by Alan Fenton
. . . ’ And seconds later . . . ‘Missiles airborne!’
At 23.58 hrs., two minutes before the deadline Arthur had agreed with the US President, the missiles struck the KOE and the DAR within seconds of each other. Minutes later a shocked world learnt that there had been an exchange of missiles
– at least some armed with nuclear warheads – between the Democratic Arab Republic and the Kingdom of the Euphrates. Within an hour the world’s media reported the dramatic news: Sadiq el Shaeb, ruler of the Kingdom of the Euphrates, and Ibn Khalid, ruler of the Democratic Arab Republic, had both been killed, and their countries’ missile sites obliterated. It was also thought that significant damage had been inflicted on both countries’ key military bases and installations. There was much speculation about the sudden upsurge of violence. Some journalists, especially in the Arab media, claimed that it was the work of the United States of America, some suggested it was the Iranians, others blamed Israel.
The US President was ecstatic. With one master stroke Arthur had cut off the heads and removed the teeth and claws of two of America’s most dangerous enemies. The aborted missile attack on the United States had been avenged without the USA being drawn into a nuclear conflict. The President had only one niggle: Arthur refused to explain how Camelot had persuaded Sadiq and Khalid to attack each other. All he would say was that one Ian Tichgame deserved the credit. The name meant nothing either to the White House or the War Department. A young cryptologist pointed out that the name Ian Tichgame was an anagram for The Magician, an interesting observation that was, however, thought to have no special significance.
On the day following these extraordinary events in the Middle East, millions of people across the two hemispheres of the planet witnessed an amazing phenomenon. As the sun rose, a light blazed, a light as powerful as a hundred lightning flashes, and there in the sky hung a great sword, its blade glowing so brightly that no one dared look at it for more than a second or two. As the sun rose higher in the heavens, the sword shone brighter still. In the afternoon its light began to dim, and at the day’s end, as the sun sank below the horizon, the sword glowed blood red, fading finally with the dying light. It was not the first time that the world had seen the Sword in the Sky, and there were few people across the globe who did not recognise its significance.
Both the KOE and the DAR suffered widespread destruction, chiefly, though not exclusively, to military installations. There were also several thousand casualties, some of them civilian. The United States and the European Union collaborated in organising a rehabilitation programme, injecting many billions of dollars and euros to build hospitals, restore public services and reconstruct damaged civilian property, partly from humanitarian motives, partly in the hope that the two countries would embrace democracy and a pro-western foreign policy. In less than a year, however, the DAR and the KOE were in a state of anarchy, the majority of their citizens longing for another dictator to seize power and restore order.
In Camelot, the success of Operation NIWIS, and its disappointing aftermath, widened the gap between hawks and doves. The doves were unhappy, arguing that Camelot should not have been involved in a nuclear conflict. The hawks questioned what had been gained by tricking the KOE and the DAR into attacking each other. As an example to others, they argued, and to demonstrate its power, Camelot should have attacked both countries with Excalibur.
The disputes at the Round Table troubled Arthur, as did the battle he fought with his conscience. With the passing of the years there were more questions and fewer answers. The image of the headless black knight haunted his dreams. Would good ever overcome evil? Did he have the power to change the world? And even if he did, what gave him the right to change it? Plagued by doubts, he walked the dark corridors of despair, questioning the destiny that Merlin said he was born to fulfil.
Twenty Nine
A silver bentley – a present to Margot from Adrian Pellinore, her latest lover – drew up outside her house. From the first floor window of his study, her husband, Lennox Lotte, watched as the uniformed driver held the car door open for his beloved wife. Stepping in, she waved up at him through the rear window, and lowered the blind. For Lennox it was like the fall of the curtain at the end of the play. Slowly the Bentley crunched down the driveway, turned into the road and disappeared. When the sound of the engine had faded, he walked across the room to his desk and opened the top right hand drawer.
The sudden death of Lennox Lotte came as a shock to everyone who knew him, not least to his sons. It was Mordred who broke the news to Gawain.
‘No, it can’t be.’ ‘I’m afraid it is.’ ‘How did you hear?’ ‘The internet.’
