I remember I was at a wedding reception and I was bored. The ceremony in the church had been beautiful—the bride in a shimmering white dress and gauzy veil, the groom looking adorably nervous. The bridesmaids smiling. Joyous music.
But the reception itself was utter boredom. Inside the marquee in the garden it was steaming hot and I recall the smell of deodorised sweat and melting make-up. Sentimental speech followed sentimental speech. And I remember that M. and I had quarrelled. She had tripped me and I had pushed her. It was one of those fights. I could not bear to be near her any longer so I had slipped away from the table at which M. was sitting with Mum and Dad and had entered the house.
It was quiet inside. I crept up the stairs, hoping to find a place to hide for the afternoon. The bedrooms were on the top floor. As I walked down the carpeted passageway, I heard a noise. A whimper. I felt the hair on my arms rise—not in fright, but in anticipation.
The door was ajar. I pushed it open even wider. It did not creak, and the two people inside the room did not notice me as I stood there watching avidly. They were making love. A blonde woman and a black-haired man I recognised as wedding guests.
They had been sitting in the pew in front of me during the service. The woman’s hat had formed a perfect frame for her delicate face. She was beautiful in a languid, slightly bloodless way. The man, on the other hand, had a devil-may-care smile and his life force was palpable. He was dressed as soberly and as formally as anyone could wish, but there was something about him that was untamed. You had the feeling that with this man you shouldn’t push too far. He could be dangerous. But is risk not the ultimate aphrodisiac? Even at that age I knew it instinctively.
When the bride entered the church he turned round and for a few moments his eyes locked with mine. His face was fascinating: the full lips, the dark stubble pushing underneath the skin, the black eyes framed by long lashes. He had looked at me appraisingly—probably not the way an adult male is supposed to look at a girl barely in her teens. But it was not a lecherous look, more a nod—a recognition of the woman I was becoming. Admiring, approving. A jaunty salute. It made me blush. It was also the first time I had felt the power that comes with being a woman.
As I stood there in the door of the bedroom, my breath was caught inside my chest in pleasurable suspense. The blonde woman was sitting on the man’s lap. Her legs were clenched behind his back and her full, rounded breasts were quashed slackly against his chest. His skin was dusky from the sun, hers was cream. He held her by the nape of her neck as though he had to subdue her forcefully. The sight of his arm demanding submission and her bowed head resting against his shoulder spoke of delicious mastery and subjugation. I felt my own limbs tremble. She was moving against him slowly, languorously. The smell in the room was like buttermilk. Warm. Curdled.
He moved away from her and gripped one breast in his hand, rolling the nipple roughly between his fingers. She made a small mewing sound and her head drooped against his shoulder even lower. And now he was stroking her hair, her neck, the side of her cheek, his lips murmuring against her ear. She was moving ever more quickly against him. I could see where he had entered her and the sweaty nest of hair and crumpled skin at the base of his shaft. I stared, fascinated, my own body flushed. And then the woman suddenly screamed through closed lips and arched her back. I felt my own body shudder in recognition.
So this is it, I thought. This is what people risk hell for. This agony and ecstasy of the flesh.
How sad, then, that I have never again captured quite the same sense of delight as I felt that day standing in the door of a bedroom in a strange house—not yet a woman, no longer a child. Years later, when I became a participant in the game of love myself and not a mere onlooker, I expected smoke, honey, crystal, fire. But reality never seemed to fully match the power of that first, vicarious experience when I watched from the bedroom door.
Is it because G. reminds me of that unknown man from my youth that I am so attracted to him? A sexual imprint—a hidden tripwire planted in my brain years ago?
But G. has been chosen as a player in the game, not as a partner for my bed. He is to follow in R.’s footsteps. Transcend them. Solve et coagula.
I must meditate upon my name.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
‘Inhale. Exhale. Stretch.’
