The Artisans

by J G Alva

  Bellafont held up a finger, and would not drop it until Clive nodded.

  “I’ll bring everyone together in one hour.”

  Bellafont nodded sagely.

  “Bring me a Bride,” he said.

  “A Bride?”

  “A Bride. And a Worker.”

  “A boy?”

  “A Bride and a Worker to share my bed.”

  “Yes, Bellafont.”

  “One is not enough. But two will quench the fire.”

  “Yes, Bellafont.”

  Bellafont went into his bedroom, and Clive hurried from the motorhome, to do as he was bid.

  ◆◆◆

  “I don’t understand,” Greg said.

  The village of Mark was an hour south of Bristol. It was the tiniest little hamlet –

  fifteen minutes off the M5 – and had a population of about fifteen hundred people. Aimee took the A38 – at Greg’s suggestion – and now Sutton watched as what seemed like miles of dark empty fields rolled past the windows. There were no streetlights, not this far into the countryside, and no moon. It was almost preternaturally dark.

  “What don’t you understand?” Sutton asked. The man’s voice was giving him a headache.

  “Why are they coming after Toby?”

  “Nobody’s left the Cult before.”

  “That can’t be true,” Greg said. “Other people must have left. Surely.”

  Sutton turned in his seat. Dr Ruminatra was on his knees in the boot, bent over the sleeping form of Toby. The makeshift IV hung from a grab handle in the roof, swaying with the motion of the car. Greg sat awkwardly by Toby’s feet, almost directly behind Aimee. He had a hand on his son’s ankle…as if laying claim to a horse he had bought.

  “You and Alfred did the research,” Sutton remarked. “Did you ever find anybody who had left?”

  An unpleasant expression crossed Greg’s features then, but he didn’t reply. He didn’t like being told when he was wrong.

  Sutton was developing an exceedingly strong dislike for the man.

  Aimee asked, “are you saying something happens to these people? If they leave the Cult?”

  Sutton shook his head.

  “No. It’s my understanding that no one leaves…because no one wants to leave. The overwhelming impression I got from three weeks as a Disciple was that everyone within the Cult is happy. Almost blissfully so. It’s just one big family. Everybody looks after everybody else. There’s no loneliness, no one gives anyone else orders-“

  “Except Broadbent,” Greg remarked.

  “Of course,” Sutton conceded. “But he’s so revered that it’s an honour to do something to for him. A reward, instead of a punishment. To help the great Bellafont, the fountain of old knowledge-“

  “God, you’re beginning to sound like one of them,” Greg said unpleasantly.

  “I was one of them. For three weeks. I ate with them, worked with them, laughed with them. They’re nice people.”

  “They just fucking attacked us,” Greg exploded. “How can they be nice?”

  “He’s right,” Aimee said. “Being shot at with bows and arrows is not a nice thing to do. And God knows what they would have done to us if they’d actually got at us.”

  “It’s only because they feel threatened,” Sutton said. “I took Toby away from them. They care for him as they do their own children.”

  “He is my child!”

  “Yes. And look how you reacted.”

  Greg was silent then.

  Seemingly endless tarmac rolled under the wheels of Greg’s luxurious People Carrier; at least they were riding in comfort. The headlights probed the dark for the shapes of their reality, picking out a line of undergrowth when the road curved, or a small dark house at a junction. There were no other cars on the roads, and Sutton puzzled over it for a moment before he remembered that it was Sunday. Sunday night. God, it was like he had been away from the world forever.

  “Did you meet him?” Greg asked.

  “Who?”

  “Bellafont. Broadbent. Did you meet him? In person, I mean.”

  Sutton nodded. He thought back to that meeting momentarily, but there was nothing new to find in his memory. He had puzzled over it, trying to determine what could be responsible for making a man’s whole aspect so different…He had come to no conclusions either way. The man just was.

  “Yes,” he said. “Once. But only once.”

  “He doesn’t come down and mingle with the commoners?”

