Death's Ink Black Shadow

by John Wiltshire

  Miles’s eyes widened then narrowed, and he slumped. “No.”

  Ben jerked back a fraction and was tempted to reply that he looked as if he did. Cautiously, he produced the cake he’d made earlier. Miles’s brows lowered. “You baked it?”

  “Yup. First one I’ve ever tried—for you guys. Nikolas doesn’t eat sugar or carbohydrates.”

  “No. I don’t either.”

  “I do.”

  Miles’s jaw dropped. “But you’re so…” He pouted a little, watching Ben cutting the cake and sliding the slices onto plates. He began to blush furiously. “Emilia said…” He toyed with a smear of chocolate on the counter. “She said Razer was…”

  “Razer?”

  “Oh, I mean Nikolas. That’s his…but she said he was, and you were…and I don’t understand. I asked Granny, but she said I’d understand when I was older.”

  Ben mimed desperation at Nikolas but there was convenient inattention from his other half. He responded carefully, “Sounds like a good plan to me—wait ‘til you’re older?” He saw a despairing expression sink into the boy’s features and added, “But you want to understand now…”

  Miles nodded eagerly. “Yes! I do. I have to, you see. If I understand things then…they won’t happen.”

  “Bad things?”

  “Yes! I mean, why do cars crash? See if everyone understood the physics involved in a crash they could avoid them. I have to know things.” Miles had finally made it up onto the stool and was now staring at Ben. “What if all the air ran out, do you see? That’s why we need to start thinking seriously about living on Mars—just in case.”

  “You and your grandmother, on Mars?”

  “Oh, yes, it’s entirely feasible, and she could even have a little garden. Mark Watney…Are you trying to distract me?”

  “Is it working?”

  “Not at all. Is it a secret thing? Like a secret identity?”

  Ben snorted. “For Nikolas it is, yes.” He focused once more on the group at the table. Nikolas was now observing him with Miles. Their gazes locked and for one moment there was nothing else, no one else, in the room. All Ben’s thoughts swooped and zeroed in on Nikolas, and he felt Nikolas’s doing the same with him. They gave each other wry smiles. It was the first time in weeks that he enjoyed the connection he always shared with Nikolas—had from the first moment he’d met him across a desk in Whitehall, despite what Nikolas might dispute about that claim.

  When he came back to the present, Ben discovered Miles wrinkling his nose in disgust at the looks they’d given each other. Ben was about to comment, forcibly, on this disdain, when the boy said gloomily, “You’re just gay. I thought it was going to be something really good—like you were both sleeper agents or something. Maybe androids. I know that’s a little unlikely, but it seemed to me that if I was an advanced robotics engineer, I’d make my prototype robots look like you two. Not me…”

  Ben leant his elbows on the counter and put his face close to the grubbier one. “If you were a British undercover operative on a secret mission, so secret that if it was compromised the government might fall, and you had to conduct this mission by living day to day, cheek by jowl with a Russian agent, what cover would you pick?”

  Miles narrowed his eyes. Then he opened them wide, and confided in a sotto voice, “Being gay.” He squinted at Nikolas. “That’s brilliant. You can go everywhere together. No one suspects a thing! Gosh, you do play your roles well. Do you have a gun?”

  Ben tapped the side of his nose. He heard Nikolas snort but ignored him.

  “Did you know that James Bond carries the gun Hitler committed suicide with?”

  “Well, similar. A Walther PPK?”

  “Similar?”

  “Yes, similar gun, not the same one. Not the actual one in the bunker that did the deed.”

  “Oh! I’ve always wondered how James got Hitler’s gun. It seemed such an odd coincidence.”

  “Always?”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve been researching guns forever. It’s important to know—”

  “Just in case.”

  Miles tapped the side of his nose, just as Ben had. “Exactly.”

  He needed help getting off the stool, but Ben lifted him, handing him a large slice of cake, which he was now very happy to take to the table and enjoy.

  Then he began to tell Razer off for feeding Radulf a piece of the chocolate icing. Nikolas listened to the lecture about proper nutrition for dogs and then began relating to the wide-eyed boy the effects of arsenic on dogs’ digestive systems, which was much gorier and more impressive than chocolate.

