Age of Legends

by James Lovegrove

  Doubtless Drake was not the only national leader whom Vasilyev had compromised in this way. This wasn’t much consolation, though. He had an image in his head he couldn’t get rid of: Vasilyev watching the video, perhaps in the company of a select few cronies. Chuckling at the sight of Derek Drake caught with his pants down, literally. Rubbing his hands with bawdy glee.

  The utter bastard.

  Drake fumed.

  He was still fuming an hour later as he conducted a press conference outside Number 10.

  “It is,” he said, “a terrible tragedy.” The subject was the devastating fire which had broken out at a funfair in Dorset overnight, resulting in extensive loss of life. Decorum demanded an official statement. “It’s too early to say yet what the cause might have been, but poorly maintained machinery is thought to be at the heart of it, although arson is not being ruled out.”

  He inclined his head to one side in a manner that could be construed as sympathetic.

  “We must thank God,” he continued, “that disaster struck after the fair had closed and that the only victims were fairground workers and not members of the public. It could have been a lot worse. I feel moved to point out that the employees of Summer Land were, in all likelihood, part of the cash-in-hand economy which is undermining the fiscal fabric of our nation. Nonetheless, brave firefighters, funded by the taxpayer, stepped in to combat the blaze and bring it under control.”

  A question was lobbed at him from the mob of journalists across the road. “Do you think, Prime Minister, there were illegals working at the fair?”

  In spite of everything, Drake almost smiled. The reporter was from the Daily Mail, a paper that could be relied on to toe the Resurrection Party line. It, the Daily Telegraph and the Sun were practically part of the government machinery.

  “It’s not beyond the realms of possibility,” he replied. “Of course I am not saying anyone deserves to die because they are resident in this country illegally, nor am I condoning violence of any kind towards undocumented citizens. I would, though, like to remind your readers, and everyone else”––he swivelled his head from left to right so that every camera present could catch the lofty, statesmanlike expression on his face––“that it is their civic duty to report those whom they feel may not have a legal right to remain on these shores. Britain is for the British.”

  He returned indoors, having done his bit to help draw an obscuring veil over the Paladin assault on Summer Land. And still he fumed.

  Fucking Vasilyev.

  Brooding on the problem, Drake decided he had two options. One was untenable, the other was unpalatable, and neither was desirable.

  The untenable option was to try to recover the kompromat footage somehow. He could, for instance, make Vasilyev an offer he couldn’t refuse. The Russian was already a multibillionaire, thanks to his rigorous plundering of state-owned corporations and the nation’s cash reserves, but there was surely some form of financial inducement that could persuade him to part with the video. A controlling stake in Britain’s nuclear industry, perhaps. Some juicy contracts for his armament companies. Or maybe a huge swathe of the Scottish highlands. Yes. Drive a few lairds and crofters off their land and give it to Vasilyev in perpetuity, to add to his burgeoning property portfolio. Let him build hotels, golf courses, even air force bases there, and in exchange he would hand the footage over to Drake, deleting any copies he himself had.

  The unpalatable option was coming clean to Harriet about Tatjana. Then Vasilyev’s hold over him would be considerably lessened. Harriet might learn to forgive him, eventually. But she would have questions about his ability to achieve a hard-on for another women but not for her. Questions which might prove tricky to answer honestly.

  The problem with either option was that Vasily Vasilyev was a shifty son of a bitch who had risen up the ranks of the State Duma with eel-like slipperiness, squirming through the grasp of every political opponent who tried to impede his progress. “Vaseline” Vasilyev, as one US TV satirist had nicknamed him. He would surely not bother sending the clip to British media outlets, knowing that Drake had those more or less in his pocket. But what was to stop him releasing the footage into the public domain any time he liked? He might do it just for kicks. Even if Drake managed to bribe him off, there might still be a leak, accidental or otherwise, and suddenly Derek Drake Giving Russian TV Journalist a Good Seeing-to would be the top search on the internet and the #1 trending topic on Twitter, proliferating faster than the country’s cyber-monitoring services could shut it down. Drake’s humiliation would be universal rather than merely marital. It would be the kind of public relations shitstorm even the soundest political career might not survive.

