Two girls, young and pretty, long golden legs disappearing into stone-washed shorts, hung about waiting to see the witnesses emerge. One of them, staring round, nudged the other and pointed to a shabby Morris Traveller.
‘Will you look at that.’
‘Where?’ A sun-bleached Afro turned and turned about.
‘You blind? There, dimmo! That’s their van.’
‘So?’
‘Look…’
An indrawn gasp. ‘Ange…’
‘D’you fancy him?’
‘Are you kidding?’
‘Chat him up then. I dare you.’
‘Kev’d kill me.’
‘If you don’t, I will.’
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘I’ll say the car won’t start.’
‘We haven’t got a car.’
Giggling, pushing each other, retreating, lurching forward, they eventually fetched up against the side window of the van. The one who wasn’t Ange nudged her friend and said, ‘Go on…’
‘Stop laughing then.’
A rap on the glass. The man turned. For a moment all three stared at each other then the girls, suddenly cold, their faces slack with shock, stepped back.
‘I’m ever so sorry…’
‘Sorry.’
‘I was only…’
‘We didn’t mean anything.’ They gripped each other’s hands and ran swiftly away.
Back in the courthouse the wearer of the muslin trousers was weeping and being comforted. Her companions crowded round, hugging and patting her slim shoulders. The man with the beard left them, returning a few moments later with the news that everyone seemed to have departed so perhaps they could now make their own way home.
In this he was not quite correct. As the small gathering proceeded soberly through the waiting doors, a young man got to his feet in the gallery. He had been sitting, successfully concealed, behind a roof-supporting pillar. He stood very still, staring down at the coroner’s empty chair. Then he took a piece of paper from the pocket of his jeans and read it—seemingly, from the length of time it took—over and over again. Finally he replaced the paper and leaned hard on the gallery rail, apparently in the grip of some powerful emotion. He stood there for several minutes before ramming a peaked cap on his fair hair and turning to leave. But even then it could not be said that he had quite recovered. For as he ran down the stairs his fingers balled themselves into angry fists. And his face was white with rage.
Five days later the ashes of Jim Carter were scattered around the bole of a giant cedar beneath which he had once loved to sit. A prayer for his reincarnation as a Chohan of the First Ray was offered and a wooden frame from which depended tiny bells and fragile twists of glass was held, glittering, up to the sun. There was a bit of gentle chanting then everyone had some lemon balm tea and a slice of Miss Cuttle’s iced carrot cake and went about their business.
TWO DEATHS
Chapter One
Breakfast was nearly over. The Master, who rose to commence his meditation and orisons at sunrise, was never present at this meal—settling instead for a tisane and a caraway biscuit in the Solar once his chakras had been cleansed and recharged. And, beloved though he might be—even worshipped on occasion (although he would have been the first to rebuke such exuberant nonsense)—there was no doubt that his absence engendered a certain easing of restraint. The little group at the long refectory table was on the point of becoming quite frolicsome.
‘And what are you two getting up to this afternoon, Heather?’ asked Arno, removing a speck of yogurt from his beard with a hand-woven napkin. He referred to the single free period that their chores and devotions allowed.
‘We’re going up to Morrigan’s Ridge.’ Heather Beavers spoke with the eager breathlessness of a little girl, although her hair was long and grey. ‘There’s a monolith there with the most amazing vibrations. We hope to unlock the cosmic energy.’
‘Be careful,’ said Arno quickly. ‘Make sure you take an amulet.’
‘Of course.’ Ken and Heather both touched the pyrite crystals suspended from a leather headband and resting, like a third eye, in the centre of their foreheads.
‘Last time we had an energy release Hilarion came through with the most incredible power-packed information. He just…effloresced. Didn’t he, Ken?’
‘Mmm.’ Ken spoke indistinctly through a mouthful of bran and Bounty of the Hedgerow compote. ‘Described our next thousand lives plus an outline of Mars’ inter-galactic war plans. Going to be really hot come the millennium.’
‘And you, Janet. Do you have any plans?’
