Love is a Stranger

by John Wiltshire

  For many reasons, therefore, Ben was delighted later that night when he returned to his hotel to find the subject of his preoccupation sitting on the end of his bed, watching the local news on the television. “Hello, Benjamin.”

  Ben grinned privately. He always loved the way Nikolas greeted him. It seemed to say more than it actually did. But then he had a tendency to always try and see more in Nikolas’s words and looks than, possibly, were actually there. Consequently, mindful of not appearing too keen, he replied noncommittally, “Sir.”

  “How is it going?”

  “It’s going to the pub in about ten minutes, so you’re out of luck.”

  “Do not make assumptions, and do not be…” Suddenly Ben straddled Nikolas, then Nik could hardly deny what he’d been anticipating would happen between them. It was pretty evident in the fierce erection that Ben now sat on.

  “Shouldn’t I be giving you a homily about mixing business with pleasure, sir? You’re corrupting one of your agents. You do know that.”

  “Benjamin, your sexual flexibility is one of your chief assets. I am merely developing my subordinates.”

  “Do you visit all your operatives in the field and fuck them?”

  Nikolas almost looked serious. “No, and that is something I have been meaning to remedy.”

  Ben gave a disbelieving laugh. “Over my dead body. You’re all mine.”

  “Do not say that.” Nikolas pushed Ben off and stood up, pulling down his waistcoat and smoothing his hair. “Actually, I have to go. I am meeting the minister and the PM for a briefing.”

  “What’s wrong? What did I say?”

  “Nothing. I…” Nikolas went to the window, his back to Ben. For the first time, Ben heard him swear quietly to himself in English. It was odd and unsettling. “This has got out of hand. I do not want to think about you like this all the time. You are nothing to me, and I am nothing to you. That is how it has always been between us and how it must continue to be. If you have thought it could be more, then I am sorry.”

  “You’re the one here tonight!”

  After a long pause, Nikolas gave the tiniest of nods in acceptance of this truth. “Yes. Out of control, and that is intolerable.”

  Ben came closer. “All right, whatever you say, boss. But now you are here…”

  Nikolas smiled. Ben could see it in the reflection in the window. “You argue like the very devil himself.”

  Ben slid his arms around Nikolas’s waist and propped his chin on the other man’s shoulder. “If I’m the devil, do you see yourself as Jesus tempted in the wilderness?”

  “I believe he was offered power, not sex.”

  “Who said anything about sex? I reckon Jesus would have capitulated for love.”

  Nikolas tipped his head back, allowing Ben’s face to come alongside his and for Ben to plant a kiss on his smooth cheek. “You have the wrong person, Benjamin, if you are looking for love. I learnt my English the hard way, and I did not learn that word in any context you would want. I am sorry.”

  “I’ve never needed words, you know that. I don’t remember you saying two words to me that first weekend, and before I knew it, I was being fucked on green baize.”

  “That was not love.”

  “I know that. But this could be.” He turned Nikolas in his arms and kissed him deeply, keeping eye contact. The other man’s lips were cold and unresponsive. Ben bit lightly on the bottom one, easing his tongue against Nikolas’s lower teeth. He swore into the pleasure of the warmth of Nikolas’s mouth. He slid his hands into the short hair at the back of Nikolas’s neck, hitching him closer, but Nikolas pulled away and held him off with one hand, the other brushing over his own lips as if astonished at the intensity of Ben’s kiss.

  “If this is love for you, then you are in love with a ghost, with the illusion of a man. Is that enough for you?”

  “Would you let me have that? If you do, then I will find the man. I’ll breathe life back into the ghost.” Ben heard a soft expletive in Nikolas’s native language, and then he was being kissed back hungrily. Nikolas proved he could kiss just as well as Ben, his tongue finding welcome in Ben’s mouth. He spoke against Ben’s lips, something sensual sounding that Ben didn’t need translated. But then a small bleep sounded from Nikolas’s tailored suit pocket.

