikolas of his doubts and fears about being a father, how he was selfish and not ready for the commitment. How he felt trapped by the responsibility, the inability for the first time in his life to simply pick up a bag and go, anywhere, everywhere, a free spirit. Now, he was ensnared. How could you say that to a man who had killed his son? Who had cut the very tether—fatherhood—that Ben felt imprisoned him?

Ben couldn’t say it, and the silence between them on this subject grew like nasty little air pockets of turbulence making the journey rough, inducing the occasional queasy sickness.

Ben knew Nikolas wasn’t one to mention suffering or pain either. He would make a huge fuss about a non-existent splinter, a sprained finger would have him lying awake at night complaining he’d never play the piano again, but snapping his son’s neck would not be spoken of. Ben wondered if Nikolas ever dreamed of Steven. It seemed worse somehow that he’d been a son—an almost identical copy of Nikolas and his brother. Nikolas had destroyed a living replica of himself.

He was curious whether Nikolas speculated on how complicit Steven had been in the attacks on them. Did Nikolas wonder whether his son had known who he was from the beginning? Perhaps he hoped that Anatoly, after seeing Nikolas for what he was, told the boy and poisoned him from that point on.

Ben knew the answers to these things, but he had not discussed them with Nikolas. Two could play the game of deception for the greater good. Nikolas had kept him from the darkness for years—rightly or wrongly, but always for the best of reasons as Nikolas had seen them. Ben was now returning this favour. He’d carry the burden of Steven now, not Nikolas. Nikolas had done enough. Ben was retiring him.

Ben had got all the information he’d wanted from the old man before he’d died. Anatoly had been tough, but he’d still been a man, and all men, in Ben’s experience, talked with enough encouragement.

Ben shifted in his seat, watching as the coast, a vague line visible through the clouds, passed beneath them. How much was his growing sense of confinement and unhappiness due to the events in London with Anatoly? The things he had done to the old man. The pleasure he had taken in those terrible acts…

A leopard cannot change its spots, of course, and Anatoly Aronofsky had shown his true colours many years before. But he’d also carried the power of martyred innocence, self-righteous fury at the lies General Aleksey Primakov had told to have him imprisoned. But who would have cared that he’d sodomised a ten-year-old boy? They hadn’t bothered much when it had been happening. Nikolas had fabricated evidence of fraud. They had respected money and that had put Anatoly away. And, innocent, Anatoly had burned with hatred. Ben could only guess at how easy it must have been to convince Steven that Aleksey was the source of all his woes.

“That’s why you can settle to nothing—you never had a father figure. That’s why your mother died—she’d been caught up in your father’s deceits. That’s why you’re so poor—even though your father is a billionaire…That’s why he’s rejected you his whole life—your father is mad. Your father is bad. Your father is gay…”

What would Nikolas do, though, if he knew Steven had been little more than a naive pawn of the old man’s twisted bitterness against Aleksey Primakov? If he told Nikolas that Steven had come to their door that first night believing his mother had just died of cancer, and that he had an uncle living in London who had been his father’s twin.

What really scared Ben was trying to decide if Nikolas would have done exactly the same had he believed Steven entirely innocent…if Steven had merely been with them that day on the moors…Nikolas desperately trying to reach Ben and prevent him from being sucked under…

Ben took a deep, sharp breath. He felt Nikolas give him a quick penetrating glance.

Ben knew he wasn’t unduly burdened by insight or deep thinking. Nikolas made sure he knew this, if he didn’t suspect it already. But it suddenly occurred to him that his sense of suffocating, being dragged down and trapped, had a very obvious provenance.

So, he carried all this dead weight by himself very willingly, for if it weighed him down, it left Nikolas lighter. If he could, he would give Nikolas wings so he could soar. Carrying a few bags for him until the time came when all burdens could be shed was the least he could do.

Ben looked out of the tiny cabin window at the darkness that surrounded them, the emptiness, the nothingness, and shivered at this thought—the end of all things.

He turned swiftly and plucked Nikolas’s book from his hands. “Do something to entertain me.”

