Alex looked at his reflection in the window of 'The Upper Cut' in Deptford High Street, he moved to the right slightly and could see the woman tailing him. His shadow for the past two weeks. He then scratched the stubble on his chin. His hair was getting too long and rather than get it cut at some 5 star place in Mayfair or Kensington, he had come back to the salon he had frequented with Manfred. He opened the door, taking the chance that they could fit him in for a trim. He had not even spoken to the junior on reception, when Lionel the proprietor clocked him and erupted in a squeal of joy. "Sasha darling, returned from your bleak exile in deepest, darkest Siberia and dancing as principal for the Royal Ballet no less. Please tell me I can style those soft golden locks of yours?"

"That's the idea. I'm also meant to be growing a goatee for my next role as Crown Prince Rudolf. I need to exude both power, ruthlessness, desperation and desire. As you can see I haven't had a decent haircut in months. The last one was from some place in Stuttgart and I looked like a fashion victim when the girl was finished. You know me, I wash and leave it. I don't use product and prefer my au naturel, shaggy, sexy mess." Alex smiled and hugged the man who had been Manfred's favourite source of gossip. He had continued to frequent this salon even after he had moved back to Chelsea.

"So, tell me all about the Bolshoi, the Kirov, that ballerina who broke your heart in Siberia and all about the divas and the devils at Covent Garden. Lexi… Lexi… full wash and top of the line treatment for the Principal Guest Artiste. We have a genuine prince to pamper."

Alex had been pampered here when he had been a pauper, the warm welcome had been no different when the proprietor had asked about his work stripping or being a street performer.

….

He was tired, the good sort of tired after a performance and the fact it was back to the grind of class and rehearsals for the next performance tonight. The revival of the Mayerling had been a success with the audience, but last night, he and Gina had both missed out on celebrations to do a spot on a late night talk show. They had danced and then briefly engaged in conversation. Less than seven minutes on air in total. Afterwards he had shown the host a youtube clip of his last performance on TV in Germany, where Cin had joined him for a knife throwing act. One part of their solo act that had been all circus and had shown off the skills he had learned in Venice.

In the studio, there were a pile of the morning's newspapers, as the reviews, both good and bad, would be digested. It had been the ritual after the Variations had been performed. Sasha and Alia called a 'dream partnership' and the work beautiful and timeless. Most of the articles had concentrated on the loss of the unappreciated talent Marek Veshin.

"Sasha have you seen the papers this morning?" Nigel the senior principal asked. "Five stars in the Metro and 'a must see' in the Telegraph. USA Today calls you the 'a superstar of ballet'."

"Are you trying to see how big my ego can get… you know it's almost as colossal as yours. So, it doesn't need inflating. I'll wait for Graeme and Barry's critique and see how many changes and tweaks they want before I know how inadequately I did." Alex sat down and started to tape his right lower left leg and ankle.

"Problems?" asked the ballet master, "Delia go tell the physio Sasha will be seeing him after class."

"Stupid, old injury. Its niggling a bit. I should have iced it last night but we had that TV thing." The tape covered the scar from the surgery in Kenya, where titanium plates and screws held his tibia and fibia in place. "Nothing unusual and probably just means the weather is about to turn very wet and stormy."

He stood in his shoes and tested his taping, flexing and rotating his ankle joint to check he had full range of movement. "So Nige, what do you think of Edward's piece in the Guardian?"

"Is it good?" Magazine pieces are normally just hot air.

"Yeah, bared my soul. Needed to with those pictures from school making the rounds. One of the reasons I started drinking at fourteen."

"Oh, you discuss that do you. " The other dancer would now read the piece after practice.

"That, my pimp/boyfriend Misha, my cocaine habit and the shit DEA bust in Miami." Alex smiled, "Thank Christ, my life is so much more together now." The dancer added sarcastically.

At lunch time, he was meeting Gina for a sandwich before rehearsals. He stood in the crowd watching the street performers hustle and entertain in Covent Garden. He had enjoyed all that with Serge and Cindy. In many ways he was much less driven and calmer now. Maybe he needed to regain that fight and desire to prove himself. He was at the pinnacle of Classical Ballet, but was going it alone the right way? He would not be stupid and go and seduce Gina. He was getting a reputation of falling in love with his co-workers, when he had only been playing another part. His 'thing' with Danny was more real and that was not a proper relationship by a long way. He turned to go to the café near Drury Lane. He and Gina could moan together about their non-existent love lives.

….

Alex sat in the first class lounge of United Airlines, awaiting his flight home. He was tired but his short engagement at the Royal Ballet had been cathartic. He had seen the life he should have enjoyed whilst working there. A normal progression from pupil at the Royal Ballet School and then as soloist and then principal at Covent Garden, as part of a family. The easier path denied by Ian. He mused on the fact he was never going to forgive his uncle for his obsessive compulsion for Alex to be John reborn. From the wreckage left by MI6 he had built a life and was now moving on to a permanent position as a dancer, not a guest performer but a full member of a ballet company. He wondered if Australia could be a permanent home. He would wait a few years before deciding to buy a house and settle down. He pulled out the packet of gum, ordinary mint and sugar free, no longer on nicotine substitutes. Luci would be so proud of him for giving up smoking. The last remnant of the broken boy was in the past. He was an ex-smoker, one more crutch assigned to history.

