Death's Ink Black Shadow

by John Wiltshire

  Tim added quite easily, “Book reading? The Lecture on climate change? Oh, the English National Ballet Lest We Forget, remember? That was…incredible. The murder-mystery weekend. That was fun.”

  Squeezy chuckled. “Glastonbury. You old rocker, you.”

  “Glyndebourne.” Tim laughed at Squeezy’s theatrical shudder.

  Ben stood up and went to the window, his back to them, then he turned and flung himself into his seat again, glaring at Squeezy. “Galleries? Ballet? Seriously? You’re trying to tell me you go—?”

  “With my little ethical fuck-buddy, yeah, I do. He wants to go, I go. It’s what people do, Ben! He’s done his fair share of watching boxing and cage fighting—”

  Tim kicked him in outrage. “I have not. Stop teasing him.”

  Squeezy smirked. “So how come Nikolas is doing all this with Steven and not with you? Huh? You ever thought about that?”

  “You think he’s…what? With…?”

  Tim put his head in his hands, shaking it despairingly. “No, he’s not sleeping with his son, Ben. He’s just being entirely uncharacteristic with him. That’s what we’re trying to say. He’s…it’s like he’s acting a part.”

  “Yes!” At last! They agreed with him! Ben swallowed his mouthful quickly. “See, like the damn film we’ve just watched. Or I was thinking it’s like maybe he’s read a book How to Be a Good Father kind of thing? Because he isn’t sure and is trying too hard?” He leant back quite pleased his friends saw it his way. He frowned at Squeezy’s eye roll. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Do you know that expression ‘Not just a pretty face’?”

  “Of course.”

  “Doesn’t apply to you.”

  Before Ben could object to this, Squeezy added, “He’s behaving totally uncharacteristically and you’re not worried. He’s shut you out and you have no idea whatsoever what he’s thinking, but you’re not worried. He has a slight tendency to lie, but you’re not worried. Fuck, Diesel, wake up and smell the coffee.”

  It rather put paid to the rest of the evening.

  Ben and Radulf left—Radulf out of support for Ben, although it was fairly clear to everyone that he would have been more magnanimous and let Squeezy’s comment go. There had been a lot of leftover Chinese food, and someone might have been needed to help out with it.

  § § §

  Ben mulled over this strange evening for many days after that.

  He watched Nikolas more carefully than he usually did—in a more critical way. Instead of just admiring how his jeans sat low on his hips, how muscular his arms were when seen in a T-shirt, how his (suspiciously) blond hair shone in the sun, Ben now observed him to see if what Squeezy said was true—that he was shutting Ben out of his thoughts.

  And even if he were, was this something he should be concerned about? Nikolas was busy enjoying himself with his son.

  Ben didn’t have it in his nature to be rude, especially not to his friends, but he had been tempted to point out that he and Nikolas had been living together openly for six years, and another four before that in secret. Ten years said more than fucking ballet in his mind. Or Glastonbury, come to that. Tim had failed a long-term relationship because he’d fucked around. Squeezy…well…

  He and Nikolas had been entirely faithful and committed to each other all these (long) years.

  Whose relationship was better?

  Fuck them.

  Ben studied Nikolas with Steven, he saw what he wanted to see and decided that, for once, he’d listen to his heart and mind and not some fucking inner voice which was probably only telling him he was jealous.

  Ben chuckled. He had the sudden and very worrying image of Nikolas on a murder-mystery weekend.

  § § §

  Nikolas went to a lecture at Gresham College—Ethics in War, something he maintained Ben ought to be interested in attending. Ben had I Spit On Your Grave, the remake, lined up for the evening, so they’d agreed to disagree. Bugger Squeezy and his views on relationships. Ben would rather ask Radulf for advice. He’d rather be in a relationship with Radulf.

