New Pompeii (27 page)

“Please stop,” he said again, closing his eyes.

“
Do you hear me? You’re all going to fucking die for this!
”

Patrick. In his terror, the translator had shouted in English. The man with the sickle looked puzzled – not understanding the words, but hearing their venom. He pulled the sickle away. Nick opened his eyes just as the changing room filled with the sound of Patrick’s screams.

It stopped almost as soon as it had started. The poor bastard had probably lost consciousness. Nick turned his head, trying to see, but not quite pulling Patrick into view. It would be his turn next. He’d only been granted a temporary reprieve. Around him, the thin, hazy wisps of steam were getting thicker. But above the beating of his heart came a new sound: sandals on tiles, and metal on flesh.

Shouting. Screaming. Confusion.

Vengeance.

There were no longer any men holding him down.

It took a while for Nick to respond. He flailed on the floor, and then pushed himself to his feet – glancing down at the bloody mess in his groin and then dumbly towards where Patrick had been.

The translator was hidden by a scrum of men. Nick stumbled forward, but a man grabbed his wrist. Whelan.

The Chief Operating Officer looked him straight in the eye. There was no sympathy, only pure, unadulterated anger.

“Harris,” he said. “What do you know about a man called Harris?”

T
HE DRIVE FROM
Cambridge to London was a long one. Kirsten stared out of the window. Harris didn’t try to engage her in conversation. He stared ahead and concentrated on the road.

For the first time in years, Kirsten felt herself relax. She breathed out slowly and settled back against the headrest. It was a trip she used to make by train, visiting her parents…

Kirsten sprang forward in her seat. Her parents had lived in Hammersmith. But where would they be living now?

“What’s the matter?”

“I was just thinking about my parents.”

“You’ve been floating in that bathtub for the best part of thirty years.”

“They’ll be in their seventies now.” Harris didn’t respond. “My sister will be nearly fifty.”

“I’ll take you to them when we’re done,” he said. “One more day won’t matter.”

Kirsten nodded, uncertain.

“We’re nearly there,” Harris continued. “Don’t beat yourself up. It wasn’t your fault.”

Kirsten didn’t answer. She turned back to the window. They had reached Cambridge’s outer suburbs quicker than she’d expected. In thirty years the city had sprawled – what had once been out-of-town shopping centres were now surrounded by new houses. The shops looked like they’d seen better times; many were shuttered, or had large “sale” signs in their windows. She half expected Harris to provide some commentary about what had happened while she’d been away, but he remained silent. The first real landmark she recognised was the botanic garden.

“You didn’t use to be able to drive this way,” she said. “It was for buses.”

“No longer needed, now so few people drive.” Harris paused, as if contemplating further explanation. “It’s an expensive way to travel.” He pushed down on the accelerator and nudged his way onto the last stretch of road before the motorway.

Kirsten looked in the wing mirror. Somehow, she knew she’d never be coming back.

N
ICK WOKE
. H
E
opened his eyes and immediately registered the pain between his legs. He reached down and felt rough stitches.

His stomach heaved. He waited for the feeling to pass, and then allowed himself a hysterical giggle. At school he’d been hit in the groin by a cricket ball. As he’d lain prone on the ground, with his mates laughing all around him, his teacher had shouted, “Don’t rub them! Count them!”

So Nick counted. One. Two.

His testicles felt about three times larger than they should have – but they were both there. He was still intact. The relief almost overwhelmed him.

From the décor, he was back at the control villa. He tried to remember the events following the attack, but they were a haze. He tasted vomit at the back of his throat. He struggled to swallow, and rolled on to his side. The movement pushed his right leg against his wound and he quickly rolled back, trying to find a position that wouldn’t cause him any more pain.

There was a breakfast tray on the bedside cabinet. A croissant, a pot of jam and some fruit juice. Nothing that needed to be heated. Probably placed there so he could wake up at any time, and didn’t have to go stumbling about the villa looking for something to eat.

Beside the tray lay his tablet computer. On it was a handwritten Post-it note:
This is what we did.

He really didn’t want to know.

