Age of Legends Page 11

  He’d got quite a bit of stick for it from his peer group, too. He wouldn’t go so far as to call it persecution, but his Christianity had set him apart from his friends and schoolmates, no doubt about that, and made him the butt of their jokes. “The Reverend Derek,” they would jeer. “Say a prayer for us, will you, your holiness? Sing us a hymn!” Rising above their teasing had been one of his great achievements. In accordance with our Saviour’s advice in the Sermon on the Mount, no less, Drake had turned the other cheek, and had felt pleased with himself for doing so.

  Nor was it easy working in the City and having faith, especially during the ’eighties when the mantra was greed and Mammon was the deity adored by all. Drake had joined in the orgy of money-making with enthusiasm. The Bible’s admonition about the rich man and the eye of the needle didn’t apply to him, he thought. There was no harm in wealth as long as you weren’t vulgar with it. There were plenty who roared around the Square Mile in Porsches, drank only the best champagne, and bragged about their brick-sized mobile phones to anyone who cared to listen. Drake did not mind having the good things in life, but he did not make them the centre of his existence and never let them distract him from the Lord. Faith was his rudder, material belongings just the cargo he carried.

  Besides, by then he had started buying holy relics. A good proportion of his disposable income went on those. That surely was some kind of compensation, wasn’t it? An indulgence in both the secular and the religious sense. A way of balancing the scales of his soul, by turning excess profit into tangible representations of faith.

  Still, there had been times when Drake had felt conflict within himself and wondered whether he shouldn’t quit his job and find some worthier form of employment. It even occurred to him to take a degree in theology and see where that led. Might the man who, as a boy, had been mocked as “Reverend Derek”, one day be ordained as a genuine priest?

  It was Emrys who helped reconcile Drake’s inner struggle.

  Emrys Sage was a senior partner at Thurlow, Sage, Wright Ltd., the hedge fund management company Drake joined in the late ’eighties. From the outset, Emrys and Drake had hit it off, even though they came from very different backgrounds. Emrys was a softly-spoken Welshman, son of a coalminer, state-educated, who had left the pit-scarred valleys of Merthyr Tydfil in 1961 and come to London with nothing but a few pounds in his pocket and a molten core of ambition.

  On the face of it, he and Drake––English, middle-class, public school, twenty years his junior––had little in common. What they shared was faith. Emrys was a Methodist. “Not practising but not lapsed either,” he would say, adding with a laugh, “Can’t even conform to being a nonconformist, can I?” But he retained a firm belief in a divinely-ordered world. God had not only created life, He had laid down the precepts by which it should be lived, and they were simple. You did what your inner promptings told you do, because those were messages from the source of all truth, the Lord. Each person had that voice within them and should listen to it. Anyone who didn’t was no better than a beast.

  “My own late father is a perfect example,” Emrys once told Drake. “A man who knew he shouldn’t get drunk and beat his wife and children, yet did just that on a regular basis. I could see the pain in his eyes as he took his belt to my mam and my sisters and me. It was deep in there, almost buried, but I could see it. He knew he was doing wrong and he hated himself for it, but he couldn’t stop. The animal in him took over. I see it in so many other people too. They crash around, doing harm to themselves and others, all because they have lost touch with their God-given purpose.”

  Emrys’s worldview was eschatological. Even after the Cold War sputtered to a close, he worried that humankind would sooner or later destroy itself. Throughout the ’nineties and into the new millennium he saw portents of inexorable corruption and decline everywhere. The environment deteriorating. Rogue states gaining weapons of mass destruction. Terrorist bombings. Increasingly unreliable and unstable national leaders. Banking crises. It all seemed to be coming to a head, events building to an apocalyptic climax.

  “Somebody needs to take things in hand, Derek,” he said. “Somebody needs to stop the rot, before it’s too late.”

  By then, Emrys had become more than a friend to Drake. He had become a mentor, a surrogate father. He often accompanied Drake on his relic-buying trips, and the two of them would spend hours just talking, discussing the global situation and what might be done to put it right.

