Page 26

Chapter 2

Andrew tried to form words, but his dream-dazed tongue could only curl around another strangled moan. If he could speak, perhaps he could negotiate his own release or at least beg for mercy.

Now it was too late. Hands held him down while the knife found his neck, its blade cold at first, then warm with the flood of blood. Andrew tried to scream again, but the coppery fluid blocked his windpipe and filled his mouth.

Even now they were shaking him, those hands. They couldn’t let him bleed to death in peace; they had to rattle the blood from his veins.

“Andrew!”

Colin was shouting his name, but Andrew couldn’t help him. Not this time. Not ever.

“I’m sorry,” he mouthed as the hands shook him harder. “I can’t do this.”

“Let me try,” said another man’s voice, calmer than Colin’s.

As he was released, Andrew went limp, sinking back into the soft, yielding darkness. “Thank you,” he murmured.

There came a new hand on his arm, but this one didn’t grasp. Instead it merely rested, a ghost of a touch. “Andrew, wake up.”

He pulled in a breath so harsh it scraped his throat. His eyes opened to a familiar gabled ceiling bathed in soft, warm lamplight.

Colin spoke Andrew’s name again as he leaned into view, his tousled hair forming a black corona around his head. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“Seems he had a nightmare,” said the other man.

Andrew turned his head, wondering if he was still dreaming. Why was Fergus’s ex-boyfriend in their bedroom?

It didn’t matter. Only keeping up appearances mattered. “Yes. Just a silly nightmare.” Andrew wiped the cold sweat from his forehead as he sat up. “Did I wake everyone?”

“I don’t think so,” Evan said. “We were outside your room when we heard you.”

“You never screamed like that before.” Colin loomed over him. “What were you dreaming about? Was it the stabbing again?” He took Andrew’s hand. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m fine, remember?”

Andrew nodded, though his death dreams had never been about Colin.

Evan moved toward the door. “You need anything? Some tea?”

“That would be lovely.” Andrew rubbed his face, trying to think. “Colin, love, give him a bag of that medicinal calming stuff. It’s in that little box on the desk in the other room.”

“I’ll find it.” Evan went through the door of the suite, then returned in a moment holding up the lavender teabag wrapper. “Be right back.”

As Evan walked out, Colin crawled over Andrew to lie on his other side, still wearing his dress shirt and trousers from the reception. They said nothing as he nestled against Andrew’s shoulder and curled into him. But when he rested his hand on Andrew’s chest, he gasped. “Fuck’s sake, your heart’s racing.”

“Of course it is.” I thought I was dying. “I thought you were dying.”

“It’s been ages since you had that nightmare. Why now?”

“I don’t know.” Andrew put his arm around Colin’s shoulders. “Perhaps they stopped last month because of the wedding and exams and Christmas. My mind was too busy to torture itself.”

“And here I thought they’d stopped cos—” Colin ran the edge of the sheet between his fingers. “Because I got better. I thought you’d stopped being afraid for me.”

“Me too.” Andrew was glad Colin couldn’t see his face. They’d always been honest with each other. Before.

Before Andrew had seen Colin nearly bleed to death at his feet.

Before he’d sat awake for three straight days watching Colin lie in hospital on the edge of life.

Before the infection set in and Colin needed a second surgery.

Before the second infection set in and Colin needed a third surgery.

Before Colin had lost two organs, thirty percent of his intestines, half a football season, and an entire university trimester.

All because of Andrew.

Colin spoke again. “Maybe it’s cos of what we did on the tower? Like, maybe you worried I’d overexert myself. Or maybe…I dunno, maybe you don’t like being held down since…since the incident.”

Andrew recalled how he’d surrendered all control—let his face be pressed to unyielding stone, his wrists bound by punishing hands. But this wasn’t the memory thickening his throat and twisting his guts.

“Life’s getting back to normal,” Colin had said.

Was there even such a thing as a normal life? If the two of them let their guard down, turned their backs on the next menace, whatever that might be…

Andrew wiped his forehead again, this time to banish the morbid fantasies. “Nonsense. As you should have noticed, I enjoyed myself immensely up there. The more likely culprit is my scandalous lack of yoga and meditation these last few weeks.” He drew his fingers through Colin’s hair, still stiff from the snow and styling products. “It helps keep me calm, and yet whenever life grows hectic I let my routine slide.”

