The Millionaires' Death Club Page 20

  What a curious thing to say. Was I missing something? ‘Does Jez have to be somewhere?’ I asked.

  ‘The shooting schedule has been moved forward a few days. Jez is needed immediately for some scenes.’

  ‘And Sam?’

  ‘He can stay a while longer.’ Mencken abruptly gripped my arm. ‘Just make sure you get our NexS. I don’t care what it takes.’

  And with that he stalked off, leaving me standing there, open-mouthed. I went to Sam’s room to check up on him. I told him I’d just seen Jez leaving and was amazed when he said he knew nothing about it.

  ‘Jerk,’ he snarled. ‘I knew he’d do something like that. He was always a quitter.’

  ‘The shoot’s been moved forward, that’s all.’

  ‘Garbage. He knows he can’t win Alphabet Love. He’s saving face.’ Sam rubbed the back of his hand. ‘You know, sometimes I think Mencken planned this, to get us at each other’s throats. Some sort of method-acting ploy.’

  Their new movie – The Fatal Past – was apparently about two elite CIA agents who’d once been close friends but who’d fallen out over a beautiful woman. She dated both of them at different times. On a vital mission, they allowed their personal rivalry to cloud their judgement and tried to sabotage each other’s efforts. In the end, despite their mutual loathing, they had to cooperate or a nuclear bomb would be detonated in Washington DC.

  Apart from the nuke, it sounded spot on.

  Sam picked up a slim book lying on the cabinet next to his bed. ‘This is that book by Robert Louis Stevenson.’

  I read the title: The Suicide Club. My heart raced.

  ‘It’s brilliant,’ Sam said. ‘It’s about the Prince of Bohemia who enjoys travelling in disguise to mix unnoticed with ordinary people. He and his bodyguard go on a vacation to London. They’re in a bar looking for some excitement when they see a young man handing out cakes, just as we did that night in the Hexenhaus. He’s giving away all of his possessions because he doesn’t need them anymore. He detests himself for squandering a fortune and losing the woman he loved. Suicide seems the only way out, but he’s too cowardly to actually do anything about it.’

  ‘So, what happens?’ I said, leaning closer.

  ‘He uses the last of his money to join a club that will perform the service for him – the Suicide Club.

  ‘The members play a card game. Only two cards are important – the ace of clubs and the ace of spades. Before dawn, the holder of the ace of clubs must kill the person who has the ace of spades.

  ‘In the story, the prince and his bodyguard join the club, with the help of the young man. They pretend they’re ruined businessmen looking to end their troubles.’

  ‘The prince gets the ace of spades, right?’

  Sam nodded. ‘Long story short, his bodyguard manages to save his life and they beat the bad guys. The Suicide Club is closed down permanently.’

  ‘Interesting…’

  Sam smiled. ‘So you’re thinking that if the Millionaires’ Death Club exists then it’s modelled on the Suicide Club, right?’

  ‘The Fourth Protocol,’ I exclaimed. ‘There’s a card game in that, isn’t there? What were the rules again? Do you still have that sheet of paper?’

  ‘Yeah, there’s a card game and it’s very similar,’ Sam said.

  ‘So, are we saying Lawrence and Chloe were murdered?’

  Sam shook his head and laughed. ‘Get real. If people are showing up dead, it’s because they want to be. Simple as that.’

  I didn’t think there was anything simple about it. ‘What happens now?’ I asked.

  ‘Leddington phoned me,’ Sam said. ‘They’re having some traditional student fun tonight: a toga party.’ He smiled. ‘Crazy, isn’t it? Here I am, reading Stevenson, and about to go to a party with masterminds from Oxford University. If only my schoolteachers could see me now.’

  ‘I’m sure they’re already proud of you, Sam.’

  He ignored me. ‘So, tonight’s the night!’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Anything that starts as a toga party always ends in an orgy.’ His eyes shone. ‘Then I’ll bag the bitch.’

  Chapter 28: Toga Party

  The Great Hall was transformed and now resembled a scene from ancient Rome. The attention to detail was incredible, apart from the distinctly unRoman Marilyn Manson music playing in the background.

