The Millionaires' Death Club Page 18

  Scores of people on the high street stared at the luxury cars. The volume of the ticking clock had been turned right up. The sound abruptly altered to a deep chime. A few minutes later it changed again, this time into a Big Ben bong.

  ‘Last year we hired open-top Pink Cadillacs for the Pov Parade and we drove along Brick Lane,’ Marcus said. ‘We wore dark suits and shades and played Elvis. That was a blast. This year we’ve planned something more dramatic.’

  ‘The clock?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s inspired, don’t you think? Zara’s idea, of course. Horrendously cruel, but that’s Zara for you.’ He sniggered. ‘Not that the morons out there would ever understand it. That’s part of the joke.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Marcus smirked. ‘Zara calls poor people povs. Poverty, right? Each year we do this parade in some scumbag part of town to show them how rich we are and how poor they are…to demonstrate the natural order of masters and slaves.’

  ‘That’s sick.’

  ‘Yes, horrible, aren’t we?’

  ‘And the clock?’ I prompted again.

  ‘It’s the sound of the povs’ lives ticking away.’ He threw his head back in laughter. ‘How’s that for bad taste?’

  ‘Zara’s a real people person, isn’t she?’

  ‘If you think that’s bad, listen to this for her idea for next year’s parade. It’s our graduation year, so Zara wants to go out with a bang. She’s planning a Roman Triumph in Streatham.’

  I listened in disbelief as Marcus explained the details. He said the Metropolitan Police had already okayed the plan and traffic cops would be on hand to supervise the parade. Zara would ride in a gilded chariot led by white horses. A ‘slave’ would stand behind her, holding a golden crown over her head. Using a megaphone, he’d repeatedly chant a warning: ‘Remember, thou art mortal.’

  With her face painted silver, Zara would wear a purple toga lined with gold. On her head would be a laurel wreath, on her feet golden shoes, in her hand an ivory sceptre topped with an eagle. The rest of the Top Table, dressed in red robes, would follow the chariot, some holding long incense sticks, some garlands of flowers, while others threw chocolate coins in gold foil to the spectators. Several of them would act as trumpeters to herald the arrival of the conqueror.

  ‘That woman’s a nut,’ I said.

  ‘She’s a genius. I think she’s like Mozart. They say that before he’d even lifted his pen, he’d worked out complete symphonies in his head: he could hear every note of every instrument. He knew precisely where everything fitted in. Zara’s the same – she can see the big picture and all the detail too. She’s always several jumps ahead of the rest of us.’

  When he saw I was looking dubious, he shook his head.

  ‘I wouldn’t expect someone like you to understand.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ I huffed.

  ‘No offence, but you’re not one of us.’

  ‘Arrogant know-alls from Oxford University?’

  ‘Look, we’re students heading for starred firsts, and, with all due respect, you’re a party girl. We might listen to your ideas on a night out, but when it comes to intellectual matters, you’re simply not there.’ He looked me straight in the eye. ‘You’re nowhere at all.’

  ‘Well, I thought Sam and Jez were up themselves but they have nothing on you lot.’

  Marcus snorted. ‘Sam and Jez wouldn’t listen if you lectured them about acting. Why should we be any different? You have no idea what Zara is all about. It’s her ambition to inspire the world. She wrote a dissertation called The Theatre of Cruelty as the Sublimation of Mister Kurtz’s Dark Heart. It’s extraordinary.’

  ‘Mr Who?’

  I could see his facial muscles moulding themselves into an outright sneer.

  ‘Dr fucking Who,’ he said.

  I felt so small and ignorant. I could never compete with these people.

  ‘Some people think there’s nothing clever about what we’re doing,’ Marcus went on. ‘They say we’re nothing but self-proclaimed intellectuals playing infantile pranks. Those sad fucks haven’t a clue. Sticking your nose in a book doesn’t entitle you to call yourself an intellectual. You have to take your ideas to the street, confront the stupid wherever you find them, that’s what Zara says. You must force them to think, to see the power of ideas. Those withered academics hiding away in universities aren’t fooling anyone. They can’t hack it. They don’t encourage thought. They kill it. Zara wants to challenge every professor. That’s what her dissertation says. It’s a rallying call for true intellectuals. Intellect is a savage thing, not some cosy, peaceful pet to be shut away in institutions for the mild-mannered.’

