The Bruise_Black Sky

by John Wiltshire

  Peter wanted to create the impression that, if he could, Oliver Whitestone would have had a lot to say to his eight-year-old self.

  Ben couldn’t help but see the parallels with his own life. Eight. What would he say to his mute, eight-year-old self? Run? Keep running? Maybe if he got his timing right, he could go back before his mother was taken from him, and then he could have said the same to her. Run! Keep running!

  They filmed him walking into the schoolyard and standing with the children over twenty times. Sure, it was the first day of shooting and everyone was settling in with new equipment, new colleagues, shaking out. But twenty times! Look over. See the kids. Walk over. Stand and observe them. How hard was that? It was freezing, too, and a couple of times it had started to snow, so that had ruined the continuity or something. They would go for a take the next day, Peter said.

  Hayden had spent the day hanging upside down, so he was slightly more manic than usual that evening, so when he said to Ben, “Did you see the dithfrit?” Ben put it down to too much blood in the brain and ignored him.

  They were all eating together in the catering tent, which was being warmed by space heaters. Most of the Kiwi crew had apparently never experienced heating before, so were edged over to one side, muttering. The American crew and Ben, therefore, had the benefit of it to themselves. The food was exceptionally good, which rather threw Ben’s diet plans. It was all very well not eating when you had to do all the cooking, but not eating when someone else made sticky toffee pudding with custard, just because you were “British” and they were under the mistaken impression the “British” ate either that or spotted dick whenever they got the chance, was too good an opportunity to miss. Besides, he’d been standing in the cold all day. He deserved the calories.

  Tuning out Hayden and his incomprehensible accent was one thing, ignoring his young American assistant when she said in a whisper, “Hayden’s not to know,” was something else.

  “Sorry, what?”

  “About the death threat. Don’t tell Hayden.”

  Peter, who had just sat down, rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Bev. It was Ben not Hayden you weren’t to tell.”

  She appeared genuinely mortified, seemed to realise there wasn’t much she could do to make the situation better, so left. Ben gave Peter an enquiring, expectant brow raise.

  Peter shook his head and took his time lighting a pipe, an affectation he made much of, tamping and puffing until he was happy with it. “Oliver started receiving death threats on the show as soon as he started on the Wars. They continued right though until…well, until they weren’t making any fucking sense, given he was dead. New one was sent to my office in LA last night.”

  “Death threats? Why? Who?”

  Peter looked askance. “Why the hell some freako shit sends death threats? I don’t know, Ben. I didn’t know then, and I sure as hell don’t know now. Gina—my ex—saw the ones Ollie got. Scared the shit out of her. Said Oliver should stand down as Yoshi. Was all for writing him out of Season Two.”

  “Is that why he killed himself? I never read about this on the web!”

  “No, we never released the details. Some exec high up in the studio didn’t want litigation from the crazy if we implied his threats drove Ollie to fucking kill himself. But this is just insane now.”

  “So I’ve had a death threat from the same guy who might legitimately think he succeeded the first time round? Might be willing to go the extra mile on this one?”

  Peter seemed to need to think about the implication in his question for an oddly long time. He finally narrowed his eyes and waved his assistant over. “Get onto Billy-Ray. I want bodyguards on set tomorrow. Got me?” She nodded and scurried off.

  Peter began to reassure Ben that he was totally safe.

  Ben realised Peter had missed his point entirely—he was thinking, Bring it on, psycho. You’re not dealing with an actor now. He almost relished the challenge.

  Peter giving out imperious orders to Billy-Ray was impressive, but even the man who had single-handedly saved the New Zealand economy with his film about a crashed humanoid alien who had changed the course of Maori history by bringing them futuristic technology, which had been filmed entirely in-country, could not have bodyguards on set within a few hours just because he wanted them.

  A firm had to be contracted, suitable candidates assessed and recruited and then flown to New Zealand. It all took time. Ben only knew all this because production was halted until they had the necessary security to continue.

  Ben and Hayden got to go skiing every day.

  It was a strange life.

