Blinded By The Light

Blinded By The Light Sherry Ashworth A gripping thriller about a teenage boy sucked into the dark world of a cult.Eighteen-year-old Joe is bored. Stuck at home after a bout of glandular fever, all his friends have left Manchester and gone to university, leaving Joe with nothing but his rather annoying family for company. When he meets Kate and Nick on the train, something about them appeals to him. So he goes to see them at their commune, a farm in rural Todmorden.Gradually, Joe’s life starts to make sense. With the White Ones he is wanted, and his life has a purpose. When he meets Bea at the farm, he really feels that his life is complete, and he decides to leave his family and live with the White Ones forever.But there is something sinister about Fletcher, the Todmorden White Ones leader. Fletcher seems obsessed with Joe – convinced that he is a Perfect, and someone to be venerated. A dramatic trip to the wildest reaches of Orkney will show Joe his destiny – and reveal some shocking truths. BLINDED BY THE LIGHT SHERRY ASHWORTH Copyright (#ulink_e48a7599-f69b-5b52-af77-fc1958278609) Published by HarperCollins Children’s Books A division of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain by CollinsFlamingo 2003 Text copyright © Sherry Ashworth 2003 The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. 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Source ISBN: 9780007123360 Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2012 ISBN: 9780007394944 Version: 2016-05-19 Dedication (#ulink_987f9191-1984-57fb-af9c-cf5d6f946bb2) Thanks to Linda Kerr, Robyn Ashworth, Jonathan Abel For Greg and John Contents Cover (#uf8cdc933-ef17-515a-9bbd-684994355eeb) Title Page (#u7f445495-c999-5673-ba54-ce2bf85ceadb) Copyright (#u4796eb39-e916-5ff8-8ba8-c0fddf824a90) Dedication (#u82e4bf46-8660-5d19-9457-95b8dafb59cb) Part One: The Journey (#uac622aca-5fe6-59e9-94d1-1f46a014236e) Bodies Recovered (#u59a2b839-41ff-5826-946c-4d7808ca0abe) 1. From The Preface, Rendall’s Book of Prayers (#uad148335-6cb7-5db5-9d8a-6cafea24d686) 2. From Rendall’s Parables: The Tale of the Traveller (#u4b048167-ff8e-59f4-9988-f333affe8d87) 3. From Rendall’s Laws Governing Purity: Abstinence (#u8cb4a2ef-ef61-5bbc-acce-2395ef52b58c) 4. From Rendall’s Book of Prayers: The Morning Service (#u9fc4b907-2362-56f0-9999-143495753750) 5. From Rendall’s Parables: The Tale of the Hungry Child (#ubf15181b-bf20-5676-b55a-30a67ba03fc4) 6. From Rendall’s Parables: The Tale of the Brothers (#udd1a3258-f136-5ba4-9bd4-317fe6ef60a1) Part Two: The Arrival (#litres_trial_promo) 7. From Rendall’s Laws Governing Purity: Alternate Sense Deprivation (#litres_trial_promo) 8. From Rendall’s Book of Prayers: The Induction Service (#litres_trial_promo) 9. From Rendall’s Parables: The Tale of the Stallion (#litres_trial_promo) 10. From Selected Commentaries on Rendall: “They were male and female together.” (#litres_trial_promo) 11. Letter to all Cell Leaders: From Colin Rendall (#litres_trial_promo) 12. From Rendall’s Laws Governing Purity: Degrees of Passion (#litres_trial_promo) 13. From Rendall’s Laws Governing Purity: antimatter (#litres_trial_promo) 14. (#litres_trial_promo) 15. From Rendall’s Book of Prayers: Prayer for Recovery (#litres_trial_promo) Part Three: The Revelation (#litres_trial_promo) 16. Bea’s Story (#litres_trial_promo) 17. (#litres_trial_promo) 18. Bea’s Story (#litres_trial_promo) 19. (#litres_trial_promo) 20. Bea’s Story (#litres_trial_promo) 21. (#litres_trial_promo) 22. Bea’s Story (#litres_trial_promo) 23. (#litres_trial_promo) 24. Bea’s Story (#litres_trial_promo) 25. (#litres_trial_promo) 26. Bea’s Story (#litres_trial_promo) 27. (#litres_trial_promo) 28. Bea’s Story (#litres_trial_promo) 29. (#litres_trial_promo) Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) By the Same Author (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) PART ONETHE JOURNEY (#ulink_9d596dc5-b34c-5cf2-a727-0cd24a510423) BODIES RECOVERED (#ulink_294c010d-439e-5d53-98ec-19d34ab4fb59) The Orcadian April 5th, 1969 The bodies of Matthew Chalmers, 20, and Trevor Norrington-Smith, 21, were recovered today from Hoy Sound. The young men, together with another friend, Colin Rendall, were students at Cambridge University, holidaying in Orkney. The accident occurred on Saturday evening, when the three men took a boat out for a midnight row. Rendall managed to stay afloat until he was picked up by Angus Middleton, 66, a retired fisherman, who had witnessed the capsizing from his bedroom window. Rendall was flown to Aberdeen, where he is recovering in hospital with his father by his bedside. Police are refusing to comment on how the accident could have happened. The inquest will take place in Kirkwall after Easter. 1. From The Preface, Rendall’s Book of Prayers (#ulink_1aa99802-0f8c-50cd-9ee5-351e1e206899) The pain and struggle ceased. I was travelling without effort, moving towards the Light. Where there had been terror, there was now beauty, and peace beyond all understanding. An angel swathed in brightness stood by a table. On it was the Book. White pages, whiter words, thousands upon thousands of them. In essence they said, be free, be pure, do not despair of Perfection. The Book remained inscribed in my head and heart. My purpose was clear. Didn’t feel like talking to anyone. I was pissed off, to tell you the truth. I’d been on my own since two o’clock when Phil had to go to band practice and left me in the middle of campus. “Great seeing you, Joe,” he’d said, thumping me in the ribs. I thumped him back even harder. We grinned at each other. “The sixty or sixty-one’ll take you near the station,” he’d said. “Come up again. Any time, like.” “Sure,” I said. I thought, I might, but then again, I might not. I slung my overnight bag over my shoulders and set out for the bus stop. Hell, it wasn’t Phil’s fault. If all had gone according to plan I wouldn’t have been in Birmingham, or even in England for that matter. I would have been in a village in Kenya digging, or teaching kids, or doing some other GAP voluntary work. But just after my A2s, my throat swelled up like a balloon. I lay in bed for weeks – glandular fever. At first I was too ill to care. Life was just Mum changing damp sheets, pain, nightmarish dreams. Then I was as weak as a baby. When Tasha came to see me she looked taken aback. I date the end of our relationship from that moment. But who could blame her? I was hardly sex on legs. I couldn’t even struggle on to my legs for that matter. Tasha shoved some flowers down by my bed, pecked me on the cheek, and stressed a bit about her forthcoming results. But it was OK in the end. She got her place at Oxford, went up in October and was mesmerised by the whole experience. She sent me a couple of emails about the college and how cool it was, the amazing people she’d met, the course being harder than she thought, more about the amazing people and parties, and then there was the email which started, I don’t know how to tell you this… You can guess the rest. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t really gutted. I saw it coming. But put together with the fact that I had to cancel the overseas stuff because I still wasn’t a hundred per cent, and all my mates were off at uni, and I was living at home, it was a bit of a bummer. OK, I was gutted. Tasha and I had been going out for ten months, which was a long time for me. And I liked having a girlfriend. The weird thing is, even when you’re close to your mates, as I was – as I am – you don’t talk to them in the same way as you do a girl. You say stuff to her you wouldn’t say to anyone else. You do things, too, but that’s another story. But please don’t get the impression I was a loser. That’s never been the case, which was why being at a loose end that November was getting me down. I wasn’t used to it. As soon as I was well, I got myself some work – nights in a pub pulling pints and lugging crates around, and weekends in Electric Avenue selling geeks the latest PC, PlayStation and Dreamcast games. So I wasn’t short of cash. Or invitations. Dave, Rich and Phil all asked me to stay, and I took Phil up on it. So I spent two nights on his floor, both times in a drunken stupor. It was good, kind of. But like I said, he had to go to band practice, and I made my own way back to Birmingham New Street. Nowhere is more depressing than a railway station on a Sunday afternoon. There’s a kind of sour, dusty smell. People look fed up; they stand around eating junk food and swigging Coke. Their luggage makes them look like refugees. But you can’t help feeling that where they’re going to might be worse than where they’re coming from. You feel yourself becoming more trashy by the minute, sidling up to the newsstand and reading all the tabloid headlines about scandalous celebrity love lives – as if I gave a toss about which plastic bimbo went to bed with which braindead footballer. I’m tempted to buy the paper anyway – something to read, innit? But then again, I’m almost out of cash and I might want a coffee on the train. I feel myself getting depressed and I don’t like it. It’s not me. I’ve had this a few times since the glandular fever, a sort of heaviness washing over me. I fight it by walking up and down the platform, reading the ads for frothy paperbacks for women with boring lives. I look down the line to see if the train’s coming. Gotta keep moving. The train should be here any minute now. And sure enough there’s a dot in the distance that grows into the front of an engine and, yes, it gets bigger and is arriving at my platform. So I’m moving through the carriages to find my reserved seat, taking involuntary snapshots of people’s faces: Chinese guy reading a paper, couple of chubby pensioners with sandwiches in plastic bags, good-looking girl staring sullenly out of the window, fat bloke asleep with his mouth hanging open. I finally reach my seat and discover I’m on my own; mine is the window seat and the other three seats are empty, having only reservation tickets sitting on the top of them like shrunken hats. I get my Walkman and phone out of my bag and settle down. I glance at my mobile and want someone to text me. And with a jolt and a lurch the train moves forward. I reckon it’ll take about two hours to get to Manchester, more if there’s works on the line, which there usually are. The guard announces all the stops, and then another voice takes over to talk about the buffet. When I was a kid I used to like train journeys, but this one feels like another form of waiting, which is all I ever seem to be doing at the moment. Waiting for texts, for phone calls, for next year when I start uni, for something – anything – to happen. Even when I go out to try to make something happen, nothing happens. Or I drink too much and forget what happened. I feel that slide into depression again and stop it by trying to remember the joke Phil’s mate told which had us falling about. Then I look out of the window, through the smears and grime. The train stops and starts. I see embankments with rubbish strewn down them, scrubby old plants. And then we pull up in Wolverhampton. And wait. And move again. It comes as a shock when I realise the couple moving along the carriage in my direction are going to come and sit opposite me. But they check their tickets and acknowledge to each other that this is the right place. I sort of watch them. They can’t be much older than me. Girl has brown hair in bunches, a good figure, jeans, white sweatshirt. Bloke looks thin; he’s wearing a denim jacket over a white T-shirt, cream combats. Students? They don’t look seedy enough. I wonder if they’re an item but they don’t make body contact – I get the weird impression they must be brother and sister. She gives me a shy smile and he nods in a friendly way But like I said before, I don’t feel like talking to anyone. So off we go. I try to go back to my previous stupor, but the presence of the couple opposite stops me. It’s hard sitting with someone and not interacting – it seems rude. But there’s two of them and only one of me, so I won’t make the first move. She’s pretty, the girl, brown eyes, heavy lids, well-defined lips – a thoughtful face. I can see her as a singer in a folk band in the sixties, say. The bloke is harder to place. He has to be a student – maybe the sporty type? Nah, he’s too skinny for that. But what’s intriguing me is their total ease with each other, and I can’t reconcile it with the read-out I’m getting that they aren’t a couple. Yet they can’t be brother and sister because they’re being nice to each other. I have a sister – Gemma – who irritates the hell out of me. And even when we’re getting on, I’m always taking the mick, because that’s what you do with sisters. Sure, this couple opposite could be platonic friends, but I have my doubts. I don’t believe in platonic friendship. Take Tasha; she wants to be friends – I can’t stand the thought of losing your friendship, Joe! Like you should have thought of that before you split with me. It was your choice, Tash. I don’t reckon a bloke and a girl can be friends without sex coming into it somehow. Unless, of course, you don’t fancy the girl one iota. But then, she might fancy you. Which is worse in a way And so I was drifting off again when the bloke spoke to me. “Are you going to Manchester?” he asked. I started. “Yeah, yeah.” “Us too.” His voice, his body language all gave away that he wanted to talk. So I couldn’t see that I had a choice. “We’re running late,” I said. The girl joined in now. “Yeah. Half an hour, they said at Wolverhampton. We’ve been staying with friends from the university there.” “Yeah, I was with a mate from Birmingham.” “Are you a student too?” she asked. “Will be. Next year. It’s my gap year,” I said. Weird how it’s easier to talk about yourself to strangers. I could feel my earlier reluctance to speak dissolving. I liked the way this girl was taking an interest in me. “Cool,” she said. “What are your plans?” I explained about the glandular fever and how I was earning money so I could travel – backpack, maybe – in the spring. I didn’t tell her that I seemed to be spending most of it on clothes and CDs and booze. “Where are you thinking of going?” the bloke asked. He had bleached hair, wore glasses with thin black frames. “Maybe Thailand, or India. I haven’t really looked into it yet.” The girl smiled. “Nick’s been to India.” I looked interested. I was, a bit. “Backpacking?” “No. Teaching,” he said. “I was involved with a scheme that sent classroom assistants to Indian schools. I lived there for six months.” I was impressed, and jealous, too. But this bloke – Nick – he didn’t seem as if he wanted to go on about it. I appreciated that. Still, I was curious. “Did you live with Indians, like?” “I had lodgings in a house and shared a room with one of the other assistants. A lot of the Indian families gave us hospitality. India changes you – you look at the world differently afterwards.” “You mean, coming to terms with the poverty and that?” “Yeah,” Nick nodded. “That, and just comparing other cultures. And it makes you appreciate different things about living here.” “Like what?” I asked. Nick paused before he answered, as if my question had made him think. “The freedom to move about,” he said, which wasn’t what I was expecting. I found myself cheering up. It put me in a better mood to be able to talk about something not to do with my life. “Have you travelled?” I asked the girl. She shook her head deprecatingly. Yeah, she was pretty Not my type, but pretty. “I’ve not had the chance yet. I did my art foundation course last year and I’m hoping to go on to college next year, but right now I’m getting some cash together.” “Sounds familiar,” I said. We all smiled, as if it was us three against the world, cash-strapped and just travelling. It was great, finding people to talk to like this, people I could relate to. I revelled in my luck at actually sitting opposite this couple, rather than a Palm-Pilot-obsessed man-in-a-suit, or a family with noisy kids. And weirdly, the sun made a last effort to brighten up the late afternoon sky Fields rushed by on both sides. “So you live in Manchester too?” I asked them. Nick answered. “Not in Manchester exactly. Just outside Todmorden. West Yorkshire.” “Yeah – I know it well.” “We share a house there.” “Like, together?” I mumbled. I was fishing to see if they were boyfriend and girlfriend. The girl laughed. “Not together in the way you mean! There are a few of us. We’re renting an old farmhouse.” “Nice one!” That sounded great to me. “What about you? I’m Kate, by the way” The name suited her. It was fresh and wholesome. And by now my tongue had loosened. My earlier blues had lifted completely Words were coming easily “I still live with my parents – no choice, if I’m going to get some funds together. I probably wouldn’t mind if I’d planned to stay at home, but I imagined myself somewhere completely different. But I’m not complaining – they stay out of my hair. But it’s their place, know what I mean?” Kate nodded vehemently Nick asked if I wanted anything from the buffet. I thanked him and asked for a coffee. I offered him the money but he was adamant in refusing it. This left me and Kate. “I bet you have lots of friends, though?” she asked. “Yeah, but they’re all at uni. Not all of them,” I corrected myself “but the crowd I went around with last year have all gone.” “Your school friends, you mean?” “Yeah, mainly” “Which A2s did you take?” “Maths, Politics, Economics. Actually, I’ve got a place to study law next year. At Bristol.” I said this to impress her. She seemed the sort to fall for that. She was, too. She raised her eyebrows and smiled. “Why law?” “Well, I got fed up with all of my A2s. I couldn’t see myself studying any one of them exclusively And even though I know law doesn’t guarantee you a job, it must improve your chances. But I don’t see myself as one of those city lawyers raking it in through extortionate fees.” Kate was nodding, as if she emphatically agreed with me. “I’d like to get involved with legal aid,” I continued, “helping the sort of people who find themselves outside the system. What appeals to me is representing people who can’t represent themselves.” At that point Nick came back with drinks – a coffee for me, a fruit juice for Kate and a bottle of water for him. “Nick – he wants to be – you haven’t told us your name yet!” “Joe. Joe Woods,” I said. “Joe’s going to be a lawyer.” “But as I was saying to Kate, not at the business end. With the underprivileged.” This was a kind of reverse boasting. It was true, everything I said, but I hoped they would see me as a nice guy I wanted to create a good impression, and so I selected the things about me that I felt would go down well. Doesn’t everybody do that? “But a lot of the people I was at college with were studying for a good job, pure and simple,” Nick said, unscrewing his bottle of water. “It was all about money” “I know what you mean. But that pisses me off. Like, it’s a pretty meaningless world if you’re only looking after number one. To me, job satisfaction isn’t just about your salary, but about feeling you’ve done good.” “Oh, I so agree with you!” Kate said. “Are you religious? A Christian, or something?” Nick asked. It was a fair question. I was painting myself as a bit of an altruist. “Religious? Me? I can’t get my head round any of that stuff. It seems to me every religion asks you to believe things that can’t be true.” Nick nodded. “Without ever giving you any proof.” “Yeah – that’s right. I mean, I wouldn’t knock other people’s belief because it comforts them. But to me, thinking there’s a God is like kids believing in Father Christmas. It would be nice if it was true. But it ain’t.” I thought I sounded rather cynical so I backtracked a bit. “Don’t get me wrong – I’m not knocking morality – just Church and that.” Kate nodded enthusiastically again. It was amazing to meet someone who agreed with me so much. I liked her. I also liked the way both of them were listening to me. It gave me the confidence to carry on spouting, hoping I’d hit on something else that built me up in their eyes. “And school assemblies – what an exercise in hypocrisy! All those people singing hymns and not one person believing in any of it. Even the Head. Especially the Head.” Kate laughed. “It was the same where I was,” Nick reflected. I took the lid off my coffee as it had cooled down. “What do you do?” I asked him. “Freelance web design, working from home.” It was my turn to be impressed. Kate interrupted. “But I was interested in what you were saying. That you think people need to believe in something.” “Yeah, that’s right. For some people it’s God, for others a football team. Or hero worship.” “Hero worship?” I was mouthing off now, but I didn’t care. Kate and Nick were a good audience. I rabbited about Gemma and her bedroom full of pop stars, and how growing up was about smashing idols. How unbelief was maturity How the world was a tough place and exploited by people who want to sell you stuff. I admitted I wore Nike trainers and Gap jeans, but only in an ironic way. Kate laughed again. We discussed how difficult it was to know where products came from these days, how hard it was to be an ethical consumer. Crewe. Macclesfield. We talked about music and films. We complained about the latest