Now miles away from New Avalon in a large camping and caravan park just outside Barnstaple, Devon, she was wondering how her depraved and wicked sister had managed to produce something so beautiful and perfect. A tiny human being who was fresh and unspoiled, with a mind like a blank slate, ripe for learning. Ripe for being brought up the correct way. And Hope belonged to her now. She’d have to change the baby’s name, of course, get her some new clothes and all the other things she’d need. She’d managed to pick up some nappies, bottles and formula from an all-night supermarket on the way, so they had what they needed for now. It had been exciting to choose them, she’d never had to do that before, browse along the baby aisle where all the tired mothers usually stood. Hope had cried the entire time they were in the shop, which had been challenging. But she’d been hungry, had drunk two bottles in a row. It wouldn’t be long before they moved away from Barnstaple to somewhere more suitable, where they could really start living together properly as mother and child. She just needed a bit of time to think about their next move, it was important that she get it right.
Getting to Barnstaple hadn’t been a problem. She’d been hoarding a healthy stash of money at Goddess World for some time. Much as she loved Art and New Avalon she’d never wanted to be trapped there if something bad had happened, had wanted a way out if the time came. Everything that had happened with Mona and Lance had given her that idea; her sense of security had been jeopardised again like it had when her mother died, and she’d known she had to take steps to protect herself. She had to look after number one. And when that interfering old nun and her tall trashy sidekick had walked in, asking all their questions and announcing that the baby was her niece, she had known that the time had indeed come for action.
She wasn’t sure why the name Barnstaple had grabbed her attention, there was something weirdly familiar about it although she’d never been there before. It was probably a sign, she’d decided. Art had always taught her to look out for signs and symbols from God. A few night buses, a quick negotiation with the teenage boy at reception in the early morning, and she was in, ready to start the next fantastic phase of her life. She had no ties in Devon, there was no reason why anyone would look for her there, she was sure of it.
Inviting Mona to meet up hadn’t been her idea; that little gem had come from the one person who turned out to hate her sister even more than she did. She’d been surprised about that, but the help had been much appreciated. Her collaborator had tracked Mona down easily, and Celeste had managed to glean more details about her new whereabouts after getting Lucan out of his mind on drink one night. He’d eventually told her that he’d gone to see Mona, and that he still loved her, how he felt guilty that he couldn’t protect her from Art. He’d even spilled out her address. It had taken quite a bit of encouragement, but Celeste – after all – was a master at that. Trained by the king himself from a young age. She was pretty sure Lucan had no memory of this; he’d passed out not long after telling her the information, and had never shown any signs that he recalled anything.
What right did Mona have to complain about their king so publicly at that meeting? Celeste’s face twisted into a vicious scowl as she remembered the awfulness, the embarrassment, her beauty immediately vanishing. Art had slept with her – Celeste – too, starting when she was still a child. But it was a compliment; the great King Arthur choosing them as his loved ones. It meant they were special, cared for. He’d explained this to them individually, many times. What part of that did her sister fail to understand? Why did she always have to be so difficult?
Seeing the havoc wreaked on her leader by her sister; how many of the weaker followers had chosen to leave after saying unkind things to him, how his usually happy face had become lined and strained, how he’d become much sadder and more depressed than before. It had hurt her heart. How dare her sister break their community life apart? How dare she destroy the big family she loved so much? Celeste’s father was long gone and her mother dead, but the New Knights at the commune were her new, better family, and Mona had ruined it, like she ruined everything. A memory flashed into her brain of a something that had happened when they were children. After their mother had died – which was a blessing – Art had told the two little girls, ‘Now you can live freely without her sin spoiling you.’ Celeste had been desperate to please her king. She did anything he asked, always smiling, always helpful. There had been a day when Art had told the two of them to tidy the Great Hall in preparation for their meeting that night. Celeste took his command very seriously, spending a long time arranging the cushions and sweeping the floor. But Mona had spoiled everything by doing cartwheels across the freshly swept surface, sending the cushions flying everywhere. ‘Stop,’ Celeste had begged. ‘Art will be cross if he comes back.’ But Mona had said, ‘I don’t care. Cartwheeling is more fun than stupid tidying. You’re such a goody two shoes, Celeste.’ Art had walked in at that moment, the look of disappointment on his face was even worse than anger would have been. He’d made sure both girls had gone to bed hungry that night, and Celeste had hated Mona for days after, not understanding why she’d so wilfully gone against their leader’s words, and why she didn’t care about getting them into trouble. She’d never been able to see that life would be so much easier, much more enjoyable, if she just settled down and conformed to the king’s wishes.