  Sutton stared at Greg. He knew why the Cult offended him so completely. It was because the world as he knew it had no effect on it. He couldn’t buy his way in, or buy Toby out. Everything he had built for himself – his money, his prestige, his empire – meant nothing to any member of the Cult. And that scared him, made him powerless.

  But money did get Toby out, a small voice in the back of Sutton’s head reminded him. His money bought him you.

  “There’s a structure, inside the Cult,” Sutton began. “A hierarchy. You’ve got the Disciples…they’re sometimes called the Workers. Then you’ve got the Brides; as you can imagine, this group is made up of women. Then you have the Soldiers, which is Bellafont’s inner circle. Or his right hand, if you will. Then Bellafont’s at the top. But unlike our own monarchy, he’s not just a figurehead, Greg.”

  Greg frowned and said, “but all our research says he’s mad. Off his head. It’s Clive that’s the brains of the organisation.”

  “And that might very well be true,” Sutton admitted. “But that’s not all of it. You can’t underestimate him. None of us can. This is not just a bunch of sun worshippers…there’s more going on here.”

  “Tell me,” Greg said. “I need to understand this.”

  Sutton looked out at the road ahead. The headlights picked out a sign for Bob and Cheryl’s B&B briefly, before it was lost behind them.

  “You research was good. I take my hat off to Alfred for finding out so much. You found out that Bellafont’s real name is Michael Broadbent; that he is twenty nine years old; that he went to Leeds University, where he studied English Literature. You found out that his publisher purposely buried his past and is at least partially responsible for the Cult gaining any traction in the first place, that part of the attraction is the cloud of mysticism that surrounds Broadbent: an all-seeing, all-knowing, Rasputin-esque, self-proclaimed prophet. But what Alfred’s research failed to fully capture was the uncanny presence of the man. He’s filthy, he’s not physically very strong, he’s certainly not prepossessing, but it took all I had to meet his eye. Part of it – you’re right, Greg – is that he is mad. I fully believe it. But the other part is that somehow he has his madness under control. Chained up, in the back of his head…and he uses it. Do you understand? It’s the fuel for his preaching. It’s…it’s hard to explain. When you’re near him, you fully expect something irrational from him; I mean, if he dropped his trousers and started clucking like a chicken, you wouldn’t be surprised. And yet he almost never does anything even remotely like that. He is fully contained. You’ve heard about his predictions of course-“

  “Absolute poppycock,” Greg said scornfully.

  “I expect they are. I wouldn’t be surprised if his publishers proliferated that rumour too. But you and I both know that there’s always a core of truth to any rumour. And we know he’s a very smart man: if nothing else, then his novel is testament to that. It’s a good read. A captivating read, you might say. But he does have an active part in the Cult. He gives orders, sometimes really random ones, but they always come good. I understand he sniffed out an undercover policeman a couple of years ago. So he’s not oblivious. Just don’t dismiss him. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Greg grunted; an affirmation of sorts.

  “And Clive?”

  “Well. We know Clive Goddard owned his own computer firm.”

  Greg nodded and said, “he wrote software for Apple at one point. He designed some intuitive platform for one of their tablets which was incr
edibly successful. And then he sold his firm and his house and joined Broadbent.”

  “After his wife died,” Sutton said, nodding. “He obviously had some kind of spiritual crisis. Well. Clive hardly leaves Broadbent’s side. He’s very protective of him. It was his idea to set up the Soldiers.”

  “But they’re not real soldiers,” Aimee said.

  “They’re more like bodyguards and general helpers,” Sutton said. “But their selection is not wholly random. They are all young, physically fit, and extraordinarily devout. The head of the Soldiers is a man they call Stannut.”

  “Stannut?”

  “Did you read Broadbent’s novel or not?”

  Greg sniffed.

  “I glanced through it.”

  Sutton wiped at his eyes. For fuck’s sake.

  He tried not to show his frustration when he said, “Stannut was the leader of the resistance in Broadbent’s book. I don’t know what Stannut’s real name is, but I heard that he was in the army in Afghanistan.”