  The film had just gotten really entertaining when Ben heard the front door open. He poured another glass of wine for Nikolas and swung his legs off the couch. Nikolas didn’t like the kind of movies Ben watched—which was odd, Ben often thought, as much of Nikolas’s life played out in the torture, war, exploitation, and violence of fiction he enjoyed—but he liked twisting up on the couch with Ben and drinking wine. He usually managed to find something that needed commenting on—some technical error, usually in the torture scenes, that he was willing to correct.

  This time, however, he didn’t appear.

  Ben pressed pause, chuckling to himself at the buttock left naked and poised indefinitely on the screen, and went into the kitchen.

  Nikolas was pale. He was sitting at the table, staring into the gloom beyond the patio doors. Ben instantly recalled him in a similar position the night he’d crouched in the courtyard, hidden from the illumination inside. Then, despite the fact he thought Nikolas might have cheated on him with Jackson Keane, all he’d wanted to do was go to him and squeeze the sadness out.

  He could now.

  He went up to the silent figure and hugged the blond head to his chest. “Good lecture?”

  Nikolas nodded. “Good movie?”

  “Yup.”

  “Lots of rape and torture?”

  “Loads. What’s wrong?”

  “Anatoly was there.”

  Ben let Nikolas go and sat down alongside him. Nikolas was still contemplating something in the darkness outside. Or possibly that which he held inside, Ben realised.

  “How did—?”

  “Stefan brought him along. Wanted me to meet him. He’s in London for some business meetings.”

  “Wanted you to meet him?” It seemed safer to do a repeat thing than try anything original. Anatoly.

  Nikolas nodded and glanced meaningfully at the kettle. Ben got up dutifully and switched it on. Against the reassuring hiss, he murmured to the back of Nikolas’s head, reasoning it through, “Steven doesn’t know you’ve already met.”

  He heard a bitter laugh, and Nikolas replied, turning to face him, “Neither does Anatoly.”

  Ben thought about this for a moment.

  Anatoly had known Aleksey.

  Known him far too well as far as Ben was concerned. “Fuck.”

  Nikolas smiled, a slightly more amused look than the falseness of his earlier humour. “That’s exactly what I thought.”

  “Did you…what did you say to him?”

  “Good question. What do you say to the man who…? Fortunately they were late. The lecture was beginning, and then he was called away before the end. We had a very brief introduction.”

  “You didn’t actually hear anything of the lecture, did you?”

  Nikolas shrugged, and Ben saw a world of hurt in the gesture.

  “Let’s go home tomorrow. Let Steven enjoy his grandfather while he’s in London…” Ben frowned, a terrible thought crossing his mind. “You don’t think he used to…with Steven?”

  Nikolas took the tea Ben offered him and set it carefully on the table, lining it precisely with the mat, his face a study of repressed emotion. “Stefan told me that he knew him only a little as a boy—Kristina adored her father but never left him alone with her son.”

  “So she did believe what Gregory told her then—what he’d done to you?”

  “Apparently. Possibly. Maybe she just thought he was…” Nikolas trailed off and closed his eyes for a moment then rose and held out his hand. “Come to bed. I don’t want to think about this anymore tonight.”

  “I haven’t finished my film.”

  “She catches them, tortures them, kills them, and all is then well. It is Hollywood, Ben. It has fuck all to do with real life.”

  Ben watched him as he left the kitchen and didn’t call him on his cynicism. Nikolas, he knew, had more right than anyone to be cynical about evil men ge
tting their just desserts.

  For many reasons.

  § § §

  Living the privileged lifestyle they did, early mornings were rarely something they had to worry much about. Ben often took his run before Nikolas was awake, but he’d noticed that his leaving time was gradually slipping, and the next day he didn’t actually emerge from the bedroom until nine. Nikolas was sprawled across the bed diagonally, clearly aware Ben was leaving but not acknowledging the fact. He probably wouldn’t surface until Ben returned with a cup of tea and the morning papers.

  Ben resisted the temptation to return to the rumpled sheets and with a twitch of his lips, clicked his fingers for Radulf.

  Radulf, ever on I’m-being-allowed-into-the-bed alert was up the stairs and under the duvet before Ben had finished calling him. He took up more room than Nikolas.