Hollywood blockbuster. I remembered the joke Phil’s mate told, and Nick was nearly crying with laughter. Stockport. The journey was nearly at an end. I had this crazy idea of suggesting we go for a drink, but something stopped me. What if they didn’t want to? We pulled into Piccadilly. It turned out they were taking the tram to Victoria, so I went with them. We stood by the doors, chatting, as the tram rattled through a Manchester temporarily closed for business. Market Street was dead. “You ought to come up and see us,” Nick said, as the tram clattered into Victoria. “Yeah!” Kate said. “We’re having a get-together next Saturday Can you get up to Todmorden?” “Sure,” I said. “I reckon I can borrow the car.” Kate’s face lit up. I wondered for a moment if she fancied me, and I was flattered. Nick busily wrote some details on a scrap of paper – the address, some rough directions, a phone number. “It’ll be a good night,” he said. “Give yourself a break and get some country air.” I smiled as I knew that was a joke. Todmorden was hardly the country They got out and waved goodbye, and as the tram moved out of the station I watched them walk in the direction of the trains. I found myself a seat now and settled down, smiling. It had been a good journey after all. Nick and Kate were sound. They were interesting, good listeners, a bit more to them than a lot of people I met. We talked, rather than just messed around. I wondered why. Perhaps it was because neither of them was fresh out of school. They were more mature – and they seemed to like me. OK, so I was flattered. Who wouldn’t be? I tried to imagine what their house would be like, and speculated who their other housemates might be. If I had too much to drink, would they let me kip on the floor? Did they do weed? Then I thought, would I actually have the courage to go all the way to Todmorden? I would have, if I had my mates with me. Alone, it seemed more difficult. What if I was to turn up and they’d forgotten who I was? I’d have to think about it and decide what to do. Whatever, it was good to have the option. I looked at the piece of paper Nick had given me. I had somewhere to go next Saturday night. Things were looking up. 2. From Rendall’s Parables: The Tale of the Traveller (#ulink_3eb645f1-f851-5e00-bd8a-708d28239ca0) A Traveller is lost in a Wilderness. Despairing of ever finding his way out, he builds himself a shelter, a garden and a maze, in which he wanders endlessly. How can he be freed? By a journey towards the source of the Light. It was a pretty average sort of week. Monday I slept in late, did a bit of cleaning otherwise Mum would hit the roof, emailed some friends, but said nothing about Kate and Nick to anyone, not even Phil. I read a bit, watched MTV. Last year I would have killed to be able to do nothing like this all day; now I feel like life is a head-to-head game with boredom. Tuesday – much the same, except I went into Manchester and looked round the shops. I was getting low again. Sometimes Manchester strikes me as the best place to live – home of United, Oasis, Coronation Street – even when you meet people from other places and they take the rise out of you for your northern accent. At night, down Deansgate, the clubs in the village, girls walking down the middle of the road mad for it, you feel there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. But other times, when the sky is loaded with grey rain clouds and the smell of burger stalls hangs around and makes you sick, you wonder. All the shops are the same – HMV, Virgin, Our Price; Next, Top Shop, Burton; JD Sports, JJB Sports – you’re supposed to have all this choice but you can never find anything you want. I get to thinking that life never delivers. I have this feeling on some days that anything’s possible, that round the next corner it will happen – whatever it is – that there’s a prize waiting for me, and me alone. But I haven’t found it yet and I reckon that maybe I never will. That’s Manchester melancholy for you. Wednesday was better because I had a shift at the Red King. It gave some focus to my day. Since I was working late, I had to sleep in, didn’t I? I began to think about whether to go to Todmorden at the weekend. I even got as far as asking my dad if I could have the car, and to my amazement he said yes. But by now I was feeling nervous. Sunday seemed a long time ago and maybe Nick was just being polite. A lot of people find it hard to say a plain goodbye and kid you with I’ll ring you, speak soon. Crap like that. I know, I’ve done it often enough. I reckoned, if something else came up, I’d give Todmorden a miss. Nick and Kate’s address was in the drawer by the computer. Lower Fold Farm, Lumbutts, near Todmorden. There was fun and games that evening. Dad came home and opened the telephone bill. “Bloody hell!” he shouted. Mum, Gemma and I were in the lounge watching TV. I saw Gemma go dead still. Mum just raised her eyebrows. Dad came storming in, talking to us as if we were skiving employees. “It’s over a hundred pounds this month. I just don’t credit it! What’s this? Eight pounds seventy-two to a mobile number? Which of you made that call?” I saw Mum tapping her foot in irritation at Dad’s bad temper. Meanwhile Gemma’s eyes were glued to the local news. I felt it would be disloyal of me to say the call wasn’t mine (it wasn’t), so I just shrugged and grinned at my dad. Well, as they say, the best form of defence is attack, and Gemma was no slouch as a military strategist. She suddenly bounced up from the sofa. “Why are you all staring at me? You think it’s me, don’t you?” (It was.) “I get blamed for everything in this family! It’s so unfair! Other people use the phone, you know.” “Fiona?” my dad said, passing the buck. It killed me how Dad never had the guts to tell Gemma off. He always went through my mum. “Was it you?” Mum asked Gemma. “That’s not the POINT, is it!” I just kept my mouth shut. Dad ranted on. “I just don’t understand why you have to be on the phone all the time. Absolute waste of money. Next time, you pay me back.” “Like I have my own private income,” muttered Gemma. So Dad marched upstairs, tail between his legs. Gemma sighed expressively and settled down in front of the TV. I couldn’t tell whether she was bothered or not. She’s quite good at cutting out the things she doesn’t want to hear. This didn’t include her mobile, which announced the arrival of another text. She’s all right, really, my sister, but she’s just typically fifteen – into boys, friends, gossip, all the girlie stuff. I tease her sometimes about being such a clone until she loses her rag, but she makes sure we’re never bad friends for too long, as she fancies most of my mates. I went into the kitchen to get a coffee before work and Mum followed me out, as I thought she would. “Your father,” she said, shaking her head. “Why does he have to come home and stir it up? I find it difficult enough to manage Gemma as it is.” “He’ll have forgotten about it by the time he comes downstairs,” I said. Mum just grumbled. She tends to use me as a sympathetic ear. When my GAP plans fell through she told me she was only too pleased to have me at home for another year, and she meant it. She once said I was her safety valve, whatever that meant. I’m certainly a bit of a go-between in the family Mum moans about Dad, Dad moans about Mum, Gemma moans about both of them, and they both moan about Gemma. Welcome to the Woods family. Not that any of this was serious. Life in our house was much better than a lot of the families I knew. It was more that I’d outgrown them, which was natural. I was pleased to get to the Red King that night, even though there was a darts match on and we never stopped. So the next day I was shattered – I still wasn’t back to pre-glandular fever fitness levels. Then the pub again in the evening. And so on. And then it was Saturday. It was slack at Electric Avenue and I did more than my fair share of staring into space. I’d decided more or less not to go to Todmorden. It just seemed too much effort. I thought I’d have an early night instead, gather my strength. Kevin, the deputy manager, sidled over. He wasn’t much older than me, and because of that, he liked to throw his weight around, in my direction. “Have you brought out the new Golf Tournament?” I nodded. “Got to keep you busy,” he said, only half joking. He was dressed in a flashy suit and his hair was brittle with gel. His eyes darted about the shop and were held by some girl who’d come in and was hunting through the GameBoy games. He nudged me conspiratorially. Kevin was pretty disgusting. He’d relay to the shop floor exactly what he got up to every weekend. Not that any of us wanted to know. When a bloke came into the store and put a proprietorial arm around the girl’s waist, Kevin looked away. “Not my type,” he said. “No bum.” I made no comment. I might think things about girls, but I don’t normally say them. Most of the time. “So,” Kevin carried on. “What are you up to this weekend?” “My little secret,” I said, trying to sound as careless as possible. “Come on! Who is she?” “Girl I met last week coming back from Birmingham,” I lied. “You’re a fast worker,” Kevin said. I felt a shit for lying but pleased the lie took effect. And then I thought, what the hell, I might as well make the most of it. “Yeah, an artist. Lives out in West Yorkshire. I’m going out to her place.” I sounded cool. I liked how I sounded. Of course, I knew this meant I would never go to Todmorden now. But I wasn’t going to go, anyway. “An artist, eh? So what are you going to do? Model for her? A Life class?” Kevin sniggered. I laughed as if to dismiss his insinuations but concede nevertheless that there might be something in them. Yeah, all right, I was right down there at his level. But it felt good to impress, even a shit like Kevin. And the lying didn’t bother me. Everybody lies, even when they don’t mean to. Then some punters drifted in and we separated. Business picked up, and I didn’t have any more time to think, except about what would make good Christmas presents and the new features of the latest Tomb Raider. Before I knew it, it was six o’clock, and Kevin was pulling down the grille at the front of the shop. