“I had a bullet hole in me,” Ajia said. “That’s gone too. Maybe I heal super fast, like Wolverine from the X-Men movies.” It sounded crazy even as she said it, but given all the other strangeness she was experiencing, it didn’t seem beyond the realms of possibility.
“Or,” said Smith, “you healed once, and fully, from the various traumas that contributed to your death, but I healed you from the later injury you received at Rich’s hands. I did the major part of the work, at any rate. The rest is up to your body’s natural ability. I’ve given you a helping hand, accelerating the process. Much as I mended that chair, I mended you.”
“With your hammer?”
He nodded.
“You fixed my broken rib with your hammer?”
He nodded again.
Ajia felt the need to sit down on the floor. “This is nuts.”
“It’s a lot to take in,” Smith said. “I understand. If it’s any consolation, I myself struggled. To undergo a metamorphosis such as you and I have––there is no frame of reference for it, no ready comparison, not even ‘caterpillar to butterfly’. The mind rebels. We think we have a grasp of how reality works, and then something like this comes along and sweeps the rug out from under our feet. You need time. I can let you have time. Not a lot, but some. A day, maybe. Twenty-four hours. And then, I feel, we should move on.”
“Move on? Where?”
“There are others like us, good fellow. A whole host of others. I can take you to meet them, if you wish.”
Chapter 6
DEREK DRAKE WAS not a vain man. He did not think he was, at any rate. But appearances mattered. When your face was one of the most recognisable on the planet, you had to look your best. For some, that meant an exercise routine, a strict diet, regular visits to the tanning salon, perhaps Botox or fillers if wrinkles were starting to creep up on you. But Drake did not have time for any of that.
For Derek Drake, looking his best meant makeup. He never went anywhere without it. A touch of foundation on the cheeks and forehead to add colour, a little concealer under the eyes to disguise the bags, so discreetly applied as to be all but imperceptible. He had a cosmetician come to Charrington Grange––his private residence, a rambling former monastery nestled in the heart of the Cotswolds––first thing every morning to spruce him up for the day ahead. Her official job designation was simply “presentational assistant”, and she had signed a stiffly-worded non-disclosure agreement which prevented her from revealing the true nature of her work.
Today Drake had a major television interview scheduled, so his presentational assistant spent that little bit longer getting him ready. He surrendered to her ministrations with an almost blissful contentment. The feathery strokes of her makeup brush, the delicate little dabs with cotton-wool pads. He thought of it as a smattering of fairy dust.
Then came breakfast with Harriet in the conservatory. They ate in silence, Drake perusing the morning papers, Harriet tapping at her phone. Outside the French windows a long lawn stretched away, mown into meticulous stripes of dark and light green. At the end lay a pair of towering cedars which had been cultivated over the decades so that their trunks and boughs formed a kind of arch with the ground, a frame for the panorama of rolling Gloucestershire farmland beyond.
To look at, the breakfasting couple seemed companionable. Every now and then Drake might glance across the table at his wife, smile, and she would look back and return the smile. In her mid-fifties, the same age as him, Harriet was still ravishingly beautiful, and she made sure to keep herself that way through the methods––exercise, diet, tanning bed, dermal lifts and the like––which Drake himself spurned. She was not the sort of woman to let her looks go. It was one of the traits her husband appreciated the most about her.
As a servant cleared away the breakfast things, Major Dominic Wynne knocked and entered. He was wearing his Paladin’s tactical uniform, a form-fitting one-piece in royal blue ripstop fabric with integral padding on the torso, elbows and knees and embroidered name badge on the sleeve. His helmet, with its chevron visor and knightly crest, was tucked under his arm.
“Morning, sir.”
“Morning, Wynne.”
“Ma’am.”
“Dominic.”
“Anything to report?” Drake asked his head of security.