  They managed to get the one scene of Oliver watching the children at play in the can before they stopped filming. As Peter pointed out, the local kids would soon break for their winter holiday, and the school would be empty.

  There were now long hours of hanging around with the same faces, day in and day out. A little over a week after the threat had been received, a minibus arrived with four men on board. Peter took one as his personal bodyguard, two were allocated to the general cast and crew, and one was assigned specifically to Ben.

  Ben eyed up his new bodyguard with some interest.

  They were going to spend a great deal of time together, after all. He’d been hoping he’d be an ex-soldier so they had something in common.

  The man was, he said.

  Not American?

  No, he confirmed. Not American.

  Peter was buzzing around, directing everyone, trying to get back on track, so Ben couldn’t say as much as he wanted.

  The man said to call him Bronislav.

  For that’s what he was.

  Ben just nodded and replied, stonily, “You can call me sir.”

  Bronislav didn’t hesitate. “Yes, sir.”

  §§§

  Bronislav was impressive. Ben had to give him that. He looked like a bodyguard, but, more importantly, he actually acted like one. He didn’t stand around in sunglasses, flexing his muscles, but within an hour he had every single person on set logged, checked out, and was monitoring anyone new arriving or leaving. He was apparently taking his duties guarding Ben very seriously.

  Film sets were intensely busy places. Ben was never on his own. Ever. He was always surrounded by people fidgeting with him, so even if he had wanted to speak with Bronislav that first day, he didn’t get a chance to privately. What they said to each other had to be done surrounded by twitching wardrobe and makeup assistants or hair stylists—although how the hell you could style a shaved buzz was beyond him.

  His new bodyguard needed a haircut and a shave.

  He appeared as a man who had gone through and come out the other side of hell, Ben’s assistant claimed. He found this comment rather surprising, but, studying Bronislav that day when he got the chance, he supposed he could see this. The tall, scarred man was gaunt and had a week’s heavy beard, which was grey, making it difficult to judge his age. He scared the crew, that was for sure, and they avoided him. Hayden, however, said he was awesome and followed him around.

  Everyone was rather taken aback at the dedication of this new bodyguard. Impressed but surprised. The other three men who’d been recruited hung around far more ex-soldier like—posing in their shades and chatting everyone up for free coffee. Ben’s bodyguard was so sharp that when one local approached him to ask for an autograph, the man was taken down, literally, into the snow, and apologies had to be made—by Ben. Bronislav didn’t do apologies, apparently. He watched Ben like a mountain lion observing a wild mustang—more like predator with prey than protector with one to be preserved. But as Ben reassured his young assistant, when she nervously pointed this resemblance out to him, what better defense for any wild creature than to have the most skilled and ferocious of all predators wanting him and willing to fight off rivals for him? She didn’t appear to get this and hastened off, writing something on her clipboard.

  §§§

  Ben’s trailer had become his place of refuge.

  And
once he was in it, he could stop pretending he knew what he was doing and being something he patently was not.

  He didn’t see, therefore, why his bodyguard felt he needed to stay in there with him—at least until dark, he said, when the crew retired to the local motel.

  They sat opposite each other across the small table, regarding one another.

  Ben wasn’t quite sure how he’d pulled it off.

  He’d left him moping in Devon less than two weeks ago, and now here he was, having apparently discovered a death threat that had not been known outside Peter Cameron’s LA offices, joined a personal security firm under yet another assumed identity, been recruited for this job in the States, and then flown all the way to Paradise.

  No wonder he hadn’t had time to shave.

  “Hello, Nikolas.”

  Nikolas nodded back. “Hello…sir.”

  §§§

  Ben found out fairly easily how Nikolas knew about the death threat—he’d been monitoring all Peter Cameron’s emails, or Kate had, on his behalf.

  What confused Ben slightly more was that Nikolas refused his weary capitulation and gesture to the bed. “No, that’s not why I’m here. I can’t guard you if I’m in bed with you.”

  “Huh? What?”

  Nikolas’s gaze didn’t falter. “I didn’t come here because it amused me to see your expression when I got off the bus.” He suddenly leant forward. “What do you know about these threats?”