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel too tired. I waved goodbye to everyone and sauntered to the bus stop. Waiting for the bus, my mood began to spiral downwards again, perhaps because I was alone. Being with other people lifts me, makes me act OK, even if I don’t feel OK. By myself, reality bites. The reality was that I had nothing to do and it was Saturday night. Even Gemma was out with her mates, and when I got home she’d be prancing around asking me if she should wear her pink top, or the black one, and which trousers. I’d spend the night up in my room or in front of the box with my aged parents. If my luck was really in, Dad would buy in a four-pack of lager. Great. Lower Fold Farm, Lumbutts, near Todmorden. I’d drive down the M62 to Milnrow, then go on through Walsden. I was pretty sure that Lumbutts was on the moors, a bit further down than Walsden. It would be interesting to see the farm. Not that I would see much in the dark. Stupid idea. Maybe there were some films on Sky. The bus came. It was weird – for the first time in ages I had some energy. I wanted to go out. I wanted to go into town with my mates, only they were scattered all over England, in different campus bars at different universities. You can’t go clubbing by yourself. And then I had my brainwave. Stu was still around. He’d failed all his A2s and was retaking them at a local college. I got out my mobile and texted him. My luck was in. He was at home, no plans, but no money either. I texted him back. I told him about a party I knew in Tod, that I had a sort of invite to. He said he was up for it. I said I’d pick him up on my way, as he lived in Rochdale. Sorted. Even if the party was a disaster, we could have a drink or two instead. Now I’d decided to go to Todmorden, I realised it was what I’d wanted to do all along. Because Kate and Nick were new people, they were different. Everyone was meeting new people now except for me. I wanted to have an adventure too. I wanted to start living. So I got home, reminded Dad he said I could have the car, listened to the lecture about not drinking and driving, changed into some jeans and a sweatshirt, shovelled down the dinner Mum had made, told Gemma the pink top looked better than the black. And I was in the car, stereo playing loud. I was moving, life was moving again. At last. This was more like it. Because the music was playing so loud I didn’t hear my mobile the first couple of times. I was already driving through Rochdale and it was in between tracks before I heard the ring. I pulled over to answer. It was Stu. He sounded like death. Apparently he’d just spent the last hour or so throwing up. Either a stomach bug, he said, or something he’d eaten. Either way, he was going to have to cancel on me. I said that it was OK, and wished him better. He said he’d ring in a few days. So much for my Saturday night. Then I realised I had two choices. Either I turned the car around and went home, or carried on to Todmorden. Neither appealed. But just then, going back home seemed the worse of the two alternatives. I’d been vegetating all week, and as much as I love my parents, they aren’t exactly stimulating company. Going to Tod was risking the fact Nick and Kate wouldn’t remember me, or would have changed their minds about seeing me. But on the other hand, if it was a party, I could just blend with the crowd. It dawned on me I’d never gone to a party or club by myself before. That made me smile. I teased Gemma often enough about being a pack animal, and here I was, hesitating about going to a party just because I was on my own. That decided me. I started the engine again and drove on. I saw an off-licence and pulled in, leaving the car to get some Bacardi Breezers – I didn’t want to arrive empty-handed. I was feeling better already The roads were clear, and just as I had remembered, the way to Lumbutts was clearly signposted just outside Walsden. I put the car in second as I took several steep corners past stone-built cottages teetering on the side of the road. I crawled along, as the road was narrow. On my left the whole of Todmorden was laid out, a sprinkling of yellow lights. On my right, dark masses of hills. Eventually the road levelled out and I was up in the moors. I guessed I must be near the Pennine Way, but it was too dark to see much. It occurred to me then I might not find it easy to locate Lower Fold Farm. So I slowed right down, checking to see no one was behind me. The road was completely empty. I was the only idiot up here on a Saturday night. In fact Lower Fold Farm was easy to find. There was a large painted board on my right announcing it. A rough track between two gateposts led to it. I turned in carefully and was relieved to see lights were blazing from the windows. The car bounced along the track and I tried to make out the size of the farm. There was the main house, painted white, several stone outbuildings and a grey-looking caravan. A rusty Transit van and a scooter were parked outside. I was too curious to be nervous now. I left the car by the side of what looked like an old barn, locked it and made my way to the front of the house. Too late to turn back. It seemed quiet for a party. What if I’d got the wrong day? I banged on the door. Nick opened it and seemed to recognise me immediately. “It’s Joe!” he shouted. There were footsteps and Kate appeared, her hair flowing loose. “I knew you’d come,” she said, smiling. 3. From Rendall’s Laws Governing Purity: Abstinence (#ulink_34f1c9bf-0bd3-5e64-96fa-4faa481f9a64) White Ones, and those aspiring to be White Ones, should refrain from those substances and impure actions which cloud the vision. You shall not imbibe alcohol or caffeine; neither smoke tobacco, nor use any artificial substances – legal or illegal – to alter your consciousness. You shall not gamble nor overeat. You should not fix your mind on worldly success, nor love another as much as you learn to love the Light. Purity leads to enlightenment. I have spoken. Funny how as soon as you cross the threshold of a new place you yourself become different. The place exerts an influence. Like I’m different collecting empties at the Red King from the way I am at Electric Avenue. Different again when I’m with my mates. With Kate and Nick I was different once more, and I liked this new me. They ushered me into the house, made me feel welcome immediately. They said they’d been talking about me and felt they should have stressed more strongly that they had meant the invitation for tonight. I was flattered I’d made such an impression on them. In my fantasies, people sought me out. Now it was happening for real. I don’t know what I expected their house to be like. In fact it was a rambling old farmhouse and the centre of activity was a large kitchen. That was where they took me. In the middle of it was a wooden table laid out with food and drink, and around the table a few people were seated, late teens, early twenties. More people were standing around. Naturally they all turned to see who I was. Then some people made a space for me at the table, although I wasn’t ready to sit down yet. I put my Bacardi Breezers down on the table and hoped that would be the sign for someone to offer me a drink. I know Dad had lectured me about drinking and driving, but one drink now would help me relax, and I’d stay long enough for it to have time to wear off. Then Nick came over, holding a bottle opener. “Do you want one of those?” he smiled, indicating the Bacardi Breezers I’d brought with me. I did. I drank it straight from the bottle. I suggested he have one but he shook his head ruefully. We were joined by Kate and a bloke about my age. Then a slightly older man came up to us as well. Instinctively I straightened, stood to attention. Some people have that effect on you. The younger bloke turned out to be called Will. “This is Fletcher,” Kate said, smiling at the older one. “I told you about Joe, Fletcher. He’s the person Nick and I met on our way back from Wolverhampton. Fletcher’s the tenant of the farm, Joe. We’re all responsible to him.” I gave him the once over. He was tall, cool blue eyes, rather intense. He wore a white kaftan and I immediately had him down as one of those ex-hippie types who are into ecology and tree-saving and that. He seemed friendly enough, though. It turned out Will ran a charity shop in Hebden Bridge, and Fletcher was the tenant of the farm. He grew stuff in the adjoining land and looked after the place. Will seemed more normal. He grinned quite a lot, out of shyness, I reckon. His head was shaved; he wore a white football shirt with the name of some bloke I didn’t recognise on the back. They asked me quite a bit about myself, and as the Bacardi took effect, I found myself more and more ready to answer. Quite an adult party, I thought, looking around me during the lull in conversation. It was all talk, no music. Maybe this was just a warm-up session. The other thing I noticed was, I was the only person who seemed to be drinking. There were jugs of fruit juice on the table, and bottles of water, but that was it. The food was mainly dips, hummus, vegetable sticks and hunks of bread. The lack of alcohol puzzled me, and I wondered whether this was because they did something else. This was just the sort of place you could grow your own. I looked around the kitchen. Sure enough there were things growing in pots, but nothing that looked to me like cannabis. It’s a bit weird being the only person drinking. You feel like you’re undressed in a room full of clothed people. Still, that didn’t stop me helping myself to another bottle. I looked around the room again, and saw Kate talking to a girl. She was stunning. Shorter than me, with loose blonde hair and dark eyes. Kate noticed my repeated glances in their direction, and brought the girl over. “This is Bea,” she said. “B?” I said, puzzled. “Beatrice,” the girl explained. “Which is a bit of an embarrassment, so I get everyone to call me Bea.” I was going to say something stupid like, to be or not to be, but luckily I stopped myself in time. I grinned at her. I could see now that her eyes were brown, contrasting dramatically with her fair hair. Kate didn’t seem to be there any more. I asked Bea whether she lived on the farm. “No,” she said. “But I’m going to. They said I could move in during the week.” I nodded. “So where do you live now?” “In Rochdale,” she said. “With a sort of friend. I’m studying at the college. But I sing too.” This was getting better and better. I definitely fancied her and she looked around my age. I had a good feeling about tonight. I gestured in the direction of the Bacardi Breezers and asked her if she wanted one. She shook her head. Then she smiled at me impishly. “Why are you drinking it?” I shrugged. “It’s a party, innit?” “So?” “Well, everybody else…” My voice trailed away. I was the only person drinking. I tried to defend my position. “Well, OK. It relaxes me, makes me feel good. What’s wrong with that?” “Do you need alcohol to make you feel good?” “No, I don’t need it, but I choose to have it, which is different.” “But you said before it relaxes you, which means