CHAPTER NINE
Ben lay sprawled on the bed after Tim left like a beached starfish with little will or ability to move. After a long time, he heard his phone ring from the floor where he’d left his jacket. He ignored it. It rang again and stayed ringing until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He snatched it up and saw an unrecognised number. What a surprise. He stabbed the button and said sourly, “What do you want?”
There was silence for a moment then, “What do you want, sir, might be a start.”
“Yeah. Whatever. Sir.”
“You are obviously not in an appropriate mood for a professional conversation. I will contact you late—”
“I—I’m sorry, sir. I’ve made contact with Tim Watson. I don’t believe he’s the one making the threats. He’s implicated the younger Mafferty brother. Seamus.”
“Are you sure Watson isn’t playing you?”
“Yes. We got up close and personal. As you ordered me to do.” Ben heard other voices but no response from Nikolas. “Are you still there? Where are you, by the way?”
“At the office.”
“Jesus. It’s three a.m.!”
“There’s been another incident. Someone took a shot at the minister’s wife today while she was out riding.”
“Pity they missed.”
“What was that? Wait, I’ll take you outside.” Ben heard a door, and the other voices died away. “She claimed she saw a chip fly out of the trunk of a tree by her head, but by the time our people got there the scene was cleared. She may have been mistaken. But if it did happen, it turns an ill-defined threat into something much more personal.”
“Tim said Seamus couldn’t be at the pub tonight because he had something on. Why don’t you pull him in?”
“He’s gone to ground. We’re looking for him now.”
“I’m being taken to a meeting with him tomorrow.”
“Good.”
There was a long pause while both seemed at a loss what to say next. Nikolas sighed. “I have to go. There is another issue…but it doesn’t need to involve you.”
“Do you ever actually sleep?”
“I never sleep, Benjamin. It is advantageous in my job.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve never had the opportunity to know that, have I? I guess I have to be grateful for small mercies that you always pay for the rooms we fuck in, even if I never get to stay and actually sleep in them. Tim Watson’s a brilliant kisser, by the way.” Silence. “Did you hear me?”
“Yes. I heard you. What do you want me to say?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How about I don’t want you to—”
“I don’t want you to kiss Tim Watson. I don’t want you to fuck Tim Watson. You know what, Benjamin? I don’t actually want you to kill Tim Watson. But where has it ever been written into our lives that we get to choose such things? This is our reality, Benjamin. Me being here at three a.m., listening to fat men in suits pontificating—is that the right word?—on things they know nothing about, and you there doing things I want to kill you for. I have to go, Benjamin.” The phone clicked off after the longest speech Ben had ever heard Nikolas make. Ben stared at the handset, his mind trying to process the stream of words. He settled carefully back on the soft mattress, not lassitude but something painfully like hope now pinning him once more to the bed.
§§§
He was a wreck the next day, waking up with his stomach screaming in hunger, a headache from the sour beer and the emotional roller coaster of the previous night. He was late reporting for day three of his course: Environmental Law and Badger Physiology. Fortunately the day was all classroom based. His head hit the desk once, much to the ribald amusement of the other trainees. He had to buy them all tea in the smoke break to apologise.
That evening in the pub, he was introduced to Sean Mafferty, the older of the Irish brothers. Sean was far more cautious with Ben than the others and questioned him on his regiment and service. Ben fielded the questions innocently in his guise as Jaime Lancaster. When Sean suggested they leave and meet with his brother, Ben readily agreed. Tim seemed reluctant to accompany them at first but then got into the car with Sean. Ben followed on his bike. They wound around the Devon lanes for some time until finally beginning to climb at the edge of the moors. At last, they came to an old farm complex of dilapidated buildings with ugly, utilitarian cowsheds now fallen into disrepair, looking stark and forbidding in the cold December night. Ben slid cautiously off his bike and stowed his helmet. He came close to the car as Tim and Sean waited for him in the dark.
“You live here?”
Sean shook his head. “Nah, my brother uses it as a kind of headquarters for the organisation. Place we can meet.”
Ben glanced at Tim, and Tim shrugged. “Sometimes we come across badgers that have been injured in illegal culls or during hunting, and we bring them here and release them.”
Ben followed them into one of the sheds. There was no light at all inside, despite the broken sections of the roof. It was huge, and stank of old cow shit and rats. Ben turned to speak to Tim but something smacked into the back of his head. He went down, tried to rise; something hit him again, and then everything went black.
