Pantheon 00 - Age of Godpunk (37 page)

“No,” said Barnaby. “Let’s not. Remember Tarquin Johnson? Best avoid a rerun of all that, eh?”

Jakob grumbled, but stayed put, and the black cab pulled away. The Jag continued on its journey, joining the Westway eastbound.

“It’s occurred to me, Jakob,” Barnaby said, “that you may be a wee bit jealous.”

“Of Lydia Laidlaw?”

“And her relationship with me.”

Jakob gave a gruff, staccato laugh that managed to convey both amusement and scorn. “Not a chance, boss. No offence, but you’re really not the sort of man I go for. You’re about twenty years too old, for one thing. No tattoos, for another.”

“Just felt I should ask. You wouldn’t be the first employee, male or female, to fall for me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Mr Pollard. I like you as a person, but that’s all. I regard you as a friend. And I respect you also, which is why I don’t like to see you getting yourself into hot water.”

“But I’m not.”

“Have you shown her the basement yet?”

The question hung in the air between them. The Jaguar swept down from the flyover onto Marylebone Road.

“No,” said Barnaby. “Not yet.”

“Didn’t think so. But you’re planning to?”

“When the moment’s right.”

“That’s when everything’s going to change. You mark my words. And I don’t know that she’s going to be able to make the transition. It’s a big gamble with someone like her. It might all go horribly wrong. You could be setting yourself up for a fall.”

“But I can’t not do it. I can’t keep that side of me hidden from her forever.”

“Even if it spells the end for the two of you?”

“If it does, then so be it,” Barnaby said peremptorily, and he flapped the newspaper in a way that indicated the subject was closed.

Jakob took the hint and drove the rest of the way in silence.

A VERY GOOD TIME

TO BE BARNABY POLLARD

G
LO
C
O’S RUN OF
good fortune continued. It was awarded a government permit to release shale gas reservoirs in Lancashire using hydraulic fracturing. The county council was cock-a-hoop, as this would bring employment to a depressed area. Local environmentalists were not so happy, predicting that the fracking process would cause earthquakes, groundwater contamination from flowback from the pumping, and air pollution from the benzene in the shale gas.

Meanwhile, a GloCo exploratory platform up in the Arctic Circle, on the rim of the East Greenland Rift Basin, made a spectacular find: an undersea oil reserve estimated to contain half a billion barrels or more. Barnaby ordered three spar rigs to be towed to the site, and soon they were moored in position with their six-hundred-foot caissons probing down into the gelid water towards the ocean floor, ready to insert drills and suck up oil like mosquitoes siphoning blood.

A GloCo open-cast coal mine in Botswana, which was believed to be virtually exhausted, had an unexpected fresh spurt of life. A new seam appeared, almost magically, running down at a steep angle through the rock strata. The surface mining operation was converted to deep mining, a longwall shearer boring into the ground with its cutting drums and a scraper chain conveyor hauling the raw carbon booty up to be crushed into manageable chunks and carted off in trucks.

At the GloCo Tower, Barnaby sat in his penthouse office, overseeing the company’s international business via telecommunication.

Before him, the GloCo logo was inlaid into the Carrara marble floor in brass. It extended from the foot of his desk all the way to the expanse of plate-glass picture windows. The world cupped in two hands.

The earth was yielding up its riches, making him even richer than he already was.

He had a woman who seemed suited to him in nearly every way.

It was, without doubt, a very good time to be Barnaby Pollard.

EMERGENCE AND RE-SHEATHING

S
HE WAS ON
her knees, hands braced against the headboard of the bed. He was thrusting into her from the rear.

Each time he rammed himself into her, her entire body shook, her fleshiness quivering with the force of his entry. He could see the shockwaves running through her. Her breasts, hanging like udders, undulated. The clap of his groin against her buttocks was like insistent, rhythmic applause.

Her moans invited him to pound into her that much harder. He withdrew almost to the tip of his glans, then lunged hilt-deep, and withdrew again and lunged, over and over. It was slick and slippery and rapid, a continual emergence and re-sheathing.

He looked down. The creamy expanse of her behind was too alluring. He couldn’t help himself. He had to slap it. He raised his right hand and did.

She let out a yelp of pain. It was indignant, surprised, perplexed.

He saw his own handprint, a pink flush on the whiteness of her skin.

He slapped again, still thrusting enthusiastically.

Again she cried out.