* * *

When he next woke his room was bathed in the half-light of either twilight or dawn. How much time had passed? He pushed himself up in bed. Tried to ignore the pain.

He didn’t know how many people Whelan had in the villa, or if any of them had visited him while he’d slept. The cold breakfast still lay on the bedside table. As did the tablet and its little note.
This is what we did.

Nick reached for the tablet and turned it on. The screen lit up. Whoever had left it for him had set it on a video file. For a moment, Nick hesitated. Did he really want to know?

No. No, not really. But he pressed play. The footage showed the interior of the Temple of Jupiter. Had they executed someone?

No. He was being shown yet more smoke and mirrors. A small crowd had gathered inside the temple, not on its steps as would be normal practice. In his short time in New Pompeii, he hadn’t found time to go inside the largest of the religious sites. The temple interior was dominated by three statues – Jupiter at the centre, with the goddesses Minerva and Juno on either side. They looked down over their subjects, reminding Nick of the Lincoln Memorial. The gods were watching a man in a chainmail suit.

From the size of him, it must have been Whelan. Sure enough, as the video continued, he was the only NovusPart man missing from the rest of the group. McMahon was to one side with Astridge. In the crowd stood Barbatus and Naso, surrounded by well-dressed Pompeians. Probably the townsfolk who commanded a vote. There were no women in the crowd. He didn’t see the man who’d tried to mutilate him. Nick focused on Whelan. A chainmail suit. He guessed what was about to happen before he saw it. Chainmail. Smoke and mirrors.

Electricity.

Sure enough, from the four corners of the temple shot sudden streams of lightning. Whelan reached out with his arms and seemed to catch it. The electrical charge spiralled around his arms, passing harmlessly over his body.

A Faraday cage.

Even to a modern audience, the trick was pretty spectacular. And it gave a very strong message to support their claim to god-like powers: just like Jupiter, Whelan had the power over the most frightening force in the ancient world. Even if the people working for him had been shown to be mortal.

Nick felt a sudden surge of rage. He flung the tablet across the room. It hit the wall opposite, but dropped – somewhat disappointingly – undamaged to the floor.

For a few seconds, Nick’s chest heaved. Then his rage turned to confusion. A sound came from deep within the villa; one that confirmed he wasn’t alone.

A baby crying. It was an incongruous sound. Whose baby was it?

He suddenly couldn’t move. He looked over at the discarded tablet. A Faraday cage.

He swore. The attempt to reinstate NovusPart’s smoke and mirrors policy may well have worked. But it had also brought into clear focus the town’s failed premise.

He’d been told he’d have the opportunity to walk the streets of a living, breathing Roman town. To speak with real Romans, and to find out how they’d lived. But that wasn’t what NovusPart had achieved. They’d simply taken a group of people and made their superstitions real. Which meant the town’s religious practices had been altered. It meant no one had wanted to talk to him as they might a neighbour. And it meant men jealous of their power had tried to remove it with a sickle.

So, yes, he could write a thesis. But it would only ever be about what happened to the people of Pompeii after they’d been transported. Not how they lived before the eruption.
You can’t measure something without changing it.

“You’re awake.”

Whelan was standing in the doorway, his features taut. “Yes,” Nick said, feeling his throat tighten.

What do you know about a man called Harris?

“You saw the video?” Whelan asked. Now he was away from Pompeii, he’d taken the opportunity to wear modern clothing. However, the neatly pressed shirt and chinos indicated he wasn’t in the mood for relaxing.

Nick nodded.

“Good. You’ll be pleased to know it had the necessary effect. The man behind the plot – someone who evidently failed to be elected aedile – has been handed over to us by your friend, Barbatus.”

“What will happen to him?”

“I’m not sure yet.” There was a glint in Whelan’s eye. It suggested that, whatever he had planned, he was going to enjoy it. And Nick guessed the man wasn’t going to get much of a trial. Not even a Roman one. Because out here, NovusPart could pretty much act how they wanted. Their word was law; and there was no accountability. They truly had the power of the caesars.

“Thank you for letting me know,” Nick said, his voice wavering. He hesitated.
What do you know about a man called Harris?
“So what does this mean for the town?”

