The Millionaires' Death Club Read online

  I tried to forget the horrific image I’d just seen. Gazing at myself, I was convinced I looked different. My eyes were darker, my face more gaunt. I wondered if crossing the threshold of this mansion altered people in some strange way. I started to button up my waistcoat but Marcus stopped me.

  ‘No buttons,’ he said, before explaining the Top Table’s rules regarding the waistcoats. Every member or guest was obliged to wear one on formal occasions. Guests weren’t allowed to do up any buttons. Anyone who had been invited to join the Top Table could do up one button, those who’d passed the initiation two buttons and senior members all three. As a guest, I wasn’t entitled to any buttons, but Sam, having passed the initiation, was now a fully-fledged two-button man.

  ‘OK, I guess I’m ready,’ I said.

  Marcus took my hand and I was surprised to feel some warmth there. ‘Come on, let’s eat.’

  As we headed for the staircase, I realised there were many more members of the Top Table than there were bedrooms. When I asked if all the students slept in the mansion, Marcus said there was a large cellar area. Half of it had been given over to the Top Table’s extensive wine collection, a state-of-the-art kitchen, various storage facilities for food and so forth, while the rest had been turned into a dormitory like something from a particularly Spartan public school. All the no-button, one-button and two-buttons slept there. The luxury upper rooms were reserved exclusively for the senior members.

  Marcus escorted me downstairs again. When we reached the door of the Great Hall, he stopped and put a white glove on his right hand. ‘On special occasions, we dine in here rather than the Dining Room,’ he said. He knocked on the door and a moment later it swung open. A pony-tailed girl wearing a black designer blouse and matching trousers silently welcomed us in.

  We stepped into a huge, plush room with a gleaming wooden floor and spectacular vaulted roof. A long oak table set for an elaborate meal took pride of place in the centre, a crystal chandelier overhanging it. About twenty gorgeous-looking men and women dressed in identical style to me were seated at the table. They were like supermodels and sparkled as if their skin were covered with an exquisitely fine layer of cut diamond.

  Six waiting staff, dressed like the girl at the door, were standing in a neat row behind the table, watching attentively.

  Seated next to the head of the table was Sam, wearing the regulation Top Table uniform and looking at home amongst the other shining people. He waved at me and I smiled back.

  It was when I looked at the paintings on the walls that my mood changed.

  ‘They make you feel more alive, don’t they?’ Marcus whispered.

  ‘But they’re all about death,’ I said, ‘every one of them.’

  ‘That’s the point.’

  We walked slowly round the room, Marcus allowing me time to study the silver nameplates beneath the paintings. They gave the artist’s name, the title and the year the original was completed. As I read each one, I felt increasingly uneasy. The Death of Chatterton by Wallis was the first painting, followed by the Burial of Count Orgaz by El Greco then Expulsion from Paradise by Masaccio.

  Marcus said that Zara had paid a young artist fifty thousand pounds to paint the reproductions. Other paintings in the collection were Pieta by Botticelli, Last Judgment by Signorelli, Crucifixion by Grunewald, Death of St Bonaventure by Zurburan, Death of Sardanapalus by Delacroix, Salome with the Head of St. John the Baptist by Caravaggio.

  The final painting was Death of Marat by David. Marcus said it was his favourite. ‘It’s almost erotic,’ he commented. ‘Look at how the light bathes Marat’s naked body. It makes him so beautiful, like a lover, though in reality he was hideously ugly with a debilitating skin condition. It’s as if David is showing death as a sensuous, orgasmic experience.’

  I turned away, repulsed.

  ‘It doesn’t take much to make you uncomfortable, does it?’ Marcus said as he showed me to the seat opposite Sam.

  I couldn’t argue with that. I was acutely aware of all the others peering at Sam and me. Half way down the table, staring intently, was blond Elvis.

  Everyone stopped speaking. The waiting staff stood to attention and the members of the Top Table got up from their seats. I followed everyone’s gaze to see Zara gliding into the room. She wore a suit like my own, except in her case it fitted perfectly, and her waistcoat was fully buttoned. Taking her seat at the head of the table, she nodded politely at Sam and me while everyone else resumed their seats.

