This Other Country Read online

  § § §

  It occurred to Nikolas on their return to the large Victorian house that whichever way the evening had gone—humiliation or fighting back—the outcome appeared to be much the same. The other group appeared as shell-shocked and as angry as they did, only without the broken bones and other evidence of the fight. John quickly discovered from Mark that they’d similarly found themselves deposited at a pub. They’d been jeered at, pushed around and eventually made to crawl out with their jeans and shorts lowered, arses bare. It had been the single most humiliating and unpleasant experience of Mark’s life he’d told them—and he taught health and hygiene to Year Elevens. Perhaps this group was less angry and more defeated than Nikolas and Ben’s group, but it was a close thing.

  Doctor Atwell didn’t make an appearance for an hour. Nikolas guessed he might be taking furious phone calls from suing actors. He wondered what was next in store for them. He knew what he’d do next—had done to his recruits. For was this not just like creating a solider? He couldn’t help but smile therefore when Ben leant closer and predicted in a subdued voice, “They’ll turn our anger at them into anger against the real enemy now.” It was amazing how similar they thought sometimes, given they thought differently about almost everything.

  Nikolas turned so their heads were even closer together and murmured, “But who is the real enemy?”

  They found out. Doctor Fergus Atwell marched into the room, slammed the door behind him and asked angrily, “When was the last execution for sodomy in this country, gentlemen? Anyone?”

  After a few nervous glances, John hesitantly offered, “Henry the Eighth’s time?”

  He got a derisive gesture of dismissal. “Anyone else?”

  Samuel suggested, “Elizabeth? The Catholic thing?”

  No one else volunteered a guess after the look he was given. The doctor clicked a small device in his hand, and an image appeared on the wall in front of them—a scene of a hanging. “1835, gentlemen. Two young men meeting in private were seen through the window of their room. They were reported, arrested, sentenced to death, and hung. Seventeen other men were also sentenced to be executed that month—rapists and murders every single one of them—but all seventeen had their death sentences revoked. Mercy for everyone except James Pratt and John Smith. They were hung publicly. Unusually large crowds turned out to watch. What was their crime? Love. Their crime was love.”

  Nikolas reckoned therapy was over.

  For the rest of the day, the tired, depressed, angry group was subjected to a prolonged and intensive lesson about the consequences of being different. The historical stuff was bad enough. There were only so many descriptions of decapitations, burnings and stonings they could take. But at least the stories were remote, illustrated only by faded line drawings or contemporary sketches. But after lunch (where no one felt like eating, even Ben), the historical gave way to the current, and that was very hard to take, even for Nikolas, who’d seen most ways evil men can inflict pain and misery upon those with less power than themselves.

  The past abuses had made them angry, but not…complicit. Watching these current events unfold, it was far more difficult to distinguish between them and us. After all, was it not true that the only thing evil needs to triumph is for good men to do nothing? What had any of them ever done about the evil they were now shown? Live burials for gay men in Afghanistan; stonings in Algeria; beatings, torture and electroshock treatment in Egypt; young gay teenagers cut in half or thrown off buildings in Iran; Somalia, a teenager buried up to his neck and stoned to death—a more severe punishment than for murder; five thousand children in British schools currently being taught that gay men should be put to death; a British television channel advocating gays should be tortured and murdered; Uganda, gay men forced into tyres, set alight, and rolled down streets; Baghdad, gay men’s rectums glued up as they were force-fed laxatives until they literally exploded—the bodies left in the street for the dogs. And all of this illustrated with photographs and video.

  § § §

  Ben had experienced the religion of peace up close and personal for most of his working life, so much of this didn’t come as a shock to him. When the doctor began on Russia, however, he was appalled. He’d had no idea. Young men sodomised with bottles and set on fire; gay men hunted by vigilante groups—and all of this with no Stone Age religious bigotry to cause it. It was a political hatred; a belief inspired by a collective imperative to seek an outsider, to say all humans must see the world the same way and those who don’t are abnormal. That such deviance must be rooted out…In one video, Soviet army officers stood around watching a young recruit being beaten to death by other recruits. Ben didn’t follow that one too closely. He didn’t want to see a familiar face amongst those watching.