“It means nothing.” Whelan’s smile disappeared. In the background the baby was crying. Nick wished it would stop. “It means NovusPart has suffered an accident and we’ve taken appropriate action.” Whelan took a few steps into the room. “I take it you’re not going to sue us?”

The power of the caesars. “No.”

“Good.” Whelan was silent for a moment. Nick knew what was coming. “I need to ask you something. McMahon’s pretty pissed off about it.”

The baby’s cries were getting louder. Like it needed its mother.

“What do you know about a man called Harris?”

Nick shifted on the bed, his legs bumping into his bruised genitals. The resulting wince of pain hid what might have been an incriminatory reaction. “Nothing,” he said.

Whelan mulled this over. It wasn’t clear if he believed him or not. “Did you meet anybody from the government before you came here?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“I was trying my best not to tell anybody about this. Not my friends. Not my father.”

“That’s what I told McMahon.” The muscles in Whelan’s brow remained tense. He didn’t look convinced. A drilling pain erupted in Nick’s right temple.

“I think I’m just about okay to travel,” he said. “I take it I’ll be flown out on the next helicopter?”

“No,” replied Whelan. “You’re staying here.”

Nick hesitated. Considered the illusion around him; and knew it wasn’t anything but smoke and mirrors. “I want to leave.”

“No,” replied Whelan, his tone firm. “Not yet.”

Again, Nick hesitated. Although the swelling was starting to subside, his stitches didn’t look all that professional. And he didn’t even want to think about the possibility of infection. Gangrene. “I need to get to a hospital,” he said.

“We’ve found a mole in our supply lines,” Whelan replied. The operations chief let the news sink in slowly. “A man carrying a message to an agent Harris supposedly has right here, in New Pompeii.”

Nick felt his throat wobble. “An agent?”

“Yes.”

“And what did the message say?”

Whelan roared with laughter, and the tense atmosphere was suddenly broken. “You think I would tell you?”

Nick felt his cheeks turn crimson. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Whelan continued to chuckle. “At least we’ve established you’re no Ace of Spies.”

“So when can I go?”

Whelan smirked. “We’ve delayed the next shipment to give us time to check the remaining staff at the supply depot,” he said. “The next helicopter will arrive in a few days. Then we’ll get you out of here. Though I’d hope to see you back, once you’ve had time to consider things.”

Nick shook his head. He didn’t want to go back to the town. Not after what had happened. No, he just wanted to go home. Back to his father, and his teaching. But there was something he did need to know. “What happened to Patrick?” he said, swallowing hard.

Whelan hesitated, but his voice didn’t waver. “He’s no longer here.”

“He’s dead? If you’d arrived a minute sooner…”

“I mean he was transported, Nick. Him and most of the men holding him down. I saw them all sucked out of existence. He’s been taken at least thirty years into the future.”

Nick didn’t reply. Deep in the villa, the baby continued to scream. NovusPart had transported Patrick?

“But…?”

“I can’t answer your question, Nick. Maybe there was some glitch.” Whelan paused, his expression betraying his own frustration at not knowing. “The only thing we know for certain is that you’ll have to wait thirty years to get your answer. And there are no witnesses to it from the town. We killed everyone who wasn’t transported.” He started to leave, then turned back. “Apart from you, that is.”

“
R
ONNIE
!
”

Nick hurried out of the flat and moved down the steps at speed. How much of his conversation with Whelan had Ronnie overheard?

When he opened the front door, he realised he’d made a mistake. There was a man waiting on the pavement. No, there were three. And Ronnie wasn’t among them.

Nick’s foot started to tap. It was his only release valve. At the desk in front of him sat the man who’d met him on the pavement outside Ronnie’s flat. A man wearing round horn-rimmed spectacles.

For what seemed like the hundredth time, Nick felt the urge to swear. To let out his anger, even though he knew it would all be directed inward. After all, he’d let them take him so damn quietly. But that didn’t stop him running through the incident in his mind. Thinking about what he could have done differently. But as soon as he’d realised what was going on, it was too late. He’d been taken to a black four-by-four, and then driven deep into the city. Now he was seated at a bare desk in a sterile office.