Things had never been the same after she and Lance left. Art was rougher, less caring with Celeste, and much more paranoid. There had been nights when he’d shouted at her until she was hysterical, shaking and crying as he ranted and raved around the room. He’d accused her of complicity in Mona’s actions, saying she knew her sister was planning to humiliate him in front of everyone, slapping Celeste and calling her a liar when she tried to defend herself. And all this because of little, rebellious, selfish Mona.
Celeste believed absolutely in Art’s teachings, and in the importance of cleansing the Devil out of someone when they fell off the path to salvation. Capturing Mona and purging her of her heinous, un-Godly thoughts and ways had actually helped her sister. It was for her own good. Yes, it had felt good to make her suffer, but now she actually had a chance of getting to heaven. Of course Mona had never realised that, had only looked at her with hurt and hate when Celeste had gone up to the boiler cupboard. She’d taken advantage of the fact that she was the sole person whoever went up the stairs, she was in charge of sorting out stock – the manager of the shop had said on the telephone from his ex-pat home in Spain – and lazy old Liz who worked there a few days a week would never bother going up, it was all she could do to drag herself to work some days. There was no toilet up there, nothing for Liz to ever look at. Yes, it had been a gamble, but she’d made sure Mona stayed quiet. And it had paid off.
Learning that Mona had a baby daughter had been a genuine surprise. Lucan never said anything about that; but then she couldn’t have been born when he’d gone to see her sister. Maybe he was the father? Or was it silly little Lance, the boy who’d always idolised Mona but loved cocaine just a little bit more? It was more likely to be one of Mona’s dirty punters, more likely that the stupid whore probably didn’t even know who the father was.
Well, it didn’t matter now, because Hope was safe with her Auntie Celeste. Now, she wouldn’t fall to the evil sins of the world, she would be brought up with honour, loyalty and integrity, just how Art would want. And she had plans to do with that too; at some point she would get word to Art, tell him what she’d done, how she was now Mona’s baby’s mother. He would understand, he always wanted infants to be born at New Avalon so he could save their souls from birth. She knew he’d be furious that she’d disappeared. Celeste giggled as she imagined him going mad, making everyone look for her. But she’d bring him round, she was good at that. Knew all the tricks. She could visualise it now; her and Art setting up home somewhere away from Somerset for a while, passing off Hope as their own, and living purely and simply within their own beliefs. She knew he had enough money to support t
hem for a long while, he’d been hoarding it for years. Sometime later, maybe they could go back to New Avalon, revamp it, and recruit some new, loyal followers. And she would be queen there; she’d have almost as much power as Art. Celeste knew she was beautiful; she loved using this to her full advantage, being able to bewitch men, women and children alike and have them fully under her spell before they knew what was happening. This is how she would rule New Avalon one day, she thought, everyone would love and revere her. Oh, and the clothes she would wear; she could picture them now. So sumptuous and feminine, all the women at the commune would be sick with envy when they looked at her.
The fire at Goddess World had been a shock. She knew it meant that Mona was dead, and she was surprised at how little she cared about that. Seeing her sister suffer in that tiny cupboard had made Celeste content, watching Mona’s strength and fight go out of her meant that the cleansing was working. She hadn’t thought of killing her, but her accomplice – who never actually went to see Mona in her prison, but who supplied Celeste with increasingly inventive tools to purify her with – obviously had. She wasn’t sure of the reason, maybe to cover their tracks? She didn’t really care, it wasn’t her problem anymore.