‘It’s such a lovely day I thought I’d take the bus to Causton. May needs some more tapestry needles. Perhaps you’d like to come, Trixie.’ She looked across at the girl sitting next to Arno who did not reply. Janet stumbled on. ‘We could go into the park afterwards and have an ice.’
The long bony face was lean and hungry. Always either quite blank or flaring with emotion, it seemed incapable of expressing ambiguity. Janet had pale, light eyes, the pupils almost colourless, and coarse wiry hair like an Irish wolfhound. Arno averted his gaze from all that longing. Enslaved himself by Miss Cuttle’s grand bosom and liquefacient gaze, he appreciated acutely enslavement in others and poor Janet was a perfect example of subjugation brought to a pretty heel.
Receiving no response, she now got up and began to stack the bulgy, smearily patterned cereal bowls. They were the unfortunate results of her Usefulness Training in the pottery when she had first arrived. She loathed the blasted things and always handled them roughly, hoping for a reduction in numbers, but they remained obstinately indestructible. Even Christopher, slap-dashing his way through May’s Daisy Chain Spode, washed them up without mishap.
‘As it’s Summa’s birthday no doubt you have some treat in store.’ Arno smiled shyly at the young man opposite, for everyone knew how sweetly the land lay in that direction.
‘Well…’ Usually amiable and open-faced, Christopher appeared ill at ease. ‘There seems to be an awful lot going on already.’
‘But you’ll be wanting to take her out? Maybe on the river?’
Christopher did not reply and Janet laughed, a forced rough sound with a scrape of malice, pinching some coarse brown breadcrumbs into a little pellet with her bony fingers. Frequently told as a child that she had pianist’s hands, she had never cared to put the supposition to the test.
‘Don’t you believe in romance then, Jan?’ Trixie laughed, too, but merrily, shaking out a mop of blonde curls. Shiny pink lips and thick sooty lashes gave her the look of an expensive china doll.
Janet got up and started to brush some spilled muesli towards the edge of the table. This was so old that the two halves had begun to warp, shrinking away from each other. A few nuts disappeared through the gap and rolled around on the wooden floor. She decided to be unskilful (the word used by the community to denote behaviour liable to cause a breach of the peace) and leave them there. Trixie tilted her chair back, glanced slyly down and made a tutting sound, her rosebud mouth in a kissy pout.
Janet took the bowls away, came back with a dustpan and brush and crawled under the table, the bare boards hurting her knees. Ten feet. Male: two Argyle socks—felted with much washing and smelling faintly of camphorated oil—two white cotton, two beige terry towelling and six sturdy sandals. Female: purple lace-up felt bootees embroidered with cabbalistic signs. Mickey Mouse sneakers over socks so brief they barely reached pert, delicate ankles. Jeans were rolled up to just below the knee and, on lately shaven calves, stubble glinted like gold wire.
Janet’s heart pounded as she glanced at, then quickly looked away from the blue-white milky limbs and fine breakable ankle bones. You could crush them as easily as the rib cage of a bird. The brush slipped and swirled in a suddenly sweaty hand. She reached out, briefly touching near-transparent skin, before pushing the Mickey Mice aside.
‘Mind your feet everyone.’ Aiming for casual busyness she sounded only gruff.
‘And you, Arno?’ asked Christopher.
‘I shall carry on with Tim,’ replied Arno. He got up, collecting the square, stone salt cellars and horn spoons. ‘We’re working on a new straw hood for the hive.’ Every member of the community was artisanally virtuous.
‘You take such trouble,’ said Heather. The words were shrill little pipes. A gymslip of a voice.
‘Oh well…you know…’ Arno appeared embarrassed. ‘We had a little astro-ceremony for him last night, didn’t we Heather?’ said Ken.
‘Mmm. We held him in the light for ever so long.’
‘Then we offered the auric centre of his being to Lady Portia—the pale gold master of serenity.’
They were so unshakeably positive. Arno said ‘thank you’ not knowing what else to say. Neither the Beavers for all their ring of bright confidence, nor the Lady Portia could help Tim. No one should. He could be loved and that was all. It was a great deal of course, but it was not enough to lead him from the shadows.
