End of Days, page 7
He nonchalantly waved his gauntlet at Michael.
Michael gave no response.
‘Your solemnity distresses me, brother!’ he shouted.
Michael watched Lucifer. Silent.
‘No matter, brother’ Lucifer said dismissively. ‘When I take the throne, I shall make you my jester . . . my light entertainment.’
Eden
The First Heaven
Lucifer strode rapidly toward the eastern side of Eden, Yehovah’s garden. He knew precisely where he was heading.
He strode past the cherubim guarding the Tree of Life, past the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, then walked through the Eastern Gates.
He followed the familiar path that wound toward the gardens of fragrance that grew far below the plains.
He walked under the narrow pearl harbour covered with pomegranate vines laden with lush silver fruits, his breathing shallow, treading frantically over beds of gladioli, past the rows of frangipani trees, across the familiar lawns of golden bulrushes and buttercups with fine crystal stamens, toward the intense shafts of blinding crimson light radiating from far beyond.
Across the vale, he came to the inconspicuous grotto at the very edge of the Cliffs of Eden, surrounded by eight ancient olive trees. Christos’ garden.
It was there. Just as Lucifer had known it would be. He pushed open the simple wooden gate.
The garden was empty.
Christos was nowhere to be found.
Lucifer gazed in frustration out across the vast, seemingly bottomless chasm below, towards the magnificent Rubied Door, ablaze with light, that soared hundreds of feet high in the jacinth of the tower walls – the entrance to Yehovah’s throne room. As the door swung ponderously open, the blue lightnings and thundering grew in intensity. A tempestuous wind began to blow.
In the centre of the Rubied Door, barely visible, an immense white form swathed in blazing light stood watching him.
Lucifer lifted eyes filled with terrible yearning and looked at the figure.
The majestic form watched Lucifer silently.
Lucifer clutched Christos’ bench, strangely weakened.
The response from the blazing light was complete silence.
Suddenly, a pulsating wave from the form fell onto Lucifer’s face. The fierce light hovered over his body until his entire form was wrapped in the wondrous pulsating luminescence.
He drank it in hungrily, desperately, bathing in the streams of compassion, of the unimaginable mercies of undying love that consumed him.
‘I did it for you!’ he shouted. ‘I did it all for you! To show you that the race of men will desert you. They will fail you. They will betray you.’
Sobs racked his body.
‘Just as I betrayed you,’ he sobbed, falling to his knees, staring transfixed at the form, now partially visible through the incandescent light.
Michael and Jether watched in awe as Yehovah, the omniscient himself, moved towards Lucifer.
No one will ever know what passed between Yehovah and my elder brother that day.
Only that when my brother Michael found him in the East of Eden, he was pinned to the ground as by an invisible force, trembling violently, unable to rise to his feet.
Lucifer stared down in torment at the blood dripping from his hand, staining his white robe crimson.
Rapidly regaining his strength, he savagely pushed Michael from him.
‘I don’t need your help, brother,’ he snarled.
Michael stared at Lucifer, his eyes expressionless.
‘The next time you enter these gates, brother, will be your last.’
Lucifer raised his face in hatred to where the form had been standing.
‘By the setting of these thirty-nine crimson moons, the throne shall be mine,’ he hissed. ‘I will defeat you the day of the fortieth crimson moon, brother!’ he spat. ‘I will defeat the Nazarene!’ he screamed to where the blinding light still stood.
The First Heaven was completely silent. Then, through the horizon of consuming, blazing glory, echoed the sound of Yehovah.
Weeping.
CHAPTER SIX
Julia St Cartier’s Apartment
Kings Road, Chelsea, London
Twenty-Six Years Earlier, August 2000
Julia St Cartier sat barefoot, in her pale-pink silk pyjamas, cross-legged on the white satin bedspread that covered the treasured king-size bed that she had purchased on an antique-hunting trip to Paris. Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail, her face sans any make-up. She blew her nose for what must have been the tenth time in five minutes, then flung the tissue dramatically on top of a pile of tear-stained tissues. Her eyes were swollen from crying.
Rachel Lane-Fox lay with her long shapely legs draped across the end of the bed. ‘Jules, you’ve got to get hold of yourself. So you and Jason had a fight.’ She shrugged.