  Ben slapped Nikolas’s head as he came to the table with a final slice of cake for Emilia, and everyone, even Nikolas, laughed.

  Enid Toogood was admiring the gardens once more. Babushka, watching her, suddenly announced in her halting English, “Nicer more much France. Phat.” She shot off some more words in Russian to Emilia.

  Emilia suddenly clapped her hands. “Yes. Stay here for the week! Grandma wants you to stay with us!” She turned to Miles, and for a teenage girl who had recently expressed disdain bordering on contempt for anyone in the junior house, she did a good impression of an eager older sister, telling Miles about her horse, Mr Darcy, her house, and all the things they could do together.

  Babushka waved her hands. “I pretty house. Big house. More big me need. You rest me. Better than dead dog!”

  Ben and Nikolas seconded the invitation. Nikolas told Enid he’d teach Miles to shoot. There were plenty of sheep on the moors for target practise, apparently.

  Fortunately, she didn’t appear to hear this last thing as she was discussing the offer with Miles.

  They agreed. Very readily and happily as far as Ben could see. Perhaps the hundreds of miles she had just driven at no faster than fifty miles an hour influenced her decision.

  There was a moment of complete calm in the kitchen. Ben leant back and regarded everyone tucking in with relish to his cake, chatting about all the things they could do over the week. He glanced once more at Nikolas, expecting to see a similar satisfaction with the turn their lives had taken.

  Instead, just for the briefest of moments, he saw a man who appeared to be hearing once more the ghostly echoes of a long-lost innocence.

  § § §

  Nikolas got Miles and Enid Toogood settled into Babushka’s house.

  Ben, driving the little Morris into the garage, where it sat dwarfed by their Merc and slightly intimidated by the Maserati, was concerned about him. The sense that Nikolas was playing a part was even more noticeable when there were other people present. As Ben was completely shut off from him, he had to accept Nik’s outward appearance of nonchalance and his protestations that there was nothing wrong—that Ben was just imagining things, being ridiculous. He would have probed further, made more of a stand, but when they met back up and returned to the kitchen they discovered that Radulf, being blind, had apparently mistaken his food bowl, which was alongside the range at the back of the kitchen, with the plate holding the remains of the chocolate cake, which had been on the counter. An easy mistake to make, obviously. He was now throwing up and shaking, and didn’t even try to hide the vomit in Nikolas’s spare shoes, which he usually did.

  Nikolas heaved him into his arms. “Vet.”

  Ben ran to get the car, and they bundled him onto the backseat. Normally, Nikolas would have given the dog a metaphorical kick up the backside for stealing and eating cake, but given his insides were traumatised from the events of the day before, he was clearly taking the incident more seriously. He phoned ahead as Ben drove, Radulf wrapped back in his emergency red blanket once more.

  They carried him straight into the surgery, jumping any queue, mainly thanks to the impressive entrance they made. Both six four with a wolfhound slung between them, the awed residents of Ashburton with their pugs and caged cats could only watch with interest as the apparently dead dog was manhandled past them.

  As soon as Radulf was put upon the table, h
e revived.

  He managed a feeble retraction of his muzzle in warning at the vet. The vet was made of stern stuff. Heart rate normal, no bleeding, gums good colour. The thermometer came out of the drawer. The muzzle raised some more, accompanied by a rumble from the belly and visible fangs. The vet agreed with Radulf—absolutely no requirement to know what this dog’s temperature was. The offending instrument was returned to the drawer where it belonged.

  When it came time to leave, Radulf walked out by himself.

  Ben had a feeling the vet’s reputation would spread far and wide after this almost miraculous recovery.

  Nikolas appeared to be furious with the dog, returning to his earlier contention that he was a complete fraud. Ben was tempted to retort childishly that it takes one to know one, but he knew the tirade was Nikolas’s way of expressing his genuine worry that the dog had nearly been killed—again.