  Tea came and went. A few of the group drank some, but no one wanted the biscuits. After tea, came the movie. Neither Nikolas nor Ben had ever watched a gay movie—other than ones with men who, by and large, hadn’t been cast for their acting ability—and perhaps because of the emotional exhaustion of the day, it surprised and disappointed them the men were separated by death at the end—a conclusion which, the doctor was at pains to point out, was a feature of almost all gay movies. The message was clear, he claimed: for all its liberal pretensions, the film industry was about dollars. Money came from majorities, however vociferous a minority might be. They played with gay love but would never portray it as being a valid alternative to that which paid their salaries.

  Then it was supper, and they were allowed to go to their rooms and clean up beforehand—the first time other than necessary bathroom breaks they’d left their classroom. Ben came automatically into Nikolas’s room, and they sat side by side on the bed, contemplating their shoes for a while. Ben eventually asked in Danish, “Have we ever supported a gay organisation with ANGEL?”

  Nikolas shrugged. “Not specifically. No one has asked.”

  “Would you if they did?”

  Nikolas repeated his gesture. It said a lot. He turned then and took Ben’s face in his hands, and for the first time Ben felt a huge surge of anger at the realisation that had he been in another country with different rules, he would be made to feel unclean about the terrible desire he felt for a kiss from this man.

  With profound relief he saw a similar thought flicker across Nikolas’s face. Instead of bringing their mouths together, Nikolas continued to cup Ben’s face, staring into his eyes. He stroked his thumb thoughtfully over Ben’s cheekbone. “If I’d met you in Afghanistan and killed you, I’d have been given another medal. If I’d kissed you? Loved you?” Then he dropped his hands and added a little sulkily, “But this doesn’t affect us. We live our lives as we wish and no one can stop us.”

  Ben slumped a little alongside him. He didn’t do deep thought about anything, never had, but that insularity seemed wrong to him somehow. “That would be like us in our hut in the Philippines, in the green glow of our tropical snow globe…if the tsunami had happened around us and we’d just stayed in the hut, ignoring it. There is a tsunami happening around us, and we’re caught in it just as much as we were in that one. Maybe we should help with this one as well.”

  Nikolas smiled sadly. “I think you’ve been radicalised.”

  “And you?”

  Nikolas appeared to think about this for a long time. All he concluded was, “I’d have chosen a different ending for that film.”

  “Happy ever after?”

  Nikolas laughed ruefully. He pursed his lips. “Imagine what all this would do to a young man like Michael’s nephew. It makes more sense now that he targeted the Islamists at his university.”

  “Get them before they got him?”

  “Possibly.”

  “And he had three weeks more of it.”

  “Yes. I think he did. I wonder what criteria they’ll use to separate us tomorrow. Those who stay and those who go?”

  Ben frowned. “Won’t they try to persuade everyone to stay? Join their cause?”

&nb
sp; “I wouldn’t. Not everyone has violence in them. It doesn’t matter what the provocation, some men wouldn’t retaliate.”

  “But we’ll be asked. We’re kinda…ideal?”

  Nikolas shrugged again. “I wouldn’t recruit me, no.”

  “Huh?” For one moment, a vision of Nikolas in Siberia flickered across Ben’s mind, blood-soaked, feral, grinning.

  “I’m not the kind of person they want. I can’t be radicalised. I have no…beliefs.”

  Ben frowned deeply. “Bollocks. You’re the most opinionated person I know—you have opinions about everything!”

  There was too much truth in this for Nikolas to deny, but he replied calmly, “You’re missing the point. Belief isn’t the same as opinion. I think lots of things, but I believe in nothing. I wouldn’t fight for anything except that which affects me personally.”

  Ben stared at him. He was about to contradict this appalling declaration, but the more he thought about it, the more he saw the truth of it. Nikolas had fought many times in the years he’d known him—he’d killed many times as well. But each time it had been to protect something that mattered personally to Nikolas.