  Nikolas swore once more in English, and very effectively. “I have to go. I cannot be late for the PM.”

  “Yeah.” Ben allowed Nikolas to pull away slightly. “And I’ve got a date with two lesbians.”

  As he moved towards the door, Nikolas hesitated, his back to Ben. “Be careful, Benjamin. I would hate to have to work on a eulogy to read at your funeral.”

  “Shit, just say I was a dumb bastard with weird taste in men and leave it at that.”

  Nik nodded seriously. “That would work.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  When Ben arrived at the pub, he was fired up and in just the right mood to make friends, influence people, and then…betray them. He spotted the little group of protesters easily enough because they were grouped around some tables they’d pushed together and were painting “Save The Badger” signs and “Vaccination Not Vivisection” posters. Ben went to the bar and spoke quietly to the landlord. “I’m down with the DEFRA guys for the badgers. There gonna be a problem with me drinking here? I don’t want to cause a fight, I just want a pint.”

  “No problem with me, mate. Most of my customers are farmers. Those idiots over there buy half a lager and make it last all night. Far as I’m concerned, you can shoot all the damn badgers you want.”

  “Pour a round of beers and send it over to them, will you?”

  The man raised his brows but did as he was asked. At the last minute, Ben chucked on half a dozen packets of cheese and onion crisps as the tray went past him. He waited until the pleased surprise turned to disgust when the provenance of the round was discovered, and then went closer. “Peace offering. I’ve got no beef with these animals myself, I just really need this job, okay?”

  “You’re nothing more than a bloody murderer.” That was from an older man busy painting one of the signs.

  Julie Arthur lifted her face from a poster she was decorating with sketches of cute badger faces. She looked him over from head to toe, and Ben knew for certain she wasn’t as committed to the lesbian ideal as her bio had claimed. She winked at him then said to the old man, “Leave him be, Fred, he’s okay this one. Saved your missus today, he did.” Her pseudo-working-class accent was atrocious, but Ben forgave her. He’d enjoyed the wink.

  The old man grunted, mumbling his annoyance that this young man was the one he’d had his ear bent about for some time at home. Ben pretended to look at the posters with interest. “Don’t badgers spread some disease or something? That’s what we’ve been told. All the cows are gonna die?” He pulled out his notebook and flourished his scribbles. “See? My notes from today.” He found the part he wanted. “‘The scientific evidence shows conclusively that badgers contribute significantly to bovine TB in cattle.’ I wrote that down—word for word. Can’t argue with that, can you?”

  That was all it took. Within five minutes, he was sitting between Julie and Peace, being educated on the myths and lies surrounding badgers and bovine TB and plied with science, pseudo-science, and beer. Ben wasn’t making it too easy; he had an agenda, after all. He moved it forward by suddenly appearing doubtful. “Jesus, this is above my pay grade. I can’t believe we’re being told complete lies like this. I’d really like to hear a proper scientist on all this. Don’t they all support DEFRA and the cull? Culling’s been a hundred percent successful in Ireland, hasn’t it?”

  They all began to shout at him at once. “No! Jesus! It’s not at all! Someone ring Sean, get him over here. Sean will tell you all about Ireland.”

  Ben was pretty sure he would and wondered for a moment if he and the Maffertys had met in a previous life—over a bomb or rifle barrel, perhaps. “Sean a scientist, is he?”

  “Nah, hey, give Tim
a bell, too, see if he’s free tonight. Tim’s our spokesman on the telly. He knows all this stuff. He’ll set you right.”

  Bingo. Ben had another beer then said he had to go. The trick was letting them think they had to work to reel him in, while the truth was he was working to reel them in. Now they were desperate for him to stay. He made his sincerest apologies, said he couldn’t afford to be late for his second day on the course, bought them all another round, and left. He’d ridden his Ducati to the pub and pulled it over in a copse of trees to check it for a tracker before returning to his hotel. He was insanely disappointed not to find Nikolas waiting for him again.