  There were many unfamiliar faces, making me wonder if tonight’s shindig was some sort of recruitment event. Everyone had been colour coded. Guests wore white togas, while senior members of the Top Table were in purple, ordinary members, including Sam, red, and potential new recruits sky blue.

  We were all handed a laurel-wreath to wear as we entered the room. Sam’s arrival created an audible gasp and a flurry of furtive glances. He grinned, and winked at me. I noticed Leddington scowling and whispering forcefully to several guests.

  Sculptures of huge phalluses and vaginas, Caligula style, were positioned at various strategic points around the room. I overheard two pretty blondes pointing out that the sculptures were made of marzipan.

  One of them giggled and playfully shoved the other. ‘Not even you could deep-throat that.’

  The other grabbed a chunk of the penis tip and teasingly began to eat it.

  There were ornate Roman vases, Mediterranean fig and olive trees and several fake stone columns like those from a ruined temple. An ornamental pond took pride of place in the centre of the hall and was full of disgusting black eels, each about five feet long.

  The death paintings had been removed from the walls and replaced with vast photos of scenes from an old Julius Caesar movie, with a young Marlon Brando as Mark Antony prominently featured. The back wall was dominated by a strange symbol that looked like a black mushroom with both a long and short stalk. I discovered later that it was called amenta and it was the Egyptian symbol for the Land of the Dead – so no escape from the Top Table’s favourite subject.

  An empty velvet-cushioned throne draped in imperial purple was positioned just beneath the sign. I wondered when Lady Muck would make her appearance.

  I couldn’t help noticing how slim and attractive everyone in the room was. It was impossible not to overhear their clever-clever conversations. Brilliant young things, without a doubt. Many were reclining on Roman-style couches and eating from a wide selection of fruit, meat, sweets and savouries. There were bronze basins in which they could rinse their hands. Waiters dressed as slaves were always on hand to refill everyone’s glasses.

  ‘Great party, huh?’ Sam nudged me in the ribs. His toga allowed him to show off his muscular torso, perfectly toned and buffed. As for me, my hair was piled up in what I hoped was an elegant bun. Beneath my white robe, I had on a G-string and nothing else. I think most of the other girls had made the same choice. There was lots of flashing going on as everyone got increasingly drunk. There were definite signs that an orgy was brewing.

  On one side of the room were glass statues of a handsome man and beautiful woman, holding hands. Both were naked. By pressing the belly button of either, a stream of alcohol poured from their genitals.

  A girl placed a glass beneath the penis of the male statue and watched, transfixed, as red wine flowed through tubes from a stainless steel barrel behind the man. The wine passed through a coil in the statue’s stomach then passed down through its bladder, out of the penis and into the girl’s waiting glass. The female statue had a similar set-up, but this time white wine rather than red flowed through her. It was a surreal spectacle.

  Throughout the evening, Leddington strutted around holding a flail and crook, symbolising – as Marcus explained to me later – majesty and dominion. Sometimes it was difficult to work out who was madder – Leddington or Zara.

  Leddington came over to me at one point while I was looking at the repulsive creatures in the ornamental pool.

  ‘They’re moray eels,’ he said. ‘The Romans loved them. Whereas we have nice little goldfish in our ponds, the Romans chose these. They have a
certain beauty, don’t you think?’

  ‘They’re hideous.’

  ‘And lethal,’ he smiled. ‘According to Pliny the Elder, Vedius Pollio liked to fatten his eels on human blood. Disobedient slaves were thrown into the pond to be eaten alive.’

  ‘Always first with the funny stories, aren’t you?’

  ‘Always.’

  After an hour, there was still no sign of Wonder Woman. Sam continually flicked his gaze towards the door, waiting for the moment when she’d make her grand entrance. I was already imagining her as a Cleopatra or Helen of Troy, perhaps even the goddess from She.

  I tried a few nibbles from the silver food trays then washed my hands in one of the bronze bowls. It was filled with perfumed water and I splashed some onto my neck. Still no sign of the main event. Fashionably late, or a no-show from the hostess?

  Without warning, the music changed. Manson’s cheery Suicide is Painless gave way to Right Here Right Now by Fat Boy Slim. I heard a collective gasp, even louder than the one that greeted Sam. I looked up and there she was, standing in the doorway. Sam, lounging on a sofa, sat bolt upright and stared in disbelief. I couldn’t blame him.