“Quiet night, I’m told,” said Wynne. “Patrols didn’t rustle up anything in the grounds more dangerous than a stray fox. Guards on the gate had to turn back a car. Driver was lost. Looking for a country-house hotel, I believe. I have a team all set to take you into London. Ready whenever you are.”
“Thank you, Wynne. I shan’t be long.”
The Paladin turned to Harriet Drake. “Any trips planned today, ma’am?”
“I’m heading into Cheltenham later. Pilates class, followed by a lunch date with a girlfriend.”
“I shall arrange a close protection detail to accompany you.”
“That would be lovely. Might you be able to oversee it yourself?”
“If the Prime Minister is amenable to the idea…”
Drake waved a hand airily. “Fine, fine.”
“You can manage without me?”
“I’ll muddle through somehow.”
“Then, Mrs Wynne, I am at your service.”
“What a relief. I always prefer it when your hand is on the tiller, Dominic. I feel so much safer.”
“I aim to please.”
After Wynne had left the conservatory, Drake refilled his coffee cup from the cafetière, gave Harriet a peck on the cheek, and went outside. Briskly he crossed the lawn, passing by the tennis court and the swimming pool and disappearing through a gap in a yew hedge. Moments later he arrived at an outbuilding, a stable block which had been converted into a spacious private museum.
Just as he was about to enter, a pair of Paladins ambled by on their rounds. Drake acknowledged their salutes with a lift of his coffee cup, and waited until they were out of sight before tapping in the door code and going in.
THE TWO PALADINS knew, as did all their comrades, that the prime minister spent approximately half an hour in the museum each day. What exactly he got up to while in there, they could only speculate. The Venetian blinds in the windows were permanently closed, and nobody else went in or out of the place except Drake himself. Domestic staff didn’t clean there, and Drake alone knew the entry code.
Because the museum housed Drake’s collection of Christian relics, the assumption was that he must be admiring these artefacts, which he had gathered assiduously over the course of several years. Perhaps he prayed to them, too. His devoutness was legendary, after all.
The museum, in other words, was a private place of worship and contemplation. It was Drake’s sanctum sanctorum, his holy of holies, and trespassers were forbidden.
WHEN DRAKE RETURNED to the house, an armoured limousine was waiting out front to collect him. The limo was flanked by a pair of black Range Rovers, also armoured. The three cars set off down the Grange’s long gravelled driveway, the Range Rovers at front and back.
Within an hour the motorcade was approaching the outskirts of London along the M4. Through tinted ballistic glass, Drake watched Windsor Castle glide by and thought of the royal family, now living in exile in Monaco. Hard to feel sorry for them. They had got out with most of their money and had set themselves up in a series of lavish apartments and villas. They weren’t exactly suffering down there on the Riviera, with beaches, nightclubs and casinos on their doorstep and a horde of their fellow idle rich to hobnob with. Other expats had it far worse. But there had simply been no question of the royals continuing their lives in Britain as before. They were far too outspoken, especially the heir to the throne. They were also too high-profile to be hushed by the usual means. Drake had given them the option of staying, as long as they behaved, or else he would confiscate their assets. They had elected to leave. They were principled, he supposed. You had to grant them that. But they were pragmatic too. Ruling was all very well, but
wealth was as, if not more, important.
The city began amassing around him, its soft halo of suburb giving way to the densely-packed unruliness of urban buildup. The television interview was scheduled for twelve noon, and it was nearing that hour when the motorcade pulled up at the gates of Downing Street.
There had been a time, early in his term of office, when protestors would routinely block the entrance as Drake arrived, waving placards and shaking their fists. They would spit at his car, throw eggs, and yell slogans about freedom, fascism and human rights. On one occasion, somebody even fired a starting pistol at him, a mock assassination attempt. Alas, the culprit suffered asphyxiation while antiterrorism officers were attempting to restrain him in the back of a police van, a death which had all the hallmarks of a tragic accident.