you were feeling tense when you came in here. It sounds as if you’re using alcohol as the solution to a problem. So it’s a necessity.” “OK. So I walked into a place I’ve never been before. Of course I feel on edge. Drink isn’t a necessity, but it helps. And I like it.” This was different. This was not normally how I chatted up girls. But somehow this argument was fun. We were sparring, sparking off each other. It was more meaningful than the usual crap. I swigged down a mouthful of Bacardi as a challenge. Bea laughed. “I don’t drink,” she said. “I can feel good without it. As I do right now.” I wasn’t sure what she meant. Was she flirting with me? I hoped so. I had to admit she seemed much more relaxed than I did, but then she knew these people. There was something about her, too, that was centred and peaceful. I’d not met any girl quite like her before. Tasha had been like me, a bit mad, a bit of a piss artist. Bea was completely different. “Let’s forget about us,” she said. “Think of other people. It’s Saturday night. The pubs are full. Hundreds and hundreds of thousands of people all over the country are getting wasted. If you were a Martian and came down here and looked, you’d think we had a problem.” “Drinking’s just a recreation, like football,” I said. “Or music.” “Music is harmony and order,” she said. “Drinking leads to disorder, fighting, illness. Even football is controlled. Drinking leads deliberately to a lack of control. People are giving themselves permission to do things they wouldn’t otherwise do, not if they had their judgement intact.” This was strong. I realised then she may have had hidden reasons for speaking the way she did. What if her father was a drunk, say? What if she’d suffered from other people’s drunkenness? I back-pedalled a bit. “Sure. I’ll concede that in some cases, drinking controls the drinker. But most people enjoy drink as much as they do a walk, a concert, ice cream, whatever. Alcohol is a naturally occurring substance.” I knew that was illogical, but that was the drink talking. Bea shook her head and her hair moved in ripples. “Men brew beer and distil whisky It ain’t natural,” she said. Then we were interrupted. A bloke came over to us with a guitar and asked Bea if she was ready to sing. She eagerly agreed and left me. There was a general exodus into another room and Kate swept me up and took me with her there. I picked up the third bottle on my way. The room we arrived in now had a low beamed roof, and cushions and beanbags were scattered around it, some creamy leather, others a grubby white corduroy. There were plants, more than you would normally see in a house, and a poster of the planet Earth. I noticed the faint smell of incense and watched while some people lit candles. I reckoned I was right about the hippie thing. I imagined myself laughing about these people to Phil on the phone tomorrow. Anyway, we gathered round, and the guy with the guitar played a few chords. It sounded as if it was going to be some kind of folk music. Definitely not my scene. Then Bea began to sing and I changed my mind. Her voice was liquid and golden. The song she sang wasn’t folk; it was simple, like a hymn, almost. The words were strange and sounded old-fashioned, like Shakespeare, though it wasn’t Shakespeare. They are all gone into the world of Light!And I alone sit lingering here;Their very memory is fair and bright,And my sad thoughts doth clear. It glows and glitters in my cloudy breastLike stars upon some gloomy grove,Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,After the Sun’s remove… Another thing alcohol does for you is make you appreciate music more. Bea gave the words such significance that they seemed true to me. I related to them. They made me think of this night, the moors, the feeling of being left alone. She sang with a rich melancholy that sent shivers through me. Candlelight flickered, shadows played on the ceiling, there was complete stillness as we were all held spellbound by her voice. At the end of the song, there was silence. Then a ripple of applause. My clapping was the loudest of all and I regretted my enthusiasm immediately, as everyone looked round and smiled. Then there was more guitar music. I drank quickly, then. This time because something had moved in me that I couldn’t put a name to. I felt different, spaced out, kind of emotional. Bea came and sat by my side. “Nice one,” I said to her. “Thank you.” She paused for a little. “I set it to music myself. It’s a metaphysical poem.” “Come again?” “Metaphysical. Seventeenth century. The poet was called Henry Vaughan. Metaphysical means beyond the physical, beyond our everyday experience.” I thought to myself, that was how I felt. Metaphysical. I didn’t say that, though. I wondered if I could reach out and take Bea’s hand, but I noticed no one else in the room was touching, even people who looked like couples. That inhibited me. You don’t like to stand out from the crowd. It was enough that she was sitting by my side. “Who are all these people?” I asked her. “I suppose you’d call them a kind of commune. They have a vision about the way they want to live.” “They’re not religious nuts?” “Oh, no. Not in the conventional sense. Fletcher runs the place; Nick, Will and some other guys live here. So do Kate, Layla and Auriel. For now. But there are more of them that just visit.” “Why?” “For enlightenment,” she answered. “What do you mean, enlight—” People were making hushing sounds. Someone else started to sing, a bloke. It seemed rude to carry on talking, so I stopped. I took a closer look at the people around me now. At first glance, they looked dead ordinary. A few ugly blokes, a rather chubby girl in a white dress that made her look like a bridesmaid, faces you might see anywhere. But on closer examination they did look different. And then it dawned on me why. Everyone seemed remarkably happy. Most people look fed up seventy-five per cent of the time. These guys gave the impression that here was where they most wanted to be. I wasn’t jealous exactly, but I decided I’d go and get the last Bacardi. Back in the kitchen two people I hadn’t been introduced to were sitting in a corner talking intently. They both said hi to me. I took the last bottle and thought I ought not to drink it as I wouldn’t be fit to drive home. But then – what the hell! I opened the bottle and gulped some down. I felt unsettled and alone. I wanted Bea to come back but perversely I didn’t want to fetch her. There were stirrings from the other room and people started to drift back. Bea and Kate were among them. They came over and I saw Kate glance at my drink. “How did you get here tonight?” she asked. “I drove,” I said. “You can’t drive back.” This was true. Kate then invited me to stay the night. “We’ve lots of room,” she said. Well, why not, I thought. I was still sober enough to ring my parents and let them know I wouldn’t be back until the morning, assuring them I was fine. Dad told me to make sure I returned the car by eleven. It was weird and uncomfortable hearing their voices. They sounded so ordinary. I was glad to end the call and put my mobile back in my pocket. “Come on,” Bea said. “I’ll take you on a tour.” She reached out for my hand now and I let her lead me out into the hall. She pointed to a staircase. “The offices are up there. And Fletcher’s quarters. A bathroom too.” She took me back into the room where the singing had been. Now I could see a sort of conservatory adjoined it, roughly built, with wooden benches ranged around inside. “That’s the Gathering Place,” she said. She opened the door and I followed her in. It was cold and damp in there. The floor was uneven stone. We went through another door and were outside. The slap of the wind sobered me up. “Here’s where the lads sleep,” she said, pointing to a stone-built barn. “There’ll be a bed in there for you.” Shit. I had hoped for something else, but never mind. We went back inside the house and I finished my drink. There were fewer people about now. We sat by the table in the kitchen and I helped myself to some of the food. It was late but I was suddenly wide awake. I wanted to talk. “Tell me about yourself, Bea,” I said. “No. I’m more interested in you, Joe. And your ideas. Like – are you happy?” “I’m happy sitting here talking to you.” “Are you generally happy?” “Sometimes.” “What is happiness?” she asked me, her voice teasing. I began to formulate an answer but then realised this was a hard question. I struggled a bit. “Erm… happiness is when things are going right.” Bea looked reflective. “For me, happiness is knowing that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be. Here. Now.” For some reason, her happiness seemed better than mine. I wanted it. “Joe, has it occurred to you that most of the time life is empty? That we fill it with trivia, which become obsessions?” I thought of the computer games I played, of the trashy TV I watched, renting out videos I didn’t like. I didn’t say anything. She continued. “We’re just here, we have this life, we don’t know what to do with it. Each of us makes up our own reason for being here. Listen. It’s like Rendall’s Tale of the Traveller, the way he builds himself his shelter.” She paused. “Sorry, you don’t know Rendall’s Parables. I’ll lend you the Book some day. You remind me of the Traveller.” I liked that. I am a traveller. It sounded like something vaguely sci-fi. The thought made me smile and Bea smiled back. “Come on, Joe. What’s the purpose of your life?” It was turning out to be an impossible question. I hesitated. He who hesitates is lost. I shrugged. “So you really don’t know,” she said. “Does it matter?” “It matters. Because if the purpose of life doesn’t matter, then nothing matters.” “Do you know the purpose of your life?” I asked her. “Yes” she said simply. Her face seemed to light up as she said that. Like a Madonna. It stopped me doing what I was going to do next, which was to try to kiss her. But it was weird. Not kissing her was almost better than kissing her. Wanting to was more exquisite than doing it. Imagining it was beautiful. We sat in silence for a while. I couldn’t believe all this was happening to me. Then Bea took me back out to the barn where the blokes slept. She handed me over to Will, who set me up with a sleeping bag in a kind of dormitory with wooden panels between the beds, giving some sort of privacy. A few people were already asleep. Of course I didn’t sleep for ages. I was just thinking, where am I? Who are these people? I was a bit scared they were born-again Christians, but there had been no mention of Jesus. No crucifixes anywhere, nothing. No attempt had been made to brainwash me. Bea made