32
Sister Veronica lowered herself onto the scratchy grass. She was at the top of Glastonbury Tor; a satisfyingly-shaped conical hill that had turned out to be much steeper than it looked. She was ignoring the two large sheep that had come to stand next to her. She wouldn’t bother them if they returned the favour, she’d decided, turning her head away to stare at the vista below.
It had been tough when DI Harding had closed down her suggestion about talking to Gareth Pendragon. Had plunged her straight back into despair and darkness, the one thing she felt she could do to help obliterated.
‘No, I’m afraid that’s impossible, Sister,’ she’d said immediately in her matter-of-fact voice. ‘Gareth is being held in London by the Met, and neither you nor anyone else – apart from his solicitor – will be allowed to see him at the moment. His charges are very serious. There will come a time when I can interview him and ask him what he knows, we just need to be patient for a little longer.’
Sister Veronica had left Melissa, looking tired and wan, in their guest-house bedroom, chatting to her partner Chris on the landline phone that came with the room. Things had become strained between the two of them, the stress of Hope’s disappearance was too much to cope with. They’d started to bicker about the smallest things, getting on each other’s nerves, pulling apart instead of together at this appalling time. Melissa’s constant smoking was annoying, even though she always went outside to the guest-house garden for a ‘fag’ as she called them, the smell lingered and their shared bedroom now stank unbearably. Sister Veronica had suddenly needed to get away from her friend, the smelly room, away from everyone and everything around her. Even Glastonbury Town, a quirky place she’d surprised herself by rather liking, was feeling oppressive now. She wanted to be away from the buildings, cars, concrete, broomsticks, incense smells and all the people milling around. And definitely away from the burnt-out building, a scar on the landscape, and a constant reminder of Mona’s demise and her poor baby’s abduction.
Sister Veronica knew she’d turned snappy and was being downright rude at times, and she knew this wasn’t fair on Melissa. But she didn’t care, couldn’t stop the awfulness she felt inside from coming out in her behaviour. She knew she was already in enormous trouble with Mother Superior, who’d left a message with the guest-house reception saying she was on her way to Somerset, and even more so with the higher-ranked clergy in the diocese, due to the reckless stupidity of her actions. But she didn’t care about that. She knew she deserved whatever punishment and humiliation they gave to her. Her heart only ached for the smiley, beautiful Hope; her thoughts constantly dragged to dark ruminations about what could be happening to her. Would whoever took her be keeping her safe? Would they be doing terrible, unspeakable things to her? Would they keep her warm enough? The September nights were becoming increasingly chilly. No one could answer these questions, of course, and it was the helplessness of not knowing that was making her go crazy.
They’d agreed she’d take Melissa’s mobile phone with her on her walk, in case anyone needed to urgently contact her. Not that anything fruitful had happened yet, no good news from the police or anyone else had come. She feared it never would. Too much time had passed now, like DI Harding had said – the first twenty-four hours were the most critical, and they were long gone. They may never find Hope now. She’d read too many accounts of child abductions over the years, knew what the end result could be. And that thought was too hard to bear. Melissa hadn’t said goodbye when she’d left, hadn’t even looked at her, pretending she was too engrossed with her phone call.
Sister Veronica’s need to escape had been huge, she’d begun pacing the room, as restless as a hungry tiger, causing Melissa – who preferred to sit quietly and think – to frequently sigh heavily with annoyance. The Tor had seemed like her obvious destination. She’d stared at it enough from the bedroom window, wondering what it was like up there. It had looked a lot lower from the town, she thought now. She’d briefly considered visiting Chalice Well and its surrounding gardens instead, but the hippy girl at reception – the one with dreadlocks and intriguing piercings all over her face – had said the space around Chalice Well was much smaller and all enclosed, and if she wanted to really get away from it all then the Tor was her best bet. The climb had started off all right, but as she neared the summit she’d begun wheezing, had to sit down a few times. The gradient was much sheerer than it looked from ground level. How some people apparently made it up here on a daily basis was beyond her.
There was a real peace to be found up on the Tor, she mused, looking about. It felt isolated, almost otherworldly, even though a few other people were around. There were a group of Hare Krishna followers dancing near the ancient structure of St Michael’s Tower. Some other individuals and couples were walking about, chatting quietly, and a dog ran about gleefully, but it wasn’t busy and she’d intentionally chosen a spot as far away from everyone as she could manage.
She had to admit that the tarot card situation had really thrown her. The fact that the Destruction card had been found on Hope, then reappeared in the reading Celeste did for her – although perhaps the girl had fixed it like that with sleight of hand – followed by the actual fire that burnt down Goddess World – well. It was all a bit too much of a coincidence for her liking. She’d never had anything particularly against alternative religions; her philosophy was that if people found something that made them feel good and gave meaning to their lives, then fair enough, no harm done. What she vehemently objected to was the manipulation that could take place with something like tarot cards; a reader could either imbue her customer with confidence for the future or absolute dread, just by flashing a few cards around. There must be a logical solution to the Destruction card, how it seemed to have foretold the actual fire. But the answer to that, the actual explanation, was not clear to her at the moment. Another mystery.