But it would be useless, Arno knew, to point this out. It would be unkind too, for Ken and Heather had brought the practice of positive thinking to a state-of-the-art meridian. No naughty darkling hesitancies for them. If one peeped out it was swept back under the carpet p.d.q. This refusal to acknowledge the grey, let alone black, side of life made them supremely complacent. A problem was barely described before the answer was on the table. Postulation. Simplification. Solution. Each stage liberally laced with Compassion. Soft-centred, honey-coated and as simple as that.
Trixie dragged her chair back, saying: ‘I’m glad I’m not on kitchen rota for the grand occasion tonight. I can have a nice long drink in The Black Horse instead. I’m sure we’re all going to need one.’
Ken and Heather Beavers smiled indulgently at this roguish whimsy. No one at the commune had ever been into the village pub. Janet emerged and got up rubbing her knees.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Arno. ‘About needing a drink.’
‘Mr Gamelin. Don’t tell me you’d forgotten his visit.’
‘Of course not.’ Arno now collected the plastic washing-up bowl from which everyone had helped themselves to muesli. One of the community rules was: Never Leave The Table Empty-Handed, and, although this occasionally meant something vanishing before anyone had had a chance to make use of it, on the whole the system worked very well.
‘Will you be making your Quark soufflé Heather?’
‘I thought I wouldn’t in case he’s late. You know what tycoons are.’ She spoke with rueful authority as if hot-foot from the Stock Exchange.
‘We thought the three-bean lasagne,’ said Ken stroking his comanchero moustche.
‘That is certainly very filling.’
‘Then use up the Quark with some stewed pears. Beat in some of Calypso’s yogurt if it won’t stretch.’
‘Excellent.’ Arno beamed as if it really was and thought, there’s always the birthday cake.
‘I bet he’ll buy her an amazing present,’ said Trixie.
‘What they really like, ruthless tycoons,’ said Janet, ‘is tearing into a big red steak.’
‘Quite a father-in-law you’ve chosen Christopher.’ Ken and his crystal twinkled across the table.
Christopher said: ‘Let’s not get carried away,’ and started to collect the cutlery.
‘Well he won’t get a steak here.’ Heather shuddered. ‘How do you know he’s ruthless anyway, Jan?’ Janet hated being called ‘Jan’. Except by Trixie.
‘I saw him on the box ages ago. One of those studio discussions. The Money Programme I think it was. He ate the lot of them up in the first five minutes then started on the table.’
‘Now, now,’ chided Arno. He had not seen the programme. There was no television at the Manor House because of the negative vibes.
But Janet remembered it well. That square powerful figure thrusting forward as if about to smash its way through the screen, crackling with aggression. Head held low and to one side, motionless like a bull about to charge. ‘I wish he wasn’t coming.’
‘Stay mellow.’ Ken waved his hands up and down, diminuendo. ‘Don’t forget. Not only is there one of him and ten of us, but we are standing in the light of the divine ocean of consciousness. We understand there is no such thing as anger.’
‘He wouldn’t have been invited you know,’ said Arno when Janet still looked worried, ‘if the Master had not thought it wise.’
‘The Master is very unworldly.’
‘Gamelin doesn’t realise the challenging situation he’s coming into,’ chuckled Ken. ‘It’ll be a golden opportunity for him to change his karma. And if he’s half the man you reckon, Janet, he’ll jump at it.’
‘What I don’t understand,’ said Trixie, ‘is why Suhami didn’t tell us until the other day who she really is.’
‘Can’t you?’ Janet gave another unamused laugh. ‘I can.’
‘Just as well,’ continued Trixie, ‘that Chris had already started declaring his intentions. Otherwise she might think he was only after her money.’
A sudden silence greeted this intemperate remark, then Christopher, tight-mouthed, picked up the knives and forks, said ‘excuse me’ and left the room.
‘Honestly Trixie…’
‘It was only a joke. I don’t know…’ She stomped off without carrying as much as an egg spoon. ‘No sense of humour in this place.’
Now Ken struggled to his feet. He had ‘a leg’ which stopped him doing quite as much as he would have liked around the house and garden. Some days (especially if rain was forecast) it was worse than others. This morning he hardly limped at all. He picked up the breadboard, saying ‘No peace for the wicked.’