me think, and think deep, but what was wrong with that? Maybe we all need to think a little more. Maybe I do. It was true that sometimes I did ask myself what it was all about. Because when you come to think of it, life is incredibly strange. To think that all I can ever know or feel is my consciousness, and yet all the other millions of people on this planet have their own consciousness which I’ll never experience. I don’t know whether I believe in God. I don’t know if I believe in life after death. Though I can’t imagine just being nothing. It occurred to me that what Bea said was right in a way. If there was nothing, if life had no purpose, then I might as well go out and rob and cheat and steal, because it didn’t matter. But I do believe in a basic sort of morality, so it follows I believe life must have some purpose. But what? Thinking like that can do your head in. It makes you feel spaced out. I liked lying there just thinking in the dark. I wondered if Bea was thinking, and whether she was thinking about me. I wondered what she thought the purpose of her life was, what it would be like to have a purpose. Imagine if you woke up every morning with something important to do, that you loved doing. If you knew what you had to do. If you were certain. Like Bea. 4. From Rendall’s Book of Prayers: The Morning Service (#ulink_0ca2a7a5-73f6-56eb-a87b-9cc60efa2715) I ask for the power of the Light to enter my body and soul and make me a force for good. May it be my lot to achieve Perfection. I promise to remain pure, true and strong. I will stay by the fountain of Light. I ask all here present to witness these vows this morning. May it be my lot to achieve Perfection. May it be your lot to achieve Perfection. To the One, to the Light – salaam, shalom, peace. Peace be with you. After I’d drifted back to consciousness in the morning, I lay awake listening for sounds. There were none. I got the feeling I was alone. I checked my watch, discovered it was eight o’clock and guessed the other guys must have gone to breakfast leaving me to sleep. Quickly I got up, threw on my clothes from the night before and stepped into the centre of the dormitory. It was deserted. I saw some bathroom facilities at one end and got myself presentable. Then I went outside. It was a fresh day. The wind stung my face and blew my hair around. I could see the moorland clearly now, steep hills rising on one side, on the other the distant road and a criss-cross pattern of dry-stone walls. I felt apart from my normal life. I made my way to the farmhouse where I presumed people were having breakfast. I was sure there’d be something left for me. When I got there, the kitchen was empty, scrubbed clean. I frowned in puzzlement. I stood there for a while, undecided, then resolved to check out the living room. As I entered I saw people coming towards me from out of the conservatory, which Bea had called the Gathering Place. They were all dressed in white. It gave me quite a shock. Blokes in white jeans and white sweatshirts, the girls in long white skirts and dresses. Bea glided over towards me, her face radiant, like an angel. “We’ve just finished our morning meeting,” she said, and kissed me on the cheek, as my mother might. Other people shook my hand warmly. It was difficult not to be drawn into such good feeling. I followed them into breakfast, where two of the blokes began to get some food together. “I could kill for a coffee,” I confided to Bea. She smiled teasingly. “Coffee? It’s a drug too, you know.” “Yeah, well, it’s only caffeine.” But there was no coffee. It was back to the fruit juice and herbal teas. In fact the fresh orange juice I had was very welcome. I forgot about the coffee as I listened to people talk. Some of the blokes were discussing football, which surprised me. Some girls were laughing as if they were sharing a private joke. Fletcher came and sat by me so I was flanked by him and Bea. “Did you have a good night?” he asked. I said I did and thanked him for his hospitality. “You can stay any time,” he said. He cut himself a slice of bread from what looked like a home-made loaf. “What do you think of us?” I was a bit taken aback by his question, but well-mannered enough to come out with all the right platitudes. “Everyone’s been great. I really enjoyed the party.” “No. What do you think of us? In fact. The truth.” Did he want me to criticise them? Or was he doing what Gemma does when she says, do I really look fat in these jeans? Honestly? But this wasn’t Gemma. As a novelty, I decided to tell him the truth. “You all seem weird to me. I was pretty spooked when I saw you all in white. Like, who are you? Bea hasn’t explained properly.” Fletcher smiled as if I’d got the right answer. He obviously liked plain speaking. “We are the White Ones. We’re a group of people from different religious and non-religious traditions who have come to understand the nature of life. We live together so we can follow our own practices. For our own good, and for the ultimate good of the world.” There was no answer to that. Fletcher questioned me further. “How do you feel about that?” I carried on being honest. “Well, I’m half-inclined to make fun of you and write you off as a pack of weirdos. But also a bit curious to know what you’re about.” I quite enjoyed talking like this. It was good not having to be polite. And Fletcher seemed unbothered by my straight talking. “The choice is yours. Leave this morning and never come back, if you like. Or return and find out more.” He helped himself to more bread, then looked me straight in the eyes. “We think you’d fit in.” I felt Bea nudge me under the table. “Thanks,” I said. Then Fletcher turned and spoke to someone on his left. “What was all that about?” I asked Bea. “It’s an invitation,” she said. “He thinks you have something. And we’re not a bunch of freaks. We don’t conform, but then, what’s so great about conforming when you look at the rest of the world?” This was true. I could feel my perceptions slowly shifting. It was a novel and not unpleasant experience. Meanwhile a niggling voice in my head reminded me of my promise to return the car to my dad before eleven. I explained to Bea that I had to go. To my pleasure, she looked a little crestfallen. “Here,” she said. “Take my mobile number.” I did, readily, and gave her mine. She chatted on, explaining that she was a kind of novice and had only been coming to Lower Fold Farm for the past six weeks. But it had changed her life. Maybe, she said, she would have the chance to tell me more one day. I said I’d love to see her again. She went with me out to where I’d left the car. Someone had tied a white ribbon around the windscreen wipers. We both laughed as I removed it, and put it in my pocket. The wind lifted and tossed Bea’s hair around. “See you, Joe,” she said. “Ciao.” We didn’t touch. I got in the car and turned the key in the ignition. Soon I was bumping down the track to the main road. And driving down to Todmorden. It was lucky the roads were quiet as my mind wasn’t really on my driving. I just didn’t know what to make of everyone I’d met. I wanted to write them off as a load of nutters, but something stopped me. Who was I to say what was right and normal, and what wasn’t? And think of Bea – she wasn’t bullshitting. She believed everything she said to me, and she was no airhead. Also she was gorgeous, and gorgeous people weren’t so desperate that they had to go and associate with a bunch of freaks. Kate and Nick too, they weren’t sad. In fact the people I had met at the farm were better in some way than lots of the people in my life. I thought of Kevin and some of the idiots who hang out at the Red King. It was all bloody confusing. Home seemed different when I got there. I managed to throw the keys to Dad so they sailed over the top of the Sunday paper he was reading and landed in his lap. He muttered his thanks. Gemma was in the sitting room watching TV, painting her nails. Mum was doing something in the kitchen. It all seemed so one-dimensional after the farm. And meaningless. Stereotypes. Doing what they were programmed to do. I hated Sundays, anyway. When I was at school I spent Sundays sleeping in, maybe going over to the park to kick a ball around, then putting off doing schoolwork, then doing it late at night. It was a nothing day, the blood had been sucked out of it by the fact that Monday came after. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. The working days. You get more and more tired. Then suddenly it’s Saturday and if you haven’t got anything on in the evening, you’re sunk. And you go out and have your first drink and there’s colour back in the world. And that was last year, when things seemed to be going my way. This Sunday, I lay on my bed and listened to some CDs. I got more and more depressed. I kept thinking about Bea and the farm. I wondered what they were doing up there now. I certainly wasn’t using my time any better than they could be. But I cheered up. I went with Dad to B&Q to get some wood and saw all the Christmas trees and decorations. That made me feel good. I always enjoyed Christmas – not for religious reasons, but the parties, the presents, the turkey, everyone letting their hair down. But today I was aware of how it was all mass-produced – forests of trees cut down to be sold at B&Q and supermarkets and garden centres, tacky tinsel and lights, cash registers ringing. To pretend for a moment that this had anything to do with religion was a joke. I tried to say something to my dad. “Why do you think people are so into Christmas?” “Yep,” he said. “Gets worse every year. Christmas comes earlier and earlier. And it’s all about the money.” “Is that all?” “Christmas isn’t a Christian festival,” he said. “It’s pagan in origin and it’s pagan now. An excuse for letting go for a while.” “But if it’s pagan,” I carried on, “then there must be a basic human need for a winter festival.” “You’d think they’d have enough assistants around at this time of year!” he said. “Christ! We’ve looked everywhere for extension sockets. And there’s never anyone you can ask.” Dad gave an exaggerated sigh. He was always on a short fuse. Mum moaned about him, said he was hell to live with and was his own worst enemy. He needed to calm down and take life as it came. She was partly right. Later on that evening I said to Mum, “Do you believe in God?” She looked as embarrassed as if I’d asked her about sex. “Well, I suppose I believe in something,” she said. “But it’s hard to say, really. I don’t believe in organised religion. Look at the wars it’s caused.” I had my mobile in my pocket in case Bea rang. Gemma mooched into the kitchen and opened every cupboard