For a while she considered what her next course of action should be. She knew she had to do something, anything, to help find the baby. She couldn’t just sit around like a useless lump doing nothing. The best thing to do would be to pay a visit to New Avalon, she decided, speak to this unsavoury-sounding character Art. If he found out she was a nun he might turn against her, if Catholicism offended his own ideals in any way. But that didn’t matter, he was hardly going to be delighted to see any outsider descend on his commune, asking questions. But she had to see if he knew anything about Hope. Maybe while she was there she could poke around a bit, talk to some of the residents, see if she could pick up on any clues that someone there might have taken her, or have some knowledge of it. Should she ask Melissa to accompany her there? she wondered. No, probably not. She didn’t want to get her friend into any more trouble. She should probably have never even asked her to come to Glastonbury. This was one mission that she would definitely have to undertake alone, and suffer the consequences, whatever they might be.
It was almost like being up on a cloud, she thought, staring down at the patchwork landscape below, where little roads and rivers divided up the fields, houses and gardens. The air was fresh and delicious to breathe in. She felt separate and cut off from the world, and for a moment life seemed a tiny bit calmer. Feeling more at ease now that she had formed her next plan of action, she closed her eyes and let herself drift away.
The phone rang.
She sat up, fumbling to find it in her skirt pocket. Why did it always take so long to find the blasted thing when it was ringing?
‘Sister?’ It was DI Harding. She sounded unusually animated. ‘A baby girl’s been found. We think it might be Hope. Can you come and meet me at the police station right away?’
33
‘Hello?’ A voice was saying. ‘Hello? Are you okay? Do you need some help?’
Kay opened her eyes. A young man wearing a luminous-yellow high-vis jacket was staring down at her, a worried expression on his face.
‘Phone an ambulance,’ was all she could say to him. ‘Please.’
Kay breathed deeply, working up the energy to speak again.
‘The ambulance is not for me,’ she whispered. ‘It’s for Lucan. He’s at New Avalon. Please, he needs one now or he’s going to die.’ She closed her eyes.
The worried man tapped 999 into his phone, watching as the young lady’s eyes closed again.
‘Stay with me,’ he muttered as the operator answered. ‘Come on, love, stay with me.’
34
Art undid the padlock on his allotment gate, breathing in the horticultural scents around him. Then he stopped, allowing himself a moment of pure bliss before he walked on, looking around at the beauty of his carefully planned utopia; the rolling green fields to one side of him, the woodland and orchard on the other, and the neatly divided allotments in front of him. Every knight at New Avalon had a designated patch – even the children – where they were supposed to grow their own wares in addition to the communal ones sewn in the fields. It made dinner time more fun, the chefs for that evening often added herbs and spices to the meals that only they grew. Only Art’s patch was off boundaries to everyone else; only he was allowed the privacy and autonomy he kept from his followers. The money his followers gave him from their jobs maintained New Avalon, of course, but none of them would need to work for much longer. Where they were going, God would look after them and they could relax into His care forever.
Always knowing there might come a time when God called King Arthur and his knights home in a hurry, Art had spent years cultivating an impressive crop of Cicuta, otherwise known as Water Hemlock, in his allotment, far away from the fence where prying young fingers could reach. One day, several years before, God had given him a sign to do this by drawing his attention to an article in a newspaper he was reading about the deadly properties of the plant. ‘This is your safety net,’ the Lord has said. ‘Grow this in your allotment, King Arthur, and all will be well.’ So he had.
Walking into his patch, and grabbing a basket and some thick gloves from his greenhouse, Art began harvesting the tall green plants, throwing bundle on top of bundle until his basket overflowed. The sweet herby smell they omitted as the stalks snapped was not unpleasant, and he breathed it in, taking care to enjoy earthly senses while he still could. Would there be taste and smell functions in his spiritual body in heaven? he wondered. Well, he’d soon find out.
As he slashed at the plants, Art took great care not to let his skin touch the stems, knowing a bad rash could form if it came in to contact with skin. He wanted his actions to remain private, there must be nothing out of the ordinary showing on him; no one must stop him from carrying out his mission. And more pertinently, it only took a small amount of ingestion of Cicuta to bring about death, and he couldn’t afford to set off his own transition too early. God had made it clear he wanted all the knights to come home, no one was to be left behind. And he intended to make the mixture so strong that there wouldn’t be any casualties still alive at the end, no one left behind being criticised and bullied in a hospital for their brave actions. The Externals would never understand the New Knights, but that was because they hadn’t chosen to redeem themselves, which was sad in a way.
