by Mike Hockney
This was all wrong. They were going too far. I thought of Lawrence, Chloe and Marcus. Did they take part in this same ceremony? Did it push them over the edge?
‘I am the conductor of souls,’ the voice went on. ‘My title is the hierokeryx. I am the herald of the sacred, the guide of the dead through the underworld.’
I heard a door opening and we were told to walk straight ahead. There was an odd smell of countryside that made no sense down here. I breathed slowly, trying to quell the thudding of my heart. After about thirty seconds, someone pressed their hand against my chest, stopping me. Several people jostled past me. I had an impression I was in a large room, surrounded by many people.
Someone played a tune on panpipes. When it ended, shouting began. The shouts turned into low, harsh voices, overlapping each other. We’ll kill you, they said. You’re going to be cut up like a pig and fed to cattle. Your head will be cut off and sent to your parents. The voices became more menacing, the threats more grotesque. You’ll be buried up to your neck and honey smeared around your eyes. Then we’ll break open a hive of bees over your head. We’ll make small cuts all over your body and pour ants, leeches and spiders over you. We’ll feed your entrails to your pets, and send your kidneys to your lovers.
Someone clashed cymbals together. The voices stopped. I began to sway then felt myself falling. Someone hauled me back to my feet and shoved me forward. I could hear crazy echoes that started out as laughter then mutated into screams. Sometimes the sounds were distant, at other times right beside me. I was sure I was being led through a succession of twisting passageways. A labyrinth? I had no idea if Sam and Jez were still with me, but I was aware of the deep breathing of several people. Occasionally they whispered to each other but I never quite caught what they were saying. Sometimes I thought they were talking in some ancient language. The air was increasingly stale.
The acoustics changed and at the same time the musty smell gave way to fresher air. The countryside scent I’d noticed before was much stronger, but I still couldn’t place it. I was certain we’d moved into another large space.
I heard a grunting noise that sounded disturbingly non-human. Every other sound faded as my ears strained to hear what was making the noise. It became slow, rhythmic. Someone – or something – was breathing unnaturally heavily. I pictured the Minotaur standing there at the centre of its labyrinth, awaiting its sacrifice.
Someone shouted something, put their hand on my head and forced me down onto my belly.
‘Crawl.’
I tried my best, but it was almost impossible with my hands tied behind my back. I edged forward using a combination of my left shoulder and right knee. My feet were grabbed and I was hurled forward. I rolled down a steep embankment, and landed in a heap, colliding with someone. I tried to work out what had happened. I thought I was in a pit.
I knelt up, nausea billowing in my stomach. A man shouted. The shout grew louder, turning into an ear-shattering yelp. Something grunted and snorted. I thought it might be a horse. A whooshing sound was followed by a bestial howl. Liquid, hot and sticky, splattered all over me. Mother of Mercy – what had they done? A tremor surged through me. Blood pounded through my ears. A second later, I was dragged out of the pit. Someone ripped off my hood and tossed away my gag and blindfold. Sweet Jesus.
I seemed to be in a slaughterhouse. My robe was drenched with bloody splashes. I thought Sam had been murdered, but then I saw him standing a couple of feet away, blood-soaked, staring madly. My gaze followed his. I wanted to run, but my legs were jelly. Some creature had been hacked to pieces on a lattice altar above the pit. It was only when I saw the horns that I knew what it was.
I stared at Sam and saw him blinking rapidly. His head swivelled around, and now mine did the same. We were in a cave, lit with concealed uplights so that everything was casting shadows. All round the walls, bulls’ heads were staring at us from hooks they’d been placed on. I counted at least ten, many of them in an advanced state of decomposition. I stood there in shock. At least the peculiar smell now made sense, but I had no idea how they’d managed to drag bulls down here.
Around us, figures in red robes, hoods and masks began to emerge from the dark corners. The masks were like the faces of some forgotten race: huge circular eyes, noses placed at crazy angles, unsmiling mouths.
A hooded man in black stepped through the ranks of red.
‘This is the masque of phantoms,’ he said. I recognised the voice of the hierokeryx. ‘Meet the creatures of the underworld. You know what they must do.’
