6

Three hours later and too early for most people to be awake, Denis remotely opened his garage and parked his car inside. Cheng and Julien's vehicles were out of sight at the rear.

When Julien climbed out, Cheng slammed the door on Ilya and pulled Julien aside.

"What are you going to do with him?"

Cheng demanded.

"He has no idea whereabouts in the country we are. He's been blindfolded the entire way. Denis didn't use the sat nav. We didn't speak. Let me handle it."

"If you don't, I fucking will."

Cheng stamped around the back of the garage and a few moments later, was driving away much too fast in his souped-up Subaru, the babe-mobile as he called it. Idiot.

Perhaps he'd hit a lamppost and kill himself. Julien didn't even feel bad for thinking that.

"I know what you're thinking,"

Denis said at his side.

I hope you don't.

Julien opened the door of Denis' car and took Ilya's elbow.

"We're moving to my car now,"

he said and picked up Ilya's rucksack.

Once they were out of the garage, Denis pulled down the door.

"You could stay until morning if you want,"

Denis offered. "Or come in for a coffee?"

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"He looks washed out."

Julien shrugged. Even in the faint illumination from the security lights, which brightened the front of the house, Ilya looked like a ghost. He put Ilya in the front seat of his car and fastened his seat belt.

"Do you have my rucksack?"

Ilya asked.

"It's at your feet."

Once he was well away from Denis' house he said, "You can take the blindfold off."

Ilya unfastened the tie, rolled it into a curl and put it in the back.

"Are you going to drop me off somewhere? I won't say anything, I promise. If I get caught, I'll just say I hitched a ride."

"How about London?"

"London? That would be great. Thank you."

Julien drove at a much more sedate pace than Cheng. Another thirty or so miles before he could crawl into bed.

"Why not just leave Sandridge if you wanted to be away from your family? Why do all this?"

"I don't have a car."

"Too posh to use public transport?"

"Obviously."

Julien bit back a laugh. "Anywhere in particular in London?"

"No."

"Do you have somewhere to go?"

The pause told him that was another no. But a moment later, Ilya put the necklace in the storage area between them.

"Had you missed it?"

"Why do you think you're still here?"

"I just felt safer with it. The guy with the gun scared me. His eyes were…like a tiger's when it's about to pounce. Why did you steal it? I mean, I know it's valuable but it wasn't the most valuable item at the wedding. The groom's mother was wearing a necklace worth far more."

"This one belongs to someone else."

"My father stole it? Huh. I shouldn't even sound surprised."

"I doubt he did it himself, unless he has your ability, but it's a stolen item, yes. The diamond's been reset but its owner recognised it and we were paid to get it back. How come you have those skills."

"I practised a lot. So why not go to the police?"

"Because things are never that simple. And that wasn't an answer."

"That's true."

Julien chuckled. "No police. I'm not one of the good guys."

"I think you are."

That shouldn't have made Julien feel hope but it did. "How's your face?"

"You tell me. Am I still beautiful?"

"Vain much?"

Ilya's face fell. "No, I'm not. I was joking. It doesn't feel as if anything's broken."

"What about the rest of you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You seem to be in pain."

"My ear hurts but I'm okay."

There was more than that wrong but Julien let it go. "Did you come back from St Petersburg for your sister's wedding?"

Ilya huffed. "In part. A month early. Welcome to the UK, except now you can't leave."

"They stopped you leaving?"

"Don't sound so incredulous. I'm guessing you know just what my father is and the risk you took in robbing him."

"Who was that guy who escorted you out of the room?"

"Bryant McKenzie."

"He works for your father?"

"Yes."

"Doing what?"

"Trying to straighten me out."

"To stop you stealing?"

Ilya laughed and then winced. "No one in my family knows I have that particular skill."

"And you won't tell me why you have it. So, in what way did they want to straighten you out?"

"Bryant was supposed to make me not gay by whatever means were necessary."

Julien took such a long look at him that when he turned back to the road, he'd veered over the white lines and had to correct his course.

"If you have a problem with me being gay, you can just pull up right now and I'll get out."

"I don't have a problem with you being gay."

He did have a problem with the idea of someone being abused because of it, in some misguided attempt to change their sexual orientation. "Conversion therapy is illegal here."

"So what? It wasn't as if he was running a clinic. This was just an ‘in house' treatment."

"Meaning what?"

"Bryant probably read up about it online, then conned my father and stepmother with some psychobabble bullshit into believing he was an expert and could work a miracle. For the last thirty-four days he's failed to work that miracle, though I have to admit, there were a few times when I wished I was straight just so he'd stop h…"

"He hit you?"

"He was more inventive than that. Electric shocks, waterboarding… Other stuff."

Julien gritted his teeth. Merde! "And your father was okay with it?"