  ‘Am I one of your thick guinea pigs then?’

  ‘You can define yourself how ever you like.’

  As the car took a corner, I noticed a sign for Feltham Young Offenders Institution.

  ‘We’re not going there?’ I spluttered.

  ‘Where better?’ Marcus put on a CD and flicked to a particular track, and turned it up extra loud. I’d never heard it before, but it was quite good. I think it was some old eighties thing. The chorus was They’ll never take me alive. I found out later it was by Spear of Destiny. It told the story of some criminal desperado phoning his mum just as armed cops were closing in.

  ‘Prisons are full of people who love this song,’ Marcus shouted over the music. ‘Ironic, huh? Shouldn’t they all be fucking dead if the lyrics mean so much to them?’ He turned down the music. ‘HM Inspector of Prisons will be there today, in a safe area. He doesn’t want to get too close to the action.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.’

  Chapter 25: It’s a Riot

  The security gates swung open for us, and the convoy swept into the car park. Hundreds of inmates in prison-issue orange jump suits were assembled at the far end, flanked by warders in full riot gear. The visors of the warders’ blue helmets were pulled down, and they were carrying long Perspex shields.

  ‘Talk about a captive audience,’ Marcus sniggered as we parked.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘A poetry reading, that’s all.’

  Since when, I wondered, did a poetry reading require a riot squad? I got out of the car, shielding my eyes from the glare of the sun. The cars were all parked in a perfect row, with Zara’s on the far left. As they gleamed and glinted in the sunshine, they looked like part of a glamorous shoot for supermodels.

  A row of microphone stands had been set up and the Top Table took their positions in front of them, one microphone for each. They placed their helmets on the ground and started doing stretching exercises.

  Marcus told Sam, Jez and me to stand to the side, and said we should run for the guardhouse if things got out of control.

  ‘What are you talking about, man?’ Sam asked. With his hoodie up, he didn’t look much different from the chavs we’d passed in Feltham High Street.

  I glanced at the hundreds of sullen, shaven-headed inmates lined up twenty metres away and started to feel apprehensive. There was so much testosterone in the air.

  ‘Officially, we’re here to give a talk to the inmates about the benefits of higher education,’ Marcus said. ‘You know the kind of thing – an inspirational pep talk, something to show these scumbags the path to virtue. We’ll be rounding off with a poem to light their benighted minds.’

  ‘And unofficially?’

  ‘To have a riot.’ He strode away.

  As we watched him go, Sam nudged me, his eyes wide. ‘Did you see his holster? He’s got a Taser.’ He shook his head. ‘They all have.’

  Students armed with electronic stun guns? – Jesus.

  A short man with nondescript grey hair and a dark blue suit switched on a microphone and tapped it a couple of times to check it was working.

  ‘Good afternoon, everyone,’ he said to the inmates. ‘I’m Edward Megson, HM Inspector of Prisons. The Governor and I ha
ve assembled you here today because we have a special treat for you. A number of Oxford University’s most promising students have agreed to give you a talk on university life. We hope you’ll find it as inspirational as those beautiful cars they drive. It’s not too late for some of you to become students and enjoy the fruits of a good education too. The door to opportunities never closes on you unless you let it.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I believe there will be an element of performance art involved in the students’ presentation. I’m sure it will be unforgettable.’ He turned and gestured to Leddington, before striding fast in the direction of the guardhouse.

  Leddington came to the microphone, folded his arms and stood for several seconds without saying or doing anything. He stared silently at the inmates and they stared back.