I felt everything crowding in on me. I couldn’t breathe. My mouth hung open as I desperately sucked in air.
The hierokeryx signalled to the phantoms and each of them picked up a long rod from a pile. ‘Now I am become death, the destroyer of worlds,’ the hierokeryx declared.
In silence, the phantoms struck us with their rods, almost in slow motion. As each hit my body, I imagined my flesh was being sliced into. I stared down at my robe, expecting to see it cut to shreds, with blood pouring from scores of slashes all over me. But there was nothing.
A man slapped me violently across the face. I saw a bucket being lifted and then a huge blur of red racing towards my eyes. I ducked. Too late. Blood was everywhere, running through my hair, streaming down my face. It was all over my hands, spilling down my back and over my breasts.
‘Turn round,’ someone barked from behind me. ‘And see your future.’
Disorientated, I shuffled round to face the speaker. Three marble headstones confronted me with our names on them, and a date. Today.
We were dragged away. Upwards we went, up the long slope of a smooth brick tunnel, lit by flickering strip lights, until we reached a white-tiled toilet block. We were stripped of our robes, thrown naked into a shower and hosed down with freezing water. The next moment a huge blast of hot air hit us as though some industrial-scale hand-dryer had been switched on.
The warm air cut off after a few seconds and fresh white robes were thrust at us. We were hauled out and marched along a whitewashed corridor. A huge painting covered one of the walls. It was a Caravaggio and I realised it must be The Raising of Lazarus that Marcus once told me about. Lazarus was reaching towards the divine light emanating from Jesus. The painting’s significance was obvious: like Lazarus, we’d been raised from the dead.
A door swung open and we were bundled into a brightly lit white room, full of people in white hooded robes like our own. They were wearing smiling golden masks. They began to clap and cheer.
I suppose I should have been relieved, but numbness swept over me. I was breathless, exhausted, my head spinning.
One of the revellers stepped forward and removed her mask – Zara.
‘Welcome,’ she said, ‘to the Millionaires’ Death Club.’
Chapter 38: The Cards
‘Sacrifice means making holy,’ Zara declared. She stood there in the middle of the white room, surrounded by her disciples, with all the glacial perfection that made her so infinitely beguiling – like the high priestess of an ancient cult. ‘Tonight, one of us shall become divine,’ she said, her voice echoing eerily. She turned to the hierokeryx. ‘The cards, please.’
As I looked on, my heart pumped wildly. I’d barely recovered from the blood ceremony and I realised I was about to be plunged into something even worse. All around me, everyone took off their masks. Their faces were filled with excitement.
‘There are fifty-two cards and twenty-six people,’ Zara said, shuffling the cards. ‘Two apiece.’
According to the Fourth Protocol, the knave of hearts was the critical card in the ceremony we were about to undertake, but I couldn’t stop thinking of the fatal game in The Suicide Club.
We stood in a circle. Zara went round dealing two cards to each of us. ‘Don’t look until I say so,’ she ordered. When she finished, she clapped her hands. ‘Reveal the first card.’
I looked at mine: the nine of diamonds. The hierokeryx inspected everyone’s cards
before turning to Zara and shaking his head.
‘Discard the first and show the second,’ Zara said. Everyone threw down their cards into the middle of the circle.
This time I got the queen of clubs. I glanced at Sam. He had the two of spades.
The hierokeryx again went round scrutinising the cards then suddenly stopped. ‘Fate has spoken,’ he announced and raised Jez’s hand.
‘So, Mr Easton, you shall perform the selection.’ A peculiar smile flitted over Zara’s face. ‘Provide us with the Chosen One.’
Jez hesitated for a moment and then his hand stretched out and came to rest on Sam’s shoulder. In Sam’s eyes I saw a look of…wonder.
‘It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’ Jez sounded apologetic.
‘You understand what this means?’ Zara asked.
‘Let’s do it.’
Sam turned round and I realised he was looking for me. I pushed through the throng and grabbed his hand. ‘Please don’t go through with this.’