‘It was more than a fight, Rach,’ said Julia. ‘It was a total misunderstanding. He wants time and space.’ She looked up at Rachel through her tears. ‘A whole lot of space, Rach.’
‘He’s cut you off?’
Julia blew her nose, nodding. ‘You know how stubborn he is. He won’t even hear me out. And six thousand miles between us only makes it worse.’
‘So phone him.’
‘He’s not accepting my calls. And he’s blocked my texts and emails.’
‘Wow.’ Rachel eased herself up off the bed and walked to the window of Julia’s Georgian Chelsea flat. She turned around. ‘You really got to him, didn’t you?’
Rachel reached and grabbed another tissue out of the almost empty tissue box and held it out to Julia. ‘No man’s worth this, Jules.’
‘Except your Jonathan,’ Julia sniffed.
‘Jonathan and I never fight. I mean, even he admits Jason is stubborn as a mule.’
‘Well,’ said Julia. ‘I wish he’d never introduced us via Uncle Lawrence.’
Rachel gingerly picked up the used pile of pink tissues and dumped them into the wastepaper basket next to the wardrobe.
‘Come on. There’s a whole queue of men gagging to date you. You’ve been invited to Milan by Fabio in two weeks, to the most prestigious party in the fashion industry. Rich Avi’s jet is waiting and fuelled to fly you to the Grammys. George Smyth, who’s a multi-millionaire, is literally begging you to meet his family.’
Julia picked up her Blackberry and scrolled down her messages.
‘Have you ever been with a man and you felt so safe . . . so safe that it felt like the entire world could burn around you and you’d be okay. Because he’s there. Safe, secure. You know me, I’ve had to be strong the whole of my life, never able to lean on anyone.’
‘Yes,’ said Rachel, with quiet sympathy. ‘That’s exactly how I feel about Jonathan.’
Julia closed her eyes.
Rachel stood up to her full supermodel height, five foot ten, with her hands on her slender hips and her glossy low-lighted dark hair swinging.
‘Jules, I’ve told you this before. You’ve got to get tougher, darling.’
‘I am tough,’ Julia blurted.
Rachel grimaced at her. ‘No, I’m tough. You’ve always been a pushover. You’ve got to be tough in love. You’re too soft. You always have been, even at school.’
Julia glared back at Rachel and threw a tissue at her. ‘I’m tough in business,’ she exclaimed. ‘I didn’t get shortlisted as New Journalist of the Year in the British Journalist Awards for nothing.’
Rachel looked at Julia in amazement.
‘You got shortlisted?’
Julia nodded, picked up a newspaper and placed it in front of Rachel. She pointed to an article at the top of the page.
‘There. Julia St Cartier – shortlisted. Newcomer of the Year, freelance journalist for the Sunday Times.’
‘Oh! This is totally amazing, Jules!’
‘The Press Gazette announced it today. The awards dinner’s in December, ironically at the De Vere Connaught Hotel. It would have to be De Vere, wouldn’t it? Anyway, I’ve got two extra tickets. Will you and Jonathan join me?’
‘Jules!’ Rachel hugged Julia tightly. ‘We wouldn’t miss it for the world. It’s Mayfair, isn’t it?’
Rachel walked across the bedroom and opened the doors of Julia’s crammed wardrobe, rifled through her clothes and brought out a beautiful figure-hugging black dress.
‘Get your mind off Jason, girl! I’ve got some real news for you.’ She twirled around. ‘Julia . . . I’m pregnant!’
‘You’re what?’
‘Twelve weeks. If it’s a girl we’ll call her Alexa. If it’s a boy, Alex.
‘Now get up. Brush your hair, put on your little black dress. We’re going out to celebrate!’
De Vere Connaught Rooms
London
The excitement in the iconic grand hall of the De Vere Connaught Hotel was almost tangible. Rachel and Jonathan Lane-Fox kissed each other passionately.
Rachel lay back in her chair, looking around the table of twelve.
‘Where’s Julia?’ Jonathan asked. ‘I haven’t seen her since the drinks reception.They’ve already announced seven awards.’
‘In the ladies. She’s really nervous.’
‘Well,’ Jonathan smiled broadly, ‘being shortlisted for New Journalist of the Year – it’s real kudos.’ He stared up at the ornate arched ceilings and the enormous crystal chandeliers. ‘Impressive. Very Julia.’