  Ben suggested they go to a pub and eat. One of his favourites, a few miles from Ashburton, had a huge log fire and wide hearth which could accommodate a recovering wolfhound—charlatan or not. He told Nikolas to guide Radulf to the best spot while he fetched some drinks and the menu. Nikolas muttered that if the bloody dog could see chocolate cake and a three-inch glass tube he could find the damn fire for himself.

  They settled into harmonious peace once Ben returned to the table with a beer for himself and a whole, unopened bottle of vodka for Nikolas.

  Food rarely cheered Nikolas up, he always seemed affronted by it, but alcohol always did. Ben relented from his usual keep-Nikolas-away-from-temptation stance and told him to have at the icy liquid.

  Nikolas did and became much more relaxed after a couple of hours, even willing to admit that they’d over-reacted a little to finding one vast dog had ingested one remaining crumb of cake.

  Ben watched the level in the bottle drop and when he judged the time just right he murmured, “We’re not going home until you tell me what is wrong, by the way. You know that, right?”

  Nikolas shrugged, a gesture that was beginning to cause Ben considerable annoyance. Before he could point this out, however, Nikolas replied, “What do you think is wrong, Ben? You tell me.”

  “Nothing! That’s what I’m trying to say! Nothing is wrong. Radulf is fine. We have Emilia and Molly Rose, bloody hell, we even have Miles Toogood now! Babushka, we’re all fine! All safe. And you have your son. Your son. What could possibly be wrong, Nikolas? This is the best it’s ever been!” Ben smelt coffee but clenched his jaw and allowed that there was actually a coffee pot simmering behind the bar.

  Again with the shrug, this time a very small, single-shoulder one. “Absolutely. There you go. Nothing wrong.”

  Ben leant back, exasperated. “You are impossible. Don’t shrug!”

  Nikolas didn’t. He polished off his vodka and poured another. “I think I will be completely Russian tonight.”

  “There’s still vomit to be cleared up in the kitchen, if you’re missing it.”

  “Ack. That’s your job.”

  Ben smiled. “Seriously. You have to relax. The universe isn’t always out to get you. Everything is good.”

  “Okay. If you say so then it must be. Vsego khoroshego.” Nikolas downed his drink in one.

  Ben narrowed his eyes. “That means good-bye.”

  Nikolas smirked. “Not at all.”

  Ben got no further conversation or sense out of him. Radulf, his standby to talk to, was asleep, so he got up and went to play darts with some locals.

  § § §

  They didn’t leave until closing time. It was dark. Radulf walked steadily to the car and climbed in with only a little help from Nikolas, which he was more than willing to lend with one boot.

  Nikolas wasn’t wholly drunk, but he wasn’t entirely sober either. Ben, who was driving, was disgustingly so and determined to make up for missing out on alcohol by indulging in another favourite hobby all night. Nikolas was in just the right mood for some serious fun.

  They took the main road back to the house, the A38 all but deserted at this time of night. Ben ducked down and glanced through the side window to the north, toward the moors. “Can you see the Northern Lights this far south?”

  “Of course not.”

  They drove on until their turn off and then a few miles more to the lane. Ben frowned and nudged Nikolas. “Wake up. Look. There it is again.”

  Nikolas grudgingly opened his eyes. He was silent for a moment but then said in a very calm voice, “Oh, no, Ben. That’s the house. It’s burning.” Before Ben could shout out his horror, Nikolas added in a thoughtful, almost pleased tone, “Unoriginal. How disappointing.”

  Ben was driving frantically, and thrust his phone at Nikolas to call 999.

  It wasn’t their house. Their house was reflecting the flames.

  The fire was in the grounds, in the trees.

  Ben crashed the off-roader onto the lawn and swerved around the vast rhododendron bushes that Enid Toogood had admired, and drove to the oak house, which was aflame.

  He tore out, running toward the conflagration, an arm over his face, terrible memories making him cry out in disbelief. Everything had begun with fire—Nate’s death precipitating his feelings for Nikolas…Horse Tor Manor burning down and allowing their new lives in this house…And now it was all ending.

  A window blew out on the top floor. Ben screamed Babushka’s name, Emilia’s. He heard a shout back and saw them climbing out of the kitchen window, both in nightclothes, both coughing.