The protests had been a disgraceful state of affairs, but had been dealt with. Nowadays, there was always a joyful crowd to greet Drake, cheering him and throwing flowers. Really, out-of-work actors would do anything for a fee.
Nor, for that matter, was every person in the crowd being paid to be there. Among a certain sector of the populace Derek Drake was much-loved, and with the activists––those professional malcontents––gone, his admirers felt emboldened to show it.
The sight of all those happy faces never failed to cheer Drake. Altogether it was the kind of image he wished could be shown around the world, to prove to the doubters and the naysayers that Britain under the Resurrection Party was a positive place, a thriving place and most of all a contented place.
THE INTERVIEW TEAM were setting up in the White State Drawing Room at Number 10. Two plush wingback armchairs, upholstered in cream damask, sat facing each other at an angle. Back lights masked with diffusion cloths were angled over them, while key lights glared baldly from tripods in front.
Drake made sure to shake the hand of every member of the team. Ingratiating yourself with the technical staff was just as essential as getting along with the on-camera talent. An interviewer could be handled, manipulated, controlled. It was the people in charge of the visuals who could really make or break you.
This lot were Russian, from one of the state-owned channels. They had been lobbying for an exclusive audience with him for months. Drake had finally relented after seeing a picture of the journalist he would be talking to.
And here she came, sashaying into the room in waisted jacket and pencil skirt.
A right humdinger of a girl. That had been Drake’s opinion of the woman in the photograph, and the actual woman, in the flesh, was every bit as appetising. Her hair was long, glossy and blonde. Her lips were fulsome. Her figure––va-va-voom!
“Miss Bazanova,” he said, beaming his broadest smile, and the two of them kissed cheeks like old friends. “Did I pronounce it correctly?”
“Close enough, Prime Minister.”
“Or may I call you Tatjana? That would be simpler.”
“You may. How are you this morning, sir?”
“Oh please. None of this ‘Prime Minister’ and ‘sir’ stuff. Call me Derek.”
“Of course. Derek.”
“And I’m well. All the better for seeing you. Care for a drink? Some mineral water, perhaps? I’m sure somebody can sort that for you.” He clicked his fingers, and one of the Downing Street flunkies scurried out of the room. “I’m looking forward to this,” he added confidentially. “I think you and I, Tatjana, will find we have much in common.”
HARRIET DRAKE GOT her workout that morning, but Pilates had nothing to do with it.
She rolled off Dominic Wynne with a deep sigh, tingling all over. He, disciplined chap that he was, clambered off the bed and went to the en suite bathroom to dispose of the condom and clean himself up. When he returned to the bedroom, Harriet had wrapped a sheet around herself. It was a demure gesture, but she had left enough cleavage exposed to indicate that she might not be averse to a second go-round, once he had had time to recover.
Wynne lay down beside her, hands folded behind his head. Harriet nestled against his chest and toyed with the tuft of hair between his pectorals. For a while, neither spoke.
Then Wynne said, “I trust madam is pleased with her close protection detail.”
“I am,” Harriet said. “You took into account all the angles and you made sure I arrived at my destination.”
“Don’t forget how I scoped out the secure locations first, checking the entrances and exits.”
“You were very thorough in that respect. You also definitely have a knack for manhandling your subject.”
“What can I say? It’s been known to get rough when the bullets start flying.”
“I didn’t feel threatened at all. I found it exhilarating. I only hope that, in all the excitement, I didn’t cling on to my brave defender too tight.”
Wynne examined the fingernail scratches down his front. “Wounds sustained in the line of duty are the best kind.”
“I’ll see to it you get a medal. I’ll drape it on you myself.”
He frowned at her. “Are we still talking in double entendres?”
“I’m not sure,” Harriet replied. “I’m a bit lost, myself.”
They laughed.
“You really are a life saver, Dominic,” she said, her tone softening. Sincere now. “You have no idea what it was like for me before we started doing, you know, this.”
“You’ve said. You told me he wasn’t paying you any attention.”