  “It has to begin here,” Emrys said, “in this country. You can’t hope to effect worldwide change without getting your own house in order first. Britain should set the example for others to follow. We should show everyone how it can be done.”

  Drake had never harboured any political aspirations. He was content making the company’s investors and himself richer, all the more so since Emrys had helped quell his misgivings. Drake’s inner voice, the voice of God, consistently told him it was okay to earn his living this way. In submitting to his own will, Drake was submitting to God’s will too.

  But gradually it was becoming clear to him that Emrys had some grand project in mind and that he, Derek Drake, was instrumental in it.

  “Derek, you have a charm about you,” Emrys said. “You have a confidence that falls just the right side of swaggering. Somehow I think you could, should, be more than merely a hedge fund manager. You are meant for a higher calling.”

  By that time Drake had begun experiencing problems in the bedroom department. He and Harriet had been married for over a decade and he loved her dearly but no longer was able to prove it physically. The anguish of that, coupled with a sense of the loss of his masculinity, was a continuous background throb in his mind. He was feeling the desperate need to prove himself somehow, to show that he was still potent in some way.

  He and Emrys began putting together thoughts about a new political movement, one which would reject the modern fad for inclusiveness and diversity and return Britain to the values of yore. The time for a multicultural nation was over. That experiment had failed. The proof lay everywhere: in the grumbling discontent of the disenfranchised white working class, in the restless ethnic ghettos which were springing up in cities all across the land, in the fear of causing offence to others that was inhibiting people’s right to free speech, in the rapid decline of Britain’s standing on the world stage. What was needed now was a shake-up. A purging of interlopers and other detrimental elements. A reassertion of the qualities which had once made the country a global power and the envy of others.

  A resurrection.

  On a journey to Madrid, Drake and Emrys thrashed out the details of their vision for a new Britain. This was the relic-buying trip to end all relic-buying trips, since Drake was about to hand over a seven-figure sum to a fairly shady individual in exchange for the Chalice of Doña Urraca, an onyx cup which was widely considered to be the Holy Grail. A facsimile of the cup currently sat in the Basilica of San Isidoro in Léon, in northwest Spain, while the original had been withdrawn from display and was supposedly kept under lock and key in a safe location, a vault somewhere. This was because the popularity of the chalice had been drawing crowds too big for such a relatively small church to cope with. The replacement, which everyone knew to be a copy, remained an object of curiosity, but no longer were worshippers queueing out the door and round the corner.

  In fact, unbeknownst to the church authorities, the original cup had itself been supplanted by a counterfeit. It had fallen into the possession of an industrialist with underworld connections who, like Drake, had an abiding interest in holy relics and few compunctions about how he obtained them.

  The man, José Molinero, was also an inveterate gambler and had got deep into debt with Branimir Stojanović, boss of one of the Serbian gangs operating an illegal football betting syndicate in Spain. Molinero needed a lot of money, fast, or else Stojanović was going to exact his pound of flesh––probably literally––from Molinero’s two teenage sons. The chalice was perhaps
Molinero’s most valuable single asset and one he could liquidate without alerting the tax revenue service, since they were unaware he owned it in the first place. That was as long as he could find a buyer with a relaxed approach toward legality.

  Drake had arranged for the chalice’s provenance to be verified by an expert in religious antiquities who had that admirable combination of qualities, a taste for the high life and a tendency not to ask awkward questions. The cup was, the expert said, the real thing, in as much as it matched perfectly pictures he had seen of the Chalice of Doña Urraca and the jewels which encrusted it were not fakes. As for its age, the onyx could be dated back to the early Christian era at least––the jewels had been added later––and the manufacture matched that of other carved vessels from first-century Jerusalem. The cup was authentic to the period and place it was said to originate from, although whether it was the actual Holy Grail remained open to debate.

  Drake knew that the chalice had been associated with several miracles during its history. That was good enough for him.

