The Power of Five Oblivion

upturned nose, the pitiless slash that was her mouth. There was something else. A circular hole gaped in the very centre of her forehead. As she reached him, Scott toppled forward, retching, his hands sprawled out in front of him. He didn’t care what he looked like. He wasn’t going to pretend to be brave. The simple truth was that he couldn’t take any more.
    He felt a hand rest on his shoulders.
    “Scott?” the voice asked, but now it was a different voice. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
    He looked up.
    It must have been the drug they’d pumped into him because in an instant the room had changed. It wasn’t a surgery any more. And it wasn’t Susan Mortlake. It was a man in a suit, although in a strange way he looked a little like her. He also wore glasses, round ones, and there was something about the shape of his face, the very thin mouth that reminded him of her. The man had short, almost military-style fair hair, made up of tight curls. His skin was smooth and there was no hint of any beard or moustache. He looked both puzzled and concerned, as if he didn’t understand why Scott should have collapsed in front of him.
    And the machines had gone. So had the bed. Scott was in a much larger room than he had first thought – it was actually more of a chamber – with a vaulted ceiling and a chandelier with at least a hundred candles. Was there even electricity? The room could have been modern or it could have belonged to the Middle Ages. It was hard to be sure of anything. There was an oversized fireplace on one side, with a neat pile of logs blazing cheerfully. The floor was paved with flagstones but there was a thick antique rug spread out in front of the fire. Two sets of glass doors led out onto a balcony with a stone balustrade. Although it was the middle of the day, it was very dark. The sky seemed to be full of soot.
    “Are you all right?” the man asked.
    Scott was on the floor, on his knees. He looked around him, afraid that if he so much as blinked the room would change again.
    “I don’t want to hurt you,” the man said. “In fact, I’ve brought you some lunch.”
    He gestured. Scott hadn’t noticed it before but there was also a table in the room – or maybe it was part of the same trickery and it had just appeared. It had been laid for two with plates of cheese, fruit, cold meat, cakes and a jug of some dark red liquid, like wine. There were paintings on the wall – portraits of people who might have died centuries ago – and an old tapestry showing men with bows and arrows, chasing a deer. None of this had been there before. It was as if everything was assembling itself around him. Like a dream.
    “Are you hungry?” the man asked. Scott had no appetite. Not right now. But he was also aware that he hadn’t eaten properly for weeks. His stomach had never been more empty. The man reached down and helped him to his feet. “Here, let me give you a hand. You certainly seem to have been going through the wars!”
    Scott was sitting at the table, although he couldn’t remember walking there. The chair was shaped like a throne with arms that curved around him. The food was very simple but the smell of it was absolutely delicious. He looked down. Incredibly, he seemed to be wearing different clothes: black trousers and a black shirt. It was the same sort of outfit he’d been forced to wear when he was working in the theatre, only the fabric was more expensive; the softest cotton.
    “Please – help yourself.”
    The man poured some of the red liquid and Scott drank greedily. It wasn’t wine but it had the same intoxicating effect. It was cold and tasted sweet – some sort of berries.
    “Where am I?” Scott asked.
    “You’re in Naples. In Italy. You were brought here by helicopter from the Abbey of San Galgano. That was where you came through the door. I’m sorry you’ve had such an uncomfortable time but it took a while for the news to reach America. I came as quickly as I could.”
    “What about Pedro?”
    “What about him?” The man seemed genuinely surprised that Scott had asked. “Do you want me to invite him up?” he asked.
    Of course Scott wanted Pedro here. He couldn’t possibly leave him on his own in a freezing cell, eating the scraps that were thrown his way. He was about to say so but perhaps he hesitated for just a moment too long because the man cut in again.
    “We don’t really want the Stick Insect, do we?”
    “No.” The word fell heavily from