  Scores of candles were lit as the chandelier lights were turned off. In the shadows and flickering light, the waiting staff busied themselves with serving the food. Marcus whispered that a nine-course meal had been prepared.

  A man in a white tunic announced in a booming voice what we would be having. ‘Sabayon of Pearl Tapioca with Kumamoto Oysters and Iranian Ossetra Caviar,’ he said, ‘followed by terrine of fresh duck foie grois with cooked apples and quinces. Savoy cabbage soup with braised chestnuts, Granny Smith apple charlotte and caraway mousse, followed by celeriac with grated black winter truffles. Mango pâte de fruit and sweet garden cilantro sorbet, followed by grilled Scottish lobster with frisée salad. Young pigeon with head on, feathers and feet off and gut out, followed by pig’s trotter braised in red wine, accompanied by cubes of whale meat. For dessert, we have milk chocolate crémeux with hazelnut streusel and poached Asian pears accompanied by hot whisky cream and frozen blueberries. Assorted friandises and gourmandises are also available.’

  ‘We enjoy the services of Tmolos’s ex-head chef,’ Zara said to Sam when the announcer had finished. ‘He was the one who got it its third Michelin star. We doubled his salary, halved his hours, gave him the best kitchen in the world and told him to create the finest food humankind has ever enjoyed. He hasn’t disappointed.’

  The announcer then assumed the role of sommelier and listed which wines had been provided from the cellar; five bottles of each, some sixty in total, displayed on a side table.

  ‘Château Lafite Rothschild Pauillac 1996,’ he intoned, ‘Château Margaux 1995; Château Haut Brion Pessac-Léognan 1982; Château Mouton Rothschild Pauillac 1986; Château La Mondotte Saint-Emilion 1996; Haut Brion 1982; Château Valandraud Saint-Emilion 1995; Château Latour Pauillac 1990; Château Le Pin Pomerol 1999; Pétrus Pomerol 1998; Dom Romanée Conti 1997.’ He coughed before introducing the final offering. ‘Pétrus 1947’ he said, as if he were praying in the Sistine Chapel.

  ‘Bring me all of the Pétrus ‘47,’ Zara said, snapping her fingers. She smiled at Sam and me. ‘You must let me treat you to the wine of the gods.’

  I knew a bottle of Pétrus 1947 could easily cost over ten thousand pounds. Just how rich was Zara?

  There was an awkward silence as the sommelier poured our wine. Sam seemed tongue-tied and I wasn’t any better. Zara told us not to start drinking until she said so.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to hear about this corner of London,’ she said to Sam, before launching into a potted history of Green Park. I realised I knew none of its history even though I lived so near. Apparently, it was once part of Henry VIII’s hunting grounds, and in the seventeenth century Charles II made it into a royal park.

  ‘This was the favourite haunt of duellists in the eighteenth century,’ Zara went on. ‘Then the balloonists made it their base of operations. It was also famous for firework displays. Handel wrote a special piece of music for one particular event.’

  It got the name Green Park, she explained, because in the beginning there were acres of grass, but no flowers and, even now, centuries later, there were precious few plants.

  Policemen and security guards were always in evidence because of the proximity of Buckingham Palace and other royal residences.

  It occurred to me that the reason Zara lived so close to the royal family was that she wanted to keep an eye on the ‘usurpers’, as she no doubt regarded them. I half expected her to refer to herself as Princess Zara, perhaps even as Queen Zara I. The footpath outside her front
door was called Queen’s Walk of all things. How appropriate. She probably imagined that if she surrounded herself with enough queenly things, she’d become one.

  While Zara spoke, Sam’s expression didn’t change. It was obvious he wasn’t listening to her, just staring at her blue eyes and sensuous lips. Even my eyes lingered too long on her whenever I looked her way. I wanted eyes like hers – eyes that could freeze men – and lips like hers – lips that would scorch their hearts.

  Her eyes suddenly sparkled like sunlight on water and those lips parted to reveal her perfect white teeth. I’d never seen such a seductive smile.

  ‘I haven’t congratulated you yet, Mr Lincoln,’ she said. ‘There were doubters, but I knew you’d come through.’ She leaned towards him. ‘I admired your Great Gatsby theme. Where did you find that delightful car?’

  ‘A friend of a friend sorted it out for me.’