§§§
When Ben woke, he knew instantly things were bad. He was tied to a chair by his ankles and wrists. He was also gagged and blindfolded. He kept still, assessing the situation, testing his restraints. He could hear voices off to one side. They were speaking in Gaelic, some of which he understood. He appeared to be strapped down with good old Harry Black—electrical tape—the IRA’s restraint of choice. He’d been a guest of the IRA once before, and he hadn’t appreciated the experience. Finally, he let them know he was awake by lifting his head. He heard footsteps then a hood was lifted off his head. He made a noise in his throat, and the rag in his mouth was pulled out. He was facing Sean Mafferty and another man so like him there was no doubt this was Seamus. To his relief, but also to his alarm, Tim was strapped in a chair next to him, head hanging down, glasses askew and one lens broken. “Fuckers. What do you want? What’s this all about?”
“Your real name for a start, soldier,” Seamus said in his broad Belfast accent.
Ben spat out a residual taste of the gag. “What the hell? You think you’re gonna stop the cull by taking me? For God’s sake, man, I’m just a grunt doing my job.”
Seamus nodded thoughtfully then smashed his fist into Ben’s face. “We’ll see, mate. By the time this night is over, we’ll know all about you and who you work for.”
Good luck with that, Ben thought. He hadn’t reckoned with Tim waking up, his terrified expression, and the almost paternal feelings it raised in his own gut. Seamus saw the emotion that passed between them, nodded at his brother, and switched his attentions to Tim. After five minutes, Tim’s face wasn’t so appealing. It was a vicious beating, but as he wasn’t the real target, nothing he said or did stopped the brothers. For all Ben’s anguish, he couldn’t let this break him, so the Maffertys were at something of an impasse. They switched their attentions back to Ben when Tim slumped over, unconscious. Unfortunately, they picked his bad knee to start on. He cried out when Sean hit it with a plank of wood. “Who the fuck are you?”
When the pain lessened to a dull ache, Ben spat out, “Let the professor go, and I’ll tell you what I know.” Tim didn’t raise his head to protest. The brothers conferred for a moment then Seamus hit Ben again. Sean went over to a pile of farm machinery at one side of the shed and came back with a pair of pliers. Ben gave him a look. “You have got to be kidding.” Seamus took Ben’s little finger in the pliers and began to apply pressure. “Real name.”
“You’ve got the wrong—” The top of his finger was crushed. He couldn’t speak through the pain. He felt the world greying out then suddenly the pressure lessened. He heard the whirring, thumping sound of a helicopter. A voice over a loudspeaker penetrated the shed, indistinct in actual words but clear in intent. Sean ran to the doors. “Shit. The police. It’s the fucking police.”
Ben, taking advantage of their distraction, shoved hard with his feet, toppling the chair and falling backward. As he’d hoped, one arm of the old chair broke, and he then had a free arm with a piece of wood strapped to it. He rolled and hit at the legs of the chair, breaking one of those as well. It took only a matter of seconds to scramble to his feet, pieces of wood strapped to him—but weapons now, not restraints.
Seamus turned, and in the glare of a spotlight piercing the broken rafters of the roof, screamed, “Give me the fucking gun!” Ben charged but before he’d taken two steps, his knee gave out, and he fell heavily and awkwardly onto one of the pieces of wood. He felt an intense stab of pain in his ribs but dragged himself back up to his feet. A shot rang out. He felt nothing so reckoned they’d missed. A figure barrelled into him, taking him back down to the unforgiving concrete. His head bounced; the world went grey once more. He wrestled with the figure, straddled him, brought both hands around one of the chair arms and rammed it into the man’s eye socket as far as he could push it until his strength gave out. There was another shot. He heard cars in the yard and saw figures in black pouring into the shed, flattening to the sides and dispersing. He rolled to his side, pinned by the chair arm to the man’s skull. In the strobe lights of the police cars, he saw Tim’s slumped figure still in the chair. To his horror, Seamus Mafferty was standing over the unconscious man with a gun. He raised it to Tim’s face, but then something exploded out of the back of the Irishman’s head, followed by more explosions from his back, and then the sound of suppressed gunfire caught up with the sight.
Ben watched all the action from the floor as he was being separated from Sean Mafferty. Dark figures removed the other Irishman’s body. When Tim was the only one left in the shed, the police were given clearance to enter. By this time, two more of his own department were helping Ben across the yard. One of them said calmly, “Boss is in the house. Wants to see you.” Ben nodded, stood straighter to indicate he could manage alone, and they faded back toward the helicopter.