  Greg was silent, and when Sutton turned to him he had a thoughtful look on his face.

  After a moment, the older man said, “he’s been training them?”

  Sutton nodded.

  “I watched their drills one morning. There are eighteen Soldiers, seven of whom are young girls. You know. Late teens, early twenties. But I don’t have any doubt that they would happily slit all of our throats, if ordered to do so.”

  There was a disturbing well of silence inside the vehicle for a moment.

  “We’re here,” Aimee said, pointing to a sign: Welcome to the Village of Mark. “We’re in Mark.”

  ◆◆◆

  Alfred Algers’ house in Mark was one long bungalow set back from a curving road that ended in a cul-de-sac; it was hidden behind a screen of trees, at an angle to the driveway. A garage capped the end of the drive, a small brick building separate from the house. Sutton instructed Aimee to turn the car around in the drive and leave it facing the road; it would make transporting Toby to the house easier.

  Also, Sutton had the idea that it might make the difference, if they had to get away in a hurry…

  But he kept that bit of information to himself.

  Greg recovered a key from a large plant pot behind the garage, and once inside de-activated the alarm with the code Alfred had given him.

  “How safe is this place?” Aimee asked.

  “Alfred’s mother-in-law lived here,” Greg said, turning on the lights. A long hall led through the building to the back of the house. “She died six months ago. I didn’t know about this place, so there’s no way Toby could have. Even if Clive is inclined to check for any properties linked to me, he won’t find this one. It’s safe. Aimee, can you check out the rooms and see which one would be best for Toby?”

  While Aimee went off to do that very thing, Sutton opened the boot. He helped Dr Ruminatra out, who had some trouble straightening his legs.

  “Lack of circulation,” he said, by way of explanation, and proceeded to walk in circles until the blood flow was restored.

  Greg climbed into the back to check on Toby.

  “Tell me,” Dr Ruminatra said quietly to Sutton. “Do you know why the boy joined the Cult in the first place?”

  Sutton looked at the dim outlines of father and son. He could see their mouths moving, but not hear what they were saying.

  “It’s a good question,” Sutton admitted. “But no, I don’t know why.”

  “Hm.” The doctor looked sceptical.

  “I didn’t have to know.”

  “You are too smart not to have a theory,” the doctor said. A smile touched the corner of his mouth.

  “Well…I always put it down to teenage angst. Apparently, Toby is a very sensitive boy. You know, he likes his poetry, his novels, things like that.”

  “Angst,” Dr Ruminatra said. He was not impressed. “A pastime of the rich, yes? In my country, in my youth, there was only ever enough time to survive.”

  Aimee returned.

  “There’s a room right at the back that looks perfect,” she told Greg.

  “Good. Sutton?”

  “I’ll take him.”

  Aimee asked, “does Alfred employ a cleaner? The place is spotless.”

  Greg shrugged.

  “I have no idea.”

  Gently, Sutton pulled the boy toward him. Greg unclipped the IV from the grip handle and passed it to Dr Ruminatra, and both he and Sutton followed Aimee down the long hall, across the living room, down another shorter hall, to a bedroom in the back.

  There was a single bed beneath a window, a small wicker chair with a terracotta cushion, a white plastic laundry basket, a sewing machine, and a small en suite bathroom. Aimee pulled the cord and explored it while Dr Ruminatra pulled back the covers; Sutton laid Toby on the bed.

  “Perfect,” Dr Ruminatra said, and reached up to hang the bag of fluids from the curtain rail.

  “I doubt anything has been perfect for you tonight, doctor,” Sutton remarked.

  Dr Ruminatra froze for a moment.

  “Well, no,” he admitted, tugging on the bag to make sure it was secure. “But I am being generously compensated for my discomfort.” He turned to Sutton. “And what of your discomfort?”

  “What of it?”

  “Are you being adequately compensated?”

  Sutton thought about that for a moment.