and the fridge on her personal quest – for something to eat. “There’s never anything in the house!” she whinged. “Gemma,” I said to her. “What is the purpose of your life?” “Sod off!” she said. “Language!” warned Mum. The Woods family. Home of the great philosophers. I thought about sending Bea a text, something non-committal, like, had a great night. I decided to do that later. I watched TV, and decided there was nothing worth watching. I said to everyone I was going to bed early and I lay on my bed, thinking. The White Ones. They didn’t drink or, presumably, do drugs. They wore white and lived apart. So they weren’t hippies, or Christians. They seemed normal, but clearly they weren’t. Bea talked about a book they had. They had gatherings. Fletcher invited me back. If I went back, I’d see Bea again. Nah, I thought. The whole setup is too weird. I’d be better off asking for extra hours at Electric Avenue, getting some cash together and travelling. The Traveller. That’s me. I smiled to myself. I wouldn’t go back. It was a cool adventure for a Saturday night, but I lived in the real world. Crappy as it was. My phone rang. A message. Thinking of you. Sleep well. Peace and Perfection. Bea. My fingers pressed out a reply. And to you. Ive been thinking of you. Lets meet. Her: When? Me: Soon. Name a day. Her: Come to the farm whenever. Me: C u there. Yesss! She sent me a message first. She was keen. A smile spread over my face. And then I asked myself what I was pleased about. Mainly, that Bea was interested and I would get to see her again. But also that I had an excuse for going back. Because the truth was, the part of me that dismissed Fletcher and co. was the part of me that judged by appearances. I needed to investigate the whole thing more. It would be an experiment. I could go back and see what made them tick. It would be interesting to find out what they believed, what Bea thought the purpose of her life was. If what they said was stupid, then I was free to walk away. If, however, there was something in it, and something there for me… It would be daft not to go and check them out. 5. From Rendall’s Parables: The Tale of the Hungry Child (#ulink_6f8d7ab8-23ff-5b83-a606-1cbff09b7888) Once in a distant land there was a child, who, despite his mother’s warning, wandered out of the garden and into the field. Entranced by the blue skies and distant hills, he strayed. Soon he was hungry. In the distance, he saw a farm and made his way there. He entered the dairy and found a jug of milk, from which he drank greedily. But was it his to take? When Mike rang from the Red King to say I wasn’t needed on Wednesday, I took it as a sign. I’d go up to Lower Fold Farm instead, and see Bea. That is, if I could have the car. Dad grumbled a bit when I asked him and made me cough up for the petrol, but finally agreed. Then he asked me what on earth I was doing visiting friends on a farm? It was November, for Christ’s sake. And who were these people, anyway? I smiled, fairly nonchalantly. I explained about my meeting with Nick and Kate on the train, editing it neatly. I mentioned Nick had done voluntary work in India and that Kate was an artist. The farm, I told him, was just a house where they lived with some friends. I told Dad about Bea too, confessing I liked her. That went down well. His mouth curled in a half-smile. He thought he’d uncovered the motivation for my sudden interest in farms. The questioning stopped and I was half-relieved. And so Wednesday night saw me on the way to Lumbutts again. I’d made a bit of an effort with my appearance with Bea in mind. I couldn’t decide between my navy or fawn sweater, but went for the fawn in the end – dressed in dark colours, I’d be very conspicuous. It felt good to be going back to the farm. I had no fixed idea of what I wanted to happen, past the fact that Bea would be there – I knew that, as we’d been texting each other. She asked me to arrive before seven. At this rate, I was going to be early. Nearly all the traffic lights seemed to turn to green as they saw me coming. This time I knew exactly where I was going and found the farm with no difficulty at all. Having spent a night there made it familiar to me. I guided the car carefully over the bumpy track to the farmhouse and parked it by a wall. There was the sense of rain in the air. I rapped loudly on the door. Fletcher answered. “Joe,” he said, seeming pleased. It’s nice to be wanted. Bea came out from the kitchen and her face brightened when she saw me. “You’re in time for our Evening Service!” she announced. “Come and join us,” Fletcher added. “As an observer.” An evening service? It sounded suspiciously like church. I had a sinking feeling and wondered what I’d got myself into. But, hey, I was free to go afterwards. I might as well sit it out. So I put on a brave smile and followed Bea to the Gathering Place, where quite a few people had already assembled. There was Kate, who rose to her feet to greet me, smiling fit to burst. There were others I recognised, and who recognised me. They all said, “Peace!” I muttered back, “Peace,” since it seemed the right thing to do. I sat down on a bench where there was room for Bea to sit next to me. She did. I found that I was swallowing nervously. I always feel edgy in religious services. Not that I’ve had experience of many. As a kid I’d been to church on some occasions, then we sort of stopped going. I’d been to weddings, and a couple of funerals. And countless school assemblies. It had always struck me that the point about religious services wasn’t worshipping God as much as getting it right. Finding the right hymn number, singing neither too softly nor loudly, sitting and standing at the right times. Oh, and being quiet. And letting someone, like a vicar, or the Head, talk nonsense at you, feel-good stuff that you knew neither they nor anybody else would practise. And you just stood there waiting for it all to finish and thinking of something totally different. This time, I was just very embarrassed. I didn’t know what to do with myself. It suddenly occurred to me that my legs were too long, as the bench was low and I had to try to position them out of people’s way. I didn’t know what to do with my hands and found I was clenching my fists. And my scalp was itchy, so I tried to scratch it without anyone noticing. Then Fletcher came in and started handing round some pamphlets. They’d obviously done the rounds, and looked the worse for wear. I took one from the pile that was handed to me and passed the rest along. The door opened once more and two of the blokes came in, carefully carrying one of those plastic baby bath things, half-full of water. They placed it in the middle of the circle. I watched the water level move back and forth, then settle. As it settled, conversation stopped. Bea squeezed my hand and I hoped she hadn’t noticed how hot and sweaty my palm was. Kate went round lighting candles, and when she had finished, someone switched off the light. The room was lit by flickering flames and dancing shadows played on the floor. Some people began to hum a tune. It sounded vaguely Eastern. The refrain was simple and I could have easily joined in had I wanted to. I heard Bea take up the melody, then the person on my other side. I found myself swaying slightly in time to the tune. I was the only person not humming. I tried to look as if I was humming, then found I was emitting a sort of noise. Oh, what the hell. I joined in. It was just some communal singing. We weren’t sacrificing goats or anything. We all hummed for some time. Then slowly people dropped out until there was silence. Fletcher’s voice broke it. “O, source of Light,” he intoned. “We are grateful for having reached the end of one more day. We offer thanks for those moments of illumination we have experienced and confess shame at the incursions of Darkness we have allowed. As the diurnal shadow envelops us, we affirm our commitment to the One Light, to Truth, to Goodness, to Peace, to Perfection. We approach the night confident that the day will follow, as the Kingdom of Light always surpasses in strength the Kingdom of Dark. We are glad that we are one day nearer you and yearn for the last night, when we can enter fully into the World of everlasting Day. We pray that we will be worthy of it. We work that we will be worthy of it. Our purity reflects our desire.” Everyone murmured, “Our purity reflects our desire.” Fletcher read some more prayers. I was trying to follow the gist of it, which seemed to be about light and darkness. I didn’t hear him mention God, which was a relief. I also noticed there was none of that ‘thee’ or ‘thou’ stuff. It was all in modern English. But the strangest thing was that absolutely everyone was paying attention. People were either following in the pamphlet or watching Fletcher and listening. There was depth and seriousness in their eyes. It made me feel kind of inferior. Then Fletcher stopped and there was more silence. I was getting used to this silence now. It had a quality all of its own, like a white noise, like a silken veil held close to your skin. It exerted a gentle pressure on me, on everyone. Then a bloke I couldn’t put a name to got up from the bench, went over to the bath of water and knelt by it. He immersed his hands in the water and began to wash them, and spoke as he did so. “I, Chris Taylor, swore aloud when I was cut up on the roundabout this afternoon.” “We trust you will be forgiven,” came a few voices. The guy continued to wash his hands for a few moments longer, then shook them over the bath. Without drying them, he went back to his seat. His place was taken by Nick, who also began to wash his hands. “I, Nick Lewis, failed my ASD today. I deplore my weakness.” “We trust you will be forgiven,” came the response. Nick didn’t look too well, I thought. I wondered if he’d been eating properly, and what that ASD was. That is, if I’d heard it right. But now was hardly the time to ask. Somebody came to help Nick up from where he’d been kneeling over the bath of water. At the same time a girl left the benches and came to the water. She was quite striking to look at, with high cheekbones, masses of reddish, curly hair, a good figure, but slightly gawky – or maybe she was just moving in a nervous way. “I, Auriel Beaven, permitted malicious gossip to be spoken in my presence. I didn’t have the courage to stop the backbiting – it was about my line manager at work – because it was true. I happen to know my boss does those things that her colleagues accused her of. So I wasn’t sure whether to agree with the truth or stop the bad feeling.” She seemed really upset. “I regret my confusion,” she continued, “and