New Pompeii

by Daniel Godfrey

  “I knew you’d be here.”

  Nick looked up to see Ronnie pushing through the crowd towards him. His friend fell into the shabby plastic seat opposite before making a grab for the list of specials. He only considered the menu for the bare minimum of time before dropping it back to the table. “You enjoy your meal the other night?”

  Nick hesitated. “Why didn’t you come?”

  “How the fuck could I?” Ronnie said, his voice suddenly loud. “Two cops showed up at my place and effectively revoked my invitation.”

  Nick put his sandwich down. Ronnie’s jaw was set tight. He wasn’t scratching at his jaw. He wasn’t lying. A few of the other customers – mostly students – looked warily in their direction. “I didn’t know,” he said. “And after what you pulled at the museum, I think it’s me who’s owed the apology.”

  “So what did you talk to McMahon about?”

  Ronnie said the name bluntly; Nick felt himself flinch. McMahon. How did Ronnie know he’d met McMahon? He looked towards the exit. He needed to get out of here. They were too close to the department. More importantly, they were too close to his father. “Let’s go somewhere else to talk.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Ronnie reached into his pocket and plucked out a lighter and a cigarette. He lit it, and blew out a long plume of smoke. More people looked round. They’d soon be thrown out.

  “Ronnie,” said Nick, leaning forward. He kept his voice low, hoping his friend would finally take the hint. “What do you want?”

  “I want to know what shit is going down. Men like McMahon don’t socialise with blokes like you.” Ronnie nodded towards the café window. It gave a good view across the campus. Right across to the History Department and the library. “This is a long way from being an ivory tower. Even if you get that PhD you’re always banging on about, it ain’t going to be worth shit because it’s from the University of My Arsehole.”

  Nick didn’t say anything. Part of him hoped the students were still listening. Still, Falconbrook had done for his father – even if he sometimes referred to it as an “academic lifeboat”.

  Ronnie grinned, knowing his insult had hit home, and then stubbed his cigarette out on the table. He’d left most of it un-smoked. “McMahon must want you for something,” he whispered, his breath heavy with tobacco. “And others seem to be taking an interest in you too.”

  Nick flicked his eyes upwards. At first he thought he meant the other customers in the café, but Ronnie’s face was suddenly filled with regret. He knew he’d overstepped the mark.

  “What do you mean, ‘others’?”

  Ronnie fumbled in his coat pocket for his phone and brought up an app. Nick leant forward.

  Who’s Where. Social media. And he’d managed to appear on its radar. Great.

  Who? Nick Houghton. (Falconbrook University.) Son of Dr Bernard Houghton.

  Where Been? Met with Harold McMahon and Mark Whelan at Bellotoni’s Restaurant, London.

  Where Now? University Park, Sunbeam Café. With Ronnie Saunders.

  Nick looked around. Someone in the café must have updated his status to give his current location. Blank faces stared back at him. He checked the screen again. Some of the entries were hyperlinked. He thumbed on to his dad’s entry but found it gave no real detail. Just the obvious facts and a short summary of his disgrace. But the lists of people with whom McMahon and Whelan came into contact seemed to be catalogued in extreme detail.

  “Amazing isn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” said Nick. “Someone’s got too much time on their hands.”

  “Not someone, Nick. Everybody. Given that it started as a way to find and bump into celebs, this app is actually a private dick’s wet dream.”

  Ronnie sniggered. Nick ignored him. “Well, I don’t see my entry getting any longer. I’m thinking of going on a field excursion.”

  “To Italy? You’ve been there masses of times—”

  “I’m not going to Pompeii again.”

  Ronnie ignored him. There was real anger in his eyes. “Well my guys from the Peking Man thing have disappeared,” he said. “No one’s heard from them. They’re all missing. Which means they were transported. Right out of the room.”

  “They’re more likely in a jail cell.”

  Ronnie stood up. He paused and looked around the café. The other customers were still staring, their faces holding a mix of genuine interest and nervousness. “No,” he said, firmly. “They were transported. And we weren’t. So don’t cut me out, Nick. This is too good. We could finally find out what they’re up to.”

