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He’d told them what had occurred in Philipa’s bedroom. He wasn’t convinced Tim was getting the point of his story, because his sleep-ruffled friend had become fixated on the surreal fact of someone having a tunnel under their house. And on what the future queen had been wearing in bed, for some bizarre reason.
They both knew the original Nate story—or at least, the version of it Ben had always thought was the truth: a young carpenter who died in a house fire. An accidental house fire, according to the police. But, nevertheless, one Ben always suspected had been started by a psychotic Iraqi family in revenge for Ben killing their son and heir.
But now…
Tim was also obsessed with details, asking irritating questions such as, “So what did Nikolas say had actually happened then?” and, “Did Nikolas admit there was more to it than an accident?” or, “So, you think Nikolas was…what? Did…what?”
All good questions, but ones to which Ben had no answers. Because, of course, he’d refused to speak to Nikolas then and still was. Thirty missed calls now. His message box would be full soon and then no more.
Squeezy asked nothing, only sat in slight moon shadow from the open bedroom door, regarding Ben with unnerving and unwavering attention.
Suddenly, Ben jerked alert.
“You know something, don’t you? You fuck! In all your cosy fucking training sessions…he’s told you something about this, hasn’t he?”
Tim looked between them beseechingly, his anxiety evident when he tried to push his glasses up, but realised with an almost comical expression that he wasn’t wearing them.
Squeezy leant forwards. He’d taken the time to pull on some old jeans, but his naked torso was all planes and angles of tendon and muscle in the harsh white illumination of the moon. They’d left the lights off. Ben’s misery had wanted no additional attention drawn to it.
“You need to go home, Diesel. I’m not having this conversation with you.”
Ben unclenched his jaw to respond to this but still heard his juvenile accusation reverberating in his head. Squeezy’s calm response had only emphasised how their habitual relationship had suddenly shifted on its axis. Ben didn’t need anything more in his life to be twisted out of shape. “Sorry.” He put his head in his hands. “But I need to know. What has he said?”
“He?”
Ben glanced up, his face, he was sure, reflecting thereally, you’re going to make me say it?that was in his mind. “Nikolas. Happy?”
Squeezy didn’t look all that happy. What he had apparently been about to say was clearly being reconsidered, as if he had expected Ben to name someone else. He eased once more into the shadows. He began to rub one shoulder, the sound of his palm on the bare skin shockingly loud.
Tim murmured, his eyes fixed on the source of the sound as if glad to have something to look at besides Ben’s haggard expression, “Michael’s right. There’s only one way to sort this out. You need to go and speak to Nikolas, not us. But I understand why that’s hard for you. I do.”
Ben frowned. He didn’t like the implication in this that he and Nikolas didn’t have the kind of relationship where they talked things through—no, he didn’t like it being implied that he wasn’t able to talk to Nikolas. A slight difference but an important one, nevertheless.
Tim seemed to read his thoughts—as well he might, as this was not a new topic of conversation between them—and added quickly, “No, I meant that…well, you don’t really want to know, do you?”
Ben jerked his chin back, as if this had been a physical jab from the smaller man. “What the—?”
“It’s one of those things no one is better off knowing, isn’t it? I mean, you’ve gotten along perfectly well all these years not knowing this, so what good can it do to probe now? It’s a bit like people who don’t go to the doctor when they suspect they’ve got something really life threatening. They reasonit will be what it will be, but I don’t want to know. Why ruin the few years I’ve got left: I’m going to die anyway.” He appeared to realise he was babbling and shut up with a small glance at his other half as if to sayyou could contribute something helpful if you wanted. Like right about now. No pressure though.
Apparently taking his cue, although not in the way Tim had wanted, if the ex-professor’s expression was anything to go by, Squeezy murmured, “Ben’s never wanted to know about this.”
He’d apologised once. He wasn’t about to do it again. With an icy edge to his voice, Ben asked, “And what the fuck does that mean?”
Squeezy shrugged. He straightened the handgun on the table, just lining it up for some reason with the edge of a shadow. “You’ve always known this. Somewhere in your subconscious, you’ve always been waiting for something like this to happen. It’s why you refuse to see him as he really is—who he really is. He’s yourNikolas—and you form him into your own personal deity. You push him higher and higher onto a pedestal so you can venerate him without all the shit that’s lapping around being able to touch him. I don’t blame you, Diesel. Honestly, in your situation…?” He gave a small nod. “I might do the same. But I’m just telling it like it is.”
Ben thought about all this for a moment. It was too close to his own private reservations earlier for comfort—hehadbeen waiting for this to happen.
He glanced at Tim, but his friend was staring uneasily at the gun and possibly wondering why not a singlefuckhad peppered his partner’s small speech, and so was no help at all.
How did he reply to any of that?I don’t? It sounded so childish. He could almost imagine Squeezy retortingyou doand then them getting into ado, don’t, do, don’tslanging match over a congealing mug of tea.
But it wasn’t only that holding him back. He wasn’t replying because he couldn’t, because it was true.
Timed to perfection, as if he could read Ben’s silent capitulation, Squeezy added, “You’ve forgiven him murder, torture, rape. What did you think? That these things aren’t counted somewhere in that esoteric cosmic weigh scale?”
Tim’s gaze was now fixed on his lover with an expression that Ben almost laughed at. If he had, it would have been the sound of hysteria. Who the fuck was this?
“Up on that pedestal, getting higher and higher—but whose shit are you keeping him from? His own. Did you never think that it might be better if he faced it, was able to talk about it with you, work through it, take the pain and then the redemption that might be offered? No. You kept building the damn thing higher—which is quite a feat, given you have your hands permanently over your ears, hummingDaydream Believeror some such shite to yourself. Christ, Ben, Squirt cut up your favourite Goggins T-shirt to fit Daddybark. What did you do?”
