The Bruise_Black Sky (8 page)

“Did you watch the DVD?”

Ben felt a stab of guilt, remembering. “No, sorry. I kinda forgot. Something came up.”

For some reason, Peter seemed to find this amusing, and he nodded happily. “No, that’s fine, no problem.” He rummaged in a briefcase at his feet for a moment and came up with an A4-sized photo. He pushed it across the table at Ben. It was a picture of a man some little distance away from the camera, kneeling on a hillside by a backpack. Someone had apparently called out to him, he’d raised his face, and the picture had been snapped.

Ben frowned deeply. “Where did you get this?” Before Peter could answer, he added, wide-eyed, “Wait, hang on, it’s not me.” He looked up, confused. “Sorry. I thought it was me for a minute. Who’s this?”

Peter was still nodding, watching Ben’s reactions very carefully. “He’s called Ollie Whitestone. Or was. He’s dead. You don’t recognise him?”

“Well, yeah, vaguely, I do. I don’t know why though…”

“The DVD I gave you last night was of a show called
After the Wars
. Have you heard of it?”

“I don’t…I guess. It’s on TV?”

“Not here in the UK yet, but they’re airing Season 3 in the States now. Ollie was the star, so the show’s taking a hiatus while they recast.”

“What’s it about?” Ben held the photo, studying the dead man’s face. The resemblance he’d seen was superficial really, but…fundamental. They shared the same wide-set eyes, the slightly exotic features, the high, defined cheekbones.

“It’s set in a post-apocalyptic world—a world that has been destroyed by wars. The survivors blame the army for the devastation, so soldiers are hunted down, captured and kept as slaves—as fighters. Conflicts between groups are now settled on the outcome of staged fights between these modern-day gladiators. Ollie played a soldier captured by a group in what remains of Louisiana.”

“Huh. ’K. How did he die?”

“He killed himself.”

Ben scratched absentmindedly at the scar on his wrist. “I’m sorry, but I’m still not seeing—”

“My ex-wife is a writer on
After the Wars
. I want to do a movie about Oliver—his life, his meteoric rise to fame through this role, and then his death. I’m a director, by the way. I’ve made one or two movies already.”

“Anything I’d know?”

Peter then proceeded to name three of the highest grossing movies of the last decade. They all had impressive explosions in them, and most characters suffered major head trauma at one time or another, so Ben had actually seen them all. “You’re
that
Peter Cameron.”

Peter quirked a small smile. “Yes. So, anyway. What do you say?”

Ben frowned and rewound the conversation.

Peter, still watching him closely, added, “I need someone who can play Ollie convincingly on screen. It’s not going to be a traditional movie. Acting…per se. It’s more a biopic being narrated—I’m trying to get Ollie’s co-star in
After the Wars
to do the narration, which would be awesome. I want you to be my Ollie Whitestone.”

Ben felt like glancing around. Nikolas wasn’t exactly known for practical jokes, but he didn’t put it past him…if he were bored enough…

“I have no idea why—”

“Paige, my daughter, saw you on a documentary about girls in a school in Afghanistan the week after I told her my idea for Ollie’s biopic—and then Emmy told her she knew you. It was fate, if you like. See, here’s the thing, I could get someone who vaguely looks like Oliver. I could get someone with the right gladiatorial physique. I could get an unknown who could come to this role with the anonymity I want—I don’t want someone recognisable in their own right trying to “be” Ollie for the wrong reasons—but I can’t get them all in one package…without you. You have it
all
, Ben. You look like him enough to be mistaken for him. You have the build—hell, do you know how many actors in Hollywood are actually really short? You
are
a fucking gladiator. Sorry, Gina—my ex—says I’ve got a bit obsessed about this project. She doesn’t want me to do it. But I knew Ollie really well. I had plans for him. I want to tell his story, Ben, and I want you to be my Oliver Whitestone.”

Ben didn’t know where to start refusing this offer. Before he could point out any of the things that made it impossible though, Peter Cameron added, “I want to start filming in New Zealand next month. Ollie was a Kiwi, and that’s where he got his start in the business. We film there for a few weeks and then go to Louisiana.”

Ben said yes.

He’d go to New Zealand and tell Oliver Whitestone’s story.