Art knew death was just a doorway, not an ending. It was going to be a beautiful experience; he imagined himself gliding triumphantly from one life to the next, drifting up a white street towards God. Perhaps there would be knights lining the way, cheering him on as he passed. ‘All hail King Arthur’, they would cry. And God would beam proudly at him. Congratulate him on his hard work on earth, wonder at the purity of him and his followers, and commend him to heaven for everlasting peace and salvation.
He wondered who to send the video to just before he took his own life later that day, the one he’d just recorded on his phone of himself speaking. Maybe a journalist? he mused. Perhaps a television network? Imagining his words being shown on national TV gave Art a thrill and he broke out in goosebumps all over his body. He’d recorded an exit video for himself and the New Knights; it was explanation to the Externals of why they’d chosen to cross over to heaven now. ‘I am Arthur Pendragon, the incarnation of the returned messiah, King Arthur,’ he had said into the camera. ‘Several years ago I returned to earth to save my people, the chosen ones, the New Knights. I spent many years gathering them together, and we have enjoyed a life of peace and harmony at New Avalon in Somerset. The truest amongst them have proved their loyalty to me, and we have spent some time battling the evils of Britain, showing resistance to the corrupt processes of capitalism, greed and the new religion of the media. But now we have to leave. We don’t want to cling to our earthly bodies anymore in this immoral world, we are ready to embrace eternal joy. Our souls will join God and he will praise us for our work. None of the New Knights have been forced to take this step, they were willing and happy to do it. They have chosen God over earthly depravity, and should be commended for that. I came back to this world to offer a doorway to God for his chosen knights, and those loyal to the cause have now proved themselves and are willing to walk through that door now. Today, God has made it clear that he wants us all to come home. So home we have gone.’
Yes, Art thought. That would shock all the Externals in the world, all those sitting complacently at home staring at their TVs, not having any individual thoughts of their own. That would show them who the New Knights are. And more to the point, King Arthur. It would be the only worthwhile media broadcast they would ever see. He – Art – would leave this earth in a cloud of mystery and glory, knowing that the confused Externals remaining behind had chosen their own path to hell. They could have come and joined him at New Avalon any time over the years, they could have been saved, but they’d chosen not to do that. And as such, they would in time reap the consequences of that choice. That was the will and way of God.
35
The intensifying exhilaration was almost too much to bear. Hope had been found, DI Harding had said. Maybe. Possibly. It had to be her, it had to be. Sister Veronica felt nauseous as she crashed through the door of the police station, immediately seeing Melissa and DI Harding in front of her. Considering it had taken her so long to walk up Glastonbury Tor, her rapid descent had been close to remarkable, even if it had resulted in several blisters on the soles of her feet. Her flailing arms and legs must have been quite a sight for the grazing sheep, she’d thought at the time, as she bombed through patches of gorse and thistle. Cursing her aging years and generous weight, she’d half-walked, half-jogged down the high street towards the police station, her ribcage now heaving up and down as she attempted unsuccessfully to level her breaths.
‘Take a minute, Sister.’ DI Harding motioned towards the row of chairs in front of the desk. ‘Sit down. The baby that has been found is quite well and safe at West Devon Hospital. We can set off there to see if you can identify her in a minute when you feel well enough.’
‘I’m fine,’ Sister Veronica rasped, leaning on the counter, her jowly face puce. ‘West Devon? Good gracious. Please can we go now, I’d rather get there as soon as possible?’
DI Harding nodded.
‘Of course. Just so you know the journey will take us a good couple of hours. Whoever took the baby – if it is her – made some effort to get her out of the area.’
Minutes later, the three of them were in DI Harding’s dark car, speeding along undulating tree-lined roads. None of them spoke, they didn’t need to. Their shared silence was full of anticipation and nerve-wracking expectation. Melissa, dark circles around her eyes, stared out of the window, chewing a piece of her nicotine gum. There’d been a frostiness in her greeting, Sister Veronica reflected, when she’d hurtled through the police station door, which wasn’t surprising really. She knew she’d been a pain, a nightmare to live with these past few days. She’d apologise soon, try and make it up to her frie
nd. Smooth things over, and make everything all right. But now all she could think about was the baby. DI Harding sat upright, her grey eyes on the road, driving them all steadily onwards.
Please let it be Hope. Sister Veronica sent up prayer after prayer to the universe, her maker, the source of all energy and anyone else who happened to be listening, as she watched the trees and houses outside whiz by. Please let it be her, all safe, well and unharmed. I’ll do anything to atone for my stupid carelessness, God, if you just let Hope be the baby at the hospital.
The Disciple: a gripping psychological mystery (The Sister Veronica Mysteries Book 2) Page 15