This was a hell of a lot tougher than he had thought it would be. Gabriel sneaked a look at the woman who was occupying the mat to his left. She was performing the exercise effortlessly: back straight, legs firm but not rigid. The woman must have core muscles like piano wire. He, on the other hand, was wobbling all over the place like a happy drunk.
‘And down.’ The yoga teacher’s voice was soothing. ‘And relax. Good work, people. See you all next week.’
Gabriel turned his head painfully and caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror covering one wall of the gym. His face was red. And were those bubbles coming from the corner of his mouth?
For a few more moments he continued to lie spread-eagled on the mat, exhausted. Apart from the fact that he was hurting in places he never even knew he had muscles, he was also suffering from the effects of the previous night’s dinner party at Monk House. He knew he shouldn’t have had that last cognac. The way he felt now, he could go to sleep right here this minute.
But the yoga teacher was starting to roll up his mat and was obviously getting ready to leave. Move your ass, Blackstone. Time to go to work.
‘Mr Scott…’
The yoga teacher turned towards him. ‘Ariel, please.’
‘Uh, right. Ariel.’
‘Is there something I can help you with?’
‘I understand from the front desk that this class is full and I won’t be allowed to attend it again. Do you offer another class, by any chance?’
‘Indeed. Every Tuesday morning at six thirty.’
Gabriel shuddered. Six thirty. Oh, man. That was brutal.
His expression must have given him away because the yoga teacher said apologetically, ‘I realise it is very early but I only teach part-time. I have a day job as well.’
Gabriel almost smiled. Yes, he knew all about Mr Scott’s day job. It was the guy’s day job that interested him. He couldn’t care less about lotus positions and mantras. But yoga was to be his way in. If it meant learning how to twist himself into a pretzel and getting up at some ungodly hour, then so be it.
Ariel was opening his gym bag and taking out a truly extraordinary piece of clothing, which he proceeded to pull over his head. Gabriel stared. Could it actually be a poncho?
‘Well, goodbye.’ Ariel nodded at him. ‘I hope I’ll see you in my class on Tuesday.’
‘Wait.’ Gabriel touched the man’s elbow. ‘I would love to talk to you about yoga. I don’t know all that much about it. But after today’s class, this is something I know I can get passionate about.’ He managed to keep a straight face. ‘If you have the time, would you allow me to buy you a cup of tea? I was about to have a cup of tea myself. Green tea,’ he improvised. The yoga teacher looked like he could be a green tea kind of guy.
‘Of course,’ Ariel nodded. ‘Thank you, yes.’
As they sat down at a table inside the café and placed their order, Gabriel quickly went over in his mind what he knew about the man opposite him. Ariel, not surprisingly, was not the name the yoga teacher’s mother had given him. He had been christened Donald Michael Scott and was a low-level human resources clerk at a pharmaceutical company called Levelex. And it just so happened that he and Isidore had been retained by Levelex’s competition to hack into the company’s research database.
The money for the job was excellent—if they could pull it off. And that was nowhere near certain. The security at this company was super-tight. Again and again he and Isidore had been stopped cold. No hacking possible. Isidore was about to call it quits, but Gabriel was not. He had another plan in mind.
A plan that involved Mr Scott.
Gabriel watched the yoga teacher tak
e a cautious sip of his tea, puckering his lips. This unassuming little man with his polka-dot poncho was going to provide him with the information they needed, without even knowing he was providing it. A co-conspirator… but an oblivious one.
It was going to be easy. As he listened to the man prattle on about asanas and ayurveda, Gabriel had no doubt the guy was the perfect mark. And though he said so himself, his strategy was brilliant. When he had researched the employees at Levelex, Donald Scott’s name had stood out simply because he also happened to be a member of the gym where Gabriel worked out. When Gabriel discovered that the clerk was a yoga teacher, he had immediately signed up for his class. By casting Scott in the role of mentor, he had lowered the man’s natural inclination to be wary of strangers. After all, teaching required you to be approachable.