He grinned. ‘Speak of the–’
Julia walked towards them, her long blonde hair glossy and swinging free. She was dressed in a fitted silver sheath, tottering in her silver Miu Miu five-inch heels. She sat down next to Rachel.
‘Nervous?’
Julia nodded, peering in her compact as she reapplied her candy-pink Mac lipstick.
Rachel gestured towards a suave, extremely handsome man seated next to Jonathan. ‘Tristan Conway,’ she whispered, ‘he’s got a beautiful home in Richmond, loads of money. He’s handsome and newly divorced.’
‘I don’t care about money,’ Julia muttered, snapping shut her compact.
‘Yes, you do!’ interjected Jonathan and Rachel at the same time.
Rachel held up a glass of sparkling water. ‘Glad you’re over Jason, Jules.’
Julia downed her full glass of champagne.
‘She’s obviously not.’ Jonathan Lane-Fox removed his glasses.
‘Jonathan, please talk some sense into her,’ said Rachel. ‘You’ve known Jason for years.’
Jonathan studied Julia intently. ‘Have you heard from him?’
‘No,’ muttered Julia, lighting up a black Sobranie cigarette.
‘Not a single word?’ exclaimed Rachel.
‘Listen, girl.’ Rachel placed her hand on Julia’s arm. ‘You’re the most exciting new journalist on Fleet Street. You’ve got six international job offers: Washington Post, New York Times, The Times in London, the list goes on. You’ve got the whole world at your feet. Tristan’s invited you to his house party in the country next weekend. Forget Jason. Forget New York. You need a man who looks after your heart, not one who breaks it.’
Jonathan tapped his horn-rimmed glasses on the table. ‘I think Jason will come round.’
Rachel glared at him.
Jonathan lifted his hands in surrender. ‘Yes, he’s the most stubborn man I’ve ever known. But I’ve never before heard the tone in his voice when he talked about Julia.’
‘That was before Meg Ryan and the vodka bloodbath happened.’
Jonathan leaned forward. ‘The what?’
Rachel sighed. Julia glared at her darkly. ‘Never mind.’
‘Jules,’ Jonathan sighed, ‘it sounds like you scared Jason out of his mind.’ He cocked his head to one side, unable to hide his smile. ‘He needs her, Rachel. Julia’s everything he lacks in his life: emotion, a little unpredictability, huge heart, kindness, laughter.’ Jonathan sipped at his coffee. ‘It’s just a matter of patience.’
‘It must have slipped your mind,’ said Rachel drily. ‘Julia doesn’t have patience.’
Jonathan grinned. ‘She’ll have to with Jason De Vere.’
He patted Rachel’s tummy. ‘Four months pregnant.’
Julia smiled weakly. ‘It’s amazing. I’m so happy for you both.’
Jonathan put his head to hers. ‘Patience, Julia. Patience,’ he whispered. ‘Immerse yourself in your work. It’s cathartic.’
He winked at her.
‘And give up the fags.’
The lights dimmed once more and conversation came to an abrupt halt.
All eyes were on the high-profile British celebrity who walked onto the stage.
‘It is our great pleasure to announce the British Journalism Award for New Journalist of the Year.’ He removed a card from the white envelope, scanned it and looked straight at their table.
‘The winner is . . . Julia St Cartier.’
London
2000
Julia sat at her study desk in her pale-blue dressing gown, a face mask on, her hair swept into a towel, as she stared blankly at the screen of her large white Apple Mac.
Rachel popped her head round the door. ‘Jules? Writer’s block?’
Julia looked up from the keyboard and threw up her hands. ‘I’ve been working on this piece for an entire fortnight. I’ve never had this kind of block before.’
‘You need a break, Jules. All you do is work. All work and no play makes Julia St Cartier . . .’
‘Stir-crazy,’ they cried in unison, laughing.
‘Jules. You got a moment?’ The tone of Rachel’s voice had changed.
‘Of course.’
‘Okay, listen up. I’ve got something serious to ask you.’
‘What’s up, Rach?’
‘Very serious, okay?’
‘Okay,’ agreed Julia tentatively.
‘Listen . . . uh . . .’ Rachel paced up and down the study.
