The End of the World is Nigh

by Tony Moyle

  As the violent noise of propeller blades faded from their ears they were assisted onto the grass. Gabriel practically leapt from her seat as if there had been pins in it. She made a little whooping sound as her fancy wellington boots hit the safety of land. Antoine and Ally were left to lift the rolled-up painting and small rucksack they’d brought with them.

  Outside the chopper they were greeted by a woman holding a clipboard. Her black hair had been suffocated by a strong dose of thick gel which was entirely in keeping with the rest of her immaculately slick persona. From her black heels to her creaseless suit everything about her shouted precise.

  “Cynthia van Straffen,” she pronounced in welcome, shaking them all vigorously by the hand. “I am Mr. Peruzzi’s personal assistant: he’s been expecting you.”

  “I think we can dispense with the Bond clichés from here on in,” said Ally gruffly, barging past the taller woman and setting off in the direction of the house.

  “Ms. Oldfield, if you wouldn’t mind waiting for the rest of us,” said Cynthia.

  She stopped dead in her tracks. It wasn’t a surprise they knew who she was. But how much did they know about her? Maybe it was time to lower the assertive bolshiness until she had more to work from.

  Cynthia strolled up the garden path like a catwalk model, which wasn’t easy in the current light and with heels that were longer than most women’s shoe size. She led them through the front door and into an entrance hall where a roaring fire was consuming huge logs with a crackle. Other than the floating embers dancing in the air there was no other obvious activity. For such a large property they’d expected to find more people either living here or supporting whoever did.

  “Does Mario live here alone?” asked Antoine, wiping his feet on the mat. Friend or foe, you always had to remember your manners.

  “Mr. Peruzzi is still a bachelor. Other than a couple of loyal employees he lives alone. The two of you can go straight in,” she said, pointing to a door to the right of the entrance hall. “I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here.”

  “Me,” said Gabriel, looking crestfallen.

  “Yes. He doesn’t know who you are yet and is deeply suspicious of those he cannot judge.”

  “But he doesn’t know us either,” said Ally indignantly.

  “More than you know,” replied Cynthia.

  “Stay here, my dear,” replied Antoine to Gabriel. “I’m sure you’ll be quite safe.”

  “What about us?” whispered Ally as they made their way towards the door. “How safe are we?”

  Antoine knocked firmly and after a brief pause was invited to enter by a softly spoken voice on the other side.

  The lounge was adorned with an eclectic collection of furniture arranged in a horseshoe formation around a low table that was camouflaged by a black silk tablecloth. Beautifully carved wooden panels featured on every wall and the entire ceiling space was covered by intricate murals in colourful hues. Sitting casually in the chair on the other side of the horseshoe directly behind the coffee table was Mario.

  Above all else he looked normal. At least normal in the context of what their imaginations had considered he might look like. There was little mystery to him now. A skinny man, probably in his early fifties, with a fair face and carefully regimented hair. His brown leather jacket sat comfortably on his shoulders, partially concealing a simple white T-shirt underneath.

  “Welcome,” he said as if greeting friends. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

  They did as requested. Any nerves or anxiety that had been whizzing through their minds prior to the helicopter ride were washed away by this apparently harmless-looking individual.

  “Is that it?” asked Mario, pointing at the long roll of canvas that Antoine and Ally had propped up against a sofa.

  “Yes.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Hold on a moment,” replied Ally, starting to mistrust the calmness of the situation given everything she’d been through over the last few days. “Why should we show you anything after what you have put us through?”

  “And what is that exactly, Ms. Oldfield?” he said calmly.

  “Oh, I don’t know, how about a burglary, trying to blow us up, and the murder of a fellow scholar for a start?”

  “And where is your evidence of my apparent misdemeanours?”

  “Evidence?”

  “Come on. You know how it works. A woman of your reputation and standing. I have read your books and research papers, Ally. They are extremely impressive. I know the lengths you go to in order to obtain certainty. You’re a researcher as much as a professor of languages. Would your opinion of me pass your own rigorous standards? Would you publish what you believe, in the certainty of your sources?”

  “No,” she replied meekly.

  He was right. There was no evidence of any of her assumptions to the guilt she’d already judged him on. How could she so easily have overlooked it? How could she get caught up in what normal people did? Believe in something without a shred of proof. She sat back in her chair feeling small and foolish.

  “The painting, Monsieur Palomer.”

  “How do you know who I am?”

  “All will become clear.”

  Antoine stood up and laid the painting down at the back of the room which was the least cluttered space available for such a large object. To the best of his ability he rolled it open on the floor. All three got up to assess it once more.

  “Magnificent piece, isn’t it?” said Mario. “And quite unique.”

  “Why unique?” asked Ally.

  “Because it’s the only known painting of Philibert Lesage.”

  “Who?” asked Antoine.

  “This man here,” said Mario, pointing to one of the figures behind the Queen. “Philibert is the man responsible for the prophecy.”

  “He wrote the prophecy!” said Ally. “How do you know this?”