The only problem he could see in this whole set-up was Isidore. Isidore did not like this kind of social engineering. ‘Scumbag tactics’ is how Isidore described co-opting an employee without the employee consciously being aware of it. But what Isidore didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
‘Some more tea?’ Gabriel smiled at Donald Scott.
‘Yes, thank you.’
Gabriel pushed the earthenware teapot towards the yoga teacher. ‘So what do you do when you’re not teaching yoga and inspiring your students?’
‘Well, actually, I work for a pharmaceutical company…’
It was all too easy. Like a lamb to the slaughter.
• • •
After saying goodbye to the yoga teacher and promising to sign up for his Tuesday morning class, Gabriel got into the Jag and took out his mobile phone. Time to check in with Frankie.
He caught her just as she was about to step into the lobby of her hotel in Paris. The connection made her sound as distant as if she was in the Arctic, not a mere hop-skip away over the Channel. But at the sound of her voice he felt a sharp surge of pleasure. He missed her.
‘Talk,’ she said economically.
‘Well, good morning to you too.’
‘Sorry.’ She coughed discreetly. ‘But William and I are just about to check in. He’s fine,’ she added before Gabriel could ask. ‘And the doctor he consulted seemed convinced he could add up to a year to the prognosis.’
‘That’s great.’
‘Yes, well. We’ll have to see. So how did it go with the sisters last night?’
‘Pretty good. They want to be friends.’
Something which sounded suspiciously like a snort was her response. Then, ‘Any idea who the remote viewer is?’
‘Not a clue. I couldn’t pick up anything from either of them.’
‘Watch out, anyway.’
‘I will. Don’t worry about me. I plan to enjoy myself.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ she said cryptically and disconnected.
Gabriel smiled as he dialled Isidore’s number. He would have to wait for the women to invite him back to the house again before he’d be able to retrieve the logger he had installed inside the computer keyboard. But, in the meantime, he was not about to sit idle. Isidore’s virus should have done its work by now on the other machine, which meant that even though The Promethean Key was to remain a mystery for a while longer, the diary was about to give up its secrets. Of course, it all depended on whether Minnaloushe had downloaded the attachment. He was confident that the bait had been a good one—the chance to obtain another Makishi mask must be pretty irresistible to her—but you never knew.
But the news was good. ‘Your plan worked,’ Isidore said without preamble. ‘We’re in.’
• • •
Smith’s at Smithfield was packed. The huge loft-like space was buzzing with conversations from many voices, the windows steamed up. From the kitchen came a steady stream of plates filled with baked beans, thick steaks, fried eggs and slices of white toast. Gargantuan portions and no low-fat options in sight. Smith’s was only a few blocks away from Isidore’s house and one of his favourite hangouts.
Isidore was slumped over one end of one of the big kitchen tables, long legs tucked underneath the low wooden seating bench. The expression on his face was that of a cat who had stolen a particularly rich bowl of cream. There was also a glint in his eye, which gave Gabriel pause. He lowered his backpack and looked at his friend suspiciously. ‘You look happy.’
‘Living a clean life and thinking healthy thoughts will do that for you. You should try it some time.’
‘Yes, O Yoda.’
‘Did you hang with the ladies last night, my man?’ Isidore still had that Cheshire cat grin on his face.
‘I did.’
‘And?’
‘They said they wanted to get to know me better.’
‘Did they really? Why is that, I wonder?’
‘They’re attracted to my brilliant mind. They can’t get enough of it.’
‘You’re sure that’s all it is?’ Isidore’s voice was heavily sarcastic.
‘No, you’re right. It’s my body, as well.’
‘Conceited sod.’ Isidore looked at him disgustedly for a moment. But then he smiled creamily and reached into his own backpack. Extracting a paper folder, he placed it neatly in front of him, pushing a sugar bowl out of his way.
‘Actually, I know quite a bit about your visit to the girls last night.’ Something was amusing Isidore greatly. Gabriel watched him warily.
‘OK. Spill it. The diary. You’ve read it?’
‘Oh, yes. Well, parts of it, anyway.’