  He and Molinero met at the man’s gated compound in Pozuelo, an affluent suburb of Madrid. Funds were transferred. The chalice was handed over. Both Molinero and Drake heaved a sigh, the one of relief, the other of something approaching ecstasy.

  It was as Drake and Emrys were flying home in Drake’s private helicopter that the crash occurred. The crash that was to prove fatal and, indeed, fateful.

  THE MOMENT DRAKE first laid eyes on the chalice at Molinero’s house, snug in its bed of pre-cut foam inside a steel briefcase, he had a clear sense that it was meant to be his. The cup had a long and storied past. It had travelled far and wide, from Jerusalem to England courtesy of Joseph of Arimathea, from there to Cairo and on to Castile, where it had been given as a gift to King Ferdinand I of Léon. He in turn had bequeathed it to his daughter Urraca of Zamora, from whom the chalice derived its nickname. Finally, after a few further twists and turns, it had wound up in the hands of Derek Drake, and a more deserving owner there could not be. The cup was the ultimate goal of a relic collector like him, a holy grail in more ways than one.

  Now it resided in a special chamber in his museum at Charrington Grange, and Drake never approached it without reverence and awe. Anything else would have been disrespectful. There was not a shred of doubt in his mind that it was genuinely the Holy Grail, the cup which Christ had drunk from at the Last Supper and which Joseph of Arimathea had used to catch drops of His blood at the Crucifixion. This was not even an article of faith with him. He knew it to be fact because he had seen the Grail’s divine power in action. He owed everything to it. Everything he was. Everything he had become. Everything.

  Today, on a brisk, sunny morning in late April, Drake made the usual jaunt over from the house to the museum. The code for entry was two, zero, six, four. The pattern described by his moving finger on the door’s numerical keypad mimicked someone making the sign of the Cross. Spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch, as the old joke had it.

  Inside, Drake sauntered past the lesser items in his collection, making for the Grail chamber. Access to this subsidiary room entailed a much more sophisticated procedure than the outer door. Full biometric data input: retinal scan, fingerprint confirmation, voice identification.

  Sitting on a pedestal lit from above by a single spotlight, the chalice gleamed. The chamber––cylindrical, concrete-walled, soundproofed, as impregnable as any panic room––was some eight yards in diameter and four high, and the Grail’s presence filled every cubic inch of it. Drake felt a familiar crackle in the air, like static electricity. He could hear a faint, omnipresent humming, similar to tinnitus but deeper, more resonant.

  As the door slid shut behind him, he knelt in front of the pedestal and bowed his head. Minutes passed, Drake praying in silence, as though sharing some intimate communion with the Grail.

  Then, at last, the Grail spoke.

  “Derek.”

  The fact that the Grail addressed him in the voice of Emrys Sage no longer surprised Drake, if it ever had. He was accustomed to hearing those forthright Welsh cadences emanating from the chalice. He couldn’t think of anyone whose voice he would rather it used, or whose voice was more fitting.

  “I bend the knee in supplication,” Drake said, still genuflecting.

  “You are a good and faithful servant,” the Grail said.

  “And you, the bringer of hope and realiser of dreams.”

  “With you, I am shared among the people.”

  “And without you, I am nothing.”

  This was their habitual greeting, a kind of call-and-answer liturgy. It had evolved over the years, almost of its own accord, and was, to Drake, the most purely solemn act he participated in, akin to being freshly baptised every single day.

  “Tell me your news,” the Grail said.

  In this room, kneeling before the Grail, like a congregant in the confessional, Drake was only ever truthful.

  “The economic figures aren’t encouraging,” he said. “There’s further evidence of capital flight. Just this week, two more international banks have said they’re mothballing their UK operations. Three national retail chains have posted profit warnings. The FTSE index dropped another fifty points yesterday. Manufacturing output is still on the decline. There’ve been riots outside a number of hospitals. Not enough doctors, not enough medicine, patients not getting treated.”

  “There will always be troubles. You have to accept that.”

