“Bear.”
“Bear?A snail?Seriously?”
Ben pouted sheepishly.“After Bear Grylls.He was my mentor...”
Nikolas pondered this for a while.When Ben’s mother had run away from her home in Devon, she’d gone to a small village on the edge of the Saddleworth Moors.To a council estate.Number six, Beck Side.
He began to laugh and eventually had to leave the room.
He’d just worked out Ben Rider-Mikkelsen’s porn name.
* * *
The manipulation was working on all the men in the room.
When Nikolas finally returned, he could feel a palpable sense of belonging amongst them now, the knowledge they were part of history, part of a unique tribe—a nation.They were now a group who might be very willing to fight for their country—this other country.Is this what had led Michael’s young nephew to shoot Islamist students at his university?Had that been his rite of passage?For, of course, what did any group want of its initiatives but proof of their commitment, their new belonging?It wantedsacrifice.Colour it any way you wanted—suicide bomb, Christening, circumcision, pledge, forfeit, tithe—a group is a powerful force and powerful forces need feeding.
At lunchtime, Ben announced he wanted a cigarette.
Nikolas was practically dragged to the garage.He was bundled in, pushed to the back wall and then his commitment to leaving the darkness was tested very thoroughly.
Nikolas couldn’t deny he was more than willing to commit any way Ben wanted.His response to Zac (or Zeb—or Troy, come to that) was prominent, hard, barely concealed by the tails of his shirt, which he’d pulled discretely out of his jeans on returning to the classroom.Ben’s tests were always thorough, Nikolas reflected, as he was fucked face first against the rough cement.He ignored Ben’s anger about his hypocrisy and childishness, letting it all wash over him in the exquisite delight of being brought to orgasm with such a vicious pounding.
He actually had a huge graze on his face when they were finished,specksof blood and grit embedded in the red lines.Ben was then contrite and apologetic and angry with himself for being so easily manipulated and…jealous.
Ben Rider-Mikkelsen clearly didn’t like his boyfriend watching porn with anyone else but him.
Apologetic was always good though.Nikolas made Ben apologise on his knees, mouth around his cock, dyed blond hair scrunched in his fingers, holding him on.
Nikolas reckoned they did their bit for gay pride that lunchtime.
Who needed suicide bombs to show commitment?
* * *
No one paid any attention to the florist Nigel Stannis standing for the first part of the afternoon.They may have wondered about his face, but probably assumed he’d fallen over…smoking.Perhaps that was why, when he did sit, he eased down cautiously and with a wince of pain.They were all busy writing.Their journeys—what they’d learnt about themselves over the week and where they wanted to go now.Nikolas dutifully penned his desire to see justice prevail and to right wrongs—historical, contemporary or otherwise.He left out he wanted a cape, too.He was trying to be more serious for Ben’s sake.
When they were all done, it was time for the final event before departure—individual interviews with the doctor.While each man was being seen, the others were free to return to their rooms and pack.In his mind, Nikolas was picturing two doors exiting from the doctor’s office—one marked return to normal life, and the other marked…what?Radicals only?Would-be jihadists this way?Perhaps they’d be issued a copy ofJihad for Dummies.
Ben’s name was on the list to see the doctor after him.Nikolas went up to his room and discovered his bag had been returned and was sitting on the bed—packed.After half an hour, he was summoned for his final session.He wasn’t looking forward to it, as it meant he had to make an effort to be the gay florist, but he felt fairly sure it would see him offered the chance to stay on for another three weeks.He wouldn’t recruit himself, but then, he reflected bitterly, he knew himself.They only knew Nigel Stannis.
Afterwards, Nikolas thought it incredibly ironic he’d been thinking this exact thought—they knew him as Nigel Stannis—as he’d entered the consulting room.He was greeted not only by Doctor Fergus Atwell, but by Doctor Julian Wood.He wasn’t sure who was the more surprised.He reckoned Julian Wood was, because it appeared to take the psychologist longer to react.First a frown, then a hesitant, “You’re not…” and then a more panicked, “You’re…” and then he turned to his colleague and blurted out, “He’s not Nigel Stannis!”
Two therapists would have been no match for Nikolas.Even the six thugs in their shiny suits, urgently summoned from lurking in the hallway, wouldn’t have taxed his strength too much.The sharp prick of icy cold to his neck as he had one shiny suit in a headlock on the floor, however, did much more.
* * *
Nikolas woke and knew instantly he was in a car.He could hear telltale swishes as other vehicles passed them on a fast, wet road, feel the car turning sharply, and at this, realised he was in the rear footwell, folded uncomfortably behind the front seats.His hands and feet were bound and his mouth taped.The car turned again.Now he heard loose grit, and they were going more slowly.The car began to bounce and rattle; they went even slower.They stopped.He heard another car behind them and that too came to a halt, tyres skidding slightly on the uneven surface.The man in the passenger seat of his car climbed out.They carried on, paused, engine still running, the man got back in.The rear wheels spun.The driver grunted something about a gate.It was very dark.
Eventually, the engine was killed and both men in the front got out, standing by their open doors, apparently looking at something ahead of them.They shut the doors and disappeared.
Nikolas almost had his hands free.They’d been bound with parcel tape, which was effective, but he’d been rubbing it against the rails at the bottom of the front seat.He felt the car move again and struggled to sit up.The men were pushing the car from the back—four men, and there was another car parked a few feet behind them.Nikolas felt a surge of adrenaline wash into his body.He flung himself between the front seats.At exactly the same time the whole car tipped forward and he was plunging down.The car hit something hard, flipped.He couldn’t tell if he was up or down.He ripped with all his strength at the tape on his wrists, struggling, and then he felt the cold lap of water.He’d known of course.As he’d struggled between the seats, he’d seen the quarry, dark, deep, and deadly in front of him.
Nikolas slammed his bound feet at a window, but the glass didn’t shatter.The motion unbalanced the car and it tipped to one side.The quarry seemed to sense its victim was vulnerable now, and cold water sloshed more freely, rising rapidly.He kicked again.The vehicle finished its lazy turn, tipped sideward and sank so fast Nikolas was taken down into icy darkness before he had time to even attempt a deep breath through his nose.
He’d always thought he’d die like this—not this exact vehicle, or this quarry, of course.But something meaningless and squalid.This wasn’t fiction, and he wasn’t anyone’s superhero deserving a heroic death.He was an evil man, and his crimes had finally caught up to him.
He was dying.