  “Not much. We’re a bit isolated here, as you may have noticed. Someone sent an email to Peter’s office in LA. They think it’s the same as the ones sent to Oliver before—which is insane.”

  “No, the insane thing is that Peter Cameron didn’t tell you the history of this before he persuaded you to do this thing. This wasn’t just some troll on a blog, Ben. It was a very real and direct threat. Did he show it to you?”

  “I only found out by mistake. Look, Nik—” Nikolas pulled a folded photograph out of his pocket and smoothed it open on the table.

  Ben picked it up, studying it. He placed it back down. “Okay. That changes things.”

  Nikolas nodded. “So, this is not for my amusement, Ben, or because I am so sad I couldn’t have us apart.” He tapped the piece of paper. “This is not going to happen.”

  Ben lowered his eyes to the simple sheet once more. It had been done like a storyboard, a graphic novel. The first shot was of him standing on the lakeshore when he’d arrived in Paradise. It appeared to have been taken by a telephoto lens from across the lake on the snow-covered mountains. He’d been told the mountain range was entirely inaccessible—no roads in or out. It was a common feature of the mountains in New Zealand. But that’s where the photo had been taken. The series of shots then proceeded to show Ben’s death, although, of course, it wasn’t him, but Oliver in his role as Yoshi seamlessly blended by Photoshop, so which one eventually ended up bloodied and dead on the pebbles was anyone’s guess. It was utterly chilling. Ben supposed actors had to get used to seeing themselves dead. It wasn’t something he’d ever thought about before and didn’t like it when it happened to him. Nikolas clearly didn’t appreciate it either. He had to agree with Nikolas’s assessment that this hadn’t just been sent by some nutjob on day release.

  Ben suddenly had a sure and certain conviction of how Nikolas’s two weeks had been—being sent this by Kate and taking action so swiftly and decisively that he apparently hadn’t even—“When did you last eat?”

  “What? That’s irrelevant. I don’t remember.”

  Ben went to the small fridge in the trailer and pulled out some sandwiches, handing them to Nikolas. He was dismayed to see that Nikolas wolfed them down. There was a first time for everything apparently.

  When he was done, Nikolas stood. He swayed a little so sat back down, but muttered, “I have to go.”

  “Go? Go where?”

  “I told you, I can do nothing effective sitting in here!”

  “You’re going to…what? Patrol? In the snow? In the dark? On your own?”

  “Yes! Fucking hell, Ben!” He screwed up the piece of paper and threw it at Ben, not viciously, but clearly out of sheer frustration. “He could have had a sniper rifle! I could have hit you at that range! I could have had that news instead of seeing this. God doesn’t send us two warnings to be cautious, Ben. Therefore let us not sleep as others do, but let us watch and be sober. You should know this!”

  Ben came over to Nikolas’s chair. He perched on the arm and then very cautiously wrapped Nikolas in his embrace, propping his chin on the golden hair. He smelt very odd.

  All day, the crew had been whispering about the terrifying, gaunt, scarred man with a messianic fervour who appeared to be stalking Ben more than protecting him. He had thought they were all entirely missing the point—he’d just seen Nik amusing himself yet again with his plans and schemes. He now understood that the crew had been closer to the truth.

  “Nik?” He felt a small jerk. Nikolas had drifted off in that slight moment of respite. Ben tightened his hold. “How did you think I would take this…you coming here and telling me what to do when I specifically—?”

  “I don’t care what you say or think, Ben. I know you’ll fight me every step—”

  “Hey, hush. If I promise that I will do everything you say, the minute you say it, that I will let you make every decision, no matter how annoying you become, will you sleep and eat for a few days first? That’s our bargain. You can’t protect me like this. You’ll make a mistake. What would you do if something happened to me because you made a mistake?”

  Nikolas rested back into Ben’s hold, tension slipping out of his body little bit by little bit. “I would die.”

