by Olly Jarvis
She giggled then did a drum roll with her fingers on the dash. ‘It has been nearly an hour, and I’ve been good.’ She gave him doe-eyes then laughed again. ‘I’m guessing it’s a picnic?’
‘Not even close.’ He slowed as they neared a turning. ‘This could be it. Look out for an old wooden sign saying “farm”.’
‘There it is!’ She pointed it out. She stuck out her bottom lip and giggled. ‘Which farm?’
He switched on the indicator and took a left down a muddy track. The car rocked from side to side, splashing its way through the potholes. ‘The guy that lent me this car also sorted it for us to go to David Kline’s retreat.’
She stared at him, dumbstruck. ‘What?’
‘Yeah, he’s having some kind of brainstorming day, apparently.’
She felt rudderless. ‘But I thought you didn’t like that sort of thing?’ She was so shocked, she felt herself retreating.
‘You do,’ he replied.
‘Do I?’
‘Course you do, and if the person you lo… like…’ He blushed. ‘You do what makes them happy.’
‘But I don’t know this guy. We don’t know him…’ Her protests petered out as they turned into a cobbled farmyard surrounded by old stone outbuildings. There were young people everywhere, in groups of two or three, talking intently. She’d expected new age traveller types with dreads and nose piercings but most of them had gleaming white trainers and trendy jackets – totally out of place in the English countryside.
A couple of ducks flapped their wings and jumped out of the car’s path as Greg followed the muddy tyre tracks around to where a line of cars was already parked up.
‘So many people,’ said Lizzie, reassured by their anonymity. They got out of the car and stood for a moment, taking in the view across a fallow field towards the woods. Lizzie shivered. There was a nip in the air now that the sun had moved back behind the clouds.
‘Long barn in ten minutes for David’s talk,’ shouted a woman in a straw hat and Wellington boots standing on an upturned metal bucket.
‘Greg Brooks!’
They turned to see a twenty-something man striding towards Greg, arms out ready for a rugby player’s hug. ‘What are you doing here?’ the guy asked, with a belly laugh that betrayed a history of student high jinks.
‘John!’ Greg replied, banging his pecs into his friend’s chest, then a hearty back pat. ‘How long’s it been?’
Lizzie waited anxiously for the moment of her introduction and the requirement to mix with the others.
‘Come on, Lizzie,’ Greg shouted over his shoulder, as the old friend pulled him towards a group of people.
She let him go, mouthing something at her she couldn’t hear, until his attention was forced elsewhere as he was inducted into the new circle.
Opting for the lesser of two evils she wandered back towards the farmyard, hoping that safety in numbers might disguise her timidity. She could hear the distinctive oinks and grunts of pigs coming from what looked like a converted stable. A couple of people in work clothes carried in a bucket brimming with vegetable peelings. She secreted herself between a few groups milling about, picking up odd words in languages she didn’t recognise.
Aware that Greg was now in full flow, she sidled further in the opposite direction, towards the farmhouse. An inviting glow from a wooden door drew her closer, and she could smell the sweet fragrance of burning firewood. She caught a glimpse of the flames in an open fireplace. As she got closer to the doorway, she saw a dozen people sitting around the room, some on cushions, some on patched-up sofas. The floor was stone, concave slabs ground out over time. She recognised the blonde girl from the meeting at the assembly rooms sitting on a bean bag, legs pulled up to her chest and a coffee mug cupped in both hands. She was staring hypnotically into the open hearth.
A young Italian-looking man, certainly a Latin complexion, got up to put on another log and saw Lizzie peering in. ‘Hey, you’re not allowed in here.’ He scowled at her.
Lizzie jumped, remembering she wasn’t invisible.
‘It’s OK,’ said a voice from a position she couldn’t see. ‘Who is it?’
‘She’s new,’ said the Italian, glowering at her.
Lizzie stood frozen by indecision and embarrassment. The blonde had woken from her trance and was now looking towards the entrance. Her warm smile saved Lizzie, pulled her in. She took two steps forward. She could see the source of the voice now. It was Kline, sitting skewwhiff in an easy chair with one leg draped lazily over the arm.