"Do anything you need to do,"

Ilya said with a strong Russian accent. "Though he wasn't aware of how bad it was."

"That's still wrong."

"What the fuck is so bad about being gay? You can't change the way you are, the way you feel. Conversion therapy can never work. No matter how hard they try to beat homosexuality down, it's still there. Nothing can kill desire."

He sighed. "Well, I suppose death can. Unless you believe in life after death. I don't. I just want this life to be my choice."

Julien hated that Ilya had to endure that. That anyone had to.

"It wasn't as if I was rubbing my gayness in his face. I was in Russia. Nowhere near him. I'd only seen him a dozen or so times since I left the UK. It doesn't make sense. I thought maybe he needed me to be not-gay at the wedding, but even that doesn't make sense because I was still fighting Bryant, so why let me attend?"

He gave a heavy sigh. "My head hurts trying to figure it all out."

"Isn't it dangerous to be gay in Russia?"

"It can be. Depends on the individual. Moscow declared the LGBT international movement as an extremist organization, which means you can be sent to prison for supporting it or participating in it, but it's mostly directed against people who openly advocate for gay rights. I didn't speak out or protest. I did feel a bit guilty for being a coward, but I didn't want to get sent to prison. I wouldn't have survived that. I thought if I was careful, I'd be okay. If I kept my eyes open for trouble, I could avoid it. Except I was looking for the wrong sort of trouble, because I allowed myself to get trapped."

He sighed. "Seems it's dangerous here too. Your friend wanted to kill me."

"He's not my friend."

"Anyway, you stopped him. Thank you. I swear I won't say anything. All I care about is keeping out of my father's hands."

"You want to go back to St Petersburg?"

Julien was an idiot for thinking he'd buy him a ticket, particularly when Ilya probably didn't even have his passport. Plus, he'd have to send him via Poland.

"No. All that has gone. No flat, no job, maybe my friends have gone too. Maybe they're in conversion clinics. I wouldn't be safe there now. I've realised my father has long arms."

"Then what are you going to do?"

"Lie low for a bit. Erm… Maybe I could stay with you?"

Ilya lifted his rucksack onto his lap and opened it. "I can pay."

He held out a wad of fifty-pound notes.

"You do know those are practically useless. Try and pay in almost any shop with one and you'll be refused."

"I'll change them in a bank. I have dollars and euros too."

"A bank won't do that unless you're an account holder."

Ilya tsked. "I don't have a bank account in the UK. I don't even have one in St Petersburg now. My father told me it was closed."

"How much do you have?"

"I don't know. I just filled my rucksack with as much as I could push in."

Oh God. "So not your money?"

"It is now."

Julien laughed at the indignation in Ilya's voice. "Did you think any of this through?"

He could almost feel Ilya bristling, but the kid stayed blank-faced and didn't say anything for a while.

"That's a bit rich considering what I told you was happening to me. Bryant spent the last month reaching into my chest, trying to tear out the essence of me and being paid to do it by my father. I was being fucking tortured, and constantly watched. Even in the bathroom. But I'd thought things through. I had a plan. But it went wrong. Just like yours did."

Pain flashed across Ilya's eyes. "Fucking smart arse."

"Sorry. You're right. It's rare that things turn out exactly as you expect."

"I don't know whether I was more scared or more pissed off when I realised how far Bryant was prepared to go. Probably a mixture of both, and I was just tired of it all. Tired of being treated like shit. Tired of Bryant thinking he could make me straight. Tired of my father wanting me to be sorry for what I am. Everything was fucking exhausting…"

He sucked in a breath.

"Sorry to whine. That's not me, I don't do that, but my happiness has taken a battering recently. I saw the wedding as a chance to get away because with so many people around, I might just make it out of Sandridge without being spotted. I thought you giving me a lift improved my odds."

"You're allowed to whine."

You're not a threat. You just need a break. Time out. Julien understood that, because he'd once been in a similar position. Maybe still was. Different circumstances but even so… Poor kid.

When he next glanced at Ilya, he was asleep.

Ilya hadn't woken by the time Julien parked under the Battersea building where he had an apartment. The place belonged to Lors, who'd bought it as an investment, but liked the idea of Julien living there. Probably so he could keep an eye on him.

It was still dark though dawn would break soon. He'd made good time, though his eyes were heavy with exhaustion. He ought to have pulled into a service station and left Ilya there. He ought to have done one of a long list of sensible options he'd compiled and instead he'd done the one thing he'd told himself not to do and brought him here.

He might be trying to tell himself it was so he could persuade him to keep his mouth shut, but it was a lie. Even if Ilya swore he'd say nothing, under pressure his mind would be changed. He might not be able to point out Denis or Cheng or Ramzan, but Julien had made himself identifiable, compounding his initial error of not taking the necklace without being seen. He didn't want to have to tell Lors any of it, but he might have to. He'd helped Ilya escape from under his father's thumb, but for the time being, Lors had his hand around Julien's throat.