“Isn’t that when you need it most?”

“Of course, you cheeky hooligan.” He twirled his fingertip inside Colin’s ear.

“Oi!” Colin sat up quickly to dislodge him. “You must be all right if you’re annoying me.”

Andrew forced a smile, relieved his act was convincing. “I’ll feel better once Jeremy’s trial is over.”

“That’s three months from now.”

“Two months, three weeks and six days.”

Colin laced his fingers with Andrew’s. “Still dreading it as much as I am?”

Maybe more. “The thought of standing in the witness box, having to say out loud what happened…” Andrew shut his eyes, wishing he could forget how it felt to have that knife poised at his side while his own bodyguard, Reggie—a man he’d trusted with his life—marched him down a Glasgow street toward a waiting car, on orders from Andrew’s brother-in-law, Jeremy. How he’d spent that walk picturing what awaited him: pain, restraint, maybe even death.

“I’ll be there for you at the trial.” Colin sat back against the headboard again. “We’ll be there for each other. And after your prick brother-in-law gets sent down, we’ll celebrate. Champagne for two—mostly you, of course, as the bubbly stuff makes me boak.”

“Sounds lovely,” Andrew said, though he couldn’t imagine celebrating the imprisonment of someone who’d been not only family but also a friend and mentor. As a high-level Conservative Party operative, Jeremy Colback had introduced him to all the right people, in the shared hope that Andrew would one day ascend to political power. Most of all, Jeremy had granted the one thing Andrew’s real brother and sister had always withheld: respect.

Snuggling closer, Andrew placed a hand upon Colin’s right forearm. He couldn’t feel the scars through the white Oxford shirt, but he knew the angle and length of each one. Colin had carved them himself years ago, when the pain he couldn’t speak grew too great. For the first time, Andrew could imagine himself doing the same thing.

But there’d be no way to conceal those scars from this man who explored his body on a regular basis. Andrew had to handle his distress the old-fashioned way—with a stiff upper lip.

A soft knock came on the door, then Evan entered holding a small tray.

“I didn’t know if you wanted milk or sugar,” he said on his way to the bed, “so I brought both.”

“Cheers, mate.” Colin took the tray from him and set it upon Andrew’s lap.

Evan stepped back. “I saw Dermot near the tea station. He said there’ll be a light breakfast served at ten.”

“Good. That should give everyone a bit of a lie-in.” Andrew adjusted the pillows behind himself, avoiding Evan’s eyes. “Sleep well.”

Evan took the hint and retreated. Like most of the Warriors, he’d visited during Colin’s convalescence. This last month he’d even conferred with Andrew on the best supplements for Colin and convinced the stubborn striker to take his vitamins so he could reach match fitness sooner. Though Andrew was grateful to Evan, he always felt chilled by his incisive gaze.

Colin got up from the bed and began to undress. He undid the top buttons of his shirt, then peeled it off, yanking the vest with it. His abdomen still bore the arcing pink scar from his first, most invasive surgery, but the ones from the laparoscopies had faded. The scar from the stab wound remained, a thick, colorless line that shifted as he moved.

Andrew felt a pang in his own side, as if he’d been the one knifed. He adjusted his posture to dispel the phantom pain, then reached for his tea to see if it had steeped long enough. It hadn’t, but he didn’t care. His nerves needed calming now.

He lifted the lid of the sugar bowl and froze at the sight of a small folded note atop the fine white grains. The outside fold bore his name written in pencil.

What the ? —

“You know what I hate about this castle?” Colin reached into the wardrobe. “It’s too drafty to sleep naked.”

Andrew snatched the note from the sugar bowl and pulled it into his lap. “Is that all you hate about this place? The draftiness?”

“That and the fact Dunleven represents everything wrong with this country.”

While Colin slipped into a pair of blue-and-gray-plaid sleep trousers, banging on about land reforms and the inherent injustice of the class system, Andrew waited for his chance. The moment Colin’s head disappeared into a long-sleeved Woodstoun Warriors T-shirt, Andrew quickly unfolded the note. At the bottom was Evan’s name and phone number.