‘It must be really serious if you’re pacing.’ Julia removed her glasses, saved her document and turned to Rachel.
‘It is serious, Jules,’ Rachel sighed. ‘Okay, here goes. If anything ever happened to me or Jonathan . . . will you promise to take care of my baby?’
‘What do you mean if something happens? Nothing’s going to happen.’ Julia frowned. ‘But yes, of course. You know I would.’
‘Promise.’
‘Absolutely. I promise. Rachel Lane-Fox, I’ve known you since I was thirteen. This isn’t like you at all. What’s going on with you? You’ve got my full attention.’
‘Jules, Jules. Look, I don’t know how to say this.’ Rachel took a deep breath. ‘I’m involved in stuff.’
‘In stuff? What do you mean you’re involved in stuff?’
‘I’m investigating something, Julia. Something really serious. I’m in over my head.’
Julia took Rachel’s hand in her own and clasped it tightly. ‘Rach, I’ve got connections. Informants. I’ve done some research of my own. I know who you work for. I’m an investigative journalist. You had to know that I’d find out.’
Rachel nodded. ‘I guessed you would sooner or later.’
‘You’re Mossad, aren’t you?’
Rachel nodded.
‘Being an international supermodel on the ramps is a great cover.’
Rachel smiled, a glint of steel in her eye.
‘And Jonathan. Does he know?’
Rachel shook her head. ‘No, my Jonathan’s an investment banker, an intellectual. He doesn’t know. It keeps him safe.’
She paused. ‘Jules, listen. This investigation I’m involved in . . . it’s a black op, off the books. I’m investigating some extremely high-powered people who’ve done some extremely dark things.’
Rachel hesitated again. ‘It’s dangerous.The most dangerous thing I’ve ever done. I’m resigning after this.’ She placed her hand on her tummy. ‘I’m going to be a real mom.’
‘And you can’t tell me any details?’
Rachel shook her head.
‘Jules, if anything ever happens to me or Jonathan, you’ve got to promise me you’ll look after my baby.’ She looked deeply into Julia’s eyes. ‘I have to know he’s in safe hands.’
‘He?’
‘Yes. We had the scan yesterday. It’s a boy,’ Rachel said. ‘We’re going to call him Alex. Alex Lane-Fox. Jules, I’d trust you with my life. I need to know I can trust my son to you. Promise me, Jules.’
‘Rachel, if anything ever happened to you I would take Alex as my own.’
Rachel leaned over and squeezed Julia’s hands.
‘But it won’t. You’re going to be fine.’
‘Yes, of course I am.’
Julia stood up and embraced Rachel tightly.
‘By the way, Jonathan wants you to come to Italy with us. Baby shopping,’ said Rachel, and smiled. ‘You know you’ve never been able to resist Rome. Especially the Residenza Napoleone III.’
Julia’s mouth dropped open, cracking the face mask. ‘Oh my gosh, Residenza Napoleone – it’s a total paradise. Antiques, chandeliers, old masters. It’s above my pay grade at the moment, Rach.’ Her face dropped.
‘My treat,’ said Rachel. ‘I’m paying. The ramp’s been good to me lately. The owner’s become a good friend. And Jonathan said he’s arranging a little surprise for you. To cheer you up.’
‘A surprise?’
‘Yup. He’s keeping me in the dark about it. We leave three weeks on Thursday. There for the whole weekend. Flight leaves from Heathrow at 4 p.m. We’ll pick you up at midday.’
Rome
2000
Rachel clung excitedly onto Jonathan Lane-Fox’s hand and peered into the window of the most luxurious baby shop in Rome.
‘There!’
Jonathan and Julia followed her gaze to an extremely expensive looking pram.
‘It’s perfect!’
Jonathan shook his head in half-hearted protest. ‘We’ve got to get it back to London, Rach.’
‘We’ll ship it!’ declared Rachel.
Jonathan sighed. ‘Listen, darling, the shipping will cost more than the pram.’
‘I have to have it. You know how much money I make on the ramp.’
Closing his eyes, Jonathan sighed again. He winked at Julia. ‘Never fight with a pregnant Jewish supermodel.’
He fingered the Star of David around her neck tenderly. ‘If you really want it . . .’
