Conscious Decisions of the Heart

by John Wiltshire

  The salesman didn’t appear surprised Ben wanted the petrol version of the car, despite it doubling the cost to just under a hundred thousand pounds. As he told Ben, all his younger, A-list clients did. He was clearly a lot more taken aback when Ben declared he wanted two vehicles, and that one had to have rear side-airbags and sunblinds for a dog.

  As Ben had chosen obsidian black for the paintwork and black leather interiors for both vehicles, which came as standard, they could be delivered the next day. The one with Radulf’s accessories he left in the garage, which used to house Nikolas’s new Range Rover (until he lost it), and the other he loaded up with a weekend bag and the dog, and set off for Devon. He wasn’t too sure of his welcome, or that he’d done the right thing, but he wanted to do it, and that had to count for something.

  When he arrived at Tim Watson’s cottage, Tim was out, but his partner, John, was home and let him in. Ben liked John, but he was never too sure of his welcome or quite where he stood with the older man. That John and Tim had an open relationship was fairly clear, because Tim seemed to have no qualms inviting Ben to his bed at regular intervals; something Ben had consistently resisted since he’d been caught in the maelstrom that was Nikolas Mikkelsen. He didn’t even want to think about open relationships. It made him feel faintly sick to think of Nikolas with Gregory. He trusted Nikolas. He kept telling himself that and tried to stamp down the evil voices in his head that told him he’d many reasons not to.

  John made him some tea, and they sat in the kitchen, making slightly stilted small talk. John told him about a lecture he was preparing for a conference. Ben realised there was very little of his life normal enough to share, so he told him something of the house-hunting weekend, which now seemed a great deal more than a month ago. Finally, Tim arrived home. He was incredibly pleased to see Ben and actually kissed him in front of John, but made it a less personal thing by punching him, too. Ben took it in good part and apologised for taking so long to be in touch. He asked sheepishly how Tim had been managing without his car and saw the annoyed glance John gave his partner when Tim waved off the inconvenience as nothing. Ben then gave John a sly glance and added innocently, “I’m really sorry, but there was an accident…The Lada was… it was beyond repair—apparently.”

  John stood up, clearly very angry on Tim’s behalf; or more, Ben suspected, because the relationship wasn’t quite as open on his side as it was on Tim’s, and he rather resented this GQ-model look-alike bursting into his (much younger) lover’s life every so often with outrageous demands but being forgiven at every turn. Ben reckoned John got nagged if he left the toilet seat up.

  Very contritely, he pulled a set of keys out of his pocket. “I replaced it with this. I hope that’s okay.”

  They went out, and Ben led them around to the side lane where he’d parked the Merc. Tim looked past it at first, perhaps expecting another Lada. Ben suddenly wondered if he’d miscalculated badly. He knew nothing about professors other than this one who, he remembered, kissed divinely and had a cute belly. Their taste in cars, however, was a mystery to him. Perhaps this monster black machine, all sharp lines and obsidian sex, he and Nikolas liked―Tim’s eyes fixed on the Merc. He pointed the keys in his hand toward the menacing vehicle and pressed the remote opener. The lights flashed, and that lovely clunk of ownership sounded in the quiet lane. Tim swallowed and went closer. He laid his hand on the wicked, matte black paintwork and closed his eyes. Ben grinned. Yeah, Tim was having a small orgasm, too. Success.

  Tim then had to drive Ben back to London. It was a fun trip. They stopped for a meal, and, for once, it was Ben who led the way into the restaurant, ordered, and paid. He wondered if this was why Nikolas got such a kick out of always being the one in control. It was fun being grown up. On the way, Ben told Tim far more about the situation than he’d told John. Tim took it all in, in his quiet, intelligent way and made suitable comments. Best of all, Ben could see Nikolas had risen in Tim’s estimation for what he was doing. From a professor of ethics, that was good to know. Ben gave himself a mental slap when he realised not only did he love Nikolas himself, he now appeared to be trying to get everyone else to love him, too.

  Just before they got to London, Tim asked, “So, what’re you going to do while he’s away? It could be long time. These things can…drag on. Sorry, that’s not what you want to hear.”

  “It’s only supposed to be a few months…” Ben glanced over. Tim gave him a sympathetic look. It only strengthened Ben’s resolve to carry through his plan. With a nod for courage, he committed himself. “I’m going to Denmark. I’m going to learn Danish.”

  Tim seemed surprised then puzzled then quite impressed.

  Ben was watching these expressions covertly out of the corner of his eye, gauging the response. “Total immersion. It’s the only way to learn. It’s how I learnt my other languages—in country, forced to speak them all the time.”

  “Is it a hard language?”

  Ben laughed. “It would be easier learning Klingon.”

  “Except for the total immersion thing maybe…? When are you going?”

  “I don’t know. Tomorrow? Nothing here for me now.”

  They arrived back at the house, and just as Ben was watching Tim circle around his new bike admiringly, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out with a frown and saw he’d received a text. His heart gave a small jolt, and he jogged up to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. It read: hello Ben.