I think I know what you’re going through. Let me know if you want to talk.

* * *

“How did you know I took sugar in my tea?” Andrew asked when Evan picked up the phone Sunday morning.

A hesitant cough came from the other end of the line. “Who’s this?”

“You know who.” Hearing nothing, he added, “It’s Andrew Sunderland.”

“Ah. How are you?”

“Fine.” Never had one word felt such a lie. Standing in the hallway of his flat, Andrew glanced at the door to the bathroom, where Colin was showering and singing. Ever since they’d returned from Dunleven Castle, Andrew had been on edge. He’d tripled his yoga and meditation practice, hoping to find relief in his old routines, but the quieter he became on the outside, the louder the panic-static in his head grew.

Now he was startling at the slightest sounds, triple-checking the front door locks, and waking at three a.m to fret about everything from dwindling polar ice caps to the state of his home-brewed kombucha. This morning he’d even snapped at Colin for placing the cutlery “the wrong way” in the dish drainer.

Colin had shown superhuman patience with Andrew’s irritability (a skill he said he’d learned having a mother with bipolar disorder). But the distance between them was widening. After a fourth straight sleep-starved night, Andrew was finally desperate enough to reach out to a near stranger.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Evan said.

“You could’ve texted or phoned me”—Andrew’s voice felt as sharp in his throat as it sounded in his ears—“instead of squirreling away a note as though we’re on a scavenger hunt. What if I took my tea without sugar? I’d never have found your little stealth missive.”

“Sorry for alarming you,” Evan said. “I wanted to be discreet, and I didn’t have your phone number.”

“You could’ve asked Colin for it.”

“Would you have preferred that?”

“Of course not! Then he would know—” Andrew cut himself off and clutched at his hair. “Forget it. Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Evan said. “Look, whatever you’re going through, Colin will understand. He’s suffered in silence and has the scars to prove it—and I don’t mean from the surgery.”

Andrew slumped back against the wall. “So you know about Colin’s cutting.”

“Everyone knows. When the Warriors do outreach with LGBTQ youth, he tells the kids all about it, and how they should reach out to someone they can trust.”

Andrew felt his heart twist at the thought of a fourteen-year-old Colin lacking that someone . “He had a right to that pain. The things he endured?—”

“And you don’t have a right to feel pain?” Evan asked.

“Nothing happened to me.” Andrew nearly choked on the words. “I told you, I’m fine.”

“If you were fine,” Evan said, “would you be reaching out just now?”

The shower shut off, though Colin kept singing. Andrew hurried into the kitchen/living area reception room, closing the glass-paned door to the hallway behind him. “What makes you so certain you can help me?” he asked Evan.

“Maybe I’ve been through something similar.”

That seemed impossible. “When was this? What happened?”

“The details don’t matter,” Evan said. “What matters is I might understand how you feel. Maybe better than anyone else you know.”

“But I don’t know you. Why should I trust you?”

“That’s a fair question.”

Of course it was. Every day Andrew lived with the consequences of trusting the wrong people. People like Reggie and Jeremy.

“I get it,” Evan said with a sigh. “But you should to talk to someone. Ideally Colin, but if you need another…well, you’ve got my number.”

Colin’s singing crescendoed as the bathroom door opened.

“Don’t contact me again,” Andrew whispered into the phone, then hung up. He peeked down the hall to ensure Colin had disappeared into the bedroom. Then he went to stand beside the kitchen worktop, resting his palms on the cool gray marble to calm himself.

His gaze fell upon an advance copy of Felicity in the Raw , a cookbook by one of his foodie friends who starred in a successful TV show by the same name. Clipped to the front cover was Felicity’s handwritten invitation to her book launch in London later this month.

A chill ran through Andrew, as it always did when he thought of this upcoming event. The venue, an upscale Covent Garden restaurant, would be crammed out with the posh crowd that had once been such a big part of his life. He’d see all the lifelong London mates he’d been avoiding since The Incident, mates who would ask probing questions like, How are you getting on? Mates who could see through his I’m fine facade.