‘My whole life has been about this moment,’ he whispered. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’
For an instant, I felt incredible pride, but then I grew breathless. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything. I believed Sam had just been sentenced to death in some unknown way. Yet this was a Hollywood god. He probably thought he was indestructible like the action heroes he portrayed. Maybe I thought that too. Perhaps the other three wanted to die and this experience simply pushed wide a door that was already open. If anyone could beat the rap, it was Sam.
I shook my head. There were no movie cameras here: Sam was mortal just like the rest of us.
‘Time to go,’ Zara said.
Chapter 39: NexS
Zara led everyone through a connecting corridor and into a large hexagonal room partitioned into six zones. The walls of the different zones were coated with thousands of exotically coloured synthetic flowers. One zone contained purple carnations, one red snowdrops, another blue orchids. There was an emerald zone of tulips and a zone of weird roses with petals of crystal veined with microscopic rivers of translucent blue liquid. Finally, there was a zone of black daffodils, in the centre of which was a huge holographic skull like the ones on the cards Sam received. The ceiling was made of thick glass, filled with an artificially generated electric storm that threw a continuously changing light into the room like some trippy, 1960s psychedelic experiment.
The hierokeryx moved through the room putting round everyone’s neck a silver chain with a glass locket containing a pill-sized white sphere. So, I was finally seeing NexS. It seemed innocuous, almost pathetic.
Sam’s chain was gold and his locket contained a black sphere. Somehow, this was much more majestic.
‘The NexS ceremony begins at the twelfth hour,’ the hierokeryx announced as several burning incense sticks were brought into the room, trailing fumes. ‘Think of it as a poem. As Rimbaud said, “The poet makes himself a visionary by a long, immense and reasoned derangement of all the senses.” We, too, are poets and Rimbaud’s project is our own, our Season in Hell. The senses are bombarded, deconstructed, re-assembled in a new configuration open to all possibilities. But the final moment of transformation awaits. Only the Substance can deliver that.’
He stretched out his arms like a druid welcoming the sunrise. ‘When every flower glows in our garden of earthly delights, everyone shall take their capsule.’
I’d never felt uneasier. Anything could happen down here. A huge, ornate Grandfather clock showed five to midnight.
Hypnotically sexy music began to play, a breathy female voice singing over a sensuous electro beat. Everyone started to dance, apart from Sam and me.
My head grew lighter and the room seemed to spin. I was sure the incense sticks were giving off narcotic fumes. I walked through the revellers, trying to think straight. Everyone was staring into space, as if their eyes had become glass, yet their arms were moving frenetically, some stabbing them back and forth as though they were the wildest of ravers in Ibiza, while others carved intricate patterns in the air like trippy hippies. Many had glow sticks and luminous bracelets that echoed the colours of the synthetic flowers all around us.
I had an extraordinary impression of sexual energy cruising through the room, touching people until they practically glowed with desire. Sparks shot from the ceiling to the floor. I imagined I was trapped inside a plasma globe. My hearing had become amplified. When Zara reached out to stop Sam, I swore I heard her whispering that she’d dance for him.
‘Better than Salome’s dance...’
I was hot and cold at the same time. I glanced at the clock. God, time up. Everyone stopped dead as the clock signalled midnight with booming chimes.
‘Let the ceremony begin,’ the hierokeryx said, throwing back his hood. I gasped. It was blond Elvis.
All around us, the synthetic flowers glowed, like a million points of rainbow light in the darkness. I felt as though I was wrapped in all the bright colours of the universe. It was breathtaking. I had a sensation of being in outer space, swimming through an ocean of changing colours, floating in liquid time.
The hierokeryx asked everyone to take their capsules from their lockets and put them in their mouths. He gestured to Sam to do nothing for now.
I took out my capsule and stared at it. What would it do to me? Could I get away with dropping it on the ground and crushing it? Around me, everyone else was swallowing their capsules. Jez didn’t hesitate.
Leddington was watching me. I put the capsule in my mouth and reluctantly crunched on it. A sweet liquid oozed into my mouth.
Zara personally removed Sam’s black pill from his locket and now placed it in his mouth.
‘Free yourself,’ she said.