  He grinned and texted back: hello.

  Nikolas’s texting was almost worse than Ben’s, which was saying something, but as Nikolas had apparently promised Gregory he wouldn’t be in touch at all, Ben didn’t care if he used Morse code. He was very amused to see Nikolas had managed almost twelve hours before he broke the rules.

  A few moments later, he received: what r u doing?

  And sent back: Tim here & staying nite……..

  The next text took a little longer to come in: yr sense of humour never changes.

  He replied: neither does anything else. Promises, yes?

  Yes

  Where r u?

  No idea; have aisle seat

  Yr on plane?

  Was debating walking 2 Russia this seemed better option.

  How is he?

  More annoying than u – have 2 go.

  He waited for a few minutes, then when there were no more messages, he grinned at nothing in particular and went back down to help Tim admire the new bike.

  § § §

  The evening was a little awkward because each knew what the other was thinking. Tim had clearly never met anyone in his own circle who stuck quite so rigidly to monogamy, and certainly not someone like Ben. Ben reckoned Tim secretly respected him for this—but he also knew how incredibly frustrated his unwillingness to play around made his friend. Tell Nikolas, don’t tell him—either way was apparently good as far as Tim was concerned. For as he pointed out (slightly sulkily), Ben fucking him wouldn’t affect Nikolas, because Nikolas wasn’t there! Ben didn’t see it this way, but he didn’t have the verbal skills to argue against Tim. He just knew what he knew but not how to express it. Expressing it would mean he’d have to speak about how Nikolas made him feel, the things they did together, the things they’d shared with each other but no one else. How could he talk about that? How could he describe the relief on Nikolas’s face when he woke in the mornings and realised he was safe—the look that was there before the mask of aloof unconcern slipped back into place. How could he describe how it felt to hold Nikolas when he was in pain needing him? Even trying to describe the annoying Nikolas—the one who badgered him, ordered him around, put him down, made fun of him—even that Nikolas was private, just his. So he volunteered nothing, just stared at the TV and refused to think about Tim’s ability to kiss or his slightly rounded belly.

  He reckoned he’d have some months of celibacy ahead of him, so tonight was a good night to start.

  He was incredibly relieved he’d held out against tempt
ation when just as he was falling asleep— Radulf huge and snoring on Nikolas’s pillow—his phone vibrated again. He snatched it up. Long flight. My Russian rusty. 1pm 4 u, r u asleep?

  He grinned evilly and texted back: 2 much snoring other side bed

  The reply came fairly swiftly: ??? !

  Radulf

  Again, funny. Am looking from hotel 2 Kremlin. Can see old office. Better than looking from there 2 here

  How is he?

  R u going 2 ask that every time?

  Yes. I miss u

  Just as well u had practice sleep alone recently

  Funny.

  What u been doing?

  Shopping

  Hope u not spend 2 much

  Was two hundred thousand pounds too much? Nope

  Have 2 go.

  Just like last time, Nikolas signed off without any more personal words. Ben tapped the phone thoughtfully against his lips then sent one final message: just say it, u no u want 2

  After some minutes, he got back: there r many things want regard u at moment. That not top list. This very big bed. Night, Ben.

  Ben groaned. He’d wanted to get to sleep without resorting to the obvious, since Nikolas wasn’t there to work off some physical needs. But now, just thinking about Nikolas in a big bed on his own sent all his thoughts south. The bastard. He’d won again. Ben put a hand down. It was so unsatisfactory compared to having Nikolas’s hand there. Completely wrong compared to his lips. As for sinking deep into Nikolas’s―The phone buzzed again. He picked it up with his other hand and read: Enjoy.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ben’s plans took a severe nose-dive the next day when Tim, watching him pack, commented innocently, “Don’t forget Radulf’s passport.”

  Ben huffed. “Yeah. Funny man.”

  Tim frowned. “No, seriously, you can’t take him abroad—well, bring him back anyway—unless he has all his injections and stuff, and then has a passport to prove it.”

  “Okay, where can I get that done?”

  “Ben, it takes about a month to do it.”

  “What! Fuck! We’re leaving this morning!”

  “Why don’t you leave him here? I guess I could take him.”

  Ben looked across at Radulf, and Radulf stared back at him. Ben shook his head. “Nah, he’s kinda part of the team now. Fuck.” He sighed and picked up the phone. “Kate? It’s me…”

  By the time he’d said good-bye to Tim, Kate had arrived, paperwork for Radulf in hand. She eyed Ben warily. “You know this is totally unethical, let alone illegal. If that dog gets rabies and you…”

  Ben kissed her cheek. “Yeah, he loves you, too. What’re you doing? Are you still working for Nikolas?”

  Kate gave him a knowing look. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been working for Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen, but I’m not going there, okay? And, yes, he left me with things to do, and I seem get to large amounts of money arriving in my account every week. Hey ho.” She eyed him for a moment. “Does the name John Redvers mean anything to you?”