  However you looked at it, Vasily Vasilyevich Vasilyev had him over a barrel.

  Drake needed help. He needed advice.

  Luckily, he knew where to turn to for that.

  He cancelled all of his appointments for the rest of the afternoon, summoned a limo and headed homeward.

  AN HOUR AND a half later the prime ministerial motorcade passed through the gates of Charrington Grange. Drake leapt out of the limo before it had fully come to a halt and, rather than entering the house, hurried off in the direction of the museum.

  From the point of view of Major Wynne and Harriet Drake, it was just as well he did.

  “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” Wynne hissed, peering out from behind the bedroom curtain while his tumescent penis slowly wilted. The moment he had heard cars crunching along the drive, he had rolled off Harriet and scuttled over to the window.

  “What the hell is he doing back?”

  Harriet was as nonplussed as he was. “How should I know?” she said, reaching for her clothes which, like her lover’s, were strewn all over the bedroom floor. “Usually he rings me if he knows he’ll be home earlier than scheduled.”

  “At least he’s not coming inside.”

  “Where’s he going?”

  “The museum of holy bits and bobs, looks like.” Wynne snatched up his uniform and began tugging it on. He found his hands were clumsy. He kept fumbling with the zips and buttons. “Can you give me some help here?”

  “Bit busy myself,” Harriet said, slipping on her floaty Givenchy summer dress. “We’re okay, Dominic. You have every reason to be at the Grange. It’s not as if you aren’t here practically every day. Just calm down.”

  “I am calm.”

  “You’re not acting it. You’re acting flustered. I thought you got off on this as much as I do, the sense that we could be found out at any time. I thought that was part of the attraction.”

  “It is, but I don’t like being taken unawares,” Wynne said, smoothing the Velcro fastening of his high-necked collar into place. “I try to take all the possible contingencies into account, and then something like this happens.”

  “What is it you military types like to say? ‘No plan survives contact with the enemy.’”

  Wynne knelt to lace up his boots. “Still no excuse.”

  Harriet took his head in her hands, clasping it firmly. “Go downstairs,” she said. “Wait for Derek to come in. Front it out. You’re here to report on your mission, the one you told me about, the funfair. You wanted to deliver the latest update in person. By great good fortune, your boss has come home sooner than expected. Hooray. Less time spent cooling your heels. Meanwhile, I’ll go over and catch him as he leaves the museum. ‘Darling, what a pleasant surprise! Didn’t expect you till much later.’ I can lay it on just the right amount. He won’t suspect a thing, and you’ll have more time to compose yourself.”

  Wynne looked up at her with frank admiration. “I so want to shag the arse off you right now.”

  “I know. Me too. And you were doing such a good job of it before Derek arrived.”

  HARRIET LEFT WYNNE and sauntered out across the grounds, for all the world like a loving, dutiful wife delighted at the return of her husband from work.

  She envisaged loitering near the poolhouse, then just so happening to
bump into Derek as he exited the museum. In the event, when she reached the pool she saw through the gap in the yew hedge that the door to the museum had been left slightly ajar.

  This surprised her. Derek always shut the door.

  Should she go in?

  It wasn’t as though he had ever explicitly forbidden her from entering the museum. On the other hand, he had made it crystal clear that it was a place for him alone and that others were not welcome. The fact that he hadn’t shared the door code with her, or anyone else, was proof of that. It was his glorified man cave, and to be frank, Harriet had never seen the attraction of visiting it.

  Until now.

  The open door seemed almost an invitation. Derek wouldn’t have left it like that on purpose, but she could always pretend she thought he had. And if he got shirty with her for trespassing on his holy ground, so much the better as far as she was concerned. She could use his anger against him. It would mean he wasn’t thinking straight and was less liable to notice anything awry. He might be oblivious to any odd behaviour by Dominic Wynne.