  ‘Well, it was perfect. Now, tell me – where’s that sexy friend of yours, this evening?’

  ‘I’m here,’ Sam replied. ‘That’s all that counts.’ Even by candlelight, I could see how irritated he was by the reference to Jez.

  When everyone had charged their glasses, Zara stood up and clapped her hands.

  ‘Welcome one and all to the Top Table. As ever, only the finest, only the best. Neither by land nor by sea shalt strangers find their way to Hyperborea. It is ours, ours alone.’

  Everyone stood up, raised their glasses and waited for Zara’s toast.

  ‘There are none we would rather be,’ she said. ‘To the Top Table.’

  ‘The Top Table,’ everyone repeated and drank the toast. For a moment, I thought they would turn and smash their glasses against the walls like Greeks or Russians, but they simply sat down again.

  The taste of the Pétrus overwhelmed me, lingering on every part of the palate. I was no connoisseur, but I could tell how special this was. I glanced at Sam and he seemed every bit as appreciative.

  ‘Tonight we welcome a new member to our ranks,’ Zara announced. ‘Mr Lincoln from…’ She turned to Sam and raised an eyebrow. ‘…Hollywood.’

  Everyone clapped, and some even banged the table with their hands. There was some cheering too. Zara motioned to Sam to stand up. He got to his feet and gave an embarrassed bow.

  ‘Well, Sam,’ she said, ‘The Romans spoke of the theatrum mundi – the theatre of the world. That’s our stage and I’m sure you’ll agree we’re putting on the best show of all.’

  I thought Sam would tell her where to get off. He was Hollywood’s biggest star, after all. His movies had been seen by hundreds of millions all over the world. If anyone were an actor in this theatrum mundi, it was him, not these people.

  But he didn’t say a word.

  Zara held out her hand and made a half-hearted gesture in my direction. ‘Sam is accompanied by a guest. Ms…York, I believe, of…where?’

  ‘Mayfair,’ I said sullenly.

  She didn’t condescend to look at me, and no one clapped. Only Marcus made me feel welcome, reaching out and supportively clasping my hand.

  ‘This week, the first of our sacred band reached the Promised Land,’ Zara said. ‘Their funerals will be held in the next few days, but their families have led me to understand we won’t be welcome. The truth is we were their real family, the ones who gave them true friendship and love. As for these others, they were mere incubators. They can keep their desiccated ceremonies and their shambling, mumbling priests. As Nietzsche said, “The higher we soar, the smaller we seem to those who cannot fly.”

  ‘Please charge your glasses once more and let us toast Lawrence and Chloe. Polymaths, explorers, adventurers – where amongst hoi polloi could you find people of that calibre, individuals with that exquisite combination of intellect and artistry?’

  Again, everyone stood up and raised their glasses in salute.

  ‘To Lawrence and Chloe,’ Zara said. ‘Lacrimae rerum.’

  ‘Lacrimae rerum,’ everyone echoed, except me.

  While the rest of us took our seats again, Zara remained standing and began reciting a poem:

  Those who have crossed

  With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom

  Remember us – if at all – not as lost

  Violent souls, but only

  As the hollow men

  The stuffed men.

  With that, she sat down. I hoped Sam found it as ridiculous as I did, but instead he seemed swept up in the whole thing.

  ‘What was that?’ he whispered to Zara. ‘It was so haunting.’

  I could see her face shaping to deliver one of her put-downs. She talked incredibly slowly. ‘The Hollow Men…it’s a poem…by one of your compatriots…Mr T.S. Eliot…it’s quite long, so I quoted just a few lines.’

  ‘Don’t speak to me like that. I’m not stupid.’

  The smile on Zara’s face was sarcastic enough to strip paint. ‘Then I must remember to get your opinion on why Wagner didn’t resolve the Tristan chord,’ she said. ‘What do you think of Baudrillard’s treatment of the simulacrum? Perhaps you could give us your thoughts on whether perspectivism may be considered as Nietzsche’s version of epistemology. I hear they talk of nothing else in Hollywood.’

  Sam bowed his head and stared at his plate. The silence was deathly.