Ilya could stay twenty-four hours, then he had to go. He shook Ilya's shoulder and he jerked awake with a start.

"Come on."

Julien got out of the car.

By the time he'd retrieved his bag from the boot, along with his jacket, Ilya was out of the car, clutching his rucksack and looking wary and anxious.

"This way,"

Julien told him.

He pressed his key fob to the panel on the lift. It was only when they were inside the lift, in brighter light, that Julien saw the state of Ilya's hand. What the…? It was covered in streaks of dried blood.

"What happened?"

"It's okay."

Ilya tucked his hand into his opposite sleeve. "It's stopped bleeding now."

"Why was it bleeding in the first place?"

"Are you going to press the—oh…"

The lift had started to move. "The key fob takes me to my floor. No buttons to press."

"What if you wanted to go and have dinner with a person on another floor?"

"It's not allowed."

Ilya rolled his dark eyes.

"You can stay here until tomorrow."

"Do you have a big bed because I sleep like a starfish."

"We won't be sharing a bed. I'm not gay."

"Yet."

Julien managed a smile. You're funny. "I like women."

"So do I, just not in bed with me."

"Right."

"Are you going to deny there's something between us?"

"Yes."

"Ah, except I hear an unspoken but and it says everything."

There was no unspoken but, yet… "What does it say?"

"That you're not sure."

"You're delusional."

Once they were behind the door, Julien breathed a sigh of relief. The lift only fed four apartments but he didn't want to have to explain Ilya's blood-stained hand to any of his neighbours, though they kept themselves to themselves, as did Julien.

Ilya dropped his rucksack by the door and unfastened the buttons of his coat with one hand. "I don't want to make a mess."

He was struggling to take off his coat.

"Do you need help?"

"Please."

As Julien tugged on Ilya's sleeves, he saw the state of his arm and the soaked bandage and swallowed hard. The blood had even seeped into the top of his jeans.

"Who did this to you?"

"I did."

"What?"

"My father had a tracker inserted into my arm. My stepmother was persuaded by Bryant that it was a good idea. She then persuaded my father. I had to cut it out. There was no point running otherwise."

What sort of man did that to his own son? Julien began to feel he'd made a bigger mistake than he'd thought bringing Ilya here. "Come into the bathroom. I've got a first aid kit."

"Now you're wishing you'd not brought me here,"

Ilya muttered.

"Now?"

Ilya sighed.

"Sit down."

He sat on the toilet lid.

"What did you do with the tracker?"

"It's in my pocket."

Julien gaped at him.

"You think I'm stupid? I put it in a car. I slipped it into that space where the windscreen wipers sit. Hopefully whoever's car it was went a long way before it either fell out or my father's men caught up with them."

"That was smart."

"I do have some good ideas."

"Take off your T-shirt."

"Can you cut it off? It hurts to lift my arms."

Julien carefully cut from the bottom up to the neck and peeled it off Ilya's slender, hairless body. When he saw the long red welt across his chest, and several red and purple bruises, he paused.

"If that's freaking you out, don't look at my back."

"How can I not?"

Julien swallowed hard when he saw the state of it. "Fucking hell."

"It was. Is it really bad? Did he break the skin?"

"There are a few small nicks. A belt? Bryant's work?"

"Yes. After he dragged me out of the wedding."

The fucking bastard. "Why did he do that?"

"Because I smiled at the guy sitting next to me. Because I let go of Emilia's hand too many times when I was supposed to hold onto it all night. And because he saw me talking to you."

Oh shit.

"Don't feel guilty because he's also a sadistic bastard who enjoys hurting me."

"Why would I feel guilty?"

"I couldn't help looking at you. You're… I'm searching for the right word here… One that won't freak you out. How about…interesting?"

He winced as Julien began to unwrap the bandage.

"Bryant should be arrested."

"Er… He might be dead."

Julien closed his eyes for a moment. He felt as if he'd stepped from a frying pan into a chip pan, and now into a large vat of boiling oil. "Explain."

"He wasn't dead when I left him."

Julien worked on the bandage again. "What did you do?"

"I hit him. With a bronze mouse. A present from my father when I was a teenager. A gift that was meant to hurt me. Well, not physically. Mentally. He was making a point about me being weak, always creeping around, being a pest—ouch—and easy to squash. But I'm not a fucking mouse. Or if I am, I'm a mouse that roars. Ow! Sorry. That wasn't a roar. I survived just over a month of so-called conversion therapy and I'm not going to let myself fall into his hands again. I don't want to have to go the police but if I have to, I will."