She averted her eyes, intimidated by his pose.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked, putting down his leg and leaning forward in the chair. ‘Everyone is welcome.’
‘Lizzie,’ she replied. ‘My friend Greg brought me.’ She half-turned towards the yard as if that would support her claim.
Kline got up, stretched upwards and held onto a ceiling beam. His sweat-shirt rose up exposing the definition on his torso. He resumed where he had left off when she’d interrupted. ‘Everything is about cycles,’ he said, continuing with his lesson, seemingly unconcerned by Lizzie’s presence. He moved his hands in circles. ‘Everything is connected.’
He took his hands off the oak and stared intensely at Lizzie, catching her by surprise. ‘Don’t blind yourself to the truth.’ He persisted in glaring at her. ‘Will you open your eyes?’ he asked her directly.
She went red, unsure how to answer.
‘Come,’ he said, skipping out of the door and grabbing Lizzie’s hand as he passed. The others followed. He pulled her playfully across the cobbles and into the barn with the pigs. It reminded her of trips to the petting zoo with her mother. A crowd from outside gathered inside the barn to get a view.
‘Life, a new cycle,’ said Kline leaning on the low fence that penned in a large sow. She was lying on her side, nestled on a bed of straw whilst a row of eight piglets sucked frantically at her teats, tails wagging like coiled springs.
Lizzie crooked her head and made a mock sad face. ‘So cute.’ She forgot herself for a moment, that she was the focus of attention, a position she usually hated.
Kline opened a creaky wooden gate panelled with chicken wire and entered the pen. He bent over the suckling babes and scooped one up, so small he could hold it in his palm. Its instinct to squeal was stemmed by Kline’s expert soothing with his free hand. He walked back out to where his audience were crowding round for the lesson. He moved closer to Lizzie, and she reached out to run a hand over the downy hairs on piglet’s little back. She could feel the warmth that comes with life.
‘This is what you buy in the supermarket every day without a second thought,’ said Kline, his voice raised slightly, causing the animal to let out a snort.
Lizzie was only half-listening, entranced by the piglet.
‘Few are allowed to live beyond six months.’ Kline reached up to a shelf on the wall of the barn and seized a stout sticking knife.
Lizzie didn’t see it until Kline was holding it against the hog’s throat.
She gasped.
‘Don’t let people gift-wrap the truth.’ He lifted his arm so everyone could see and slit the piglet’s throat in one motion, like a cellist drawing his bow. There was a shrill squeal as blood spattered across Lizzie’s face. She couldn’t move, shaking and frozen in shock.
Kline tossed the carcass over at one of his underlings who caught it. ‘Put it on the spit.’
There were a few cheers from the crowd.
Kline looked intently at Lizzie as he used his sleeve to wipe the blood from her face with all the tenderness of a mother nursing a sick child. ‘I will never lie to you.’ He used a finger to wipe around her mouth causing a few drops to smear her lip.
Lizzie could see Greg standing at the back, his face blazing with jealousy.
Kline cupped her face, eyes drilling deep inside her soul, stirring up the basest of emotions.
Chapter Thirty
It was evening. Ella had spent the day in Matth
ew’s rooms. She’d decided to go right back to basics and document everything that was there, which was pretty much just books. He didn’t live like other people.
She logged every title and author, hoping she might stumble on some kind of clue for the password. Most of the books were Matthew’s, but some were borrowed from the hundred or so libraries around Cambridge. She was able to build up some sort of picture of the order in which he’d taken them out. Shortly before his disappearance he’d been focussing on ancient religious texts from around the world. There were many publications on tribal beliefs from groups in South America, the Middle East and Africa.
Her phone rang. She didn’t recognise the number. ‘Hello?’
‘Hey, is that Ella?’
She recognised the accent. ‘Yes.’
‘It’s Detective Broady, Phoenix Police. We spoke before?’
‘Oh, yes. How can I help?’
‘I’m here, at your hotel, to ask you about Cameron Shepherd.’