  12

  KIRSTEN FORCED HERSELF to go on. The last steps into the quad were the worst. She found herself listening for the slightest of sounds. But no one can see me, she thought. No one can see me.

  And yet she still hesitated, starting to shiver.

  She’d woken in the bath again. The haze had simply taken her back to the water – like so many times before. But this time she’d moved faster. She hadn’t lingered in the corridor. Instead, she’d pushed straight down to the quad.

  Her feet found the cold flagstones and again she listened. But no one can see me, she thought. No one can see me. Most of the time. Because even though the police officers hadn’t been able to see her, and the students had ignored her when she’d gone to her room, it was clear that, on some occasions, she had been seen. She’d been seen often enough to get a nickname. She’d heard them whisper it. The “bedder in the bath”.

  But no one can see me, she reminded herself. No one can see me…

  …because I’m already dead.

  Kirsten stopped. She tried to concentrate on the air passing over her body. She could still feel it. Just like the tears now trickling down her cheeks.

  She let out a cry of frustration. There was nothing down here.

  Certainly no answers.

  But then she saw them. The long rows of black-framed noticeboards covered in flyers about the college’s various clubs and activities. Kirsten moved quickly. One of them would tell her what date it was, or at least what year. What she found was better. Faces she recognised, staring at her from a glossy poster announcing an event.

  Harold McMahon. Joe “Octo” Arlen. And Mark Whelan.

  They all looked older than she remembered – heavier and more lined. She looked at the date on the poster, but it only gave a day and month. She scanned the other notices, and found the university code of conduct, half hidden behind a list of upcoming sports events. Beneath the signature of the university’s chancellor was the date. Kirsten felt a cry well up, and she pressed her hand over her mouth. Ten years.

  She pulled her eyes away and focused on the poster again. Tried to recall the three men. Yes, that was right. They’d lived over in Rose Court. All on the same staircase. She saw them nearly every day, briefly on days when she’d just emptied their bins. Longer on others when she’d changed their sheets.

  Octo the geek. Whelan the soldier. McMahon the slob. Three lads who’d been randomly assigned rooms on the same staircase and, if she remembered correctly, didn’t much care for each other.

  She drifted forward, bringing the text into focus.

  They’d started a business together. Novus Particles. Again she felt tears welling at the corner of her eyes. Ten years? Had all that time passed already?

  She wiped her face, trying to read the rest of the notice. They were going to give a talk in the Hereford Lecture Theatre in a few days’ time. She examined the photograph.

  Octo Arlen beamed at the camera, a mixture of pride and excitement making his ruddy cheeks glow. Whelan had his jaw out like he was having his army mug shot taken. She used to regularly see him in his army fatigues. Playing at soldiers at weekends and working late during the week to catch up on his studies.

  McMahon’s stare was as dead-eyed as ever, having finally gained the pounds all those empty pizza boxes must have been carrying. For someone supposedly so good at maths, he didn’t seem to understand how to count calo
ries.

  Smiling despite herself, Kirsten reached forward, groping for the picture. Her hand went straight through it, and she pulled back in sudden anger. Turning away, she looked out into the quad.

  A man was looking straight at her.

  It took a full ten seconds before Kirsten recovered enough to speak.

  “Can you see me?”

  He didn’t respond. Instead, he took a step forward. Kirsten only just stumbled out of the way. And no, he hadn’t seen her. He was looking at the noticeboard. The poster about Arlen, Whelan and McMahon.

  It was soaking wet.

  13

  IT WAS EARLY. Too early. Nick rubbed at his stubble, and felt his jaw stretch and pop as he yawned. Ronnie didn’t live in a great area. It was a conclusion he reached pretty much every time he visited his friend’s home. Most of the pre-war terraced houses that dominated the street had long since been converted into flats. Despite the number of people who must be living nearby, the streets were empty, and it only added to the sense of the neighbourhood’s dereliction.