Celeste rolled over and hugged Hope, who kicked her legs and let out a whimper. One more cuddle before it was time for a bottle of warm milk. She was so lucky to have found her beautiful baby. She deserved her. And she was never going to let her go.
29
‘How much does the history of a place influence its residents’ characters, I wonder?’ Sister Veronica mused, as she read a display pamphlet on the pub’s dining table. Feeling decidedly more positive since finding out Hope may well be healthy and alive somewhere, she and Melissa had decided to lunch at what claimed to be Glastonbury’s oldest pub, The Bell Inn, in order to stoke up their energy and discuss their next move. Dodging the furious phone messages left for her at the guest house by Mother Superior, Sister Veronica wanted space to think. She would face the wrath of Sister Julia when the time came, and take whatever punishment was doled out to her with humility. She did – in fact – feel she deserved harsh retribution for allowing Hope to be taken, not that that would make anything right, but it would go some way to dealing with the sick culpability she felt inside. But right now, she needed to be in Glastonbury, not summoned back to Soho Square. Melissa’s phone was on the table in front of her, and she glanced frequently at it, urging DI Harding to ring with good news.
‘What do you mean, Sister?’ Melissa said shortly, sitting down and pushing a glass of pale-green liquid towards her friend, an aroma of cigarette smoke arriving with her. She knew she sounded tetchy, but she still felt irritated by the rude barman’s attitude. A beautiful old pub it might be, but the rustic interior with its stained-glass windows and old oak tables was much less appealing when you’ve just arrived at the bar and had your head bitten off while attempting to order a drink.
‘What?’ the barman had snapped, as she’d grinned around hopefully from the counter, his pinched face peering through a doorway behind the bar.
‘Er, two apple juices, please,’ Melissa had said politely.
‘Stand away from the bar,’ he’d squeaked. ‘Don’t lean on it. Honestly, can you not see how old the wood is in here? People are wearing a groove in the bar front by lazing around on it. Go on, get off.’ He’d flapped his hands, as though shooing away a seagull. ‘This building dates from 1416, you know.’
Itching to give him a few choice words of her own, Melissa turned to find Sister Veronica cosily ensconced on a corner bench, looking calmer and more at peace than she had done for days. She sighed. She’d been hoping to retort with a dramatic exit, but she wouldn’t disturb her friend, not now.
Instead, she’d taken several dramatic paces backwards, bumping into the woman behind her.
‘Two apple juices, please,’ Melissa had called loudly to the scowling man. ‘And the lunch menu.’
Unaware of her friend’s recent hospitality trials – she’d hardly noticed her arrive back at the table – Sister Veronica looked up, surprised.
‘Er, well I was just thinking that the account of Glastonbury’s history written here is actually rather interesting,’ she said. ‘It describes how the site has long been a place of duality and change – that it’s a place where for centuries, old has co-existed with new, and traditional with alternative, although to be honest you don’t have to be a mastermind to work that out, you just have to walk down the high street with your eyes open. To start with, it says there’s the legend that King Arthur – who apparently defended Britain against Saxon invaders – is buried here. Very intriguing, I’ve always found folklore fascinating, there’s always a bit of truth to it, in my experience.’
Melissa relaxed, her irritation evaporating as she watched her friend talk.
‘You’re definitely in the right place to learn about folk tales and legends,’ she said. ‘This place is brimming with them.’