She was completely thrown. ‘But I probably know less than you.’
‘That’s OK, then it won’t take long. I’m in room 205.’
Ella stared out of the window at the courtyard below, deliberating on a response. ‘All right, give me twenty minutes.’
‘Great.’ The phone went dead.
Struggling to take in what had just happened, Ella put the book back and went to lock up Matthew’s fortress. She made her way back down to the porter’s lodge, and waved to Bartlett, who was too engrossed in his crossword to notice. She got on her bike and cycled back through town to The Gonville.
The phone call bothered her. Something wasn’t right. Why would he come all this way for an R.T.A?
She stopped at reception. ‘Hi, can I just check, is Detective Broady in 205? I have a meeting with him.’
The woman behind the desk looked at her computer. ‘Yes, Mr Broady.’
‘Mr? Did he ask if I was staying here, what room I’m in?’
She looked baffled. The phone on reception rang out. She picked up but put the handset against her shoulder. ‘Not as far as I’m aware.’
‘Thanks.’ Against her better instincts, she went up to the room. As she was about to knock, she stopped, her fist suspended in mid-air for a moment. She inhaled, then gave three deliberate taps.
‘Give me a second,’ called out a voice from inside. ‘Be right with you.’ Finally, the door opened. ‘Hey there, Ella?’ A tall, naturally strong looking man. He was about her age, somewhere between scruffy and casual, definitely someone who didn’t worry about such things. A swarthy complexion and a handsome, lived-in face.
She was sure he was eyeing her up. She regretted choosing tight jeans that morning. ‘Yes, Detective Broady?’
‘That’s me, come right in.’ He swept an arm in a humorous, exaggerated movement, to usher her in.
It immediately put her at her ease. ‘Warm enough?’ she asked, noticing the thick woollen jumper.
‘Huh? Oh this.’ He laughed ‘Lady, I’m from the desert. This might as well be the North Pole.’
‘Lucky you came in spring, then.’ Her eyes scanned the room then back at him. One side of his shirt was untucked.
He looked amused. ‘You got that right.’
‘You didn’t tell them downstairs that you’re a cop?’ She eyed the half-emptied suitcase, open on the bed.
His expression became serious. ‘No, should I have?’
She looked at his face more carefully now. ‘Would you mind showing me your ID.’
‘Sure.’ He took it out of his back pocket and handed it over.
She studied it, then his face again. The photo was right but she wouldn’t have known if it was fake. ‘I’m sorry to be so sceptical, but it’s a long way to come for an investigation, even though someone died.’
He shrugged. ‘I guess you got reason to be jumpy?’
Something didn’t feel right. Her eyes moved across to the wardrobe. The sliding door was slightly open. She could just make out a large object through the gap. It took a moment to figure out – an odd-shaped case, for something long – it had to be a rifle.
His eyes followed hers. ‘OK, you got me.’ He moved over to the wardrobe.
Ella’s heart was beating hard against her chest. ‘Stop right there.’
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, picking up the case.
She pointed to it and instinctively took a step back. ‘What is that?’
He undid the zip revealing the barrel. ‘It’s my baby,’ he announced with pride. ‘The Celestron.’
Ella froze. ‘A gun?’
‘Gun?’ Broady replied, sounding surprised. ‘No, it’s a telescope, for looking at the stars.’ He held it up.
Ella’s face relaxed into a smile, then she gave an all-out laugh.
Broady pulled the telescope out of its case. ‘You thought…?’
She nodded.
He moved closer. ‘You really are jumpy. Where I come from there ain’t much on the ground, but if you look up at night, it sure will take your breath away.’
She began to relax. ‘The desert. No light pollution?’
‘That’s right.’
She pointed towards the window. ‘You won’t see much around here, I’m afraid.’
‘I know,’ he replied patting his baby with a mischievous grin. ‘But she goes everywhere with me. Don’t tell my boss, but the real reason I’m here,’ he said, lowering the volume, ‘is to see the Astro Library.’
‘In the Old Observatory?’