  Nikolas suddenly nudged him with a smirk. “Besides, I’m not gay, so why would they ask me to join their little rainbow army?”

  Ben didn’t smile in return but asked in a low, serious tone, “What about me? You think they’ll ask me?”

  “I think I’d want you leading my cause. You’re the ultimate poster boy for the new model army.” He pouted ruefully. “Perhaps it’s the ultimate proof of what you call fate—that you’re a warrior, that you’re so charismatic and beautiful. And that you are, in fact, gay.”

  A silence fell between them. For two men who’d joined their bodies in the most intimate way two men can for over eight years, it was something of a revelation for both of them to realise this was the first time they’d ever discussed these things. Ben had never seriously been called gay before. It was as much of a shock for him to hear it as it had been for Nikolas to be called a faggot. And it was Nikolas calling him this. It was hard to think of a response. What do you say when the man you sleep with calls you gay? Hesitantly, he challenged, “Whatever I am then you are as well.”

  Nikolas sighed and began to stroke Ben’s thigh with his thumb, staring down at this small joining and not at Ben. “I don’t think so. I…” He lifted his eyes as if to gauge the likely response to his next words then sighed again and seemed resigned to nothing he added being well received. “I had a unique and unfortunate introduction to sex, Ben—as you know. I don’t think my thoughts on any of this are relevant.”

  Ben licked his lips. “So you only sleep with me because you were raped when you were a child. Is that what you’re saying?”

  His words fell like glass to the hardwood floor and broke apart between them. Ben reckoned if anyone was listening to this conversation, they might not understand the Danish, but they’d be a fool if they missed the resonance of those words.

  Nikolas only took hold of Ben’s face once more, ignoring the slight pull away, holding even tighter. “I meant exactly the opposite, and if you didn’t understand that, then I’m sorry. I meant after everything, everything—and there’s still much I haven’t told you about my life with Sergei and after in the prisons—after everything I chose you. There are six billion people on this planet, and the only one I want is you. And that’s nothing to do with you being a man. It’s just you.”

  “And I’m a…man.”

  Nikolas frowned. “Well, yes, obviously. What has that to do with being gay?”

  The thought flickered across Ben’s mind that in all these years when he’d been in awe of Nikolas’s intellect and apparent self-awareness, he had in fact been sleeping with a total idiot. His stomach rumbled loudly. They both looked down, and the moment to confront Nikolas was lost.

  They swiftly made use of the showers and joined the rest of the men back downstairs for food, Nikolas probably still believing his total fixation with Ben and Ben’s body was akin to his addiction to nicotine—a direct result of his unfortunate childhood—and Ben only glad to tell himself that, as they slept together, if Nikolas wasn’t gay then he couldn’t possibly be either.

  § § §

  They learnt more about Doctor Fergus Atwell that night, for he joined them for dinner. Nikolas was surprised no one else seemed to find this incongruous, given he’d set them up for a beating. He reckoned the insidious process of redefining the enemy was working. Fergus was now seen as one of them—a good guy—versus the bad guys…everyone else. For the first time, the psychologist told them more of his story—of his partner, Will.

  Will hadn’t been murdered for being gay, which Nikolas was half-expecting to hear, but his wife had divorced him, and he had no access to his three children—because he was gay, Fergus claimed. Will had also been passed over for promotion—because he was gay, Fergus again claimed. Nikolas wondered whether he could blame a recent nosedive in the price of gold on Will being gay, because it had seriously inconvenienced him. Nikolas had little sympathy for people finding excuses for things not being how they wanted them to be. You made your own destiny in life. But Fergus’s story sparked a number of other similar tales from the men in the group: bitterness at how life had treated them because of their difference. Ben, Nikolas noticed, kept quiet. He appeared thoughtful, and Nikolas wondered what Ben might be thinking he’d missed out on in life because of his preferences in bed. Nikolas hadn’t forgotten the moment Ben had seen a picture of himself as a little boy and declared that if he had a son he would look just like that. He pressed his knee to Ben’s, his brows raised questioningly, and Ben murmured in Danish, “Notice the group is dividing?”

