“You…gentlemen…gonna order something?This isn’t a beauty parlour.”
He appeared to be playing to his audience, and Nikolas heard some sniggering from the guys playing darts.The barman began to clear tables around them.
Nikolas leant close to Ben’s ear and asked softly, “How well do you reckon you play billiards?”
Ben turned, apparently incredulous.“In here?Now?”
Nikolas chuckled.“Notourversion.I meant the game where you concentrate on thecolouredballs?”
Ben smirked slightly.“Oh.I guess okay.Why?”
“I intend to buy you that packet of crisps—at the very least.Come on.”
Nikolas got up slowly.Ironically, in many ways, he fit in better with the patrons of the pub than the men around the table, and he knew this as he walked slowly to the back room where the game was.
He went up to the group playing pool and offered to play them for money.
He was told to fuck off—faggot.
Nikolas went very still.He’d never been called a faggot before.It was a brave or foolish man (or one backed up by half a dozen mates) who called anyone who looked like Nikolas anything.He was ripped with muscle and carried himself like a fighter—a dancer: light on his feet, quick penetrating gaze, quiet manner.Added to this, he was badly scarred and six foot four.Of course, these men with their football shirts and low-slung jeans, their beer bellies and ancient allegiances, couldn’t know he was also a murderer—a man who’d tortured and killed, and survived horrors they couldn’t even imagine.
It was unthinkable to Nikolas, therefore, that the man he’d addressed had insulted him, turned his back, and carried on playing with his friends—laughing at the faggot.
Nikolas suddenly felt himself tethered once more.It was only one finger in his belt, so not much actually restraining the power contained within him.But it represented far more than a digit hooked in a belt.It was the bond they shared, the love, the commitment.He closed his eyes for one moment then nodded.He was Nigel Stannis, not Nikolas Mikkelsen—and God forbid these men ever met Aleksey Primakov.He was Nigel the gay florist, and he did this for Ben, who needed him to stay in that role to help a friend.
In some ways, retreating from that table was the biggest commitment Nikolas had ever made to Benjamin Rider-Mikkelsen.And he knew Ben understood this.
Nikolas backed from the small room and left the pub, walking a little away so he was not under a street lamp.He lit a cigarette and methodically brought his heart rate down, his breathing under control.He sensed Ben alongside him—no words needed.The others were coming out to join them, the drama which had just played out entirely unnoticed by any of them.They’d seen Nigel Stannis approach the table and then leave.Simple.
It was raining and had turned cold.
* * *
Chapter Twelve
They needed somewhere to sit out of the rain and wait for the bus to return, so Nikolas suggested they shelter in the chapel across the road, a forlorn reminder of their enforced sobriety.Ben was about to point out it would be locked, but Nikolas had already jogged across the road.Ben let him make his own discoveries.He could sense a tsunami of anger and resentment pouring off Nikolas like the scent of a trapped predator.When they caught up with him, he was staring at the door in frustration.
“Who locks a church?Who fucking locks a church?What if you needed to urgently speak with God?”He turned on the others.“Sit!”They immediately dropped down on the steps as he rounded the building out of sight.
“What’s he doing?”
Ben shook his head at John’s question, not sure he wanted to know the answer.James got up and peered around the corner and informed them in a sotto voice that Nikolas had opened the side window of the church and had hopped up and over the sill.In a more animated tone he whispered, “He’s breaking into a church!”
Ben couldn’t tell whether the man was outraged or impressed.He knew what he was and hissed, “Stop it!”through the narrow gap in the widow.Nikolas appeared again and left the church as easily as he’d entered.He looked smug.Ben knew that expression only too well.
“Tell me you didn’t.”
Nikolas grinned and held out a couple of five-pound notes, some coins—and a button.This he glared at.“Who would cheat God with a button?”He chuckled and pocketed the money.Suddenly, waving their various exclamations of horror away he asked coldly, “Where’s Samuel?”
Ben cursed.
Mathew mumbled sheepishly, “I think he needed…” and mimed sorting.
They all turned back to the pub.
They all heard the scream.
* * *