  ‘It’s strange, don’t you think,’ Leddington said slowly, ‘how people spend all their time avoiding the one terminus they’re sure to reach. They put so much thought into their summer holidays and none at all into their final destination. The Christian missionaries sent to Africa carried their belongings in coffins to show they were prepared to die for their beliefs. Shouldn’t we all be dragging coffins behind us?’

  His expression was an odd mixture of contempt and craziness.

  ‘The Greeks called the god of death Thanatos,’ he went on. ‘When Freud identified a death instinct in human beings, that was the name he chose for it. It drives us remorselessly to destruction.’ There was a curious look in his eyes. ‘It’s associated with an energy called mortido, the opposite of libido. ‘What it means is that we’re as tuned into death as we are to life. War, violence, hatred, crime – they’re all manifestations of mortido. You here are all high on mortido. Your blood is full of it. You long to destroy, to wreck, to smash everything in your way. You want annihilation, an end to everything…perfect apocalyptic destruction.’

  A huge cheer erupted from the inmates.

  Leddington allowed himself a sardonic smile. ‘Humans are death machines,’ he said. ‘The very moment we’re conceived our journey to death begins.’ He stretched out his hand. ‘Death is the purpose of life. To have children is to create death. At the start of the last century, the world’s population was one and a half billion – all of them in various stages of dying. At the start of this century, six billion people were at various points along the path to death. Do you see? – in just one century, four and a half billion extra deaths were generated. Death has quadrupled and the rate is increasing all the time. Soon there will be nothing but death. Life is a lethal virus, spreading death wherever it goes, infecting the whole universe.’

  He paused, and gazed at the horizon. ‘In the ruins of Berlin days before the city fell to the Red Army, the Nazi High Command knew they were staring catastrophic defeat in the face. Do you know what they did? They went to one last performance of Wagner’s Gotterdamerung. Can you imagine that? With bombs and shells dropping around them and savage house-to-house fighting taking place within a mile or two, they went to the opera.’

  He turned away. ‘The performance at the end of the world,’ he said, his voice full of emotion. When he recovered his composure, he clapped his hands. ‘Let’s do this thing.’

  All the members of the Top Table, apart from Zara, stepped forward to their microphones. With impressive synchronisation, they read out Wilfred Owen’s poem Futility:

  Move him into the sun

  Gently its touch awoke him once,

  At home, whispering of fields unsown.

  Always it woke him, even in France,

  Until this morning and this snow.

  If anything might rouse him now

  The kind old sun will know.

  Think how it wakes the seeds

  Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.

  Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides

  Full-nerved, — still warm, — too hard to stir?

  Was it for this the clay grew tall?

  — O what made fatuous sunbeams toil

  To break earth's sleep at all?

  There was a pause and then, in unison, the Top Table began chanting one line over and over again, as many as thirty times, until I was certain it would be imprinted on my brain forever: Was it for this the clay grew tall? All the while, they pointed straight at the inmates, swinging their arms backwards and forwards as their pointing became ever more aggressive. I’d seen some surreal things in the last few days, but this beat them all. The inmates began to shuffle ominously.

  Zara, minus her leather helmet, took up her position in front of her microphone. I wondered how she’d trump that.

  She didn’t get a chance. A voice rose up from a fat guy with a broken nose right at the front of the inmates. ‘Show us your cunt!’ he yelled savagely. All of the inmates cheered. They began to chant ‘cunt’ over and over and pointed at Zara, just as the Top Table had pointed at them.

  For a moment, Zara seemed flustered, and I couldn’t stop a smile crossing my face. I looked at Jez and he seemed to find it funny too, but Sam was ashen-faced.

  Zara made a hand signal to the chief of the prison warders and he nodded back. She strode towards the fat troublemaker and, with each step she took, the chant of ‘cunt’ got louder and louder until it was practically deafening. When she reached the ringleader, everything fell quiet.

  She leaned forward and whispered something to the fat man. Moments passed while they simply stared at each other.

  ‘What did you call me?’ the fat inmate bellowed suddenly. ‘If I’m a lard ass, you’re a fucking posh dyke.’