Nikolas frowned. “That’s my line.”

Ben grinned. “Ack, we’re interchangeable.”

Nikolas began to chuckle and hid it behind one hand. Ben had used his dismissive expression, too. Nik pulled something out of his suit pocket and handed it to Ben. Ben took the folded paper, but held onto Nikolas’s hand for a moment, admiring the ring on his surprisingly elegant finger. As ever, Nikolas’s nails were manicured and perfect. He’d stopped a developing habit of digging at one cuticle until it bled. If that had been the only outward manifestation of the mania which had gripped him over Steven then Ben couldn’t fault him. The ring was fashioned from life’s hardships—bullets and pain—exactly like the man who wore it.

Nikolas tugged his hand back with a grunt.

They didn’t talk about the ring either. But Nikolas had not taken it off once, not to swim or shower. Ben could feel it sometimes when they made love, suspecting Nikolas engineered the moments when the ring grazed his skin, or was felt in other places, the hard metal between the friction of their flesh.

If he did, they never spoke of it.

He unfolded the piece of paper, for one moment his mind spinning away on possibilities—a confession? A declaration? It was a printout of the activities available at the luxury hotel. Nikolas had drawn two columns, one headed me and one Ben. Against each activity, ticks had been put in relevant columns.

Ben’s excursions included an overnight husky and sleigh adventure to a remote seaboard camp, ice fishing, a trip to observe and feed bears, and a ski trek to a glacier. Nikolas’s included…

“You haven’t ticked anything.”

Nikolas plucked it from Ben’s grasp and stowed it back in his pocket. “How much ice can one person see in a lifetime?”

“But this is polar ice. It’s different.”

A small smile ghosted Nikolas’s features. “I’ve seen polar ice.”

Ben was tempted to rummage in Nikolas’s pocket for the list. Not only because he wanted to tick Nikolas onto all his excursions but because he wanted to feel Nikolas’s hard chest beneath his fingers, share his warmth and…he shifted in his seat and heard an incredulous snort from his companion as Nikolas said under his breath, “Don’t worry. I’ve just added something to my mental list—someone.”

Ben dug him hard in the thigh, surreptitiously. “Most people would kill to visit Svalbard. You’re going to take the opportunity to do these things.”

Nikolas glanced innocently across the cabin, apparently watching the approaching stewardess, but said, as if he’d rehearsed the perfect timing, “I know Svalbard quite well. I was posted there once.”

The stewardess arrived, drinks were ordered, served, the usual chat occurred as Ben was recognised, discussed, but then he could ask when she moved down the aisle, “What the fuck?”

Nikolas nodded innocently.

He got another jab but then Ben reared back. “Oh, you’re doing a Miles and Emilia on me.”

“A what?”

“All those stories you tell them. They’re complete bullshit, but they think—”

“Ack, I blend fact and fiction seamlessly, you know that. I was on Spitsbergen—as we always call it.”

“We?”

“Hmm, the Danish diplomatic mission.” Nikolas hesitated uncharacteristically, then gave a rueful laugh and ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s not one of my greatest moments. I had just died. I was not myself.”

“What are you…? Oh, shut up, you’re making all this up.”

“I assure you I’m not. I had just become…Nikolas…if you see what I mean. You’ve never asked me how I managed to persuade all his friends and colleagues—and others, come to that—that I was my brother. It wasn’t easy.”

“You told me it was. You said—”

“On the contrary. I said initially persuading the Russians I was Nikolas and leaving Russia was easy. I never said anything about my reception when I got back to Copenhagen.”

“Oh.” Ben realised this was true. It did seem incredible now that he thought about it that a complete stranger wearing the face of Nikolas Mikkelsen had arrived back in Denmark and taken up his job, his life, without being suspected. He couldn’t have done it…stuck in a Nikolas facemask, he would have been discovered in a few moments. Where would he have gone? Who would he have spoken to? What was he supposed to know?

“Bloody hell.”

“Indeed.”

“What did you do? How did you pull it off?”

“Initially I claimed…how do you call it in the British army—battle shock? Combat stress?”