But he had to attend. He’d written the book’s introduction, after all, so his presence was expected—no, required. Besides, Felicity had not only sparked Andrew’s passion for healthy-but-delicious eating, she’d also given him personal nutritional guidance to help Colin during his recovery. He owed it to her.

It’s eighteen days from now , Andrew thought, opening the fridge to retrieve a stack of fish-food containers. I’ll be better by then. He’d be back at university a week on tomorrow—surely that would help ease him into society again.

As he stood beside his massive saltwater aquarium, dispensing breakfast to his glorious finned companions, he thought about what Evan had said, that Colin would understand.

Andrew was closer to his boyfriend than he’d ever been to anyone. But emotional intimacy wasn’t exactly encouraged amongst the upper classes. Tatler didn’t run features on “3 Easy Steps to Baring One’s Soul” alongside quizzes like “How Posh Is Your Face?” Though Andrew’s parents had doted on him, his far-older brother and sister had ridiculed his every shortcoming. He’d fought back by pretending he didn’t care what George and Elizabeth thought of him—or what anyone thought of him.

Still, he knew it was human to show weakness, to seek comfort from loved ones, to tell the truth. Hiding pain was an animal instinct. Andrew had seen it in his dogs and horses. Even these fish, when ill, would conceal themselves in their coral reef until they either recovered or died.

He should be better than that.

As Andrew returned the fish food to the refrigerator, Colin entered the kitchen dressed in his workout clothes and carrying his black kit bag.

“You showered before going to the gym?” Andrew asked. “Didn’t you once mock me for that?”

“I like having my sweat stink a wee bit less. There’ll be loads of it today. Sprints training.” Beaming with anticipation, Colin slipped a heart-rate monitor onto his right wrist and a black sweat band onto the left. “Six days till my triumphant return, and I’m still too slow.”

“You’ve got your stamina back. That’s what matters most.”

“If I were a deep midfielder like Fergus. But I’m not.” Colin swaggered over, backing him against the worktop. “I’m a striker.” He hissed like a snake and gave Andrew’s side a teasing pinch.

Andrew jumped, weirdly unsettled by this touch. “Ow.”

Colin pulled away. “Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

“Of course not.” Andrew slipped a hand behind his own back. “My spine hit the edge of the worktop in a funny way.”

Colin took in Andrew’s tense posture. He liked to play the brute, but he was the most sensitive person Andrew had ever met, so it was hard to hide feelings from him.

Hard, but not impossible.

“You all right?” Colin asked. “Still…tired?”

Andrew felt himself flush. Colin was no doubt referring to the fact they’d not had sex since their adventure atop the Auld Keep tower. “I think I’m coming down with a cold.” Wincing at the lie, Andrew slid out of Colin’s reach and started the electric kettle. “I’ll drink some echinacea tea, but just to be safe, I should sleep in the guest room for a few days.”

“Nah, you stay in the master bedroom. I’ll shift to the other room.”

“Don’t be silly.” Andrew opened a cupboard and grabbed his favorite mug, a large black one featuring the Real Madrid Football Club crest. “I’ll move, you stay.”

Colin made an exasperated noise. “Andrew, this is your home.”

“Stop saying that!” Andrew slammed the mug against the worktop. A tiny chip flew off the cup’s bottom rim.

“What’s wrong?” Colin asked in a small, tight voice, one he must have used a million times with his mum.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Andrew snapped, though he knew he should be gentler. “After all this time, you still act like a guest. You belong here in my flat. I want you here. Have I not made that clear?”

“Aye,” Colin said softly, his hand drifting to the part of his shirt covering his wound. “I’m sorry.”

The hurt in Colin’s tone turned Andrew’s chest to lead. “No need for apologies. Just please be careful whilst I’m ill. Wash your hands even more than usual.”

“Okay.”

Andrew sniffled. “And take antibacterial gel with you to the gym. Those places are germ harbors, especially this time of year.”

“Already got it.” Colin pulled a clear plastic bottle from the outside pocket of his kit bag. “See?”

“I see it’s nearly empty.” Andrew reached into the cupboard and took down a bottle of gel. “Here, I promise this one’s fragrance-free.”

“Thanks.” Colin came over for the bottle, but also leaned in for a kiss.