  Zara was dressed like an Egyptian queen, her lithe body draped in a golden robe that caught the light and threw out sheets of glinting light. A gold snake-bracelet wound its way round her upper left arm. I’d never seen shoulders so elegant or such a graceful neck. Her face was perfectly made-up, with dramatic black eye shadow and eyeliner, defining her eyes in that distinctive Egyptian way.

  She was wearing a majestic sapphire necklace and fabulous gold earrings in the shape of the Egyptian ankh symbol. As far as I recalled, it was the symbol of eternal life, so it was odd to see her wearing it. Her fingernails and toenails were painted gold and looked sensational. On top of her sleek head, she had the same flat-topped blue headdress that I’d seen in paintings of Queen Nefertiti. With her intense blue eyes and exquisite cheekbones, it was hard to imagine that anyone could be more beautiful.

  With the faintest of smiles, she walked into the room with a supermodel’s poise. Taking her seat on her throne, she surveyed her little kingdom with a suitably haughty expression. The rightful queen? There was no denying that if there were such a thing as a royal look, she had it.

  Marcus wandered over to me. It was obvious he was every bit as captivated as Sam. ‘She looks stunning, doesn’t she? Did you know that Nefertiti means The Beautiful one is come? So appropriate.’

  Everyone in the room paid court to her. They were all permitted a few minutes with the Sun Queen before she grew tired of them and despatched them with a wave of a shining, jackal-headed gold sceptre.

  Halfway through the evening, she called for quiet. She stood up and declared that she was making an offering to the gods. Raising up a small crystal flask, full of what looked like blood, she closed her eyes for a moment, then, with a flourish, poured it into a gold dish.

  ‘With this libation, we call on the gods to favour our endeavours,’ she said in that intimidating cut-glass voice of hers. ‘As Nietzsche, our philosopher, declared, “We are the new, the unique, the incomparable, those who impose on themselves their own law, those who create themselves.” None are more deserving than we. Through our veins flows the ancient blood. We are the original nobility, the first masters, the lost kings and queens.’

  Each time I tried to speak to Sam, his gaze drifted past me towards her, yet he never went near her.

  At last, it was Zara herself who made the move. ‘You,’ she said, pointing at Sam with her sceptre. ‘Have you come to praise Caesar or to bury him?’

  Sam stood there, not knowing what to say.

  ‘Did you burn the topless towers of Ilium?’ she asked.

  Still nothing.

  ‘Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.’ She was practically jeering.

  Leddington went over to Sam and whispered something in his ear.

  ‘Make me immortal with a kiss,’ Sam said hesitantly a moment later.

  Zara sniggered. ‘If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.’

  She walked over to Sam and prodded him in the chest. ‘Your dreams have stretched too high, Mr Lincoln. Your vanity blinds you to your folly. The words of Shakespeare and Marlowe are unknown to you. You’re a microscopic man, a pygmy in a sea of learning.’ She jabbed him again, and, judging by the expression on Sam’s face, it was as wounding as a dagger thrust. ‘You have no class, no breeding. In fact…’ She paused. ‘…what is the point of people like you?’

  Sam stared at her incredulously. ‘I’m one of the most famous men in the world.’ His voice was so quiet it was barely audible.

  The others in the hall tittered. A few turned away in embarrassment. I kept my head down, not wanting to catch Sam’s eye.

  ‘Sic transit Gloria mundi,’ Zara said.

  ‘And what the hell does that mean?’ At last, Sam managed to raise his voice and show some defiance.

  ‘It means you’re way out of your league.’ Zara turned her back on him.

  ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ Sam said, but Zara simply ignored him and returned to her throne.

  I hurried over to Sam. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

  He didn’t look at me, his eyes refusing to stray from the witch. ‘I’m never giving up,’ he whispered. ‘Do you hear me? – never.’

  He’d lost it. He really had. People go to a strange land in their head sometimes. Some never come back. I wondered if I was watching the meltdown of a Hollywood megastar.