  “Because this is my painting. It has been handed down through my family ever since it was bought by Nostradamus’s grandson.”

  “Your painting!” said Antoine. “Then how did Bernard have it?”

  “Because I traded it with him in return for something more important.”

  “The coffer.”

  “Ha ha, no of course not.” Mario laughed loudly. “Please sit down: there is much to discuss.”

  As they returned to their seats Ally’s head was spinning. She couldn’t be sure that anything she’d believed in over the last week was true. She was being told the answers she wanted about the prophecy but considered them with a hefty pinch of salt.

  “When Nostradamus passed away in fifteen sixty-five he passed a message to his son César from his deathbed,” explained Mario. “Cesar was only about ten at the time, but his father insisted that the message be passed from father to son until the right time arrived. The story Michel told was of a young man he’d once trained to predict the future, and how that man, Philibert Lesage, had written a powerful prediction that the world would end. Nostradamus confessed to taking this prophecy from Lesage and passing it off as his own. But the only copy that existed had been stolen from him.”

  “So you accept that Michel didn’t write the prophecy,” said Ally defiantly.

  “Oh yes, there’s no question of that.”

  “So why are you using the Oblivion Doctrine to suggest that he did?”

  “Because Michel’s message to his son was clear. Philibert Lesage was an imposter and his memory must be erased from history. And the only way to do that was to ensure that mankind believed the prophecy was by Nostradamus.”

  “At what price,” said Antoine. “Have you been outside? Have you seen the destruction that you have helped create?”

  “No. I’m a recluse, I haven’t left this building for a decade.”

  “Then maybe you should take a stroll.”

  “The price, as you put it, is well worth paying. A little chaos amongst weak-minded idiots in return for the protection of a legend. All people will perish
eventually, but he will live on. Ally knows what I mean: you have no love for the general public either as I understand.”

  “Maybe not, but I have no desire to see them obliterate themselves because of your greed.”

  “Greed? I’m not in this for money. You academics always get confused by reality. The world does not run on money or oil as you believe. Those commodities do not break economies or bring down governments. Human beings have been powered by the same fuel since Moses came off his mountain. Fear is what really drives our world. And people trust fear. They crave it. It excites them. It motivates them to reach out to faith, to personal freedoms or more physiological urges like survival. All animals are raised on a respect for fear, and without it we are nothing but machines. The Oblivion Doctrine simply gives the people what they want, so they are distracted from what they have.”

  “And when does it stop? When the mobs break down your own gates and raise your house to the ground, or when you get bored of playing games with your online toys?” asked Ally.

  “No. It stops when I have answered my own questions. That’s why I have allowed you to come here.”

  “Which brings us to our own questions,” said Antoine. “How did you know that the book was in my basement?”

  “I didn’t. Cesar knew from his father that the prophecy predicted that the end would come in the second millennium, so for the last decade I have had people searching for it. I even wrote to you to ask for assistance, Ms. Oldfield, although you never replied. Bernard Baptiste was the only one who did. He was the one who noticed the link in the painting which eventually led him to finding it.”

  “And you killed him because you wanted the coffer,” she replied, unable to resist the accusations again.

  “The coffer? Ms. Oldfield, I don’t think you’ve been paying attention.”

  “How dare you! I have a massive IQ and more doctorates than most Oxford dons, of course I’ve been paying attention.”

  “It’s interesting how the most intelligent people are always the most susceptible.” Mario reached inside his leather jacket and removed a deck of playing cards. He took three cards from the deck: the queen of hearts, the seven of spades and the two of diamonds, and laid them face up on the tablecloth. “Dr. Oldfield, do you know how to find the queen?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Showing you how the game works. Now keep your eye on the queen.”

  He turned the cards over and gently mixed them around into different positions before turning to Antoine first.

  “Antoine, you know where the queen is, don’t you?”

  “Yes. It’s in the middle.”

  “Very good. I see there’s no fooling you. Your turn, Ally.”

  He turned the cards over again and moved them around much more quickly. Even so Ally was certain she knew which card was the queen. Mario stopped and moved his hands over the cards before nodding at her for an answer.

  “It’s the one on the left,” she replied with a tired and frustrated tone.

  “You’re absolutely sure. You don’t want to change your mind.”

  “What I want is for the world to go back to normal. And that is something you can deliver.”

  “Ok. I’ll tell you what. If you find the queen, I will stop the world from burning. You can’t say fairer than that, can you?”

  “And if I don’t.”

  “Then I won’t. Come on, play. Pick a card, just one,” replied Mario, losing his temper a little for the first time.

  “I said the card on the left, you ridiculous man.”

  Mario turned the back of the red speckled card over to reveal the two of diamonds. Ally’s mouth dropped. She was convinced she’d followed it as accurately as Antoine had.

  “It looks to me that you haven’t been paying as much attention as you thought. There’s a reason Antoine picked the right card. He’s played this game before. Tell me, Ally, what does this coffer you seek look like exactly?”

  “It’s black and made of oak.”