  Be here now. Urgent.

  The message had pinged into his phone almost the second Nick had woken that morning. Or perhaps the message had broken his sleep and his brain was just playing tricks on him. Whatever the answer, he wasn’t fully awake. But he was now at least prepared to have an argument with his friend. About what Ronnie had said at the café and, more importantly, about what had happened at the British Museum.

  A short set of concrete steps led up to the main door of Ronnie’s building. Nick took them two at a time and rang the bell for the first-floor flat. He flexed his fingers. He’d rehearsed what he was going to say. He was ready.

  The door didn’t open. Finally, a flap of curtain attracted his attention downwards. The occupant of the basement flat – a fat, unshaven guy wearing a vest and shorts – was staring up at him through a window. Nick shrugged an apology and pushed the buzzer again.

  Then he noticed the obvious.

  The glass in the front door was broken. Nick stared at it. The top section was made up of glass panels – four rows of three. But one of them was missing. The one right next to the lock.

  Nick slipped his hand through the hole and flicked the Yale catch, pushing through the door into the small entry hall. He noted there was no glass on the floor, which meant the break wasn’t fresh. Typical. It looked like someone had decided to make it easier for visitors to get in without disturbing the rest of the occupants – maybe the fat guy in the basement – or perhaps there’d been a break-in and the landlord hadn’t yet got round to making a repair. Whatever the answer, he’d get the full story from Ronnie. If he got the opportunity to ask him anything before he was berated about NovusPart, or whatever else was playing on his friend’s mind.

  Be here now. Urgent.

  Nick headed upstairs and rapped on Ronnie’s door. It swung open.

  “Ronnie?”

  Nick stepped inside and tapped on the bedroom door. He heard only the barest sound of movement in response. “Come on, Ronnie. We need to talk.”

  More noise from the bedroom. Nick sighed. Back when they’d lived together as students, Ronnie had developed a habit of leaving doors unlocked. At the time it had seemed harmless. But now it just seemed stupid, especially given the damage to the front door. Then again, and as Ronnie had so eloquently put it, “If you have fuck all to steal, it’s better to let them know.”

  Nick knocked again, then moved deeper into the flat. The lounge smelt of stale cigarettes and beer. He made his way through the piles of clutter to the sofa, and then settled down to wait for his friend to surface. A few newspapers were pushed up against the armrest, and he noticed the top copy had an article ringed in thick, red marker. Another report of a missing child.

  Ignoring it, Nick pulled out his phone and checked his email. The previous night, he’d started writing his acceptance letter. In all likelihood, he was going to join Novus Particles.

  But he still hadn’t sent it. And something Ronnie had said to him at the café continued to niggle him. McMahon must want you for something. He let out a frustrated sigh. Why did they want him though? There were plenty of academics who had spent their whole careers researching Pompeii. He was a nobody. Why on earth did such a powerful company care about him? He wasn’t going to find out without accepting the offer. But did he want to know?

  Yes.

  Yes, of course he did. Just like he wanted to get to their version of Pompeii.

  Nick rubbed his temples. A six-week trial. Just over a month of guaranteed work to balance against the offer from Drockley to extend his quasi-contract followed by a good chance of a proper research post. If he looked at the situation logically, then there was no way he’d go. But all he needed to do was press “send” and, when he next met McMahon and Whelan, his Who’s Where page would be trending for months.

  And he’d never hear the end of it from Ronnie or his father.

  Nick frowned. Who’s Where. Saving his email back into “drafts”, he brought up a browser page and searched for his own link. It didn’t take long to find: it was still trending nearly two days after his meeting with the men from Novus Particles.

  Who? Nick Houghton. (Falconbrook University.) [More]

  Where Been? University Park, Sunbeam Café. With Ronnie Saunders.

  Met with Harold McMahon and Mark Whelan at Bellotoni’s Restaurant.

  Where Now? 46 Westburn Avenue, London.