Gawain was unable to take it in. His father was in his mid- fifties and had always enjoyed good health. ‘Was it a heart attack?’
‘It doesn’t say.’ Mordred handed him the print-out.
Gawain read the words aloud. Lennox Lotte, a well-known investment banker, died yesterday at his house in Sussex. It has been rumoured in the city in recent months that Lotte Enterprises was experiencing financial difficulties.
‘Nothing more?’
‘Not that I could find.’ ‘Do the others know?’
‘I rather hoped you’d . . . ’
‘Of course.’ As the oldest brother, Gawain was the one they all relied on. Calling Agravaine, Gaheris and Gareth to his apartment he told them what had happened. Agravaine stared at him in dismay, Gaheris hugged himself, groaning fiercely, and Gareth looked uncomprehendingly from brother to brother, hoping that one of them could explain what to him was inexplicable.
‘We must talk to mumsy,’ said Agravaine. Gawain nodded. ‘I booked a line.’
When the link opened and Margot was on screen, Agravaine, who adored his mother, spoke – or tried to speak – first. ‘Mumsy,’ he said, ‘mumsy . . . ’ But then he broke down.
‘Mother,’ said Gawain, ‘we are all so sorry.’
‘I’m in a state, darlings. Such a shock, you know. I never dreamed . . . ’ Tears filled her eyes.
‘Of course you didn’t, mother,’ said Gawain soothingly, waiting for her to calm herself. ‘What actually happened?’
Her hand to her bosom, Margot said faintly, ‘Your father shot himself.’
The brothers looked at each other in horror. For a long time the gravitational waves were silent. ‘In the name of God, why?’ asked Gawain finally.
‘I have no idea.’
‘On the internet it said there were problems with the business. Was that it?’
Margot pouted. ‘All I know is that lately your father was behaving very strangely. For one thing, he never stopped complaining about my credit card bills, said I shopped too much. What’s wrong with shopping? Everyone knows you meet the nicest people in shops. What did he expect me to do to relieve the monotony? Sit on charity committees? Deliver meals on wheels, for godsake!’
‘Of course not, mumsy,’ said Agravaine. ‘And then he started criticising my friends.’
The blood rose in Agravaine’s face. ‘What sort of friends, mumsy?’
‘You know what I mean, darling. He was accusing me of . . . ’ ‘Accusing you of having affairs, was he, mother?’ said Mordred, who, like all the brothers, had grown up with his mother’s peccadillos, ‘instead of looking the other way, like he always used to.’
‘That is so unfair!’ Margot’s face puckered, a solitary tear rolled down her cheek. ‘Why are you picking on me?’ she wailed.
Agravaine rounded on Mordred and Gawain. ‘Stop picking on mumsy,’ he snapped. ‘She’s upset.’
‘Mumsy’s upset,’ said Gaheris, nodding vigorously.
‘A girl’s allowed to have friends, isn’t she?’ said Margot. ‘Elaine is gone. Morgan is mad. You all deserted me. I’m lonely,’ she moaned, ‘so desperately lonely.’ Taking care not to damage her make-up, she absorbed a tear with the edge of a tissue. ‘Anyway, what right did he have to be jealous? Tell me that. A man of his age.’ Her voice dropped. ‘He’d become im
possible to live with,’ she said, nodding her head jerkily like a mechanical doll, as if to reassure herself that everything in her world was alright.
Since childhood, Mordred, like all the brothers, had seen his mother leave the family house “for good” on at least a dozen occasions, although, knowing which side her bread was buttered, she had always come back. This time, he surmised, it might have been different. Then, Lennox was rich. Now, apparently, he had lost everything.
‘Did you walk out on him, mother?’ he asked bluntly.
Margot was indignant. ‘Of course I didn’t. Why would you even suggest such a thing?’
‘Perhaps I misunderstood you,’ said Mordred. ‘Didn’t you say he was impossible to live with?’
‘Flinging my words in my face,’ she muttered. ‘So naturally I thought . . . ’
‘Naturally you thought the worst of me, like you always do, Mord.’ The corners of Margot’s mouth drooped sulkily. ‘Where did you learn to be so cruel?’
‘From you, mother,’ said Mordred.