He thought maybe it would help him find his own.

CHAPTER NINE

When Enid Toogood returned to her bungalow with some very large school shorts in her bag, she took a long time to process what she was seeing.

She hadn’t examined her bungalow for a number of years and appeared to be noting that the tiles were a little mossy. Being in the dark for seven years would do that to a roof.

Nikolas and Miles were sitting on a couple of the stumps, watching her watching them.

Eventually, she struggled out and came over, painfully slowly. She wrapped her arms around Miles, sweaty T-shirt and all, and murmured, “My silly boy. My wonderful, silly boy.” Then to Nikolas she implored, worry aging her already craggy face, “What will he say when he sees this? What will he do?”

Nikolas shrugged. “I don’t think he’ll notice.” Miles sniggered quietly and happily in his grandmother’s embrace, and Nikolas added, “I think he’ll have other things to think about.”

There was a terrible crashing, grinding sound, and the grandmother straightened in alarm. Miles tugged her cardigan. “Don’t worry.”

“What’s that horrible—?”

Something came through the front of the faux monstrosity on the slope above them.

It was amazing how badly built the house had been, considering what it had probably cost. Nikolas was shocked on behalf of would-be architects everywhere. But then, he reflected, a wrecking ball would do a fair bit of damage to his glass house, should anyone ever employ one on it. It didn’t bear thinking about. Much more fun to see someone else’s property being knocked down. Which is what he and Miles had been doing since their success with the trees.

The wrecking ball had only been on site half an hour, and it was nearly all down, just rubble.

They helped Mrs Toogood into her bungalow and made her a cup of tea. She could see to drink it now. She was very pale, but Nikolas asked Miles to leave them for a moment, and then very succinctly he explained why she didn’t have to worry about the reaction of her neighbour when he returned from his holiday.

Nikolas had a way with him that people responded to when he wanted or needed them to. It was why he was who he was, he reckoned. Why he’d survived as long as he had. He employed that facet of his psyche on Mrs Toogood now, and she couldn’t withstand the force of his personality any better than all the other people he’d persuaded to believe him. Ben, he reflected rather sadly, would probably be sympathising with her right about now and shaking his head in warning behind his back. It hadn’t done Benjamin Rider much good trusting him over the years. Anyway, this was a different issue. She
could
have faith in him. He told her she could, and she believed him. She didn’t have any other option.

Nikolas returned to his stump next to Miles to view the next part of the operation—clearing the grounds. Some of the house had survived the wrecking ball intact—the marble staircase still looked in one piece, the faux-Victorian bathtub still recognisable—but it all got scooped up the same and dumped into a succession of skips, which were picked up and removed in rotation. It was all terribly noisy, especially as one seven-year-old little boy kept cheering at each crashing drop into a metal container.

Nikolas took a moment from the fun and went back to the car to call Ben. He’d not had a reply to a single one of his texts, but now he needed to speak with him—he planned to stay on for a few days to complete his ten-pound contract, so Ben would have to fly with Babushka and Emilia on his own that evening.

The phone rang for a while. Nikolas glanced at the time. Five o’clock. His arm was very brown. His watch still pleased him a great deal. It had been a good spend of a million dollars.

“What?”

It wasn’t Ben’s best greeting, but it was very hard, Nikolas assumed, to
not
talk to someone over the phone. Ben had been forced to say something.

“I’m still with Miles Toogood.”

“We’re leaving for the airport in half an hour!”

“I know. That’s why I’m calling. Go on with Babushka and Emilia, and I’ll fly back when I’m done here.”

“What’s that noise?”

“I have no idea. I think there must be some building going on somewhere.”

“Where are you?”

“With Miles Toogood. I told you.”

“Why do you keep calling him that?”

“Because it’s a name that needs to be said. Anyway, how did your lunch with the pervert go?”

“He’s not—Good. It was good. Interesting. I’ll tell you when you get home.”

“Oh, so you’ll be talking to me again then, will you?”

“I’m talking to you now.”

“No, this is being forced to talk because we’re on the phone and surly looks don’t translate well.”

“Fuck off, Nikolas.” Ben hung up on him.

Nikolas lifted his brows and regarded the peeling Harry Black for a while.