By the time Ben reached the old farmhouse, his knee was so swollen he could feel the material of his jeans restricting the blood flow. He found Nikolas illuminated by a strong flashlight, in what had once been the kitchen. He hadn’t realised how bad he must look until he saw the expression that shot over the other man’s face. You’d have to be very quick to see it though, and when he spoke his voice was its usual neutral tone. “Benjamin.”
“Sir.”
Nikolas seemed deep in thought, staring at the wall. Ben wasn’t sure what was going through the man’s mind. He never did, even when they were joined, their bodies flooding with orgasm, even then he had no idea at all what Nikolas was thinking.
Finally, the other man turned and sat down at the table. “Good work. There’s enough forensic evidence here to link the Maffertys to all the cull threats.”
“How did they make me?”
“You have to stop upsetting people, Benjamin. You made an enemy on the course, apparently.”
“Bloody hell, that fucker Jock.”
“I believe you told him you’d peel his balls and eat them like grapes if he fucked with the protesters again.”
“Yeah, well.”
“He suspected you were not who you claimed to be and was very vocal at the pub one night.”
“Bugger. How did you find me?”
Nikolas gave him a look, shook his head despairingly, and murmured, “Do you actually know this is the twenty-first century?”
Ben eased himself into a chair opposite. “Tim Watson had nothing to do with—”
Nik waved away the rest of this. “I know. He was collateral damage. I’m told he may not make it. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time with misguided ideals.” He saw Ben’s expression and added grudgingly, “At least he had ideals.” He leant forward slightly. “And you, Benjamin. How are you?” He hesitated but then reached into a pocket and pulled out an immaculate handkerchief. Ben took it with a laugh of exhaustion and pain, unable to think what to do with it. He dabbed uselessly at the blood on his face until, with a sigh of exasperation, Nikolas rose and took it from him. Ben closed his eyes. His legs opened slightly, and Nikolas stood between them, cradling Ben’s broken face in the palm of one hand while he gently worked over the cuts. “Tip your head back.”
“This part of your job description, sir?”
“I wrote my own job description. Looking after my operatives is definitely on it.” He cleaned Ben’s face gently but effectively. He could do nothing about the broken nose or swollen eye.
“What now, sir?”
“Now? Now you fade back into the darkness, Benjamin, until you are needed again. A job well done.”
There was silence for a while. Nikolas eventually appeared to decide that he could do no more to return Ben’s face to the way he preferred it and sat back down opposite him, contemplating the blood-soaked cloth.
“I didn’t fuck him, by the way. Just in case you were interested.”
Nikolas stopped staring at the blood and raised his eyes to Ben’s. “Why not?”
Ben swore softly. “You damn well know why not.”
Nikolas looked back down and after a while commented quietly, “People like us cannot afford love, Benjamin. Even affection is dangerous. You should know this, and if you do not, then you will have to learn. We have to stay alone or be destroyed.”
“Bollocks! What about you? You’re not alone, you’re married.”
Nikolas’s hands stilled, and he said distinctly, “Metaphorically alone works just as well.”
Ben sank his head onto his chest. “Oh.”
After a moment, he brought his hand up to wipe ineffectually at his eyes, and Nikolas hissed, “Good God, Benjamin, your finger.” He took Ben’s hand gently in his and wrapped it in the bloody handkerchief. “Go to the clinic. I will alert them you are coming.”
“I’m okay. I don’t—”
“Be quiet! Do as you are told for once.” Ben nodded, resigned. He couldn’t stand unaided so his protests sounded lame even to him.
With Nikolas’s assistance, he limped to the front door and saw a black Range Rover awaiting him. “And after they fix me up?”
“Then you rest until you are fit. It is stand down, even for me now.”
“Stand down?”
Nikolas gave him a look. “You are a heathen. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. It is a season of goodwill—apparently.”
“Will you be…?”
“Of course. As you so amusingly put it to me—my shadow dance must continue to play on. There will no doubt be charades and carols around the tree. Fortunately, I have my horse and an empty beach.”
“No one to ride with though.”
“No. No one to ride with.”
There seemed to be nothing more to say. Ben nodded in the direction of the yard. “My bike…?”
“I will have it taken to the hotel I have booked for your recuperation.”
Ben put his good hand on Nikolas’s arm. “I—”
“Don’t.” It was too dark in the hallway to see his expression, but Nikolas’s tone said it all. Ben pulled away and limped on his own to the vehicle waiting to drive him to the private clinic—only the best for the department’s personnel, after all.