Pantheon 00 - Age of Godpunk (21 page)

“I do hope you don’t mind, darling,” Guy’s mother whispered in his ear as everyone filed through to the dining room to eat. “I know we’ve rather sprung this on you, but actually it was Alastor’s idea. He’s mad keen for you to meet some of his chums. I think he wants to show you off. You’re the closest thing he has to an heir, and he still sees potential in you, even if,” she added with some asperity, “you insist on frittering it away in that useless bookshop. This could be a huge opportunity, Guy. A chance to show some very important people what you’re made of. Try not to waste it, eh?”

To Guy’s way of thinking, it
was
a huge opportunity. At first he had been taken aback, but he realised that having this assemblage of high-and-mighty guests in attendance was a good thing after all. They could be witnesses.

They were going to see not what Guy Lucas was made of, but what Alastor Wylie was made of.

D
URING THE STARTER
and main course, the meal proceeded much as Guy had anticipated. The conversation was stultifyingly boring, focusing mainly on money, the things money could buy, and the exploits of colleagues and mutual acquaintances, none of whom he had heard of. He had been placed next to the wife of one of the politicians, a garishly over-made-up creature with terrible halitosis who gripped his forearm almost every time she spoke to him, as though forbidding him to turn away, restraining him so that he had no choice but to endure the full force of her breath. To get through the ordeal and keep his nerves steeled, he drank perhaps more wine than was wise. It was, at least, damn good wine.

As Wylie’s servants cleared away the main course dishes and laid out the cheese and biscuits that preceded dessert, someone raised the subject of the strikes. This prompted Wylie to launch into a long speech denouncing the Callaghan government. The Cabinet minister bore the tirade with good grace, since it was couched in such a genial, ironic tone that only the thinnest-skinned could have taken offence. Besides, Guy could see that both politicians were somewhat in awe of their host, even intimidated by him. Guy knew how Wylie funded his lavish lifestyle. His mother had mentioned overseas investments and a vast inherited wealth. What he was still unclear on was what the man actually
did
in the civil service, what his job title was. On present evidence, Wylie appeared to outrank almost everyone in the House of Commons and, from the dismissive way he was talking about Callaghan, possibly even the incumbent of Number 10 as well.

“What this country needs,” Wylie said, “is a strong leader. Someone with guts, balls and vision. James Callaghan is not that man, and even if he was, he wouldn’t have the mandate to achieve anything. A prime minister with a minority government, who only has power because he’s done deals with the Liberals, the Ulster Unionists, Uncle Tom Cobley and all, is hamstrung when it comes to policy making. Callaghan can scarcely break wind without clearing it by committee first. Britain is facing immense difficulties. The unions are crippling us with their wage demands and work-to-rules. Unemployment’s on the rise. Inflation is through the roof. It’s one of our darkest hours, and Sunny Jim, despite his nickname, is never going to be able to bring any light.”

Guy spied his chance. He leapt in with, “You mean we need a light-bringer, Alastor? Is that what you’re saying?”

He could have hugged himself with glee at his own cleverness. In Vulgate Latin, the word
Lucifer
translated as ‘light-bringer.’

“Metaphorically speaking, yes,” said Wylie, with a tiny quizzical twitch of his eyebrows. “Someone to lead us out of the chaos and impose some order again. A Churchill for our times.”

“And who would that be?” Guy asked. “Anyone in mind?”

“I’ve my eye on a couple of likely candidates. I wouldn’t underestimate the leader of the Opposition, for one.”

“Oh, Margaret has no ambitions to be PM,” said the Conservative MP, a prim and pompous man with extraordinary bouffant hair. “She herself is on record as saying there’ll never be a female prime minister in her lifetime.”

“If you think she means it, my dear fellow, then you are well and truly blind to that woman’s personal drive,” said Wylie. “What did that Soviet rag dub her earlier this year? ‘The Iron Lady.’ And they’re not wrong.”

“You don’t see yourself taking that role, then?” Guy said. “I can picture you ensconced in Downing Street, holding the national reins.”

Wylie was not unflattered. “Indeed?”

“Yes. You’d make a devil of a good job of it, too.” Again, Guy’s boldness and wit were breathtaking. He took a fresh swig of wine.

