“Have I come to any conclusions about this? Only one that matters.” He looked right into the lens. “Over four hundred and eighty British men and women died here. It doesn’t matter what we think. We all owe it to them—to the fallen of every nation—to look after their families.” His head dropped for a moment before rising. “I’m coming home, when Steve didn’t get the chance to be with his loved ones.”
It was as if he looked right at Pasha.
“I get to come home to mine, and I’m going to make the most of every single minute with him.”
19
ED
Ed pulled back a curtain and took in yet another view that gave him mental whiplash. There was no grit and sand here, no wire-topped concrete barricades or the bright white glare of sunshine. Instead the Thames was wide below his window.
Was Pasha looking at the same view of buses and black cabs crossing Westminster Bridge right now, or was he still in Scotland? Maybe he’d have his last rehearsal up there and fly down this afternoon in time for the sound check.
No, there was no way the studio would risk a live show on a delayed flight. He was probably in London already.
Ed sat on the end of his bed and rubbed sleep dust out of his eyes left by too many time zones crossed in less than a week. His body said it was late in the day, and his rumbling stomach suggested missed meals, but his watch said it was before six in the morning—hours before management would send a driver.
No more traveling with the others in theBritPop!tour bus.
No more joint rehearsals of the final songs they’d sing.
The next time they’d see each other would be at the venue. Suddenly the room seemed airless, its four walls as confining as the barriers around the camp he’d come from.
Waiting alone like this was a form of torture.
Escape seemed a good plan.
A stack of boxes containing his possessions was neatly piled beside the hotel bed, reminiscent of his barricaded bedroom at home. He dug through them and found clothes that weren’t emblazoned with red, white, and blue for once, only pausing when he stood on the steps at the front of the hotel. Ahead was Westminster Bridge. He could walk toward it and then take a right alongside St. James’s Park to the Palace. He turned left instead, and slowly walked pavements that in less than an hour would fill with commuters before tourists took them over for the rest of the day. He shared them now with street cleaners pushing laden trolleys, service staff heading in for early shifts, and bin men who moved mountains of rubbish piled next to bar and restaurant doorways. The smash and tinkle of glass was background noise to the rumble of increasing traffic.
He was in the middle of the city, but Ed barely noticed.
His head was too full of the last time he’d spoken with Pasha, and what he’d ask the next time they got to speak with each other. Something about the contract clearly had him on edge. Even the small snatches of TV coverage he’d managed to glimpse on his return journey had shown Pasha with a more serious demeanor than before. The no-contact promise they’d made had been a bastard to keep when he saw Pasha wear that foreign expression, but they were on the home stretch now.
Ed stopped his aimless wandering when Nelson’s Column rose ahead, towering over the larger-than-life lions that guarded its base.
Pasha had swiveled in his seat every time they passed to keep it in view. Ed had put his wide-eyed stare down to him being avisitor to the capital like Ed. Now that he knew Pasha had spent some of his childhood in London, he wondered why this place in particular was a magnet.
The lights at the crossing changed, and he jogged over the street to the square. Once across, a flock of pigeons in his path lifted as if of one mind and landed between a pair of fountains. Ed followed, only turning when someone shouted his name. He spun, and pigeons took flight again, a flapping grayscale cloud that rose and fell, blocking his vision until they settled.
Pasha sat, legs crossed, between the huge black paws of one of Nelson’s lions.
Ed saw his lips move, but he couldn’t hear what he said. The distance between them was nothing compared to how the whole of this week had felt. Nothing at all. Instead of thousands of miles or the length of Great Britain, all that divided them was a set of metal barriers cordoning off part of the square that Nelson watched over. If pigeons scattered again at Ed’s sudden sprint, he didn’t notice, and the barriers didn’t slow his progress, easy to vault one-handed when Pasha was there,right there, slithering down from his vantage point and opening his arms wide as if Ed’s sights weren’t already locked only on him. Momentum carried them a few more steps, arms around each other, Pasha’s feet off the ground, lips close enough for kisses if they hadn’t both been smiling too widely to make that happen.
Pasha’s voice was rough—no accent, no pretense, just him—but hard to hear above the sound of a city waking. Ed shifted until Pasha’s breath feathered the skin of his cheek as he said, “Thought I was still dreaming.” Then he stepped back while quickly scanning the square, agitated. “Fuck. If someone films this?—”
“It’s okay.” Ed grabbed the ribbing at the bottom of the jacket Pasha wore and pulled him close. “It’s okay.”
“But Gerry said no contact.” Still Pasha backed away, fabric stretching tight between them when Ed wouldn’t let go. There was that too serious expression again. “You need to walk away now, Ed.”
“No.” He was done with following orders that kept them apart.
“Yes,” Pasha insisted. “We promised.”
“Until the day of the final.”
“But—”
“But nothing.” Ed reeled him in, tugging until Pasha followed, maneuvering him until his back was flush with the plinth he’d just climbed down from. “That’s today. We stuck to the contract—” He couldn’t ignore Pasha’s small flinch. “What is it that’s got you so spooked?” he demanded. “We got to the final, didn’t we? There’s nothing he can do about that now.” He brushed their lips together. “We made it.”