“It wasn’t just that. Derek hadn’t simply lost interest in me, sexually. He couldn’t even get it up.”
“Yes, you said that too. It’s his age, I suppose.”
“No. It started a few years back, while he was still relatively young.”
“Was it the crash that caused it?” Wynne asked.
“The helicopter crash?” said Harriet. “Why?”
“I just thought, that kind of trauma, it might have done a number on him. Messed with his head. Made him lose confidence.”
“Have you met my husband? Confidence is hardly something he lacks. No, the problem pre-dates the crash by some while. Things were fine for the first decade of our marriage. I mean, the fucking was starting to become sporadic by then, but that’s only to be expected. But we were still getting round to it every now and then, and even if it wasn’t epic, it did the trick. Wham bam, over and done in a couple of minutes, but we both got something out of it. Then there were a few failures, a few misfires on Derek’s side of things, not rising to the occasion, or rising and then falling––and after that it just became a pattern. The failures soon outnumbered the successes, and then it was one failure after another in a constant succession.”
“You’ve been married how long now?”
“Coming up on twenty-five years. Our silver anniversary.”
“So for almost ten years…?”
“Nothing.” Harriet waggled a limp forefinger downwards. “No matter how hard I tried. No matter what I did. Closed for business.”
“Jesus. Nightmare.” Wynne shuddered, imagining himself in that predicament. “Did he try magic blue pills?”
“And counselling too. Nothing helped. You cannot imagine how frustrating it was. We were still sleeping together, but we weren’t sleeping together. Derek just shied away from it. I didn’t even dare raise the topic. Then came the famous helicopter crash. That seemed to put paid to any hope we had of getting the problem fixed. First, Derek had to recover from the shock. He wasn’t hurt physically, but there were psychological repercussions, not least having to adjust to the death of his best friend. And then he started setting up the Resurrection Party and he was busier than ever. Up and down the country, canvassing, rallying support, getting financial backing. Hardly ever home.”
“A Resurrection Party, but still no resurrection for Derek’s erection.”
“Ha! Yes. That’s where all his energy was going, his bid for power. I hardly mattered any more.”
“You didn’t think about divorcing him?” said Wynne. “On grounds of, I don’t know
, not meeting his marital obligations.”
“Oh, I thought about it. But I still love him, and we have a nice life together. He looks after me well. And then there’s the ‘optics’, as they say. How would it look, me walking out on him? The prime minister? I couldn’t be that disloyal. I knew I had to do something, though. The itch had to be scratched somehow. So a fling here, a fling there, with whoever I fancied. The man who cleans the pool. My Pilates instructor. The boy who interned for Derek for a summer, son of a friend of ours––I’m not proud about him. Some soap opera hunk I met at a fundraiser. Him I’m not proud about either, but totally worth it.”
“And I’m the latest notch on the bedpost.”
“You know you’re not that,” Harriet said, rapping him with her knuckles. “Stop fishing for compliments.”
“I suppose after three years, this hardly qualifies as a fling any more. Haven’t you ever worried about getting caught? Your husband finding out about your affairs?”
“I’m always discreet. Besides, I think Derek knows. He might not admit it, even to himself, but he knows, and he doesn’t mind because it’s his fault, pretty much.”
“He doesn’t know about us, though.” Wynne sounded confident, but there was a question implicit in the remark.
“God, no. It’s one thing to boff the pool boy, but his chief Paladin? His right-hand man? He’d go ballistic.”
“But still you take the risk.”
“How can I not? You’re pretty damn special, Dominic. Christ, there are hundreds, no, thousands of women who’d give their left tit to be where I am right now. I’ve seen how they talk about you online. The Dominic Wynne forum on Mumsnet––it’s pure filth.”
“I must take a look at that sometime.”
“You must know how sexy you are. And here I am, old enough to be your mother, and I’m the one who gets to have your cock inside her. Speaking of which…”
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