‘Yeah,’ he replied with another infectious grin. ‘Been on my bucket list, if you know what I mean?’
Her eyes narrowed in mock outrage. ‘You justified a trip to the UK so that you could go to a library?’
‘When you put it like that it makes me sound like a nut.’
‘You said it.’
He chuckled. ‘You never done anything like that?’
Remembering why she’d taken this job, she smiled. ‘Maybe.’
‘So?’ he asked, putting the apparatus back in the cupboard. ‘What’s your inquiry all about?
Ella remembered Desmond’s insistence on cooperation with McDonald. ‘Will you share what you’ve got on Cameron?’
He walked over to her. ‘OK.’ He held out a hand. ‘I won’t spit on it.’
‘Most considerate,’ she replied, shaking it.
‘We got ourselves a deal,’ he said, holding on for a few seconds. ‘How about we go down to the bar, seal it with a couple of Jack Daniels and you can tell me why you’re so spooked?’
Ella smiled. ‘Sounds like a plan.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Lizzie’s head was a cauldron of emotions. Greg had been so attentive since the pig thing, saying he felt so bad for leaving her, but she was unsettled, way out of her depth.
They stood at the back of one of the empty outbuildings listening to Kline dispensing his radical ideas and outlining his plans for direct action to make the zombies, as he called them, sit up and pay attention to what was happening in the world. Kline’s references to Genesis were what really intrigued Lizzie. He seemed to have some kind of central doctrine but only those closest to him were bestowed with any of this learning.
Greg, who was standing behind her, nestled his face into her neck and pulled her into him.
She could smell burning fat – the hog roast. She felt nauseous, but then stiffened, trying to focus on Kline’s message, how she’d blinded herself to the truth. She was sure he kept looking at her as he spoke.
Greg squeezed her tighter, his crotch against her bottom.
Out of nowhere she remembered Jay, and the piece of paper Ella had given her. Suddenly the farm wasn’t where she wanted to be. She turned her face upwards. ‘Can we go now?’
Greg frowned. ‘What, now? We’ve only just got here?’
‘Yes, now,’ she replied, pulling away. She walked, arms folded, across the yard towards the car. Dreading the possibility of a scene, she was relieved to hear Greg’s footsteps
behind her. ‘Sorry,’ she said once he’d caught up. ‘There’s stuff I need to do.’
As the car reversed out, she could see two men from the farmhouse tending to the spit. She felt like an imposter.
Greg navigated back down the lane in silence, weaving around the potholes, a brooding expression on his face. Lizzie decided to let him sulk.
There was a car parked up at the end of the lane, two wheels up on a patch of grass, not even in a layby. She looked at the driver as they passed. She recognised him from somewhere, then it came back. He was the burly man who’d been looking for the blonde girl at the assembly rooms. She wondered if he was her dad. ‘Why is he waiting there?’ she commented to Greg, but he was still sulking and didn’t answer.
Chapter Thirty-Two
‘This is a nice surprise,’ said Jay, leading Lizzie into the flat.
She handed him a bottle of red she’d bought from the Tesco Express. ‘A delayed celebration.’
‘I’m honoured,’ he said, reading the label. ‘Quality.’
She laughed. ‘Nice place, very tidy,’ she said as they went into the sitting room. She looked around and noticed a picture of a humpback being harpooned by a whaling ship. A slogan across the top said: “WHY?”
‘Thanks,’ he replied, walking over to the kitchenette.
She followed. ‘What’s that smell?’
‘Rougaille.’ He picked up a wooden spoon and stirred a saucepan on the hob. ‘It’s a Mauritian dish. You hungry?’
‘Sure.’ She leaned over the pan and breathed in the blended aroma of tomatoes and fish. ‘Smells lovely. You cook a lot?’
He opened a cupboard and took out some plates. ‘Not really.’ He looked serious. ‘Thought I’d have a fresh start.’ He turned off the hob. ‘I remember a few dishes, you know, from my mum.’ He fished out some cutlery, loose in an undivided drawer.
She decided not to probe further. ‘Glasses?’