  Someone turned the music back on, much louder than before. Marilyn Manson’s version of Tainted Love was all too appropriate.

  ‘Let’s get this party pumping,’ Zara said, winking at Leddington.

  Soon people were dancing, kissing, chatting excitedly, having passionate discussions. All except Sam and me. It was the most awkward situation I’d ever been in.

  At midnight, Sam walked up to Zara even though she was deep in conversation with Leddington.

  ‘Tomorrow night, it’s my turn to throw a party,’ he said.

  Zara gave him a sly look. ‘The ancient Egyptians believed that at the moment a baby was born, seven gods decided how and when it would meet its death. What do you think the gods have decided your fate is, Sam?’

  ‘I couldn’t care less. My party tomorrow night – yes or no?’

  Zara winked at Leddington. ‘Do you think it will be a spectacle worthy of Trimalchio?’

  Leddington guffawed.

  ‘Fuck off.’ Sam was like a cornered rat. ‘Just give me a goddamn answer.’ He grabbed Zara’s arm and she recoiled as though a leper had touched her.

  ‘Sure, Sam,’ Leddington intervened. ‘Tell us when and where and we’ll be there.’

  ‘You’ll definitely come?’ Sam ignored Leddington and stared at Zara.

  ‘Of course.’ Her eyes sparkled malevolently. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  Chapter 29: Casanova

  Sam was in the Sargasso’s breakfast area, sipping orange juice. He told me he’d been up since seven o’clock. As for me, I’d needed a long lie in after the debacle of the toga party and I didn’t reach the hotel until eleven.

  ‘I want this to be good,’ he said. ‘You know, up to their standard.’ His eyes were puffy as though he hadn’t slept. ‘I have got class,’ he muttered. ‘All those MBA jerks from Harvard and Yale…they don’t know jack. Oxford doesn’t scare me either. They’re all the fucking same.’

  ‘Why do you care so much, Sam?’

  ‘Don’t you get it?’ He looked at me wildly. ‘If you’re not in, you’re out.’

  ‘That’s just a catchphrase from one of your movies.’

  He shook his head and scrawled furiously in his notepad. ‘No, it’s life. It’s winners and losers; success and failure. That bitch is telling me I’m a piece of shit.’

  ‘You’re letting her. You have to stop playing her game.’

  ‘Winners can succeed at anything. She thinks she’s better
than me, but I’ll take everything she’s got.’

  ‘Let it go, Sam. You’re famous, a superstar. People all over the world love you. Zara could never achieve anything like that.’

  ‘That’s all bullshit. It doesn’t impress her and it doesn’t impress me.’

  I knew there was no point in trying to talk him out of it. Damage limitation was the name of the game now.

  ‘When I was a kid, I once ran away from home,’ Sam said, staring forlornly at the single slice of brown toast on his plate. ‘It was raining and I tried to find some shelter. I sneaked into the porch of a house and stared through the window. I saw a family inside, sitting in front of a fire, with the TV on. They were eating candy and laughing. The coldness I felt vanished. I wanted to be in that house with those people, to be part of their family.’

  He massaged the back of his head like a little boy who’d just had a bump. ‘I never belonged anywhere. No one wanted me, not ever. I dreamt of being in a little cocoon, protected from all the shit, but shit was all I ever got. You know, sometimes I stand behind a door and scream as loudly as I can. I have this picture of happiness – that family around the fire – but happiness never featured in my life. It never happened. Not once.’

  I didn’t know what to say. It was so hard to believe that the greatest star on earth was so unhappy. ‘OK,’ I said, attempting to lift his mood, ‘what type of party do you want to throw?’

  He held up a brochure showing a man and woman in sumptuous eighteenth century clothes emerging from a black gondola, their faces concealed by silver masks.

  ‘I was planning a trip to Venice in February for Carnival,’ he said. ‘That gave me the idea – I’m putting on a masked ball.’ He tapped the brochure. ‘I’ll be playing a special role: Casanova.’

  When he told me, I tried not to groan. Did he seriously think that by putting on the costume of the world’s most famous lover, he would seduce Zara? Wasn’t that what they called magic thinking? Casanova himself might not have succeeded with Zara.

  ‘You’ll need a lot of help,’ I said.