  She said something into his other ear before quickly retreating.

  The ringleader seemed momentarily stunned then screamed, ‘Get her. Get them all.’

  Shouts of primal aggression exploded amongst the inmates and they surged forward, forcing Zara to run. I thought the illusion she’d painstakingly constructed around herself would shatter if she had to do something as uncool as fleeing in panic, but not only did she not look flustered, she ran like an athlete, with incredible grace.

  Cunt.

  She withdrew behind the Top Table and I watched them all drawing their Tasers. At the same time, the prison warders raised their riot shields and charged into the inmates, batons flailing.

  The Top Table, now wearing their helmets, used their Tasers to expertly drop the whole front row of charging inmates. Simultaneously, the warders fired tear gas canisters and baton rounds into the mass of bodies.

  As clouds of gas drifted over the car park, the Top Table high-fived each other. For the first time today, they had big smiles on their faces.

  ‘Job done,’ one of them said as everyone hurried back to the cars to escape the tear gas. I saw Zara exchanging a few words with the Inspector of Prisons and shaking hands with him. He leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek.

  Marcus signalled to me and I joined him at the car.

  ‘What did you think?’ he asked, out of breath and grinning.

  ‘Zara arranged all of that, didn’t she?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘But didn’t you say she was aiming to be some kind of revolutionary? Why doesn’t she want people to see what she does?’

  ‘We never photograph or film any of these events. Zara says it’s easier for them to be transformed into mythological happenings if there’s no record. She wants rumours to spread that no one believes, with eyewitnesses being forced to insist they’re true. These are the stories that become urban legends. This is how they’re born.’

  He switched on his CD player and The Ride of The Valkyries came on. ‘Man, we should have played that during the riot. It would have been like that moment in The Shawshank Redemption when Tim Robbins put on that opera track.’

  The convoy set off and soon we were in Hanworth – yet more concrete, greyness and litter. But suddenly the scenery improved dramatically. We went past a picturesque cricket ground, a lovely tennis court and reached a park with a shimmering blue lake at its centre. A sandstone castle with a moat stood near the edg
e of the water. Marcus said it was a luxury hotel – the Aggiornamento.

  ‘This is Bushy Park,’ he said. ‘We’re not too far from Hampton Court Palace.’

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘It’s a beautiful summer’s afternoon. We’re having a picnic, that’s all.’

  Chapter 26: The Lake

  The convoy parked near the edge of the lake, every car taking its place in a neat line, with the Ferrari Enzo at the centre. We all got out and sat on a grassy mound with the lake in front of us and an idyllic little wood behind. I lay on a blanket that Marcus had brought from the car, and let the sun beat down on me for a few minutes. No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t get comfortable. And I could still smell tear gas on me from earlier. I sat up and watched Zara talking to Marcus. He was hanging on her every word, and at one point he burst out laughing, even wiping a tear from his eye.

  Marcus joined me on the blanket and pointed out an ugly redbrick building on the far side of the lake. It looked like some old Victorian mental asylum. ‘We go there sometimes,’ he said. ‘On special occasions.’ He didn’t elaborate.

  ‘What did Zara say that sparked the riot?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s what she was just telling me.’ Marcus stretched out on the blanket and folded his arms over his chest as though he were a laid-out corpse. ‘She said, “L’audace, l’audace, toujours l’audace.” It’s a quote by Frederick the Great. It means boldness, boldness, always boldness.’

  ‘How did that cause all the trouble?’

  Marcus smiled. ‘The prisoner misheard her. He thought she was calling him “lard ass”. As you saw, he wasn’t a happy bunny. So, she whispered to him, “What I asked, lard ass, was whether it was your turn to stick your fat cock up your boyfriend’s arse tonight, or is he doing the honours?”’ Marcus began sniggering. ‘I guess that would start a riot just about anywhere.’

  His eyes followed Zara everywhere. She was such a bloody magnet, while every other woman had to endure a nuclear winter of lack of attention from the opposite sex.