  He wondered, not for the first time, what Nikolas was doing. Was he in bed with his wife? Did they actually have a sexual relationship? Ben was fairly sure they didn’t and never had. Perhaps he was being pathetically hopeful. Damn, but he wished he had a way to contact Nikolas outside his official department numbers. His phone buzzed. It was one a.m. He heaved it out of his pocket and saw a text had been received from an unrecognised number. Anyone can pretend 2 love someone, the real trick is 2 pretend not 2 love when u do.

  Nikolas’s texting was as weird and unreliable as his spoken English, but Ben didn’t care. He went to bed, grinning, with warmth in his groin that he didn’t attempt to alleviate, and for the first time in weeks he didn’t fall asleep to dark thoughts of fire and death.

  §§§

  The second day of the course saw them learning how to use the various pieces of equipment they would need: rifles, shotguns, cages, bait, and night-vision goggles. Some badgers were to be shot directly and some caged then shot in the cages. Ben was almost enjoying his day in the countryside until they were told they had visitors, and four Range Rovers pulled up to the small copse of trees they were working in. Two men, unmistakable as Met protection, scrambled out of the front of the first, and one of them opened the back door, allowing a portly, red-faced man to get out. A young woman slid out after him, talking on a phone and making notes in a folder. Sir Monty Bancott and his PA came over to the training group, but no one was giving them much attention as another four protection officers emerged from the other vehicles, and then a figure unmistakable as the prime minister came over to join Sir Monty.

  Everyone else on the course was busy greeting this important visitor, except Ben, who was watching Sir Nikolas Mikkelsen ease out of the Range Rover after the PM. The course trainer began to walk the group away toward the practise traps they’d set out over the hillside. Ben hung back. Soon enough, he was alone, standing with Nikolas. His boss was dressed, as ever, in an elegant suit, now covered by an expensive cashmere overcoat. Nikolas pushed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders to the cold. He glanced back at the Met officers who had stayed with the vehicles and were now opening thermoses and stamping around to keep warm, then turned back, catching Ben’s gaze. “Good morning, Benjamin.”

  Ben grinned. “Morning, sir. Moving in important circles now, huh?”

  Nikolas frowned. “You do remember that I am married to the queen’s cousin? I hardly think Dear Leader is going to make me pant with excitement just yet.”

  Ben had the immediate and disconcerting image of Nikolas a few days ago panting as he lay upon him, coming inside him. He groaned softly at the memory. “No fair.”

  Nikolas smiled. He appeared to have had the same thought. Then he sobered. “A packet of white powder was sent to the PM’s office yesterday. Obviously, it was intercepted and was actually harmless flour, but it disrupted government, and the PM is not happy. He is taking a personal interest in this course and its success, and thus here I am, also taking one. As if I wasn’t already, of course.”

  “I think I’ll be meeting the Maffertys tonight and possibly Watson, too.”

  Nikolas was silent, toeing the ground. He pouted for a while then pulled a photograph out of his pocket and handed it to Ben. It was of a bearded man kissing another man. The light was poor, and it had been taken with a telephoto lens, but it was unmistakable as Tim Watson and also pretty obvious that the kiss was more than casual. Both men were naked. “So? He’s gay.”

  “Yes, and therefore vulnerable and an easier target. It has been suggested to me that you exploit it. Actually, suggestion is the wrong word. It is an order.” He pouted again a little. “Exploit is probably the wrong word, too. Maybe something beginning with an ‘f’ would be more applicable. What do you think?”

  Ben dipped his head, caught Nikolas’s lowered gaze and forced him to raise it, not letting him look away. “You’re a cold fucking bastard. Do you know that, sir?”

  “Yes, actually, Benjamin, I do. I have my orders—I have had my fucking orders made very clear to me all morning—and now you have yours.”