“Who were you calling?”

Nikolas started at the unexpected interruption to his gloomy thoughts. “Don’t ask adults questions. It’s rude.”

“Why? How would children learn things if they didn’t ask questions? Was that Emilia?”

“No. Have they finished?”

“They’re scraping the whole site now.”

“Don’t sound so gleeful and stop skipping.”

“Can we go see?”

“No. Building sites are dangerous for babies.”

“Did you know that William the Conqueror destroyed the whole of northern England just like this? He knocked down everything and burnt all the land. It was called
raising
the north, which is very odd when it was all flattened. I
love
William the Conqueror. He’s one of my heroes.”

“You have a lot of heroes.”

“Oh, yes. Kim Dotcom was my
absolutess
favourite until I met you.”

Nikolas glanced down at him, the parting from Ben still circling in his mind. “Me?”

“Absolutely.” Miles screwed up his very grubby face and thought theatrically. “The Wrecker! That could be your superhero name!”

“If we were following William’s example, perhaps…The Riser?”

“That would have to be The Raiser, not riser…”

Nikolas considered his effect on Ben’s cock. “Raiser works too.”

“It’s
brilliant
. You could spell it with a Z! Like
cutthroat
. The
Razer
!”

“It’s not me, anyway, Miles. It’s
you
. You did all this.”

“No, I only paid—”

“Miles, who built St Paul’s Cathedral?”

“Sir Christopher Wren, of course, didn’t you know that? Gosh, you should borrow my book of—”

“With his bare hands?”

Miles narrowed his eyes, thinking about this. “No. He must have employed men. I never thought about that. He
didn’t
build it then.”

“But he did. Do you see? The men who laid the bricks aren’t remembered. He is. It was his genius, his inspiration, his
ten pounds
that built the greatest cathedral in the world—except for all the ones in Russia, which are much better.”

“No they aren’t! No one remembers who built
them
!”

“Well, there you go. You’re a historical figure now. A superhero. You need a name.”

Miles looked down, blushing furiously. “I don’t much like the names that get made up for me. Miles Too…other things.”

“That’s because they aren’t seeing your secret identity. Hmm, let me think…Chainsaw.”

“
Chainsaw
.”

“Hush. It’s a
secret
identity.”

“I wish you didn’t have to go.”

“Not many people have ever said that to me.”

“Or me.”

“
Nor
me. You should say nor me.”

“No, you shouldn’t! You only use nor when it’s combined with neither!
Everyone
knows that! Otherwise it’s
or
. I think I’d better lend you my Golden Treasury of English Grammar. But you will return it, won’t you? I don’t really like lending my books.”

§§§

Nikolas declined the grandmother’s offer of a bed for the night and took himself off to the tiny hotel in the local town. He had one or two things more to sort.

He called Ben again just before midnight. Once more, Ben took some time to answer. “What?”

“Hello, Benjamin.”

“Where are you?”

“Here.”

“For fuck’s sake. What do you want, Nik?”

Nikolas had been going to tell him what he’d been doing all day, his joke about being The Raiser, but some of the fun of the tale went out on Ben’s coldness. “Nothing much. I’ll be home at the end of the week. Something came up. How was the trip?”

“Okay.”

The expression pulling teeth crossed Nikolas’s mind. “How is Radulf?”

“Good. Squeezy and Tim are leaving tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“I’ve gotta go.” Nikolas wondered why, but Ben clicked off before he could ask.

He lay back on the scratchy brown cover of the bed and contemplated the artex on the ceiling for a while. He’d spent the majority of his forty something years not being the least bit worried what anyone thought about him. As he’d once told Ben, why should he change to suit anyone else’s convenience? Why did it matter so much now what Ben thought about him?
Ben
was the one at fault, so Ben’s opinion really didn’t count.

It was utterly irrelevant to
them
that
he’d
once been married, that he’d once had a son he’d never seen, hadn’t named and didn’t know where was buried. Moscow had been a good guess and had shut Ben up for a while. Fuck, for all he knew, the baby hadn’t died, and it was all an elaborate lie by his wife’s family.

It was all
history
.

Ben would come around. He always did. Ben couldn’t function without him now. He’d kinda made sure of that…