  Chapter 21: The Sermon of the Dead

  The dinner was bizarre, almost frightening. Not the food, though. The portions may have been tiny – much to the relief of my Body Fascism Index anxieties – but each dish was mouth-watering, even the pigeon, pig’s trotters and whale meat. It was the dinner-table conversation going on around me that was so scary.

  The topics ranged from snippets about ‘gunshot orgasms’ to thoughts of slitting your wrists in a warm bath after finishing a thousand-pound bottle of Remy Martin Louis XIII Grande Champagne Cognac. The students talked of Edward II having a red-hot poker rammed into his bowels via a tube inserted into his rectum, leaving his body free of visible wounds; about James Connolly, critically wounded in the Irish Easter uprising of 1916, being tied to a chair to allow a British firing squad to shoot him. I couldn’t keep up with all the grisly details. There was a story about the axeman at the execution of the Duke of Monmouth making five hacking attempts to remove the Duke’s head. As the head and body were about to be buried, someone realised that no portrait had ever been painted of the duke. Since he was a member of the royal family, protocol demanded that a portrait be made. So, his head and body were sewn back together and the corpse dressed in clothes fit for a prince. Thus he sat for his one and only official painting.

  The sick catalogue went on and on, quite turning my stomach. I think the vilest contribution was from a raven-haired girl, so pale she reminded me of Snow White. I overheard her saying she loved bukkake. Apparently, this was a sexual practice in which a circle of masturbating men showered a ‘receiver’ with sperm; or they filled up a dish with spunk, which she then had to drink.

  No one seemed remotely shocked by her story and I started to think I’d led a sheltered life. Snow White gleefully explained that bukkake had its origins in ancient Japan. An unfaithful wife would be publicly humiliated by being tied to a stake in the centre of the village while every man ejaculated over her face to show their contempt for her. In more extreme versions, the woman was buried up to her neck and, after she’d been sprayed with sperm, she was decapitated.

  About half way through the evening, just after the fifth-course dishes had been cleared away, Zara turned to Sam, eyes gleaming.

  ‘Mr Lincoln, the Top Table has a tradition of asking new recruits to describe something that’s of interest to everyone. As you may have noticed, death is what fascinates us. The night before he was assassinated, Julius Caesar was asked at dinner what he considered the best way to die. “Quickly”, he said, “and amongst friends.”’ Another of her irritating smirks surfaced. ‘We like to add to that a little...sexual charge. So, what can you offer us, Sam?’

  I leaned in so as not to miss anything. />
  ‘When I was a kid I heard that there was an adult sex ring in LA where all the members had sex with ducks,’ Sam said. ‘Just as they were approaching their climax, the men shouted out to the master of ceremonies, and he came along and chopped the heads off the ducks while the men were wedged to the hilt. Apparently, this produced the most incredible contractions through each duck’s body, making it grip the guy’s cock like a vice. Add in the adrenalin rush of seeing a lethal blade so near your manhood…Well, they say it’s the best male orgasm money can buy. Word on the street has it that Marlon Brando particularly recommended it.’

  Of all the things I expected to hear, that wasn’t it. I thought fuck a duck was just a figure of speech, not an actual sexual peccadillo.

  ‘That always stayed with me,’ Sam said. ‘Sometimes I think there can’t be anything more powerful than the combination of death and orgasm.’

  ‘Well, of course, the French call the orgasm la petite mort,’ Zara said. ‘The little death.’

  ‘Maybe autoerotic asphyxiation is the best way to go,’ Sam said.

  ‘Excellent.’ Zara’s eyes sparkled bluer than ever. ‘You should read Yukio Mishima. I think you’d find him a kindred spirit, though he preferred disembowelment to hanging.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Death is nature’s way of telling us we’ve had too much fun, right?’

  ‘What about you?’ Sam asked. ‘How would you like to die?’

  Zara’s answer came with a slow smile, twisted to fit. ‘For me, you can die well only if you’ve tasted ultimate pleasure. Then you’ll have nothing to regret.’

  ‘And what is ultimate pleasure?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s a release from everything that’s holding us back. It’s about breaking taboos, achieving the impossible. One thing in particular fascinates me.’

  I watched Sam, completely sucked in, willing her to continue. I was sure he’d forgotten I existed.

  ‘The perfect murder,’ she purred. ‘That’s what I dream of.’