  “Still? After nearly seven years? I thought we’d be past that.”

  “Britain stands firm, does it not?” said the Grail. “The country endures.”

  “But…” It pained Drake even to consider the idea that the Resurrection Party administration––the project he and Emrys Sage had concocted together––might be failing in its aims. “We did everything right. We got rid of the undesirables. We pulled out the weeds by the roots. People should be reaping the benefits. This should be the Promised Land. Instead, all we have is discontent and disruption.”

  “Sounds a lot to me like you’re whining, Derek.”

  One thing Emrys had never been able to abide was a whiner. Neither, it seemed, could the Grail.

  “I just want to know, when is it all going to come good?” Drake said. “All the effort I’ve put in, the sacrifices I’ve made––when is it going to pay off? I keep putting on a brave face for the media. I tell them everything’s terrific, nothing to worry about, Britain is booming, happiness and prosperity for all. When can I say that without it being a lie?”

  “Change takes time. Nobody said this would be easy. I certainly did not. There was always going to be a period of adjustment. You just have to tough it out.”

  Drake gave a hesitant nod. “Then there are those awkward characters.”

  “Protestors?”

  “No. Oh no. We’ve got a handle on them. The police are very keen on clamping down on anything that carries the slightest whiff of subversion or opposition. Over the weekend they broke up no fewer than five demos. Baton charges, CS gas, water cannon, the works. They love it. No, I’m talking about the… you know, imaginary beings.”

  “Hmmmm.” Like Emrys, the Grail was fond of a sustained, wordless murmur. Emrys had had a beautiful singing voice; it made a sound like a bass chorister holding a low note. “Any of them in particular been difficult?”

  “One of the river hags. Annie Greenteeth?”

  “Jenny.”

  “That’s it. Jenny Greenteeth. Someone walking their dog beside a canal came across her. She was stuck inside some sort of metal contraption. It required firefighters with cutting equipment to free her. Then we had to implement the usual containment protocols. Paladins convinced the dog walker and firefighters that what they had seen was nothing more than a piece of performance art. A journalist from a local rag came sniffing around the story. She was disincentivised from pursuing it further. Rather easily, it must be said. She’s single, no partner, no kids of her own, but she has a beloved sister a
nd a nephew and niece she dotes on. Everyone has their pressure points. As for the creature herself, she has been taken into custody.”

  “So?” said the Grail. “It would appear your people had everything under control.”

  “But they’re not under control, are they?” said Drake, grimacing in frustration. “That’s just it. There are so many of these things on the loose and they’re so damn elusive. My Paladins snag one or two of them and lock them up at Stronghold, but most of them get away or simply won’t be found. We’re constantly playing catch-up, and it’s an absolute bloody nuisance. And who put the Greenteeth monster in a makeshift cage? That’s what I want to know. How did that happen?”

  For a time, the Grail was silent.

  Then it said, “You know as well as I do why they exist, these legends. Why they have assumed flesh.”

  Drake lowered his head in acknowledgement. “Yes,” he said softly. “You’ve told me before. It’s for the same reason I am still alive and I am Britain’s saviour.”

  “It was spontaneous. It was unstoppable. So much power was released at once, it could not go into you, not all of it. It had to be dispersed.”

  “And we’re stuck with a mess we have to clean up.”

  “You overstate the case,” the Holy Grail said. “It’s an inconvenience, that’s all, and you must not let it distract you from your mission. You still have much to do. You have a reputation to live up to. The role you are fulfilling is one of the most important, if not the most important, ever. You must continue to prove yourself worthy.”

  DRAKE LEFT THE museum chastened and reinvigorated. The Holy Grail had just given him a salutary lesson. Buck up your ideas. Stop being a wimp. At Thurlow, Sage, Wright Ltd., Emrys had often been a harsh taskmaster. He wanted the best from people and he got it through cajoling, coaxing and the occasional bit of well-intentioned bullying. His man-management skills were one of the traits Drake had most admired about him.