He had bought an arts magazine to read, mainly because of the article about his friend Dave Meadows. Alex and Cindy had both loved the finished installation. A pair of lovers immortalised as six holographic images, and a video montage. As part of the dance performance for the opening their chosen clothes had been shed as the lovers emerged from their mediocre lives. Clothes, all from their own wardrobes, a suit combo he had bought to attend Manfred's funeral was now discarded on the floor; alongside Cindy's chosen ensemble of clothes, all bought for her by her ex-husband. The artist had loved that aspect of the dancers using his space to bring closure to their own love lives. He wondered on Cindy and her chosen path, going back to Scotland to teach, to dance and to grow. Alex had already contacted artists in Oz suggested by Dave, who had also commented that art was maybe a direction he should explore in the future. In New York, he would buy a camera and experiment.

The odds were he would again be followed everywhere in New York. Under survellaince as a threat to national security. Boris had already warned him that the British thought he was dangerous and possibly on the verge of a breakdown. There was no doubt about the first part of their assessment. He'd been fashioned into a weapon as a child. Those bastards had to live with their mistake. He would always protect his family and friends, few that they were. Both blatant violence and subtle manipulation had been used in the past year to resolve long term problems. Threats had been neutralised. It's not as if he cared if he slipped up and got caught, Alex had long since stopped caring about himself. Dancing was an act of containment to keep his inner monster at bay. A much better coping mechanism than drink, sex or drugs in the long run. He hoped he had at least another decade as a professional before moving over to be a ballet master or director/choreographer. Far reaching goals and ambition, he just needed to work on other exit strategies if that failed. He rubbed the sore skin on his wrists, now decorated with two tattoos both in Russian, on his left inner wrist was 'life is art' and on the right 'nothing is forever'. The act of permanently decorating his body was a promise to be normal, not to falter and let others deal with any future problems.

…..

Tom Harris was Chelsea born and bred and he kept in regular contact with a small group of fellow pupils from Brookland Comprehensive. He arrived to see his friends gathered at the Chelsea Pensioner pub; when he heard someone scoff, 'Druggie Rider indeed".

Marta came over and kissed her electrician boyfriend and then added to the general discussion "Well he cleaned up alright in the end. The Mail yesterday had pictures of him and his ballerina girlfriend having an emotional farewell at the airport. Supposedly part of a torrid love triangle with his Russian ex, that older brunette he danced with in Moscow."

Becks turned to Tom. "Hey, Tom. You were Rider's friend the longest. Did you know he was a dancer?"

"When we first met, he mentioned in passing that he had done ballet when he was a kid. Why are you asking about that dead beat? Last time I heard about him was when his foster sister Sabina called to say he was an addict and rent boy; who'd skipped rehab and fucked off again, that was in Year 11. I stopped speaking to him after the incident in English. Bastard didn't even visit me in hospital."

Marta smiled, "He's changed his name, but actors and performers do that. He's part of the display at Chelsea Academy now. Former drop out, troublemaker and serial runaway is an international ballet star. Miss Bedfordshire thinks he's the bee's knees. You really should read what was printed in the Guardian. That piece painted quite a horror story of his home life. We all missed that in Years 9 and 10. The Metro also says his real dad's some Russian general."

"Sarov?" Tom only sort of believed what had been confessed by Alex in 2001. The next summer, the Police had told everyone Alex was involved with some drug dealers, hence the shooting incident when Tom had been injured. Tom's parents had had an absolute freaky about that and had campaigned for Rider to be expelled and had forbidden Tom from talking to him ever again. Rider had gone to stay with Sabina's family in the States. Made sense since Cray and McCain had targeted the journalist which had dragged Alex into those very dodgy situations. The rest of Alex's adventures, on reflection sounded like a complete fantasy. Assassins, bombs, clones, viruses, terrorists and going into space, he'd been so gullible.

"That's the one. There's even a photo of them together taken at the General's house on Cuba. Rider looks like he's sucking lemons, but he was a bit withdrawn after his uncle passed." Becka pulled out a clipping from her pile and showed them all proof as published in a trashy tabloid.

"Al told me that Sarov shot himself in front of him… that was in May 2001. When he came back to school like a zombie and Hale started the rumours he had been in prison."

Marta shook her head remembering Mr. Popular. "James Hale is still a lying tosspot. He's the type to dig the dirt on us all. He was the one saying you and Al were bottom buddies. Well, poor Alex… fucking pedophiles got to him and fucked him up right and proper."

Tom quickly scanned though the magazine and was shocked with what Edward Pleasure had written. It mentioned briefly that stint at boarding school, check April 2001. Running away in September. Then Alex drinking at Christmas that year, which escalated after his accident in February. Moving to the States, running away with his boyfriend. He was going to reread all this to see what other things Alex had kept to himself, like when had he always wanted to be a dancer. Then again Ian had been a complete bastard when Al had been offered that apprenticeship at Chelsea. Tom had thought Ian was cool. How had he missed the fact his best friend had never been happy at Brookland; all the time he had wanted to be at the Royal Ballet School in Richmond. Ian had been a controlling bastard all along and it sounded like Jack had just sat back and watched. It had all looked picture perfect in that million pound house.

"So, Becks, got a crush?" He wondered on her collection of stuff on this dancer.

Then Brian, Becka's older brother chipped in "Don't be obtuse, Harris. Becka had the hots for Rider back in Year 8, only he was oblivious; then he went all weird. She's just missed her chance. Looks like he goes for hot brunettes, I mean look at that Russian bitch, she's way out of our league. His boyfriends are all old gits though. That guy in the track suit, I mean yuck. Must have a fantastic personality or a huge fortune to compensate for the complete lack of fashion sense."

Marta looked at the photo of Alex with his good friend, club owner Paul McAlaster. "Maybe just a big dick and loads of stamina. That always helps."