  He sensed someone at his side. Nikolas. Nikolas began to walk toward the burning house. Ben seized his arm. “You can’t go in there!”

  Nikolas snorted and shook his hand off. “I’ve been in there for months,” and followed up his cryptic comment by kicking the front door down and plunging into the fire.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  When Ben followed Nikolas into the house, he realised the fire must have started at the back or the attic, for although they were in dense, black smoke, which seared his lungs as he breathed, the hallway and stairs weren’t actually burning yet. Nikolas was mounting the stairs ahead of him, his shirt off and wrapped around his face. Ben copied him, breathing easier through the warm, familiar smell of his own top.

  Nikolas had accompanied Mrs Toogood and Miles to the house, and appeared to know where they would be.

  Enid Toogood would be unable to escape unaided.

  She was physically unable to do so.

  Nikolas shouted for Miles and Ben heard an instant yell back.

  They staggered toward the sound. The bedroom was empty. Nikolas headed for the en suite and had to kick the door open. It had been blockaded on the inside with soaking wet towels at the base. Both Miles and his grandmother were sitting in the bathtub, also soaking wet, as Miles had apparently turned the shower on above them—warm water, as he was trying to tell Nikolas, so they wouldn’t get cold waiting. Hypothermia was as dangerous for burn victims as shock—didn’t he know that? The window was open wide.

  All in all, they were very secure in their wet, safe pod.

  Ben had the fleeting and very strange thought that if he did ever go to Mars he’d quite like Miles Toogood to accompany him.

  Nikolas lifted Mrs Toogood out of the bath as if she weighed less than the wet towels around her. He carried her to the window and appeared to be considering the drop. He smiled at something, and when Ben peered out he saw that Emilia and Babushka had driven the Merc under the window.

  It was an easy climb for Ben, and Nikolas handed Enid Toogood to him.

  Miles was more of a struggle to get out, but he was fortunate in his rescuers. Both he and Nikolas were well able to lift and pass him between them, even though, apparently, they weren’t using the best holds as advised by Junior Firefighters.

  The actual firefighters arrived too late to save the house.

  They’d arrived too late once to save a much larger property that had stood in the grounds. One of the firefighters had been present at that incident and clea
rly remembered Nikolas. He gave him a wide berth, anyway.

  Even Miles was quiet as they sat in the kitchen of the big house in the early hours of the morning. All that was now visible of the fire was a faint glow in the trees, which could have just been the sun rising in the east. It was hard to tell.

  Miles was giving Nikolas little glances. To Ben it appeared as if Nikolas was well aware of this and eventually he watched a tiny, odd exchange that puzzled him greatly. Miles opened his mouth to say something; Nikolas flicked him a tiny, negative shake; Miles returned an equally small nod of acceptance, and then they both began talking about inconsequential things.

  Emilia was texting her friends, regaling them, no doubt, with exaggerated accounts of the fire. Her phone, a gift from Nikolas the previous year, was the only thing to emerge from the house with the four humans, as she’d been texting in bed and had shoved it into her dressing gown pocket as she’d fled.

  They all seemed in accord that it was the best way to have things. Possessions could be replaced. People could not.

  Enid Toogood also seemed to have something on her mind.

  They didn’t find out what it was until later that morning when Miles had been persuaded to go to bed.

  She told Nikolas that Miles had nearly died that night because of her—because he wouldn’t leave her. That he’d put her in the bath and sealed the room and had sat there waiting with her, telling her how fortunate they were that he’d been studying life without air—that they could test some of his new theories.

  She was a liability.

  She didn’t see how she could continue to be all Miles had in the world when it didn’t seem to have occurred to him yet that she would not live to see colonies on Mars.

  § § §

  By the afternoon, the remains of the house were safe enough for them all to return to. Nothing could be salvaged. Emilia immediately claimed she’d never been happy with the blood red and black she’d chosen for her bedroom. Babushka agreed, through her granddaughter’s translation, that all her old things from Russia needed burning. She much preferred new things and, besides, most of her treasured family mementoes were still in Siberia, she could always have them shipped, if she wanted them. They all ignored the contradictions in what she said, and Ben realised they were putting on a brave face—for Nikolas.