“Guy, why would I stoop so low as to become prime minister?” Wylie said, and the others chortled knowingly. “I can achieve so much more as an
eminence grise
. The power behind the throne fares better and lasts longer than whoever’s actually
on
it. And I couldn’t face all those endless meetings with foreign dignitaries, the gladhanding and backslapping, the cosying up to oil sheikhs and tinpot dictators and all the other loathsome Third World types with damp palms and poor personal hygiene. I’m very happy where I am, thank you. The smoky back rooms. The Pall Mall club lounges. The places where the real business of ruling gets done.”

A murmur of approval went round the table. Even the democratically elected politicians seemed to agree that what Wylie had just said was sagacious and true.

Guy tried another tack. “Alastor – it’s an unusual name, isn’t it? What is it, a variant spelling of Alistair? Like with Aleister Crowley?”

“The notorious Great Beast?” he said. “The so-called ‘wickedest man in the world’?”

“Yes.”

“Are you insinuating that he and I have anything in common?”

“Do you?”

Wylie gave one of his too-broad, too-frequent smiles. “Not as far as I’m aware. If you must know, Alastor means ‘avenger.’ It’s one of the epithets of Zeus. My mother was an amateur Greek scholar and a lover of the ancient myths. Alastor is also the name of a son of Neleus, king of Pylos, who in turn was a son of Poseidon. He was killed by Heracles, along with Neleus’s other sons, over some personal slight or other. Yet another Alastor was killed by Odysseus during the Trojan War. There’s an early poem by Shelley called ‘Alastor,’ where the name is given to a spirit of artistic inspiration. I could go on. Does that answer your question?”

“I think it’s a fine, distinguished name,” Guy’s mother interjected, loyally.

Guy was momentarily becalmed, the wind taken from his sails. His eye fell on a photograph sitting in a silver frame on a rosewood side table. The picture had been taken at his mother and Wylie’s wedding. The newlyweds were both beaming at the camera, while in the background skulked Guy, looking considerably less pleased, unable even to fake a smile. He had been the proverbial spectre at the feast that day, a sullen gloomy presence, and remained rather proud of that.

The picture reinvigorated him, reminding him what he was here to do. “Wouldn’t you agree, though,” he said, “that things are starting to look a bit, well, apocalyptic these days? And nobody in power is doing very much to prevent it. The opposite, in fact.”

“Really, Guy!” his mother exclaimed. “What has got into you? Why are you coming out with all these absurd remarks?”

“No, no, Beatrice,” said Wylie with a placatory wave of the hand. “Let the boy speak. It’s the prerogative of youth to be able to say what’s on your mind, without filtering or fine-tuning it in any way.”

“But his tone... Your tone, Guy. It’s morbid and – and disrespectful.”

“I’d call it ‘challenging,’ myself,” said Wylie. “But again that’s a prerogative of youth – the willingness to confront authority and question orthodoxy. In what way apocalyptic, Guy?”

“Just generally,” Guy said. “In the sense of civilisation gradually breaking down. America and Russia at loggerheads, ready to destroy us all at the touch of a button. Terrorists on the loose. Pollution. The ecology. That Son of Sam killer in New York.”

“The Stonehouse affair,” someone chipped in, and there was a ripple of laughter as people recalled the corrupt former postmaster general, currently standing trial for fraud and embezzlement, who had clumsily faked his death a couple of years ago.

“Big Ben on the blink,” said someone else. “When will it bong again?”

“Jeremy Thorpe ousted,” said a third person. “What a pain in the arse he was – in more ways than one.”

Lots of laughter over that one.

“It’s not funny,” Guy protested. “Any of it. You lot can sit here all smug and self-satisfied, but then you’re okay; you’re old. You’ve had your fun. People my age, my generation, what sort of future have we got? None. Nothing but death and disaster to look forward to.”

“Guy, Guy, Guy,” chided Wylie. “It’s not as bad as all that. Granted, we’re going through a period of turmoil right now. But if you look at it in the long term,
sub specie aeternitatis
as the saying goes, ‘from the perspective of the eternal,’ this is just a blip. It could be argued that human history is one long litany of turmoil – countless struggles, one apparent apocalypse after another – yet we survive, we live on to fight another day. What seems like upheaval at present is in fact merely the latest in a series of upheavals. They come in waves, with lulls of peace in between. When you’re older, a little more seasoned, a little worldlier, then perhaps you’ll perceive that we’re nowhere nearer the end of civilisation than we’ve ever been.”