“PTSD?”

“Yes, because of Aleksey…the circumstances…”

“You faked…?”

“Confusion, sickness, loss of memory, inability to recognise faces…anything that suited me.”

“Good God.”

“Not so good. It got me posted to Spitsbergen for my health.”

“Oh, but that was…easy then?”

Nikolas laughed. “My fiancée didn’t think so.” He rode out the silence with an amused quirk of his eyebrow and even snatched back his book, as if he was about to return to it.

“Kristina.”

Nikolas frowned and thought about this for a while. “I think you are losing the plot a little, Benjamin. You need to concentrate more. I’m glad I am treating you to this holiday.”

“Okay, no, Kristina was your wife. And Peter Cameron is treating us both to this holiday.”

Nikolas ignored the latter part of Ben’s reply and said with some amusement, “Aleksey’s wife. I am Nikolas now, back in Denmark—do keep up.”

Ben’s eyes flew wide open. “You got back to Copenhagen and discovered Nikolas was engaged to be married.”

Nikolas chuckled. “I did. And lower your voice, please.”

“We’re speaking Danish, moron.”

“And I’m getting advice from the man who thought Denmark was full of windmills.”

“Are you doing the distracting thing?”

“Not at all! Did I not volunteer this information before you had to discover it in unfortunate circumstances—maybe bumping into her on an ice floe—and consequently stop speaking to me for days?”

“If you did, it’s only because it must reflect well on you and—”

Nikolas snorted. “Actually, it doesn’t. You should try it sometime.”

“Are you going to tell me this story or not?”

“See? I am entertaining you, exactly as you requested. Are you sitting com—?” Nikolas winced and laughed at another poke in his thigh. “So, I come back to Copenhagen. Fortunately, I had Nika’s wallet and his keys. From his clothes, you understand.” He hesitated for a moment but moved on. “They were waiting for me—his colleagues. I was too…distraught to speak with them, so they took me to my apartment. Nika’s. So far, so good. Then she turned up. Charlotte—Charlie.” He caught a look from Ben and added, “She was American. The daughter of a military officer in their embassy.”

“Did she…recognise you? Think you were…? I thought your brother was…?”

“A paedophile? Say it, Ben.”

“No, I was going to say…” He had been about to say that. He sank back a little in his seat. “She thought you were Nikolas?”

“She did. But I knew the deception would not extend to more than my face, which was identical to Nika’s. Our bodies—not so much.”

“He wasn’t scarred?”

“No, and he weighed more than I did, but he had very little muscle.” Nikolas paused as if deep in thought. “But he’d been away some months, six maybe? So it was possible these changes might have occurred. Not the scars though, as you say. Especially the burn ones. They took years to heal in the camps as they kept…” He waved vaguely, dismissing the pain of cigarette burns to a long-distant past. Then he smiled cheerfully. “So, I was in the interesting position of having to avoid sleeping with my very attractive fiancée. I acquiesced to the trip to Svalbard. Some ancient Danish king’s bones had been dug up from when it was our island and they needed to be handled…treated…returned…something ridiculous, anyway.”

“You really got into this diplomatic stuff, didn’t you?”

“It was a little more banal than the things I had been doing in Russia. But bones or no, an escape to Svalbard seemed ideal. I took as much of Nika’s paperwork as I could to study and went on the next available flight.”

“And Charlie?”

“Ah, yes, the delightful Charlie. It was unfortunate for her, I suppose, that she was American. It was particularly galling for me.”

“Because they won the cold war?”

“Don’t be stupid. We won the cold war, Ben.”

When Ben looked confused, he clarified amiably, “What do you think when someone says billionaire to you?”

“You?”

“Besides me. In general?”

“Oh, Russian.”

“Exactly. Wars are not won in the short term. It was always our strategy.”

“Uh-uh. Charlie?”

“World politics has never interested you much, has it my little…?” Nikolas winced at another hard jab. “So, Charlie followed me.”

“To Svalbard?”

“Yes. That’s why I was not so keen to visit again.

---ENDE DER LESEPROBE---