  It might have sounded theatrical in other circumstances, but not then. It was a truth born of exhaustion and stress, but no less genuine for that. Ben began to stroke Nikolas’s face, his fingers combing through the heavy beard. “Then, please—sleep, eat, sleep, and eat again. Two days downtime, Nik. Just two days, and then I’ll do anything you say.” He continued grazing his fingers through the grey tangle. There was no answer.

  Nikolas was asleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Nikolas eased his eyes open on the third day of his arrival in New Zealand and saw that it was snowing, and for one moment wondered if they’d had a freak summer snowstorm. Then he remembered and woke fully.

  He’d followed through on his agreement with Ben, and since passing out on him in the armchair three days ago, he’d done nothing but eat and sleep—neither of which he’d done for more than a week before arriving—he just hadn’t had time.

  He had decided to give himself a respite from planning too, possibly for the rest of his life. Although it was his second favourite activity, even he had been taxed by the organising it had taken to get him to where he was now.

  §§§

  Kate had been hysterical when she’d sent him the photos.

  He’d allowed her a few moments show of concern for Ben, although Ben’s name had not been mentioned between them since the incident six months previous.

  She’d attached the threat to an email, warned him about its contents, but even so, he had clicked on the attachment and seen the death of Benjamin Rider-Mikkelsen played out in front of him with a horror no preparation could alleviate. He didn’t recall all of the following few days—it had been a blur of travel and strange hotel rooms in which he hadn’t slept, but paced, thinking. Why didn’t he just get on a plane and protect Ben simply by being there, why the charade?

  Because how would they explain that to anyone? This is Nikolas. He’s…he’s…There was only one answer to that, to justify why anyone would fly halfway around the world to be with someone, one man with another man, and that explanation wasn’t wanted, wasn’t allowed…

  So, he’d contacted the personal security firm Peter Cameron was using, flown to LA, and attended an interview under a hastily organised new identity. Kate had been on the east coast and couldn’t meet with him, but she’d sent
the forged ID. Yuri Bronislav.

  The interview hadn’t gone well at first. No, he had no qualifications. No, he had no experience as a bodyguard other than being a soldier. He’d sensed his plan failing. He was exhausted already and didn’t even know what day it was. He was desperate. Finally, he’d risen from his chair and contemplated the three people interviewing him. He could hear, “Thank you, we’ll be in touch,” just about to issue from their lips. He ripped open the door and eyed the other candidates waiting quietly in their shiny suits in the outer room. Six young men—much younger than he felt. They looked fit, ready for action, slightly glamorous, as if they were being hired to play bodyguards, rather than actually be bodyguards. He guessed it was the LA disease.

  He turned, chose the young woman out of the three HR people who’d been questioning him, and strode up to her, seizing her arm. “Come.”

  “What—?”

  He pointed at the six, now slightly uneasy, men. “Which one are you going to choose to save your life? Now! Choose!” He moved behind her, his arm across her throat. He felt her swallow against the muscle in his forearm. She pointed. She needn’t have worried—all six rose at once. Perhaps they thought it was part of their interview—audition…They took their roles seriously and did their best. Six on one. It should have been easy, but they were facing the man who thought Ben Rider-Mikkelsen was about to die, so they really hadn’t stood a chance.

  When he was done, she had told her colleagues to hire him. When they demurred, she kicked one of the unconscious young men in the thigh. “You can have this pile of shit. I want him.”

  He got the job.

  Then he’d flown back to England, finished arrangements with the house, the dog, the horses, all the time his desperation to be with Ben burning within him, and then he’d boarded the plane at Heathrow, in jeans and the only clean shirt he could find, a few things stuffed into an old army duffle—and discovered he’d been booked into economy.

  He’d never even walked through cattle class. He’d sat in the back of an Antonov An-22, strapped sidewards, full kit, ready to deploy, sixteen hours. This was worse. These seventeen and a half inch wide seats weren’t meant for men six foot four, even one who hadn’t eaten for a week. He had a window seat, which was something, no one yet next to him or in the aisle seat. That was good. He monitored this situation as the plane began to fill, checking his watch, planning. A man appeared in the aisle, coming towards him, boarding pass in his hand, glancing up at the row designations.