‘Yes. But nothing would essentially have been different.’ He turned his head to kiss Ben’s hair, but Ben turned into the kiss, and their lips met, then opened, and teeth clashed lightly as they kissed deeper, mouths opening wider, fingers running through hair, pulling them harder on. Ben twisted and knelt up on the sofa, unbuttoning his shirt until it hung loose, then started on his, the whole time keeping eye contact between them, a knowing understanding of this defeating of death by love and through the knowledge that life does go on—that it has to. Aleksey sensed that they were both making a statement with this sexual act that did not relate to them at all. It was more like a ritual sacrifice to assuage death. And when Ben entered him, he pictured a vast column of people, thousands deep and wide, one by one stepping forward to the haunting notes of Flowers of the Forest, their hearts then being cut from their bodies and their blood running in a tidal wave of crimson down steps cut into ancient rock. And life went on through this sacrifice. Gods require obeisance. They always do.
* * *
Chapter SEVENTEEN
The tight tangle they formed in bed that night was just theirs, no gods present, and Aleksey allowed more of his feelings on his friend’s loss to show. He never explained to Ben why he collected certain people around him, how he viewed them, perhaps how he played them like chess pieces across the board of his shattered life, but he suspected Ben knew exactly why he did it, and why he tried so hard to protect this little world of theirs under the snow-globe dome of Dartmoor sky.
‘I think I caused this, Ben. Taking her to Guillemot like that all the time was too much for her.’
‘Yeah, I think you’re right. She’d have been happier left on her own in the cottage—especially at Christmas.’
‘You do not do sarcasm well.’
‘Then don’t do self-pity. You know she wouldn’t have missed a single moment of Light Island.’ Ben snorted. ‘She’d have come treasure hunting with us if she could.’
‘I don’t think she’d have approved of treasure of any kind—absolute stuff and nonsense.’ He could always make Ben smile with his impression of the cut-glass accent of clipped politeness he heard in the English upper classes. ‘But the hunt would have intrigued her, yes.’
Ben turned over so he was lying on his belly, chin propped on one hand. ‘Do you think Colter will try to get on the island again?’
‘I hope so.’
Ben smirked his agreement. ‘Thank God for Radulf.’
‘There are many people who would never say that.’
‘Nah, the dead can’t talk—anyway, why don’t we contact Harry and tell him to search the caves?’
‘No, it’s too dangerous. He is suffering more than he admits from his arm. And I think Sharpie got trapped by the tide and drowned. And he was a fit young man.’
‘Send Squeezy back?’
Aleksey rolled his head, and Ben had the grace to laugh. That ridiculous idea dismissed, he admitted,
‘I feel bad leaving Miles. We need to be here for a few days at least.’
‘Do you think he’s okay to go back to school next week?’
He sighed. ‘I suppose I will have to make decisions like that now for many years to come.Guardian. I am not used to deciding things for other people.’ He only heard what he’d said at the exact same time Ben did, and so he got punished for a while, but they were both too exhausted to bother to take an amusing fight to the next stage. They finally admitted defeat and just spooned, and with Ben curled around his back and their legs entwined, he let the unsettling couple of days slip away into sleep.
* * *
He did wrestle with the decision to send Miles back to school or not. He was aware that keeping busy was usually the best way to cope with grief and loss, and that children were said to be resilient. From his experience, they had to be. But he was also aware that Miles did not have many friends at school. Unlike Molly, who seemed able to gather a large crowd around her—if only just curious children waiting to see what she’d do next—Miles was happier alone. He never appeared lonely, of course, because he was always busy with something or other, working on an invention, lost within his own little world. But that was what Aleksey feared—Miles dwelt in his head, and that doing so now would not be good for the boy. His grandmother had been his entire world, and now that world was hollow through loss. Thoughts echo in emptiness, and what bounces back is never pleasant.
The next day he planned to visit Phillipa at Barton, and as he didn’t want to appear to be deserting Miles entirely, agreed to Ben’s offer to stay behind and keep both children occupied. They were going to start planning another tree house for their ancient woods in Devon.
Slowly progressing up the long driveway of Barton Combe on his own, therefore, his elbow casually resting on the open window ledge so he could smoke, he could not help but be struck by how much things had changed in his life since he had done this routinely most Friday nights. Then he would have been returning from London to one of Phillipa’s weekend house parties. There, amidst noisy shoots or foxhunts, he would have moved silent and often unobserved, restlessly trapped within his deceits. He seemed to recall that he had been debating just such a decision—whether to go to Barton or not—when he had been ordered to Wales instead. And that trip to a windswept, rainy Sennybridge had changed his life. Fifteen years later and he still couldn’t believe his luck. He grinned and flicked the stub of his cigarette into the passing shrubs and let the Bentley skid a little on the gravel, just because he could. He didn’t bother to knock. He was probably still paying for this house, he suspected, one way or another.
Phillipa was in their private kitchen, and although that was startlingly familiar, things were also very different now. Gone was the permanent sense of bustle she had once had about her—forever sorting flowers, planning menus, coming and going with their dogs, and generally running her large establishment like a CEO might run a company. Now that she had achieved the top job, ironically she appeared less powerful, less useful and industrious. He slid into his usual seat almost surprised not to find his newspaper waiting for him. ‘So. Favour?’ He offered her a cigarette, which she took gratefully.
‘Can you imagine if I was caught doing this by one of those ghastly little scrotes with their long lenses?’
‘Hardly the worst thing you’ve sucked through your lips, is it?’
She snorted and stared out of the window for a while. ‘Do you know how much I’m worth now?’
‘Are you for sale?’
‘It’s terribly boring to talk about money, I know. Cornwall only brings in a little over twenty million a year, apparently. His mother left him a few bob, obviously. But you see, there’s all the Cholmondley-Warners to think of.’