  Ben jogged down the stairs two at a time. As he opened the door, a figure raised its hand to knock, so he almost found a fist in his face.

  Apologies were made, English politeness to the fore, until Ben heard the name Anatoly Aronofsky.

  It took all of Ben’s considerable strength of character not to react to this name. He hadn’t realised until that moment just how much Nikolas’s story of what this man had done had affected him. He guessed it was just one of the many disadvantages of being in love—you got to suffer two lots of pain and misery.

  Instead of doing what he wanted to do, however, Ben stood back and welcomed the old man in.

  The resemblance to Nikolas’s old friend Gregory was shocking and almost funny. The man was stereotypically Russian—large, hard and brutish, despite the diminishing of age. Ben wondered, as he politely offered the man a seat while he went to fetch Nikolas, whether there were any other kinds of Russians—small, insignificant, dweeby ones.

  Nikolas was dressed.

  He hadn’t showered and appeared rumpled. He’d obviously heard the voice.

  For one moment, as he glanced up at Ben from pulling on his shoes, he looked more like the little boy who’d first encountered Anatoly than a man approaching half a century of life. It was pitiful, Ben reflected, how these kinds of hurts never went away. If there was a moment when Ben felt he could break through the shell Nikolas had erected around his thoughts, this was it—had Ben been admitting, of course, that there was any reason why he should want to do this, which he wasn’t.

  He went up to Nikolas and embraced him, but then punched him lightly in the side, which he knew Nikolas would appreciate more, given the circumstances. It did make Nikolas laugh and he ran his fingers through his hair to smooth it. “How do I look?”

  Ben wobbled his hand.

  Nikolas narrowed his eyes.

  “Terrifying?”

  “That’ll do.”

  They left their magnificent guard dog snoring and went down the stairs together.

  Nikolas actually took a breath before he entered the kitchen. He then went toward the other man with his hand extended. Anatoly rose and took it politely. He said something in Russian, but Nikolas interrupted quickly, “English, please, I have rarely used Russian since I was a teenager at school, and I am very rusty.”

  Anatoly bowed his head a little in acknowledgement of this, but added in English, “Forgive me. I am sure I am not the only one who finds it hard to remember that you are not General Aleksey Primakov, but Nikolas, his twin.”

  Nikolas copied the other’s gesture with a small dip of his head, agreeing to the slightly fatuous comment and went to put the kettle on. This alone led Ben to notice just how tense Nikolas was. Nikolas never bothered himself with domestic chores if he could get away with it.

  Ben then realised for the first time that he was in shorts and a T-shirt. He gestured to Nikolas that he was going to change, but stayed where he was when he saw the quick, veiled flash of need for him in Nikolas’s eyes. He enjoyed an inappropriate glow of pleasure from the evidence of his importance and joined the visitor at the table. Fuck Squeezy and his stupidity. English National Ballet? Pussy.

  When they all had tea, something no conversation around a table in England was possible without, Nikolas enquired politely, “Are you in London for long?”

  Anatoly, who was staring intently at Nikolas, replied, “I was not intending to be, but circumstances have changed, and I plan to be here for some time now.”

  He didn’t elucidate on these apparent alterations to his schedule, and Nikolas didn’t press.

  Ben asked, “Are you staying with Steven?”

  Anatoly swivelled his gaze to Ben. His face was tight, Ben suddenly realised, and he wondered if this man had decided to have work done. He tried to calculate how old he must be. Nikolas had been ten when they’d first met. Anatoly had been a political officer, a friend of Sergei’s, so he must have been at least thirty? Although, Ben had to concede that advancement did seem very rapid in the Soviet system if you had favourable contacts. Nikolas had left Russia when he was in his early thirties, but he’d risen to the rank of general in just ten years after he’d left prison—albeit an honorary rank to support his role in illegal intelligence. As far as Ben could tell, Nikolas had never attended a promotion course or taken an exam in his life. Ben had. One. But it wasn’t unheard of even for proper officers to be so swiftly promoted—both Enoch Powell and Michael Calvert had reached the equivalent rank in the British army, Brigadier, at just thirty.