  She crossed the threshold, venturing into a space which, although part of the home she had lived in for nearly two decades, she had never entered before.

  Harriet had seen most of the religious artefacts in the collection individually. Whenever Derek bought one, he would often show it off to her before depositing it in the museum.

  It was different seeing them all in one place, however. They were a motley assortment of objects, some of them richly wrought treasures and obviously valuable, others rather tatty-looking, grotesque, even repellent, yet no less expensive for that. She supposed this was a hobby equivalent to stamp collecting or trainspotting, what the wealthy religious zealot did with his spare cash and his spare time. She didn’t much mind that Derek had squandered a considerable percentage of his fortune on the relics. He had plenty left over, and her monthly spending allowance was more than generous. As long as her lifestyle was unaffected, he could do what he wanted with his money.

  But still, it was overwhelming, in a way, this jealously husbanded and guarded hoard. As she passed through the museum––here a sliver of ancient wood, there a bejewelled casket––Harriet wondered whether there wasn’t a streak of madness in Derek Drake.

  She could have been forgiven for wondering it more, when she heard Derek’s voice emanating from the far end of the room. He was talking. Holding what appeared to be a one-sided conversation.

  Following the sound, she came to a chamber the door to which was also open. It was some kind of inner sanctum, brightly lit. She saw her husband kneeling in front of a pedestal at the centre. His back was to her. He gave no sign that he had heard her approach.

  What he was talking to was a jewel-encrusted onyx chalice which Harriet recognised instantly. It was the cup Derek believed to be the Holy Grail, the relic which he’d purchased the same day he had his helicopter crash and which he had begged her to bring to him at the hospital, the first thing he had asked for after emerging from his coma.

  He was talking to it as though it could hear him. He was speaking low and Harriet could not make out what he was saying but, as she listened, she became aware of a second, softer voice, one that filled the gaps between Derek’s remarks.

  Was there someone else in the chamber after all?

  She couldn’t see anyone. Derek was alone in there. Yet somebody was definitely replying to him.

  Was he on the phone? No, his hands were interlaced together in front of him. No phone in sight.

  A hidden speaker, perhaps? Harriet couldn’t see any.

  Nevertheless the second voice was coming from somewhere.

  And, my God… It wasn’t just any voice. It was one Harriet knew. Knew well. One she hadn’t heard in a long while.

  All of a sudden, Derek looked round.

  It was hard to say which of them was the more startled, her or him. Each gaped at the other in consternation.

  “Derek,” she said eventually.

  “Harriet.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I could ask the same of you. You shouldn’t be in here.”

  “The door was open.”

  “Was it?” He looked perplexed. “I must’ve… Distracted. Hell of a day. But still. You know this is my private place.”

  “Never mind that,” Harriet said. “Answer me this. How come that cup is speaking to you, and why does it have Emrys Sage’s voice?”

  Her husband’s alarm turned to astonishment. He stared at her as though scarcely able to comprehend what she had just said.

  “You mean,” he said in a hushed, incredulous whisper, “you can hear him too?”

  Chapter 16

  ROBIN HOOD’S LAIR was not some arboreal fantasy of treehouses, ropes and catwalks, like in the old Kevin Costner movie. If she was honest with herself, Ajia hadn’t expected it would be, but if she was even more honest with herself, she had rather hoped it might.

  Robin Hood’s lair was, instead, a bunker built along the lines of a World War II Anderson shelter, with walls and roof of corrugated iron. It lay mostly below ground and, from the outside, looked like nothing more than a small grassy hillock in a glade in the middle of the forest. The entrance door was disguised under a layer of turf. Until the archer grasped a concealed handle and opened it, Ajia had had no idea it was there.

  “Welcome to my bijou residence,” he said, hanging up bow and quiver on a hook inside the door. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll get a brew going.”

