Page 84 of The Bright and Hungry Future of Hawks

Well, he'd come to say goodbye for good.

If he didn't go, one day he'd be visiting the scene of Ben's sacrifice.

If he didn't go, one day he'd be responsible for Ben Rider's death.

He thought he'd killed him with that phone call.

He had known Ben was suspicious in the car. Ben had sensed the tenor of the call from Philipa,hisreaction to it. That old threat being rehashed. The vulnerable skeins of his life unravelling.

He’d known in his heart that when the blade fell, it would fall at just such a moment, a moment in their lives when everything was perfect. And he’d taken his anger, his frustration out on Ben. An anchor round his neck? Well, yes, in a way it was true. True in the sense that anchors held safe those in peril on the sea. Ben was his protector, his armour—made him safe. Ben made himloveable.

He suspected he wasn’t the only man in the world who lashed out when he was terrified, but that awareness really didn’t help much.

Philipa had played her hand now and, for good or bad, it was over.

Ben knew.

He had tracked Ben in his mind after the call: the return to the empty bedroom with the priest’s hole. Had he paused by the bed, thinking about the other new knowledge he now had? Had Ben wondered whether at those weekends supposedly reserved for him,hehad oscillated between Ben’s willing body and hismarital bed? Possibly not. Ben’s thoughts were likely focused on that other revelation.Nate. A ghost for so many years finally substantial between them. Ben’s carpenter stories. No, he’d never liked them. Ben was right in that.

He had imagined Ben swinging his leather-clad leg over his bike—riding, fast and furious, cominghome.

Or perhaps not so fast this time. After all, Ben rode with the knowledge that their life was built upon a fundamental lie. That must have been a heavy burden weighing him down.

And what was there to come home to?

But fast upon the heels of that thought a very different one had come. Nothing about their little valley, their house, their family—Molly, Radulf, Babushka, Emilia, Miles, Enid, PB—was untrue. Even Squeezy and Tim were consistent and exactly what they purported to be. Well, Tim, anyway. And, more importantly, would be here for Ben when he returned from his anguished ride.

The truth had been pretty obvious when he'd considered it.Hewas the only thing out of place. He was the vast blackentityat the centre of this perfect place. And there he'd been, congratulating himself for being happy at last, for being in love. Sometimes, he’d reflected, irony really was a bitch.

He’d only been surprised that the very peat of Dartmoor had not risen up and swallowed him whole at his presumption, given all the bodies he'd fed into the ground.

By the time he'd got to picturing Ben’s arrival at the house, he had known what he had to do.

He'd always known it, really. In more sensible parts of his fucked-up brain he'd rationalised thatthiswould come to an end one day. The time bomb had ticked down to the end. All there was left to do now was dodge the shrapnel.

He'd made plans. In his position, who wouldn't? Accounts hidden, assets enough for more than a dozen lifetimes.

But…now push had come to shove...he didn’t want any of it.

He wanted silence.

He wanted to be still.

He just wanted it all to stop.

So, he’d taken off his million-pound watch, the one that gave him—no, had given the man calling himself Nikolas Mikkelsen—so much pleasure, and had laid it on the dresser in the bedroom next to that same impostor’s passport.

Not even his own his passport.Nikolas's.

Oh, those bodies were fucking lining up to accuse him now.

He'd ignored the dogs, who'd been staring furiously at him. One was blind and one was dumb. What did he care for their opinions?

Next, he'd taken out his wallet, considering briefly the credit cards.Nikolas Mikkelsen once again.

Finally, his phone. All his contacts tothisworld.

As he'd aligned it all on the dresser, he'd briefly closed his eyes and then reopened them.

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