Chapter Forty-seven
Ben had been stuck on the island without a boat, so the next day they went to St Mary’s to feed him.
Hewanted to visit the bookshop first though.
They pushed in through the door and the bell tinkled as usual. Morwenna Eames was serving a young couple who were buying a tourism guidebook, and there were a few other people in the little shop. She glanced over and then did a double take. He did not look like a shipwreck survivor now, and he had clearly not come off a trawler, foreign or otherwise. He strode in wearing one of his handmade suits, still glowing from the preparations he’d put in for his confrontation at the palace. He was Lord of Light Island and whether you should own land or not, he had bought it, and as he’d so recently been told—possession was ninth-tenths of being able to tell other people to fuck off.
He waited until she was free and then handed her a printout of a photograph.
She was still staring at him, but she took it unthinkingly before lowering her eyes.
She made a small sound. CCTV was never the best equipment to capture still images off, and her young assistant standing by their Merc in the Scillonian car park could have been anyone. But deep down, Aleksey knew, and believed she did too. ‘He cut our brake lines.’ He couldn’t remember Ben’s complicated explanation of the incident, and thought his version summed it up nicely.
‘This isn’t proof of anything. It could be anyone and whoever it is isn’t doing anything—just looking at a nice car.’
He stayed silent, but drilled her with his tawny, predatory gaze. After a moment she lowered her eyes back to the printout. ‘I never meant for that to happen. I’m very sorry.’ This was unexpected and seemed a cessation of hostilities between them. It caught him off-guard. ‘Did you find this Billy you were looking for?’
‘No. He died.’
‘So did Oily Penrose.’
He hesitated for a brief moment and then murmured, ‘I never meant for that to happen. I’m very sorry.’
She actually flashed a smile at him. He wanted to quirk his lip back. It was a little unnerving.
‘So, you’re staying then? Keeping our island?’
He nodded. ‘Myisland.’
She tapped her fingers on the counter.
‘Better start learning some Cornish then.’
He laughed. ‘I already have. Kyj dhe-ves.’
* * *
Sitting at their favourite table in the restaurant, both enjoying a cooked breakfast, Ben said unexpectedly, ‘I think you were wrong leaving Simon alive. I don’t think this will ever be over now.’
Aleksey leaned back in his chair, regarding his other half thoughtfully. ‘You might be right. It was a gamble.’
Ben seemed surprised at this response. He supposed that’s what you got for never letting on that most of what you did was done on a wing and a prayer and keeping your fingers crossed behind your back—that all his carefully laid plans and schemes were actually anything but that. He’d assumed Ben had already worked this out for himself, but no, apparently he still believed there was some deep thinking going on somewhere, some ninja planning.
Later, while they were finishing off a final cup of tea, he got a text, and when he pulled out his phone, saw it was from the hospital. He felt a small icy shiver of dread and did not want to open it.
But he did.
They needed to come. And they needed to come now.
He swallowed then bit his lip. He didn’t want to go, could not face this.
‘What?’
‘We need to get to Truro. Now.’
Ben’s face fell, and he looked out over the harbour. ‘Bugger.’
They didn’t have time to be selective about their travel. After a flight to Land’s End and another from there to Penzance in a helicopter, something Aleksey would not have done willingly for any other reason, and another half an hour on the train, they finally arrived at the capital city of Cornwall. In other circumstances, he would have enjoyed the quaint cobbled streets and picturesque buildings, but everything appeared decorated with skeletons which, although they were only celebrating Halloween, seemed ominous and darkened his mood. Ben laid his hand on his thigh in the taxi and squeezed gently, although he was staring out of the opposite window, keeping his thoughts to himself.