“Oh yeah?” Guy said hotly. Adrenaline and alcohol were conspiring to make him angrier and more reckless. “‘From the perspective of the eternal’? Who is this ‘eternal’? You?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Guy, please,” said his mother, exasperated. “You’re making a fool of yourself.” To her neighbour, she confided, “He works at this strange bookshop. ‘Esoteric,’ I think is the word for it. The sort of clientele they get there! Heaven knows what effect it’s been having on him.”

“I mean,” said Guy to Wylie, “you can afford to take the long view, having been around since the year dot.”

“I may be no spring chicken, if that’s what you’re getting at, but nevertheless –”

“And it’s all part of your plan, isn’t it?” Guy said, interrupting him. “Your grand infernal scheme. It’s what you’ve been working towards all your life – creating Hell on earth. Whispering in the ears of kings and queens and the great and good. Influencing policy. Nudging mankind slowly and steadily closer to the brink. It’s all coming to a head, isn’t it? No wonder you can sit here in your mansion, with your paintings and your silver cutlery and your staff, and gloat. Everything’s just the way you want it.”

“I think,” said Wylie, “that you are in danger of crossing a line, young Guy. A line you would be unwise to cross.” The amused twinkle was gone from his eyes. In its place was something sterner and flintier.

Guy steamrollered on, heedless, oblivious. “And somehow you want me to be part of it. You want to sucker me in. What happens if I drop my guard and give you the chance? You’ll take me up to ‘an exceeding high mountain’ and show me all the kingdoms of the world? You’ll try and tempt me with riches and power? And all you’ll ask in return is that I bow down and worship you? Is that it?”

“Guy!” snapped his mother.

“Guy,” Wylie growled, “you seem to have me confused with someone else. I am no angel, as I’d be the first to admit, but neither am I the opposite.”

Enough was enough, as far as Guy was concerned. He had had an elaborate stratagem mapped out. He had been intending to go out to the kitchen, tip the holy water into one of the water carafes, offer to top up everyone’s glass, make sure Wylie had some to drink, then wait to see what ensued. With the domestic staff catering to the guests’ every need, it would have been a difficult feat to pull off, but far from impossible.

Now, though, it was too late for such subterfuge. Only a blunt, full-frontal approach would work.

So he pulled the Cresta bottle from his pocket, uncapped it, and flung the contents across the table, straight into Wylie’s face.

To describe what followed as stunned silence would be a gross understatement. Everyone forgot to breathe for several seconds, too shocked even to think.

Alastor Wylie sat with water running down his face. His fringe was plastered to his forehead. His collar and shirtfront were soaked.

An appalled sob escaped Guy’s mother’s throat.

Guy, for his part, waited for the holy water to take effect. For Wylie’s skin to start to blister and bubble, as though splashed with sulphuric acid. For his human disguise to peel away, layer by melting layer. For the monster beneath – his true self – to emerge. For the Deceiver to appear at the head of the table, in all his Satanic majesty, so that everyone might see him and know him for what he was, as Guy saw him and knew him.

Slowly, with great care and deliberateness, Wylie began dabbing himself dry with a linen napkin.

Then, in a voice like low, distant thunder, he said to Guy, “You should leave now.”

Guy was dumbstruck. The transformation hadn’t happened. Was there something wrong with the holy water? Had he not prepared it correctly? Or could he have been mistaken all along about – ?

“I said,” Wylie rumbled, “you should leave.”

Quietly, falteringly, Guy got to his feet.

As he walked past his mother, she reached out a trembling hand to him.

He brushed it aside and continued out of the room.

H
UMILIATION.
F
AILURE.
P
ERPLEXITY.
Resentment.

That was all he felt for months afterward. The emotions dogged him, one after another in a continual cycle.

How could he have been so wrong?

Was
he wrong?

Or was Wylie – Satan – simply too powerful to be unmasked by a dousing with a few drops of sanctified H
₂
O?

Whatever the explanation, Guy had no contact with his mother or her diabolical second husband for nearly a year. The world turned, life went on, and nothing got better.