‘They wouldn’t know what to do with it if there was,’ said Janet, and Heather put on her patient Griselda face.
Janet was Heather’s cross and a great challenge. She was so left-brained; so intellectual. It had been difficult at first for Heather to cope. Until one day, appealed to, Ken’s spirit guide Hilarion had explained that Janet was the physical manifestation of Heather’s own animus. How grateful Heather had been to learn this! It not only made absolute sense but brought about an even deeper feeling of caring commitment. Now, using a tone of exaggerated calm she said: ‘I think we’d better get on.’
Left alone with Janet, Arno looked at her with some concern. He was afraid he intuited some sort of appeal in the whiteness of her face and the strained rigidity of her hands and arms as she hung on to the dustpan. He wished to do the right thing. Everyone at The Lodge was supposed to be available for counselling at any time of the day or night and Arno, although he was by nature rather fastidious about the spilling of his own emotions, always tried to be open and receptive if needed by others. However there were resonances here which disturbed him deeply and that he did not understand. Nevertheless…
‘Is there something worrying you, Janet? That you would like to share?’
‘What do you mean?’ She was immediately on the defensive, as if goaded. ‘There’s nothing. Nothing at all.’ She was irritated by the word ‘share’, implying as it did an automatic willingness to receive.
‘I’m sorry.’ Arno backtracked, unoffended. His freckled countenance glazed over with relief.
‘Unless you go around with a permanent grin on your face, people keep asking you what your problem is.’
‘It’s well meant—’
But Janet was leaving, her angular shoulder blades stiff with irritation. Arno followed more slowly, making his way to the great hall. It appeared empty. He looked around. ‘Tim…?’ He waited then called again but no one came. The boy had lately found himself a quite impregnable retreat and Arno, appreciating Tim’s need to be safe and lie securely hidden, made no attempt to seek him out. When the Master emerged from his devotions, Tim also would show himself—following in his beloved benefactor’s footsteps as naturally as any shadow. And crouching at his feet when he halted like a faithful hound.
So Arno put the beehive hood aside for an
other day. Then he made his way down the long passage to where the Wellingtons, galoshes and umbrellas were kept, found his old jacket and panama hat, and disappeared to work in the garden.
After everyone had gone and the main house was quiet Tim appeared, edging his way into the hall.
Here, in the centre of the ceiling, was a magnificent, octagonal stained-glass lantern thrusting skywards forming part of the roof. On bright days brilliant beams of multicoloured light streamed through the glass, spreading over the wooden floor a wash of deep rose and amber, rich mulberry, indigo and soft willow green. As the clouds now obscured and now revealed the sun, so the colours would glow more or less intensely, giving the illusion of shifting, flowing life. This area of quite magical luminosity had a compelling fascination for Tim. He would stand in it, slowly turning and smiling with pleasure at the play of kaleidoscopic patterns on his skin and clothes as he bathed in the glow. Now he was poised beneath a powdery haze of dust motes suspended in the radiance. He saw them as a cloud of tiny insects: glittery-winged harmless little things.
Sometimes he dreamed about the lantern. In these dreams he was always in motion, occasionally swimming upwards, parting the spreading shiny light with webbed fingers, pressing it behind him, kicking out. But more often, he would be flying. Then, weightless in a weightless world, his body would soar and spin and dive, looping the rainbow loop. Once he had been accompanied by a flock of bright birds with kind eyes and soft unthreatening beaks. Waking after a lantern dream he would sometimes be filled with a terrible sense of fear and loss. He would spring out of bed then and race on to the landing to check that it was still there.
When Tim had first been brought to the Manor House and it had been impossible to persuade him to take any food, the Master, seeing the transforming effect of the dancing colours, had had two cushions brought and placed on the hall floor. Then, sitting with the boy, he had coaxed him to eat as one does a child—a spoonful at a time on the ‘one for me and one for you’ principle. He had kept this up for nearly two weeks. Tim was better now of course. He sat at the table with everyone else and played his part in the community as well as he was able, struggling with his allotted simple tasks.
Death in Disguise Page 2