  “Scars of the soul do not heal as well as those of the flesh,” the doctor remarked sagely.

  Sutton forced a smile.

  “I’ll survive.”

  “I have no doubt you will, my friend,” Dr Ruminatra said, patting him on the shoulder and returning the smile.

  Aimee turned off the light and closed the bathroom door.

  “How’s he doing?” She asked.

  “Sleeping,” Dr Ruminatra said, checking his pulse. “Yes. Just sleeping.”

  “Are you alright?” Sutton asked him. “Do you need anything?”

  Dr Ruminatra took the chair by the bed.

  He waved his hand dismissively.

  “I’m fine. Go. Get some rest. You must be tired.”

  Sutton nodded, and both he and Aimee left the room.

  They returned to the living room, where Greg was pacing in front of the long concertina of patio doors – six in all, Sutton counted – and talking on his mobile to someone. He stopped when he saw them and, covering the mouthpiece, said, “talking to Alfred.”

  He turned away from them. Sutton looked at Aimee, and gave her a small smile: they were as good as dismissed.

  “Does the gentleman care for a tour?” She asked, with a flourish.

  Sutton looked around.

  “The gentleman cares for a shower. And a soft pillow.”

  Aimee smiled.

  “Right this way, sir.”

  ◆◆◆

  CHAPTER 5

  Pat left his car in the random square of forgotten tarmac at the back of the station that laughably passed as a car park and walked toward the entrance. Darren’s car came in shortly afterward, with Bob in the passenger seat. Pat went inside and almost tripped over a ladder; someone was working on the arched entrance, but as of that moment they were nowhere to be seen. Pat smothered his irritation. The Bridewell Station was old, unliveable…unsafe, and as such each department was being moved from it to a newly refurbished building half a mile away. Pat’s taskforce – and a minimum of Admin staff – were about the only people left in the cavernous decaying building, and walking through the empty corridors you could be forgiven for getting a little chill from the echoing abandoned spaces. Bridewell Station was over two hundred years old, and it was just the kind of building that would be inhabited by ghosts. Not that he believed in such nonsense.

  Still, the empty corridors, the random echoes…they were unsettling.

  Pat was struggling with his phone when Darren and Bob entered the Work Room.

  Thankfully, Darren noticed Pat’s travail and came to join him.

  “Let
me look at it.”

  Pat passed him his mobile. It was a Sony Xperia, white, slim, futuristic looking, and totally unreliable.

  “Honestly, it seems like every time I touch the bloomin’ thing it shuts down,” Pat said, feeling a little hot under the collar with irritation. Faulty machines affected him that way.

  Darren looked amused when he said, “maybe you should join the Cult.”

  Pat grunted.

  “That is far from amusing, DC Board.”

  “Hm. Here you go. It should be fine now.”

  He passed the phone back to Pat.

  “That was quick. Almost as quick as the last time. What was wrong with it?”

  Darren shrugged but said, “you had some anti-virus software running in the background. Completely unnecessary. It was probably conflicting with some of your apps. That’s why it was shutting down.”

  Pat stared at him.

  “I honestly did not understand a word of what you just said,” he admitted, scrolling through his phone.

  As if by magic, it now seemed to be working properly.

  More and more, it seemed like technology was the basis for their lives, that to exist without it was to consign yourself to the rubbish bin. It certainly invalidated your opinion, at least to anyone under thirty. How surprised had Pat been when he had learned that all police vehicles were now being tracked using GPS? His resentment then was perhaps not against technology itself, but in how it was making all he knew redundant. Was that resentment also in part a reason behind the Cult’s theology?

  But if that was the case, why were so many young people attracted to it?

  He wondered.

  His mobile rang abruptly. He was so surprised he almost dropped it.

  He looked at the identity of the caller on the screen and felt his stomach tighten in anticipation: DCI Kent.

  “Detective Chief Inspector Kent,” Pat said, answering the phone.

  “Go to Mark,” Kent said. He sounded angry.

  “We’ve just attended-“