Andrew turned his mouth away. “Mind my cold.”

“I know.” Colin wrapped his arms around him, with a tenderness that made Andrew ache. “I cannae catch a cold from a hug, aye?”

Andrew shook his head, holding in his breath so it wouldn’t escape as a sob.

“Gonnae be late.” Colin released him, then kissed his forehead. With a wink and a thumbs-up, he swept out of the room, grabbing his kit bag on the way.

Andrew stood in the kitchen alone, listening to the echo of his flat’s front door slamming shut, his side still smarting from Colin’s playful grab. He ran his thumb over the fragment of exposed white ceramic on the bottom of the black mug. Now that the cup was chipped, he wanted to smash it to pieces.

The thought made him turn to stare past the wrought-iron spiral staircase leading to his yoga/meditation loft. His gaze rested on the wide, tall window behind the living room television. From here he could see the pane once shattered by a rock his own bodyguard had thrown, in the vain hope that Andrew would blame Colin and his Scottish nationalist comrades.

The electric kettle dinged, making him jump. He opened the tea cupboard, causing several boxes and bags to tumble out of the overstuffed space and onto his head.

Cursing, Andrew snatched up the fallen tea collections, most of which were his own blends. He considered hurling them straight into the rubbish, but instead shoved them into a pile beside the toaster. Then he yanked a bag from the box of echinacea tea and tore off the wrapper.

Out of habit, he checked the teabag tag for today’s bit of “yogi wisdom.”

Live in your strength , it told him.

“Piss off,” he replied.

While waiting for the tea to brew, Andrew went into the master bedroom, intending to collect a few things to move to the guest room.

But once he was there he simply sat, gingerly, on the edge of the bed. Wrapping his arms around himself, he remembered how solid Colin’s body had felt just now as they’d hugged goodbye.

Sitting here alone, Andrew didn’t feel solid at all. But why? The knife held to his side had never even broken the skin. He’d come to no harm because he’d gone willingly. He’d let it happen. If only he’d run away from Reggie, or screamed to the crowd around them, or even fought back—if he’d done something more than freeze like some sort of ambulatory fainting goat—then Colin never would have been hurt.

With a trembling hand, Andrew smoothed the wrinkles in the soft white duvet beneath him. It seemed only yesterday he’d slept beside this bed, in a lounge chair he’d bought for the nights when Colin felt too feverish or achy to bear another body lying beside him.

Andrew could have stayed in the guest room those nights, but he couldn’t bear the thought of being out of Colin’s sight. So he’d slept here, leaving just enough room between the bed and chair for Colin to pass by if he needed the loo.

Most nights, thankfully, the chair had remained empty. Most nights Andrew had held his boyfriend close, pressing his palm to Colin’s chest, letting the rhythm of that courageous heart lull him to sleep.

He rose now, went to the chest of drawers, and pulled out the lowest one. From beneath a stack of summer shirts he took a plain blue notebook, which he opened for the first time in nearly a month, according to the last entry, dated Tuesday, 9 December.

Andrew paged through the sheets, their edges rumpled from frequent turnings, their surfaces stained with tea and tears. Here, in various colors of ink, was the detailed documentation of Colin’s recovery. There were columns for medications and symptoms, as well as food and drink consumption. The far right column contained Andrew’s daily observations, including:

- First day off antibiotics—appetite vastly improved!

- C now addicted to Netflix. Bojack Horseman = his new spirit animal.

- These fucking infections! Must start bathing him in antiseptic.

- Ugh, C scraping bottom of Netflix barrel with “Hemlock Grove”.

- I love him so much it hurts.

To outsiders, and probably to Colin, those days seemed a nightmare: the medication regimen, the pain, the fatigue, the pissing of blood. Andrew’s friends had called him a saint for looking after Colin, but in truth, it had been an honor—and odder still, a pleasure.

He sat on the bed again, hugging the notebook to his chest. For three months, it had been just the two of them, safe as houses. For three months, the real world that had so violated them seemed to disappear behind a mist.

Now, that world was looming. Colin would soon escape this sanctuary and return to a normal life—on the pitch, at university, and everywhere in between. Out there, no one could protect him.

Least of all Andrew.