‘You are heartless!’ cried Margot. ‘To accuse your mother of . . . of I don’t know what, when you can see how much I’m suffering.’ Covering her face with her hands, she heaved tumultuous sobs that alternated with long, shuddering intakes of breath.
Mordred waited for the storm to subside. ‘No one’s accusing you of anything, mother. We simply want to know why father took his own life.’
Margot’s hands shook, though whether from rage or nerves was impossible to tell. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she said. Her voice was strangled, trapped deep in her throat. ‘He lost all his money. Why else would he kill himself?’
The brothers looked at each other. ‘Why indeed?’ said Mordred.
Thirty
The family gathered round the open grave: Margot and her five sons – Gawain, Agravaine, Gaheris, Mordred and Gareth – Igraine, Arthur’s mother, in her mid-sixties still fresh- complexioned and beautiful; Arthur and Guinevere, hand in hand, and Margot’s sister, mad Morgan, released for a few hours from a secure psychiatric ward under the supervision of two male nurses, dressed, inappropriately for a funeral, in white uniforms.
Behind them were a number of friends and business associates, including a man in his fifties whom Agravaine did not recognise. ‘That man over there – the short, chubby one. Who’s he?’
‘Adrian Pellinore,’ said Mordred. ‘What’s he doing here?’
For a while Mordred did not answer, his attention apparently distracted by a crow pecking at the freshly dug earth piled round the open grave. ‘I believe he’s mother’s friend.’
Agravaine knew from experience that Mordred always chose his words carefully. Not a friend of his mother he had said, but mother’s friend.
‘You mean they’re lovers,’ he said, his expression betraying his distaste.
Mordred flicked idly through his Book of Common Prayer. ‘Did I say that?’
No, but he implied it, didn’t he? Agravaine suffered a massive heave of jealousy that surged from his stomach to his throat. He worshipped his mother, had always been closer to her than the other brothers, rather too close, his father would often say, too touchy-feely to be altogether healthy.
The clouds parted briefly, allowing a shaft of sunlight to penetrate the overcast sky before closing in again. I am the resurrection and the life . . .
The vicar invited those mourners who wished to do so to pick up a spade and throw earth on the coffin. His unemotional, sing-song delivery made the timeless words sound curiously bland: Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live
. . . In the midst of life we are in death . . . Spadefuls of earth thudded onto the coffin until it was covered . . . we therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . .
Before anyone could stop her, Margot jumped into the open grave. Sprawling face down on the coffin she clasped it in her arms and began to wail loudly. As Agravaine leaped after her, prised his mother from the coffin and hauled her out of the grave, Mordred whispered in Gawain’s ear, ‘That’s the closest she’s been to Lennox for years.’ Brushing off the earth and smoothing down his mother’s dress, Agravaine – who had overheard the sardonic comment – darted venomous looks at Mordred.
The funeral service over, Arthur and Guinevere said their farewells and left for their rendezvous with the Scuttle for the flight back to Camelot, taking the youngest son, Gareth, with them. Margot, family and friends, went back to Brackett Hall for drinks.
In an hour the crowd had thinned out, only a few close friends and family remaining. Igraine, Margot’s mother, had left, and Morgan, her sister, was dragged off by her minders, protesting shrilly. A great deal of wine and spirits had been consumed. Agravaine and Gaheris, having nothing better to do, concentrated on getting drunk, Agravaine on red wine, Gaheris – less discriminating in matters of alcohol – on gin, vodka and whisky. Mordred nursed the same glass of white wine he was handed when he arrived at the reception.
Whilst drinking, Agravaine followed his mother with his eyes. She made no pretence of mourning. On the contrary, she seemed in good spirits, chatting animatedly to friends and family alike. Now and then she exchanged words with Adrian Pellinore, nothing in either his or her manner suggesting anything other than a friendly relationship. The fact was, nevertheless, that he was still in the house long after most people had left, and that disturbed Agravaine.
‘Why is that poncey little man still here?’ he asked Mordred. ‘I told you,’ said Mordred. ‘He’s mother’s friend.’
With a shaking hand, Agravaine poured himself a glass of wine, in the process spilling a few drops on the carpet. The slight accident did not escape Mordred’s watchful eye.