  Ben frowned. “No. Should it?”

  She shrugged. “Just something he left for me to work on. Where is he?”

  It was Ben’s turn to shrug. She smiled sympathetically. “Just not here, huh?”

  Ben nodded. He really didn’t want his ex-girlfriend to see he was moping for a guy. She suddenly gave him a hug. “I always knew, you know? No harm done. He’s totally irresistible. I do get it.”

  Ben frowned again. “He is?” It wasn’t the word he’d have used, especially after last night.

  § § §

  So, they had a new car, a new passport, and a ticket for Esbjerg and from there to Svendborg and from there to Aeroeskoebing. He hadn’t even heard of any of these places before but trusted in fate that they’d arrive eventually. He had a cool car, a cool dog—canine, military urban chic, after all—and a burning desire to succeed in what he was trying to do. That he was merely travelling to somewhere where he’d be able to immerse himself in the spirit of Nikolas had occurred to him. If he was, then who was going to stop him? If he couldn’t have body, spirit would have to do.

  § § §

  By the time they landed on Aeroe, they were both jaded, sick of driving, sick of ferries, and generally needing a good bed and something to eat they could sit and enjoy without the world moving beneath them.

  Ben found just the place. A restaurant in the harbour specialising in smoked fish. He took a table outside. It was very warm, not busy, and he immediately liked the odd, almost Toyland look of the place. Radulf ate fish very happily—he was Danish, after all—and when they were both full, Ben got up to pay. And then he committed himself to his plan; he spoke in his broken, basic Danish. When the owner heard Ben’s accent, he switched naturally to English. Ben shook his head, acted puzzled and replied in Farsi, sorry, he didn’t speak English. The man seemed surprised but switched back to Danish. With some help and going more slowly, they eventually both understood each other. He’d had his first Danish conversation.

  He clicked to Radulf to follow him and went to the tourist information and repeated the whole exercise. It was painful. Everyone he met spoke fluent, if accented, English, and was only too happy to practise their impressive language skills on him. Only by constantly denying he spoke English did he force them to revert to Danish, but as his Danish was far worse than he thought, and he’d pretty much wasted the months he’d devoted to it, it was extremely hard to make himself understood or, worse, understand what anyone said back to him. Eventually, though, he’d some written addresses of people who rented out rooms in their houses. He could have stayed in the best hotel, but total immersion meant total immersion. He had to force himself to be in contact with people.

  They climbed back into the car and tested out the international satnav maps he’d downloaded. They worked. Radulf now sat in the front seat, probably breaking every law in Denmark; having a fake passport and identity seemed to have gone to his head. They set off to find the first house. It was in the town, a tall house with leaning gables. Ben climbed out, and a youngish woman wiping her hands on a towel and holding back a toddler at her feet answered the door.

  “Fru Olsen?” She nodded, and he explained he’d come about the room. She let him in, chatting too fast for him to understand anything. An older child was at the table, colouring, and a baby was in a high chair. He glanced at the room. He mentioned Radulf, and she misunderstood him at first. When he reiterated “dog” she shook her head and pointed to a chair. There was a large cat watching him. He shrugged and thanked her.

  When he got back in the car, he realised he’d managed to make himself understood without even noticing it. He grinned, ruffled Radulf’s fur the wrong way and set off for the next address. This one was out of town, along the coast road, and then down a small road that appeared to be running straight into the sea. There was only one house, a long, single-story building with thatch. The garden was large and overgrown but had clearly once been a labour of love, worked and fought for from sand and salt. He took Radulf with him this time and opened the latch to the garden gate, making his way up the path. Before he got to the house, a voice called out, “Hej?”

  He replied and discovered an elderly woman to one side of the house, dead-heading some roses. He explained, once more, he’d come to see a room. She immediately switched to almost perfect English, but he replied in Farsi. She considered him for a moment then nodded, and in English confirmed, “Yes, it’s the only way to learn. I did the same for my English. So, from now on, no more English, yes? We are Danish you and me.” She held out her bird-like, frail hand. “I’m Mrs. Jacobsen. Ingrid.”

  He smiled shyly and nodded, and from then on he never spoke in English with her but in his halting and dreadful Danish. She spoke slowly and clearly and was willing to repeat things as many times as he needed, but she never once switched to English for ease. She showed him the room. It was down a long corridor and formed the whole end of one wing of the old house. It was very Spartan: a big bed
covered in a white comforter; an old chest of drawers naturally bleached and faded by the sun; and old wooden floors, similarly aged. Best of all, though, it had floor-to-ceiling widows with doors which led directly out to the garden and, beyond a small gate, to the beach. He was about fifty feet from a grey-green, surging mass of ocean with empty grey sand stretching either way as far as he could see. He turned to her. She was watching him with curious eyes. He nodded. “Benjamin. Ben. Ben Rider. I’ll take it. Is dog okay?”