  Nick followed the link to his father’s page. It was still a stub, but it told the ugly truth of his disgrace in just a few simple words: Found to have plagiarised the works of several Chinese academics. That was how his father had written so many papers in such a short space of time. All summarised in a single sentence. No one had bothered to update his entry. Which was unsurprising. Given his father had disappeared off the academic radar, there was no reason to suspect he’d make any waves in the virtual world now.

  Nick switched over to McMahon and Whelan’s Who’s Where pages. His meeting with them was already way down their list of engagements. However, no one seemed to know where they were at the moment, and several flags had been raised asking people to keep a lookout.

  Losing interest, Nick skipped back and refocused his attention on his own log. It gave his current location: 46 Westburn Avenue, London.

  His page was telling people he was at Ronnie’s.

  Instinctively, Nick glanced around him. His friend hadn’t appeared from his bedroom. He took a few steps to the window, but the street outside remained deserted. He glanced back down at his phone – and flinched at the sound of an incoming call.

  “Hello?”

  “Nick?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mark Whelan.” His voice was firm and confident. “You’ve made a decision?”

  Nick hesitated. NovusPart. He turned to the lounge door, half expecting to see Ronnie staring back at him. “Yes… I mean, not yet. Not quite.”

  “We’ll need an answer soon.”

  Nick tried to keep his voice quiet. “It’s a big step.”

  “So you’ve had time to think about it?”

  “Yes. But you’re asking me to give up a full-time post.”

  “I once heard a footballer say he’d give up his entire career for one game at Wembley.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “What exactly is your role at Falconbrook anyway?” asked Whelan. “It seems you’re caught in some form of academic limbo? Sustained by your father?”

  “I—”

  Whelan cut him off. “It doesn’t matter. Where are you?”

  Nick glanced at the bedroom door. “At a friend’s.”

  “If you’d prefer to talk later…”

  “No.” Nick got to his feet and checked the bedroom door. It remained shut. He closed the door to the lounge, and kept his voice low. “I want to talk now.”

  “Very well,” said Whelan.

  “I need to know why you’ve done this. Why Pompeii?”

  “I thoug
ht we’d explained…”

  “You called it a pro bono spin-off. But sorry, I don’t buy that.”

  Whelan gave a slight chuckle. “Glad to see you’re not naïve, Mr Houghton. And you’re right; we do intend to turn a profit on the venture. A substantial one.”

  Nick felt his shoulders slump. “It’s a tourist attraction, isn’t it?”

  “No,” said Whelan, his voice suddenly losing its humour. “That much I can promise you. The site will be closed to the public – and for good reason. But you can imagine, I think, the value at which we could retail a bottle of genuine Roman wine? Or a fresco? Or some jewelled metalwork? And that’s before you start thinking about the television revenues…”

  Nick already knew what was coming next. “Gladiators?”

  “They are part of the picture, certainly,” replied Whelan. “But fights won’t be the only attraction.”

  In truth, it didn’t come as much of a surprise. He had no doubt that people would watch. And at least Whelan had given him a direct answer – not evaded the truth like some corporate automaton. But perhaps there was something that NovusPart hadn’t considered. “I’m not sure you’ll be getting what you expect,” he said. “Gladiators were highly trained and very valuable – fights weren’t often to the death.”

  “Well good,” replied Whelan, “because we don’t have an endless supply. And, as I said, they won’t be the only attraction. But the real question is this: do you want to live among the people you’ve studied your whole adult life? Or do you want to have your nose in a textbook while our project makes your endeavours redundant?”

  Nick gripped the phone tighter. “I want to say yes.”

  “And the only things stopping you from saying ‘yes’ are your father… and the matter of working for Novus Particles.”

  Nick felt himself falter. NovusPart. He thought about the small protest at the restaurant. He thought about his father. “They’re not minor issues.”

  “No one’s saying they are.”

  Nick looked down at the sofa. He saw the thick red mark surrounding the newspaper article and immediately knew there was another question he needed to ask before committing. And it all revolved around Whelan’s “due diligence”, and Ronnie’s insistence that people were going missing. “My mother died when I was ten.”