‘It goes on to say that the site of Glastonbury became one of the first places in Britain where Britons and Saxons intermixed and learned to live in harmony,’ Sister Veronica went on, pointing to a section of the brochure. ‘With Christianity replacing Druidism. Then it talks about the Abbey and the destruction of it in the reformation, and so on. It’s just remarkable how Glastonbury Town still has that quality today, of being home to contrasting different spiritual practices, beliefs and residents. Perhaps it’s a silly thought to have, but I was wondering if the historical energy of a place can influence its residents in the present day, do you see what I mean? Almost as though there’s an acceptability for “being different” here, that’s coded into the landscape and flows up through people.’
Melissa thought for a minute.
‘Maybe the locals have handed that kind of thing down through the ages through their behaviour,’ she said. ‘And because the public gets to hear of their ways through the media, it attracts people like Lucan who need a place to express themselves outside mainstream thinking. Blimey, Sister, I wasn’t expecting to have to use my brain so much before lunch.’
Sister Veronica nodded, taking a sip of apple juice.
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she said. ‘Learned behaviour and press coverage. I’m sure that’s part of it. But the thing is, the media wasn’t around two thousand years ago, yet it still happened then. Duality and different beliefs, I mean. But you’re right about Lucan and New Avalon. Glastonbury is just the right place to set up a cult, no one would think anything of it, because so many other beliefs are tolerated here. But that’s the dangerous thing, you see. No one has questioned what’s been going on in the commune, other than when Mona spoke out. And even then, news of her abuse didn’t seem to spread to the authorities, it was contained in the compound. The sad thing is, they have the opposite of freedom of thought in New Avalon, Art’s followers are tied in to rigid thought structures by his dictatorship. I imagine most of them joined believing it to be a place of mental freedom, then they ended up getting the opposite. I wonder if Celeste fully bought into Art’s ways of thinking?’
‘She seemed loyal to him,’ Melissa said, playing with her glass. ‘She and Mona were raised there, so if that’s all they knew it must have been hard to think outside their brainwashing, especially when the fear of God was put into them. Literally.’
‘Yes.’ Sister Veronica’s expression sagged. ‘But poor Mona managed it. And look what happened to her.’
‘I wonder where Celeste’s gone.’ Melissa sighed. ‘I do think it’s her who took Hope, Sister, and who started the fire that killed Mona. I know we are supposed to keep open minds and all that, and perhaps it was a random kidnap, but I feel in my bones it was Celeste.’
‘Yes,’ Sister Veronica said quietly. ‘I have a feeling you’re right, Melissa. And if Celeste was holding Mona captive and set the fires intentionally, then she is a very wicked person indeed. But I have a feeling she won’t harm Hope; the way she was looking at her was so intense, like she’d
just discovered the Holy Grail. I do hope that whoever took the baby is looking after her well. I can’t bear to think of Hope being uncared for. And to think, we were working so hard on her bedtime routine, and now all of that has been ruined.’
As she spoke, the flickering of a small television screen above the fireplace caught her attention. The words ‘Breaking News’ were flashing across the screen in big red letters.
‘Look.’ She motioned to Melissa, who leaned forward, craning to hear the news anchor’s words.
‘A man has been arrested outside the Houses of Parliament in connection with the attempted murder of the Secretary of State for Digital Culture, Media and Sport,’ the woman was saying seriously into the camera. ‘MP Pranjal Shastri was on his way to a meeting at the House of Lords when Mr Gareth Pendragon, having violated security procedures, lunged at Mr Shastri, stabbing him through the left shoulder. Heroic passers-by intervened and pulled Mr Pendragon away, holding him down until police arrived and took him into custody. Mr Shastri was taken to hospital, where doctors say he is said to be in a serious but stable condition. A handwritten poster was left at the scene by Mr Pendragon, that alleges loyalty to a group named New Avalon. An investigation has begun into the incident, and police say they can give no more information at this time.’
Sister Veronica turned to Melissa, whose mouth was wide open.
‘Can I borrow your phone, please?’ She spoke with urgency. ‘I need to phone DI Harding. I’ve had an idea.’
The Disciple: a gripping psychological mystery (The Sister Veronica Mysteries Book 2) Page 13