Several people helped Sam into a high-backed chair in the middle of the room. The chair had a circular Caravaggio painting on it. It was Medusa, her hair made of writhing snakes, her eyes wild.
Everyone gathered around and the music changed. The dark, sinister tones of Marilyn Manson’s version of Sweet Dreams are Made of This boomed around the room. If there was a darker, more sickly song, I’d never heard it. It was cruel and utterly perverse.
Zara began to move slowly, swinging her hips, working herself into a rhythm.
Sam’s hand stretched out to touch Zara’s thigh.
‘I want you.’ He half rose from his seat.
‘I know.’ She pushed him back.
‘I must…’ He looked pained.
Zara commenced the most sensuous of stripteases. Bit by bit, she allowed her white gown to slide over her shoulders. Soon, only her breasts were stopping the robe falling completely.
Everyone was swaying and moaning. They had closed their eyes and thrown back their heads. Their lips were trembling. A wave of pleasure swept round the room, intensifying as it moved, feeding from everyone it passed. Devouring us.
I’d never felt anything like it. I was dissolving, losing my identity, becoming united with everyone in the room. In seconds, we were a single organism, capable of feeling just one sensation. No other thoughts, no concerns, just pleasure. A universe of pleasure. Pleasure, most especially, in the perfect form of Zara, the goddess of sex. It was swamping everything, short-circuiting all inhibitions.
My perceptions were being rearranged, my senses reconstructed. I was sucking in unimaginable pleasures, new thoughts and feelings, an entirely different reality. A freeze-frame world, then monochrome then rainbow-coloured. Sights, sounds and smells merged. I could touch everyone in the room simultaneously. Distances vanished. Everything was connected, interlinked, the same.
At last, Zara let her robe slip over one breast and then the other. It fell to the ground. She stepped free, naked. Her body was perfect. Her pubic hair had been waxed into a sexy landing strip; her breasts were firm and capped with erect pink nipples. Every part of her was sinuous, toned, lightly tanned. All of us were drawn towards her, towards that phenomenal beauty. The light glinted off a Death’s Head silver piercing in her
belly button. With a ballet dancer’s elegance, she moved past me towards Sam, her glorious long legs stretching up to a bottom to die for.
Sam stared at her with the look of a man who’d just set eyes on every Shangri-La ever conceived. Zara sat astride him and kissed his forehead. Sam threw his arms around her while she writhed on his lap. Up and down she moved, virtually riding him. I felt as if a bridge had opened between Sam and me and that everything he was feeling was rushing over the bridge and straight into me. It was incredible. I had the same desire, the same lust, the same love as Sam. I wanted Zara, wanted her like I’d never wanted anything in my life. I wanted to have her, to lick her, to fuck her, to spray sperm inside her then all over her body and face. I wanted to possess every part of her, every atom. I’d die if I didn’t.
A blue strobe light started to flash. Sam reared up in the seat and tried to take off his robe. Zara pushed him back and got off him as if she were dismounting a horse. Everyone else was disrobing, including me, and in a moment we were naked. Every man was erect. I felt their lust so much I was convinced I had an erection too.
Zara grabbed Jez from the throng and jumped onto him, throwing her legs round his back to anchor herself. Jez spun her round, slammed her against the wall, and, without missing a beat, started pounding in and out of her. Zara moaned as if she were having the most intense orgasm imaginable. Then we all started moaning. I felt as if Jez was screwing me. It was unbelievable, fantastic, the best sex ever. We were all pairing off and fucking. All except Sam.
Or maybe especially Sam because, somehow, we were all Sam. And we were all Jez. We were all Zara. We were all the men in the room and all the women. We were all fucking and all being fucked. What sex were we? Male? Female? We were both and neither. We had become some new kind of human being, much more powerful, twice as conscious.
But, above all, Sam’s feelings were pouring into us. He was taking us over. Jez had become Sam and because Jez was fucking Zara that meant Sam was fucking Zara. His pleasure was accelerating, gathering incredible energy as it spun like a huge whirlpool, sucking everything in. He wasn’t laying a finger on Zara and yet he was. Or thought he was. And that was all that mattered.