‘Wassort of friend?’
‘If you don’t mind my saying so, Agro,’ said Mordred, ‘you’ve had quite enough to drink.’
Agravaine scowled. ‘None of your damn business.’ Gaheris appeared, clutching a glass and a bottle of vodka.
Mordred considered his two brothers. Drunk they were not; not yet. Well on the way, though.
‘Wassort of friend?’ demanded Agravaine again. ‘Who we talking about?’ said Gaheris. ‘Smellymore,’ said Agravaine, cackling at his jest. ‘Who?’
‘Adrian Pellinore,’ said Mordred.
‘Want me to smash his face in?’ enquired Gaheris, holding up a huge fist.
‘Look,’ said Mordred hastily, ‘why don’t we go somewhere else? I’m bored with this party.’ He consulted his wristcom. ‘We still have a few hours before Scuttle takes off.’
Agravaine was in stubborn mood. ‘Wanna stay here.’ ‘Wanna stay here,’ said Gaheris.
Mordred nodded. Here might not be a bad place to be. But not in the house. Things might get out of hand before their time, and then all would be lost.
‘Alright,’ he said, ‘why don’t we stock up with booze and adjourn to the summer house – have ourselves our own private party.’
Agravaine brightened. ‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘Good idea,’ said Gaheris.
In the next hour, Agravaine drank another bottle of red wine, and Gaheris a bottle and a half of vodka. Mordred pretended to drink Scotch, disposing of glass after glass in a flower pot behind his chair. The summer house was a hundred metres from the house. The sound of laughter and conversation drifted across the lawn, growing fainter as the sun went down.
Mordred prided himself on his ability to plan for all eventualities. Even he, though, could never have contrived a situation as promising as this. He took a sip of whisky – his first ever – and leaned back in his chair enjoying the warm glow in his stomach. ‘We should talk,’ he said, flinching as Agravaine belched loudly.
‘Washit you wanna talk about?’
Mordred took his second sip of Scotch. ‘Truth,’ he said. ‘Unless there’s something else you would rather talk about.’
Agravaine swayed onto the lawn, measured a slow, deliberate circle round a flower bed, waved his glass of wine in the air spillin
g most of it, and made his way back to the summer house, pausing with one leg in the air as he struggled to regain his balance. Collapsed in his chair again, he regarded Mordred with suspicious eyes.
‘Wadja mean?’
‘It’s a game.’ said Mordred. ‘I call it “truth gatecrashing the party”.’
Closing first one eye, then the other, Agravaine leaned back his head and, with some difficulty, lined up the neck of the wine bottle with his mouth. ‘Lesh play.’ he said.
‘Would you like me to start?’ said Mordred. Interpreting silence as consent, he said, ‘Adrian Pellinore knows our mother
– I mean, of course, that he knows her in the biblical sense,’ he explained with a malicious grin.
Agravaine sat up sharply, choking on his wine. ‘Wash bibli . . . bibli . . . ?’ asked Gaheris.
‘It means he fucks her,’ said Mordred.
Gaheris whimpered, Agravaine, red-faced, coughed and spluttered.
‘I’ve been hearing some naughty things about our mother,’ said Mordred. ‘Apparently she fell madly in love with Adrian Pellinore’s wallet. So she’s been having it off with him for months. And then one day she discovered that Adrian had a son – a pretty boy. So she screwed him too. Must have been quite a turn on, fucking father and son – presumably not at the same time – though come to think of it, I wouldn’t put it past her.’
Agravaine covered his face with his hands, tears squeezing through clenched fingers. ‘Poor mumsy,’ he groaned, over and over again. Gaheris rocked back and forth, whining like an animal in pain. Mordred clasped his hands behind his head and surveyed his brothers. ‘How do you like the truth game so far?’ he enquired amiably.
Agravaine mumbled something unintelligible. ‘You want to stop playing?’
Agravaine uncovered his tear-stained face. ‘No,’ he said, and immediately covered it again.
Mordred continued. ‘Some of Lennox’s good friends found out, and being good friends, they told him the truth. That’s what good friends are for, isn’t it?’