  Nikolas frowned. He hadn’t. He’d been too focused on Ben—as usual, he reflected with some amusement. Ben nodded subtly to demonstrate this division. “See, John and Mark aren’t joining in complaining. Neither is Samuel.”

  “So?”

  “Well, don’t you think it’s utterly incongruous after what we’ve seen all day? Complaining about someone being rude on your Facebook page? Being passed over for promotion? Come on! It’s hardly being stoned to death, is it?”

  “You think this is another test?”

  “Damn right I do. I don’t think Will even exists. He’s a construct to test commitment. I don’t want shallow, weak people who make excuses for their lives. I want men who…” He trailed off and studied a small thread on his jeans for a moment then raised his eyes to Nikolas. “Did I just say that?”

  “Just exactly what do you see this army of yours doing? Fighting injustice with flowing capes—rainbow coloured, of course?”

  “Don’t make fun of it—of me.”

  “I’m not. I was being serious. That’s what we’re being pushed into believing—that wrongs can be righted. That when good men stand up to be counted, evil is overcome. Has it ever occurred to you that maybe this is just the way things are? The way they’ll always be.”

  Ben didn’t seem convinced, or happy at this suggestion.

  Another movie was starting. Everyone was being ushered away from the table. They couldn’t continue their discussion.

  In this one everyone died of AIDS.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Even knowing he was being manipulated didn’t make Nikolas any less susceptible to the final day of the course. He was willing to allow himself to be carried along with the general consensus. Although he suspected Nikolas Mikkelsen wouldn’t be recruited for whatever was to come, he wanted Nigel Stannis to be. It was the whole point of them being there.

  They were woken very early—just what he was expecting and what he’d have done with new recruits. They were given a good breakfast, but a buffet where they had to mingle and talk as they ate—again, an obvious tactic.

  And then they were brought out of darkness.

  It was simple as that.

  It was palpable, the shift in the mood of the group from anger and despair to something like hope. F
or the next two hours, they were shown the positive benefits of being different. They marvelled at the art of Michelangelo; listened to the poetry of Walt Whitman; discovered why Alexander was called the Great; found out about Leonard Matlovich. Nikolas half expected the good doctor to get them to stand up and sing a gay anthem (was there a gay anthem?).

  Nikolas had once sung to an unbreakable union of freeborn republics.

  The irony of it all almost made him laugh.

  Instead of singing, they did colouring. The doctor handed them back their pictures they’d drawn on the first day. Nikolas assumed they were to fill in the route they’d found to take them from where they were now to their desired end state. He was going to draw a top-end model Range Rover sport. Rather like the one Benjamin Rider had left unlocked in a bus station in Taunton. It still niggled Nikolas that some oaf in Somerset was driving around in his hundred thousand pound car.

  The doctor, however, didn’t want them to complete their drawings; he wanted them to reassess them in the light of what they’d learnt about themselves on the course. Did they really see a nest as where they wanted to be? A new boyfriend? Flying free? More sex—that had been one of the threesome. Nikolas had thought the man had drawn a visit to the doctor, but apparently it hadn’t been a doctor’s couch he’d drawn. Nor a proctologist come to that. Weren’t all their desires narrow and selfish and only about themselves?

  Apparently no one did want what they’d initially thought they’d wanted. Even Ben. He was scribbling furiously, and when Nikolas finally snuck a look, he saw a vast swarm of stick figures assaulting a wall. He frowned and whispered, “You want a zombie apocalypse?”

  Ben mirrored his frown. “No. It’s my army. We’re taking over.”

  Nikolas raised his brows. “A gay coup?”

  “Why not? Why shouldn’t we run things for once—say how things are going to be?”

  “Would you make sodomy compulsory?”

  Ben suddenly laughed out loud. He hung his head and was Ben once more. He pouted ruefully and added a few lumps to his drawing.