Julien found he couldn't tear his eyes away from Ilya's mouth. You're supposed to be looking at his wound! He kept unwrapping the bandage.

"I won't say anything about any of you. I know you and the others worry that I will. I won't. I hope I never see my father again, but if he does get his hands on me, there's no need for me to say anything about the necklace. Me running and that getting stolen are two different things."

Maybe, but Julien wasn't sure Morozov would accept that coincidence. Nor did it mean that Ilya would keep quiet about how the necklace was taken. Julien knew what Lors would say and do if he was aware Ilya was here.

After he'd discarded the bandage in the sink, Julien examined the wound. It gaped open and though it wasn't bleeding, it was weeping slightly. It was a balance as to whether stitching was or wasn't a good idea because of the risk of infection but…

"It looks…big. I can't believe I managed to do that. Do you have any of those butterfly things to pull it together?"

"Yes, but they won't hold it. It's too wide and deep. It needs sutures. I can do it."

Ilya whined. "That wasn't a wimpy noise. Well, pretend it wasn't even though it was. Okay. Stitch it. Please. Have you done it before?"

"I was the cross-stitch champion of Bayeux 2018."

Julien hammed up a French accent.

Ilya laughed and Julien swallowed hard. How long since he'd made anyone laugh like that? He carefully cleaned all the blood from Ilya's arm with a wet cloth, and Ilya stared at him as he worked. Julien wanted to tell him to stop looking at him, but he somehow couldn't bring himself to do that. There was a tingling in Julien's skin that danced up his arms and down his spine. What the fuck was happening?

"I don't have any anaesthetic."

"I'll try not to bite off my lip."

"That would be a shame."

Ilya huffed. "Sure you're not gay?"

"Who wants half a lip?"

Julien washed his hands, then sluiced disinfectant over the wound, Ilya's arm and his own hands.

Ilya yelped. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! You could have warned me you were going to do that."

"This is all going to hurt."

"No, that's not what I want to hear. Couldn't you pretend it isn't?"

"No."

Julien started at the top of the wound, lifted the skin with the forceps and pushed the needle driver in and through to the other side, using the forceps again to pull it through. Julien pressed his lips together as he concentrated on putting the stitch in the right place. Ilya was breathing heavily but he didn't cry out and he didn't move. Julien double looped the thread around the instrument and tied the first knot, then did it again and once he'd secured it, cut off the excess.

"One down, three-hundred and seventy-six to go."

"Your standup comedy needs some work."

Julien smiled.

"Got any other interesting talents?"

Ilya's voice was shaky.

"A few."

"Want to share?"

"No."

"Okay."

"You're being very brave."

"So are you."

Julien looked at him then. Ilya shot him the sweetest smile and something lurched in Julien's gut. Something familiar and weirdly not.

"Your bedside manner is improving, doctor."

"I'm not a doctor."

Though once upon a time…

There was a sheen of perspiration on Ilya's face. Julien knew this had to be painful. He worked as quickly as he could and finally tied off the last knot.

"Done."

"How many stitches?"

"Twelve. Two sutures per centimetre is the rule of thumb but each wound has different requirements. More disinfectant now. Brace yourself."

Ilya yelped before Julien used it and again when he did. "That's almost worse than the stitches."

"If it gets infected, you'll have to see a doctor."

Julien covered the wound with a dressing. "I can't get you antibiotics." Not without Lors knowing.

"Okay. Thank you."

"Want a drink or something to eat? I have painkillers. Or do you want to go straight to bed?"

Ilya blinked and gave him another one of those dazzling smiles. "Asking me to go to bed and I don't even know your name?"

"No, you don't."

"I was hoping for a shower, Mr Anonymous."

"You have to keep that dressing dry for at least twenty-four hours."

"A bath then? You could wash me. Make sure I don't wet my arm."

"No."

"Do you have something I could wear? You've soaked my jeans and probably my underwear."

"Is money all you brought in that rucksack? No clothes?"

"I did bring my toothbrush and trusty machete."

"I'll find you something to wear. You can sleep in the bedroom we've just come through."

"Okay. I could eat a sandwich, please, and a cup of tea, no milk, one sugar. Maybe painkillers would be a good idea."

Julien gathered up the bloody bandage along with the remains of the T-shirt and the suturing kit. "My name's Julien."

Ilya pressed his lips together, then nodded. "Thank for you sharing that with me, for trusting me. So are you Ju, Jules, Juju, Julie, Jay, Jude, Julio, Jazz, Jovi, J? You know how Russians love diminutives."

"Julien. Nothing else, bratkin."

An English word with a Russian diminutive. A little brat.

Ilya's wide-eyed smile almost took him out at the knees. In the space of one night, everything had changed.