When Aleksey recalled the events of the following few hours, he saw them as if in staccato flashes, and some he recalled vividly but others remained only impressions of what had happened: colours, sounds and sensations rather than precise recall of who did what, went where, or why.
Not all of this was his imagination, as a lot of what occurred was done to the accompaniment of flashing lights and sounds no man would be likely to forget, whatever the circumstances.
As he’d begun to tie off Simon Raiden’s stump with his belt and drag the moaning man out of the water, the scene had been intermittently light then dark, light then dark, and then Ben had just been there, and Aleksey had not been able to work out how, or accept that he was real until he saw the boat and the spotlight on its prow.
When they had got Simon to Benhar, and the pale, sweating man had grabbed his arm and mumbled a telephone number, his removal had been accompanied by the thrumming of a helicopter coming in low over the water from Culdrose, and its strobing lights illuminated the silent men who had emerged and carried the near-dead man onboard. Then Ben had taken him to the café, and the lights there seemed bewildering, and his hand had been shaking too badly to drink the tea the proprietor had given him. It was just the cold of being submerged in October, but he’d warmed up watching Billy hugging Snodgrass. It had not appeared as if Billy had ever been given something to love before, for his hold on the little scrap had reminded him of Molly with her kitten.
Ben had not taken Harry to St Mary’s after all. He’d brought him straight to Benhar, and the Air Ambulance for Truro hospital had met them there. They would not take the dog, but fortunately, when Ben had turned in frustration to see if anyone was awake to help, there Billy had been, watching the proceedings with great interest. It had been hard to say whether Billy had agreed to look after the dog or the other way around, but to Aleksey’s eyes they had appeared entirely bonded.
Harry had told Ben to stay too—had said he would be, ‘Fine with these wonderful young chaps. What an adventure…’ and so Ben had roused the proprietor of the café, left his new charges in her care, and returned to where his mind and heart had been the whole time—with him.
Aleksey could not genuinely say that Ben’s reaction on finding him alive had been noteworthy for any great declarations of devotion, or relief come to that; there had probably been too much blood and moaning for that. Possibly confusion, too, for Ben’s most memorable comment had not been, ‘Oh fuck, what have you done?’ But, ‘Why is he still alive?’which Aleksey had found quite amusing, although he doubted their passenger in the small boat had agreed.
But he’d had his reasons. As Ben might have said, ‘Thems were the rules.’
* * *
He gave it a week before he acted on his plan.
They were a busy few days anyway.
Ben, Billy and Snodgrass stayed out of sight on Light Island. The Kings of England of old had knights in their service. Billy had Benjamin Rider-Mikkelsen. Ben appeared to understand the importance of his role, even if Billy did not. As far as Billy was concerned, Ben appeared to be there to do the heavy lifting required to sort the mess the bad man had made of his home. Watching Ben sweep, then cart and heft stuff from Guillemot to the lighthouse, Aleksey reckoned Billy’s assessment of Ben’s skills was about right. Snodgrass could not be Keeper of the Kibble, for that appointment was already made, so they made him Officer of the Pantry, which basically meant Billy got to feed him whatever he wanted and no one was to tell Harry.
Harry had his surgery in Truro hospital.
Aleksey was waiting in his room when he was wheeled back from the operation.
Wobblies or arm—he wasn’t sure which Harry would suffer from more, so he’d ensured a private room for him with a huge window that overlooked a beautiful beech tree which, being October, was now in its full autumn glory. It was the best he could do, even though he’d brought this on the old man entirely by his own fault.
The moron and the professor arrived while Harry was still asleep.
Aleksey rose from the armchair where he’d been texting Phillipa.
‘What did they say?’ Squeezy stood, his arms folded, staring at his father.
‘They don’t know—or wouldn’t say. Too many variables apparently.’
Tim perched on the plastic chair next to the bed. Squeezy continued to stare at the bed thoughtfully.
‘I’m sorry.’
They both looked to him, clearly puzzled. He frowned at their confusion. ‘What? I am—sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen.’
The moron returned his gaze to the bed. ‘I think he did—I mean, not the actual broken arm—but…’ He thought some more then concluded, ‘Atonement. This time he turned back into the fucking storm, didn’t he?’ He suddenly put Tim in a headlock and added maliciously, ‘Now I can treat him like I treat you, you useless little source of all my merriment.’
Aleksey left Harry in loving, if slightly exhausting hands and made his way to London. Good as her word, Phillipa had arranged a meeting for him. She’d not asked any questions. She’d asked him to sort it and he had.
So only a few months after he had driven into the gates of Buckingham Palace with Ben, months which, even to him with his bizarrely challenging life, seemed to have been inordinately packed with drama, he retraced his steps to the small conference room in the suite of offices where La Luz had officially become his.
Only one of the lawyers was present this time.
As before, Simon Raiden came late.
Aleksey wasn’t at all surprised by this.
Getting around was probably quite difficult for him, and he was adapting to his new life.
And not particularly well, to Aleksey’s mind. After all,he’dsimilarly suffered a life-threatening injury almost a year previous, and look at him now! He was taller (according to the professor, and who would argue with such erudition?), deeply tanned and fit to anyone’s observance, and had the easy grace and confidence of a man who had been promised remission of all his sins by (his) god. Life was extremely pleasant.