  “No Merrie Men?” Ajia asked, sweeping her gaze around the cramped accommodation. There was an area for food storage and cooking in one corner. The furniture comprised a plastic picnic table with a couple of matching chairs and a rickety cot, which together occupied almost entirely what little square footage of floorspace there was. The only illumination came courtesy of a pair of battery-powered lanterns. The air reeked of dank earth and male musk.

  “Just me.” The archer busied himself lighting a Primus stove while his guests squeezed around one another to sit down. He served the tea in chipped enamel mugs. “No fridge, so milk’s the powdered stuff only. Not that powdered milk did me any harm when I was in the Paras. If you add enough sugar, it’ll take the taste away.”

  They drank in silence. Smith kept giving Robin Hood glowering looks. The tension simmering between the two men was palpable.

  “So,” Robin Hood said to Mr LeRoy, “Summer Land’s gone, eh? They finally caught up with you.”

  The king of the funfair folk gave a morose nod. “Our luck ran out.”

  “Luck?” Robin Hood sneered. “You’d have been a whole lot luckier if you’d taken steps to protect yourself.”

  “We had the goblins.”

  “Those guys? Thick as pigshit. Nothing more than glorified bouncers. I kept telling you you should arm yourselves. The Paladins were going to find you sooner or later, and you’d have stood a better chance against them if you’d been all tooled up. You might even have seen them off.”

  “And I kept telling you,” Mr LeRoy replied sternly, “that that is not my way. With Summer Land I wanted to create a safe haven for our kind, not a fortress. Somewhere we could just be ourselves.”

  “And look where that got you.”

  “Violence isn’t the answer to everything, Fletcher,” Smith said. “You seem to think it is, but it isn’t.”

  Fletcher, Ajia thought. Robin Hood’s real surname. Nominative determinism rearing its head again.

  “It isn’t the answer to everything,” Fletcher replied, “but sometimes, depending on the question, it’s the right answer. That’s why I couldn’t stay with you people. You were just so… passive. It was like you were waiting for the Paladins to come and get you. In many ways you did the hard work for them, Mr LeRoy, by gathering a bunch of eidolons together under one roof. You did the corralling. All the Paladins had to do was turn up and start the slaughter.”

  “This was not my fault,” Mr LeRoy said.

  “Keep telling yo
urself that.”

  “It was not!” Tea slopped from Mr LeRoy’s mug onto his hand. He didn’t seem to notice. “I did the right thing. I needn’t have started Summer Land. I could have left all those eidolons to fend for themselves. A few of them might have coped with their new identities. They might have carried on with their lives and been able to pass for normal. Most would not have. Wasn’t it better to bring them together, so that they could share the burden with others? Wasn’t that the more sensible approach?”

  “Only if your plan was to make a ghetto.”

  “If Summer Land was a ghetto, it was at least a peripatetic one. The proverbial moving target, much harder to hit. And everyone had a choice about being there. People were free to come and go as they pleased. Smith is proof of that, as are you.”

  Fletcher chuckled mirthlessly. “I came and went within the space of a week, because I could see what was coming down the line, even if you couldn’t. Our kind, the only way to stay safe is by keeping as low a profile as possible. There you were, practically flaunting yourselves. Disaster waiting to happen.”

  “This isn’t at all helpful,” Smith growled. “As usual, Fletcher, you’re letting your mouth run off. Can’t you see Mr LeRoy is grieving? We all are. We’ve lost friends. Close ones, some of us. We only just survived. Show some consideration.”

  But Fletcher, it seemed, was incapable of tact. “You, Smith, you’re a fine one to talk. Did you show me any consideration when you lit out on me in my hour of need? Huh? I thought we were partners. I thought you had my back. But when it came to the crunch, noooo, Smith was too prissy to do what needed to be done. Smith would rather scarper and leave me dangling. And now here you are, you and Mr LeRoy, crawling back to me after your policy of non-aggression comes round and bites you on the arse. There’s irony. What is it exactly you want? You want me to reassure you that you’re still in the right? That you still have the moral high ground, even though the Paladins fucked you five ways to Sunday? Because if so, you’ve come to the wrong place.”