  “That’s a very loose description. It sounds to me like it comes from someone who hasn’t actually seen it.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “What about a photograph? Surely he had one of those,” said Mario, pointing at Antoine, whose expression was suddenly very sheepish.

  “No.”

  “Yet you, a woman of enormous reputation for precision and certainty, still believed unwaveringly that the coffer was in Antoine’s basement.”

  “Yes, because I saw the mess in the basement after someone tried to steal it, so it must have been there.”

  “And what do you believe happened to it?”

  “He sold it to Bernard.”

  “And when you went to find it, was there any trace of it amongst poor old Bernard’s possessions?”

  “No.”

  “And do you know why that was? Why in fact he hadn’t left it to you with the painting if it was so important?”

  “Stop playing games with me.”

  “Sometimes it’s very hard to find the queen, if someone doesn’t want you to see it.”

  “So where is the coffer, if it even exists?”

  “Oh it exists. It’s where it has been for hundreds of years.”

  Mario pulled the black tablecloth off like a magician at a tea party to reveal an ancient black coffer underneath.

  “You weren’t looking for the coffer, Ally. Antoine was.”

  - Chapter 32 -

  Don’t Blink

  There hadn’t been a good execution in Marseille for ages. Claude had a reputation as a compassionate man who liked to find alternative ways for people to rectify their crimes that didn’t involve so much mess. But he did make the odd exception and the people loved him for it.

  The last one people talked fondly about was the execution of Benoit the forger. It was notable for several reasons. Firstly, not all executions were conducted in the same way. There were many ways of wiping out life and the choice depended on the manner of the crime. Poisoners were boiled to death, thieves were subjected to the breaking wheel, and those found guilty of sodomy were impaled on long spikes, which probably wasn’t very appropriate. In the case of Benoit, the punishment was to be hung, drawn and quartered.

  And then there was the second reason for its notoriety. It took ages. Two days, in fact. The four horses, tethered to each of his limbs, apparently weren’t on message. They decided they didn’t want to pull at the same time, only managing to drag poor Benoit for an unexpected tour of the city in surprising directions. Most people didn’t have the attention span for it. They popped in and out to see how it was progressing, only to find poor Benoit still had some life left in him. When the end did finally come there was almost no crowd left at all. Not unlike today the masses wanted entertainment, they just didn’t want to wait for it.

  Execution days were more popular than Christmas. Mainly because on execution days you were allowed to enjoy yourself without the prerequisite of enduring the mind-numbing ramblings of a stuck-up priest who, even on this of all days, wanted to promote doom. And like Christmas, executions were very much family affairs. Mothers packed a lunch, gathered their children and joined the queue as early as possible to secure the best view.

  And the demand for this execution was unprecedented. It always was when it involved one of their own. No one really cared if some wayward noble got what was coming to him. But they’d watch this one with a twisted sense of admiration and disappointment. At least until the blood poured out and they were faced with the reality of their own miserable lives.

  The night before, the stage had been set and the gallows had been constructed. It had a prominent position in the middle of the main square to allow as many visitors as possible to appreciate the warning, in case any of them were planning on being the future ripples that Phil had warned of. The important guests, including the royal party, would watch events unfold from the windows and balconies of houses that circle the plaza. Not only was this the best view, it also kept the
m distant from all the poor people. Nostradamus was one of the lucky few to receive an invite. From his lofty vantage point he would witness the end of his only real challenger, and once that formality was complete he could die peacefully in the knowledge that his legacy was secure.

  *****

  Annabelle searched everywhere for it. She looked in the small chest by the side of her bed where it normally lived. But no sign of it. She checked her jewellery box next to the mirror, not there either. She looked under her pillow in case she’d forgotten to remove it and it had slipped off while she’d slept. No trace. She asked her husband, but he hadn’t seen it either. It couldn’t be lost: after all she was always so careful with it. But that didn’t explain where it was now. It wasn’t easy to lose after all. Only one had ever been made and its uniqueness meant no one could mistake it for their own.

  She sat down on the bed and forced her brain to retrace her steps. She’d worn it for a week while posing for the painting, that much she was sure of. After Philibert’s arrest she recalled placing it back where it lived. The chest was locked and only her closest family knew what lay inside. Its emotional value to her was significant. Her mother had presented it to her on her eighteenth birthday, but it wasn’t a new piece. It had been in the Savoie family for years, handed down from mother to daughter. But more importantly than that, Philibert had complimented her on it and she desperately wanted to wear it for him. One last silent chance to show him how she truly felt.

  There was no more time. She had to get ready, locket or not. In an hour from now a trapdoor would open and the man she loved would hang. It would bring an end to the impossible dream of lasting happiness. Unless someone could do something to stop it.

  And that was another reason for wanting to wear it.

  The symbolism of the locket was not lost on her. In a biblical context the ram was in tune with the mentality of the people that lived in the city. It represented determination. A willingness to overcome the odds and stand tall. Yet that determination and courage had deserted her when she most needed it. A regret she would bear for the rest of her life.