  “I don’t—”

  Nikolas turned away and began to walk back to the car. Ben tilted his head up to the sky, willing himself to be calm. He felt a few snowflakes on his face and shivered. His phone buzzed. He pulled it out of an inner pocket, and it was warm in his freezing hand. Dead men cant b resurrected, no matter how much life u have running thru yr veins.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  By the time Ben got to the pub that night, he was feeling sick with anger and some indefinable emotion he refused to examine. He spotted the same crowd of protestors at the same table, and they called for him to come across and join them. He shook his head and took his beer to an empty table on the other side of the bar. Ironically, what suited his mood—to be alone and miserable—also suited his cover; he didn’t want to seem to be too eager to associate with the enemy. Then a man appeared at his table, carrying another beer and some crisps, and the idea of associating with the enemy suddenly became much more appealing. Ben’s immediate thought was to wish Sir Nikolas bloody Mikkelsen were here to see this.

  “Hi, I’m Tim. Tim Watson. I owe you a beer as I hear you bought everyone rounds yesterday.” He was about Ben’s age, late twenties, and there was no beard now, just attractive designer stubble, so artful it looked merely the negligent grooming of someone too busy or clever to bother. His hair was dark, longish and tousled, and he wore classic academic glasses, which made him seem innocent and sweet, at the same time as thoughtful and studious. It was a neat trick. He was nothing like Nikolas. Ben leant forward, accepting the beer and offered hand. “Jamie Lancaster. You’ll probably dump that beer on my head when you find out who I am.”

  “Oh, I know who you are, Jaime. You’re our badger murderer.” The disarming smile he gave Ben was so unlike what he was used to being given by someone else that Ben decided there and then Tim would indeed be his way into the group. In fact, he decided that Tim needed very careful handling, preferably in a soft bed with a good fucking to follow—after a few beers and getting to know each other, of course. Yeah. No ghosts to resurrect here. This man was vibrant, cute, and clearly pleased with Ben. This is what the Danish bastard wanted? Well, this is what the Danish bastard was going to get—or Ben was going to get…

  He returned the smile, playing his role. He wanted to snag the guy’s collar and lead him into the bathroom, push him into a cubicle and work off his anger. Resurrect ghosts? He’d resurrect something just fine with this cute man. He was feeling nicely resurrected already. He took a long drink of his beer. “It’s just a job, mate. If I had a choice, I’d rather shoot the fat prick who came by today.” Nikolas certainly wasn’t fat, and Ben wasn’t actually talking about his boss, but the rest of the sentiment applied to the cold bastard very nicely. “My dad voted bloody labour his whole life, and that fuck stood discussing how easy it would be to shoot the poor bloody buggers through the bars of the cages! At least in Afghanistan we shot things that shot back.”

  “You sound…pissed off.”

  “Oh, I’m pissed off.” Only not with this, but with a fucking bastard who wants me to…“Pissed off, mate, doesn’t even begin to cover it.” He wanted to replay that last little scene in the snow and say something cutting and cruel instead of just standing there like a broken-hearted twelve-y
ear-old girl. Fuck the Danish tosser! He waved toward the bar. “I know a perfect cure though. Another?”

  Tim nodded. “But come and join us, Jaime.”

  Ben laid a hand gently on Tim’s shoulder as he passed to the bar. “I’m very happy where I am, and I want you to explain to me why I shouldn’t shoot those little snuffling buggers next week.”

  Had Ben ever moved in academic circles, he might have been more circumspect making such an offer. Tim Watson did explain in vast and intricate detail why culling of badgers would have no effect on the spread of bovine TB, how the scientific community had a vested interest in supporting and propagating spurious scientific research, and then why animal rights had become such an issue in the UK. Ben watched Tim’s lips moving beneath the dark stubble and felt his groin ache at the thought of parting them with his tongue—or something else. He watched the brightness of the deep blue eyes twinkling with warmth behind the glasses, playing in his mind the scene when he would remove the frames and kiss slowly over the lowered lids. These eyes weren’t like a seductive peat bog, whisky in cut-glass crystal—things a man could be lost in forever—they were velvet blue, something to wrap up in and keep safe.