  So, Anatoly had possibly been in his late twenties when he’d first met Nikolas. Nikolas had just turned forty-seven. So that put Anatoly in his late sixties or early seventies at the very least, perhaps older.

  “Yes.” The word startled Ben, his thoughts far away to another time when this man must have been young and vigorous with appetites to match.

  Suddenly, Anatoly turned his attention back to Nikolas who’d been studying him with just as much as concentration as he’d been given before.

  Ben wondered what he was thinking. What were you supposed to think when confronted with a man with whom you had such a tangled history? And how ironic was it that the man Nikolas had apparently had a relationship with his whole adult life in Russia had tried to have him killed in this kitchen, but this man, who had abused him, sat here now drinking tea? Ben often reflected that Nikolas had his priorities confused. This sort of confirmed it for him.

  Suddenly, Anatoly chuckled. “Do you remember what I told you once? When your father confiscated your gun. I think you were twelve, maybe thirteen? Learn this useful lesson—everything eventually gets taken away from us, even life.”

  Nikolas swallowed, a visible and seemingly unconscious gesture of stress, which, Ben was very glad to see, wasn’t otherwise apparent on his features. These remained calm and composed. “I’m Nikolas. We never met when I was a child.”

  Anatoly smiled. His teeth were perfect. “On the contrary, we did meet. You were home with your brother at the end of term. I believe the following day you were leaving for Denmark. Aleksey, of course, was staying with Sergei.”

  Nikolas licked his lips again. Before he could comment, the other man continued, “You and Aleksey had argued about something. Possibly the ownership of the gun. You were sulking. I came across you in the grounds, and we walked and…talked…for a while. Do you not recall?”

  Nikolas appeared to be resisting the temptation to glance at Ben. He shook his head, apparently giving himself just a moment more to fashion a lie. “I’m sorry. I don’t recall ever meeting you. In fact, I don’t recall ever returning to the house with Aleksey. I always left for the holidays from school. It had been agreed. With my grandfather…” It wasn’t one of his best deceits, which made Ben realise that it was probably the truth for once. Nikolas couldn’t remember Nika ever at the house with him after his brother’s initial arrival from Aeroe and subsequent unfortunate introduction to his father’s predilections.

  Anatoly smiled a little and shrugged. “It was a long time ago. Perhaps I am mistaken. Aleksey pretended to be his brother many times. He found it amusing, I think.” He winked. “I th
ink Sergei encouraged this! Isn’t that delightful? Perhaps it was Aleksey after all. So, we meet for the first time here in London and at a lecture about ethics. How intoxicating life is. Always surprises. This is good. I have heard much about this wonderful uncle from my grandson. He is very much taken with you.”

  Nikolas nodded. “Family. Is it not said that a happy family is but an earlier heaven?”

  Ben frowned a little at this. Nikolas didn’t believe in heaven.

  At the innocuous comment, Anatoly turned his attention away from Nikolas and for the first time fully to Ben. He gave him a quick once over, making Ben feel incredibly self-conscious, dressed as he was only in a running vest, all his impressive muscles, he knew, on show. Then he shook himself. It wasn’t possible that every single man he met in his life was gay and consequently impressed by his beauty and his body. Besides, from what he knew of this old man, his tastes ran in quite another direction. “You are…I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Ben Rider-Mikkelsen.”

  Ben didn’t always use his preferred name. Sometimes, for Nikolas’s sake, when Nikolas was silently and invisibly squirming with embarrassment on meeting someone new, Ben took pity on him and introduced himself as Ben Rider. But he felt like pissing his scent on Nikolas in front of this old man, so he did. He saw the flicker of something unpleasant in the slightly rheumy eyes—old hands, old eyes gave lie to the taut skin—so he added aggressively, “I’m Nikolas’s boyfriend.”

  Anatoly nodded sagely. “That explains much Aleksey always said about his brother. He liked discussing such things. At certain times.”