PROLOGUE

Harvard, Mozart and the Monarchy had led him into the old black-bricked mansion with the black front door to which by tradition, he had no keys. Imperious portraits lined the walls of his home, closely watching their successor through time. A whiff of power drifted down dimly-lit staircases from its awesome past. It was intoxicating and orgasmic but now a lost scent was pulling him away.

      He stepped across the floor of the narrow room, a room with tall windows and Big Ben framed in the distance. This was his Study: A freezing fulcrum of power by day, that grew into a magical concert hall at night. Leaning lightly against the long windows, he watched the coppery glow of halogen-lit London. His dark solemn eyes wore a distant look. Darkness and mist had arrived together in their slow spiral around Big Ben, reincarnating Dickensian London. If only he could have lived in that time—with the gaslights, and the scent of smoke and the crackle of burning leaves. He caught a note from the wind as it played against glass. A chord struck inside and he turned away from the windows and moved to the Roland synthesizer that stood by the pillared fireplace. He had to play once more before taking that long journey upstairs to the cramped coffin-like apartment that hung empty in the rafters of the great Georgian house. It was time for some Night Music. And time to decide if this was ambition’s end.

      Coiled bare over the keyboard, his fingers blurred over the Roland’s ivory keys producing a symphony of power. Designed by the rhythm of the flames from the fireplace, glistening beads of sweat mirrored off his translucent skin and wrapped him with ribbons of color. His moist body shivered as the gust of beating emotions reached its crescendo and wide waterfalls of energy streamed into pure melody.

      Suddenly, an absolute vacuum of silence. He froze, entombed in a moment of acute clarity. The answer filled his space—he had to break through those carbon-reinforced windows that kept out both bullets and air. These walls would never have warmth. This could never be home. Never be Camelot. He couldn’t let himself get any older here—it was time to let the house go. He changed the settings on the synthesizer to automatic. Tonight, Mozart would give way to the Beatles in the dark room that overlooked St James Park. Night Music would become A Hard Day’s Night.

      He moved to the centre of the study and stood motionless for a moment on the oval Bukhara carpet that adorned the mahogany floor. His body began to shiver as the music from the electronic piano ricocheted off the walls. He moved slowly at first, then faster and faster, becoming relentlessly feral, dancing in the dark.