Gabriel waited. Isidore clearly wanted to make the most of the moment.
‘The diary goes back years—it’s going to take ages to read through it all. So I’ve just skimmed through some of the more recent entries, you understand.’
‘And?’
‘There’s some weird shit in there, man. Some off-the-wall descriptions and really esoteric stuff but,’ Isidore paused, enjoying himself, ‘there are also more personal observations—especially last night’s entry, you’ll notice—and that’s where it gets really interesting.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m talking about you, bro. You figure strongly, my man. The writer is obviously intrigued by you. When you get back to your computer, you can browse the diary at your leisure. But just for now, I’ve printed out a few pages for your information.’ He pushed the folder across to Gabriel. ‘I’ve highlighted some of the choice bits, you’ll see.’
Gabriel opened the folder. Inside were a few sheets of paper. Certain parts of the text had been highlighted with a pink magic marker. The date at the top of the first page was yesterday’s. As he began reading, he could feel his face getting warm.
G. surprised me tonight. Behind the carefully crafted smile lies something quite disturbing. A coolness. A cruelty. Sometimes I glimpse it in his eyes… Dangerous. Very sexy. This guy comes from deep within the forest of a woman’s fantasies.
‘They’re not all rave reviews, though. As you can see from this bit here… and here.’ Isidore leaned over helpfully, one long finger pointing out the two relevant paragraphs.
G. possesses an overweening vanity. It manifests itself in every gesture, every elegant move. Even the way he dresses. I have to admit, he has graceful hands. A cute tush! Pity he knows it…
There is undoubtedly a strong streak of narcissism there. And with G. it is more than just personal vanity; it is also a vanity of the mind. A deep belief in his own ability. A conviction that he can take on anyone, on any terms.
Isidore sat back in his chair. ‘Now that’s what I call penetrating prose. And did you read the racy stuff in last night’s entry? Seems as though you remind her of some sexual fantasy man she met in her tender years.’
‘Who wrote this? Minnaloushe or Morrighan?’
‘Ah well, this is where it gets tricky. I don’t know. Everyone in this diary is referred to by initials. Which means the author keeps referring to her sister as M. And that is no help at all, of course. So far I can’t find anything that gives an indication of whose
voice it is. The ironic thing is, this woman has an obsession with her own name… see, almost every entry ends with I must meditate upon my name. Wish she’d stop meditating and start talking.’
‘Does the diary mention anything about remote viewing?’
‘Yes. Here—one page back where she calls you “multisensory man”. Catchy name, don’t you think? Beats Batman and Superman any time.’ Isidore sniggered. ‘She thinks you represent the next step in evolution. Man, if you’re what’s waiting for mankind in the future, I’m worried.’
Gabriel sighed. ‘Get serious for a moment, will you? Is the writer the viewer?’
‘I have no idea. She keeps talking about how amazed the two of them were to discover that you’re a remote viewer but she doesn’t say who actually does the scanning. Like here: the scan will be as delicate as Goliath moving on silk. No imprint. A phantom ghosting through his thoughts. It still doesn’t say who’ll be scanning like Goliath. Who is Goliath anyway?’
‘A spider.’
‘Huh?’
‘Never mind. What about Robert Whittington? Does the diary mention him?’
‘A lot. When you get to your computer, go back about eighteen months: that’s when his name first surfaces. Or rather his initial—I imagine R. stands for Robert. The author always sounds regretful when she talks about him. And she says again and again how much she misses him. But no chilling confessions or murderous thoughts. Which is not to say that parts of the diary aren’t spooky, bro. Some of it freaked me out big-time. This is not your ordinary garden variety “Dear Diary”, believe me. It has almost no “this-is-what-I-did-today” kind of detail. No real specifics.’
‘Did you check to see what she wrote during the week the boy disappeared?’
‘Of course. But it was of no use. During that week she never wrote in it. And the next time she mentions Robert, it is only to say that he has “left”.’ Isidore added imaginary quotation marks with his fingers.
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