“Does it sting?” he said through clenched teeth, panting.

“Yes.”

“Should I stop?”

He slammed himself into her once, twice, three times, before she answered.

Her voice was low and small, a little bit husky.

“No.”

He began delivering firm smacks to her buttocks, timing the impacts to his thrusts. A noise arose in the back of her throat, part groan, part scream. It crescendoed to a shuddering climax, as did she. He followed suit in swift succession, feeling himself erupt inside her as though unleashing a stream of molten silver, a torrent of pure exultant joy.

THE DOOR

“L
YDIA
?”

“Yes?”

Her voice was doughy. She was in a drowse, already half asleep.

“There’s something I have to do.”

“Didn’t we just do it? I’ve got a sore bum cheek as proof.”

“Something I have to show you.”

“Can’t it wait ’til morning? I’m tired.”

“No. It has to be now. Now or never.”

She rolled over, frowning at him quizzically. “What’s up?”

Instead of replying, he hopped out of bed and fetched bathrobes for both of them. “Put this on. We’re going downstairs.”

Downstairs they went, padding barefoot through the airy silence of the house. Past the dining room and Barnaby’s study lay a door, panelled and painted white like all the others, innocuous-looking. It was situated between a bookcase filled with leather-bound first editions and a pedestal on which perched a gaudy Murano glass vase, its shape reminiscent of an orchid.

“Have you ever been curious about this door?” he asked her.

“Not particularly. Seen it a couple of times. I assume it leads down to the cellar, right?”

“To the basement. It’s...” He groped for the right phrasing. He was suddenly, weirdly inarticulate. “It’s a special door.”

“Could have fooled me.”

“What I’m saying is, it’s a door that, once opened, can’t be closed.”

“Bloody stupid door, then. What, does it get stuck or something? A carpenter could fix that.”

Her obtuseness, he realised, was her way of coping with the unexpected turn of events. She was aware something out of the ordinary was happening, something odd and unprecedented. His behaviour was disturbing her. She was stalling for time while she tried to process it.

Patiently he said, “I want you to know that you are an amazing woman.”

“Thank you.”

“We’ve been together for four months now.”

“More like five.”

“I am completely yours. I never thought I could be like this with anyone. I always thought I could keep my women at a distance, compartmentalise them so that they wouldn’t intrude on other aspects of my life. You’ve overturned that for me. You’ve made me break all my own rules.”

“Barnaby, you’re actually starting to freak me out a bit here,” Lydia said. “What’s going on?” She glanced at the door. “What’s behind that? What’s down there?”

He faltered. “Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe it’s still too soon, even now.”

“No, it’s not too soon,” she said firmly. “You can’t start down a road like this and not see it through to the end. Now I really bloody have to know what’s down there.” She tried the handle. The door was locked. “Open it,” she demanded.

Barnaby knew he had manoeuvred himself into an inescapable position, perhaps unwittingly, perhaps not. The die was cast. There was no alternative now but to carry on, come what may.

He pulled a copy of
The 120 Days Of Sodom
out from the bookcase. Inside, embedded into a custom-shaped section cut out from the pages, was a key.

He inserted the key into the lock.

He turned it.

He opened the door.

Taking Lydia’s hand, he said, “Come on.”

She baulked. “If there’s the mummified corpses of your previous conquests down there, I swear...”

“No. Nothing like that.” He tugged her hand. “Come and see.”

THE BASEMENT

B
ARNABY FLICKED A
light switch. Together, him leading, they descended a carpeted staircase. To his consternation, Barnaby found that he was trembling. Normally when he took a girlfriend down to the basement for the first time, he was perhaps a little apprehensive, but confident nonetheless that he was doing the right thing and that there would be only a positive outcome. But with Lydia, he was anxious. No, downright scared. He feared her reaction. He feared her rejection.

They reached the foot of the staircase, where a second door stood. This one was padded and silk-lined. The same key unlocked it.

He ushered Lydia in before him, at the same time reaching for another light switch.

This was it. No turning back now.

Lights came on in recessed wall sconces. Their glow of their low-wattage bulbs was soft and tinged crimson by cranberry-glass Art Deco shades.

Lydia stared around.

The basement had the dimensions of a triple garage. Indeed, ‘triple garage’ was how it had been described in the architect’s blueprint when it had been excavated out under the house, and with the addition of a set of external roller doors and a ramp leading up to the front driveway it could easily be converted into one.