ask for clarity of mind and purpose in the future. And when I washed the floor today, I accidentally made a dirty smudge afterwards, when I was carrying out the water, and didn’t go back to clean it. For this I am truly sorry.” “We trust you will be forgiven,” Fletcher muttered. “And I had unlawful thoughts. I wanted to eat today, I wanted more than my fair share and looked enviously at the portions of others. I’ve vowed to give up all food containing sugar, but I doubt my own intentions. For this may I be forgiven.” “You will be forgiven,” Fletcher said, this time loudly. Auriel flinched, and, trembling, returned to her seat. Well, I thought, there’s always one weirdo in the pack. One by one, more White Ones came to the bath to wash their hands and confess their wrongdoings. I was fascinated, hoping someone had done something really juicy. Then Bea left my side. “I, Beatrice Rossi, have allowed my mind to become clouded by an obsessive thought. I have prayed for that which is not permissible. I acknowledge my weakness of dwelling too much on thoughts which are bad for me. I thank the Light for the help it has given me in the past and know it will continue to do so in the future.” “We trust you will be forgiven.” It looked quite beautiful, everyone kneeling by the bath, washing their hands. I wondered if I ought to join them, although Fletcher did say I was there as an observer, so perhaps I’d better not. I asked myself what I had done that day that, theoretically, I could confess. God, it was hard to know where to begin! It depends on what you count as a sin really, and what you would say was natural. Like, your body makes certain demands, so what can you do? Is that a sin? Or leaving the washing-up for Mum and Gemma because I just couldn’t be arsed. Or thinking what a plonker Kevin is? Was my dislike of him a sin? Then the humming started again. One by one people retreated from the bath. The two blokes who had carried in the water lifted the bath again, and Fletcher opened a door that led outside. Everyone rose and massed around the door. The candles flickered at the rush of cold air. The water was carried out to a drain and tipped into it. Fletcher’s voice rose above the humming. “As the water returns to the earth we ask that our Darknesses of spirit, thought and action return to their source, and we can move on unencumbered to the path of Light.” More silence except for the sound of gurgling water. Then everyone began to hug each other, murmuring something. Bea hugged me. “Peace and Perfection,” she said. I said it back. Then a bloke hugged me. We exchanged the greeting of Peace and Perfection. I think I was hugged five or six times. It was like a match when you score a goal. These were hugs of friendship, of being on the same side. Sure, it was odd, but kind of nice. Then everyone chanted, “I believe in truth, in purity, in wholeness. I believe in goodness, in right, in light. I ask for the power of the Light to enter my body and soul… May it be my lot to achieve Perfection… I will stay by the fountain of Light… May it be my lot to achieve Perfection. May it be your lot to achieve Perfection. To the One, to the Light – salaam, shalom, peace. Peace be with you.” Then they – we – let go of each other’s hands and kissed our fingertips. Bea turned to me and placed her kissed fingertips on my lips, lightly. The tingle travelled from my lips to every part of me. Weird. But good. We sat again. I looked round at everyone. They didn’t seem so strange any more. Because we’d all taken part in something I felt connected to them. And yet. And yet. The truth was, I envied them. They had something I wanted – I couldn’t have put it better than that. Yes. I wanted whatever it was they had. 6. From Rendall’s Parables: The Tale of the Brothers (#ulink_c5ae0b01-68d4-5ed8-bb0a-55b79722e214) In a distant land dwelt a young man who loved his village. Every day, accompanied by his two younger brothers, he walked through its streets, greeting its inhabitants. Yet those that lived in the village reviled him; they spoke of him and his brothers as mad. The day came when a bird settled on his shoulder, singing him a song of freedom and light. It sang of a land far away where all those he met would greet him with love and acceptance. So the bird led the young men from the village through the barren lands out to sea. Here was a boat packed with provisions, and the young man and his brothers set sail. They sailed for a year and a day. One night the sky darkened and there was a storm of perilous magnitude. The sky crashed above them and the seas crashed around them. Despite the efforts of the young man, his brothers perished in the storm. Soon after that time the young man arrived at the place the bird had promised. And in the morning he arose, went to his new home, and knew that he was loved. And he donned his white garb, and dwelt among his brethren. So I kept going up to the farm, attending some Services, watching, talking. When my old mates came back from uni, I wriggled out of seeing them, except for Phil, who insisted we go out to the pub. I offered to drive so I didn’t have to drink. In fact it wasn’t too bad. The only mention I made of the White Ones was of Bea. I just talked about this girl I was seeing. Phil was only slightly interested as he was full of himself and just wanted to tell me what he’d been up to. That suited me. I didn’t want to say a lot about Bea either. I wasn’t quite certain what to do about her. Because she was training to be a White One, I had to bide my time and see how she wanted to conduct the relationship. To tell you the truth, I was a bit lost. In my other life, in the real world, I’d usually snog a girl first, then decide if I wanted to see her again. And I might or I might not. If I did, I’d suggest a film or something, and see if I could talk to her. And if I could, if I found I both fancied and liked her, then I’d go for it. Because a relationship with a girl was like a double thing, mental and physical. With Bea it was different. I definitely knew I fancied her, and I was pretty sure she fancied me. I caught her looking at me in a certain way. But apart from the odd squeeze of her hand, a peck on the cheek, or the sensation of her thigh pressed close to mine when we sat on a bench together, there had been nothing. Nothing physical. Instead I found myself pouring out the story of my life. She had interesting comments to make about my mates and family. I told her about Tasha too. She said some partings were inevitable, were meant to be. I found myself getting closer to Bea, but we’d never kissed, nobody acknowledged us as an item – heck, even we didn’t acknowledge ourselves as an item. Yet we were one, I was sure of it. But I didn’t want to press the point, in case she said something negative. So we drifted on, getting closer, not saying or doing anything. I thought about her most of the time, dreamed about her, thought of her as my girlfriend but couldn’t say she was. There was no one else on the farm she spent as much time with as me. But don’t think I only got involved with the White Ones because of Bea. There was more to it than that. Like, when I went to the farm, everyone around me was happy. You don’t realise how miserable most people are. At work, at home, at school, everyone has long faces. If you’re in a good mood, people think you’re clowning around. I read once that some bloke said most people lead lives of quiet desperation. That’s true. Except on the farm. There, people communicated, smiled, opened up. I liked it, pure and simple. And I admired them for giving up things – the way they didn’t drink or smoke or do drugs. That took some willpower, willpower most people didn’t have. I reckon their belief system helped them. Personally, I didn’t know what to make of that part of it. For me, going to their Services and joining in with their rituals was like playing a virtual reality game. Like when I was a kid and you’d play aliens or whatever and you’d really BE an intrepid space commander for half an hour or so, and then your mum would call you in and you’d drop it. So while I was attending their Services I kind of believed it all, but I knew really that I didn’t. Or so I thought. Then my mum started asking me questions, like who my new friends were, that sort of thing. I almost told her the truth but luckily stopped myself. My parents might have understood what good the White Ones were doing me, but then again, they were more likely to ask awkward questions and then pick an argument. So I told them Nick, Kate, Bea and Fletcher were living in a commune, that they were mainly artists, were into wholefood, the alternative living thing. I said quite a few of them worked outside the commune, too. I made more of my individual friendships with them, especially Bea. I lied and said she was my girlfriend. When Mum asked do they take drugs, I answered with complete honesty, no way! When she said, if you have a girlfriend, you must be responsible, I said, we’re not sleeping together. Then she asked, you’re not thinking of going up there to live, are you? That was harder. I can see the attraction of their way of life, I replied, but I like my home comforts too much. Mum seemed satisfied, and anyway, she was totally stressed out about Christmas. Just before Christmas was the one night I’ll always remember. It began just like an average evening – me at the farm, watching Auriel dish out a rather watery but over-spiced chickpea stew. I was quite happy not to have too much of it. I was glad that Nick was able to join us. I knew he suffered bouts of ill-health, but he was looking slightly better tonight. Kate was there, Fletcher, and Bea. The Evening Service had been about an hour ago – it was pitch-black outside now – but the kitchen was warm and it was great to be all together like that. “Do you like it?” Auriel asked. She meant the stew. “Sure,” I said. “You don’t. I can tell. You’re eating it too slowly, Joe.” I shovelled in a few mouthfuls and grinned at her. I’d already got to know Auriel quite well. She was the neurotic one, always needing reassurance. But she wasn’t on antidepressants any more, Bea had told me. Before the White Ones, Auriel had had some kind of mental problem. Her family were talking about having her sectioned. Then she met Kate. Living here had straightened her out. Well, almost. But the White Ones tolerated odd behaviour – it was only on the outside that unusual behaviour was classified as mental illness. Auriel lived happily here, and Bea said her parents even came to visit her from time to time. “Eat some more, Nick,” Auriel cajoled. Nick moved his spoon around the plate and then attempted a mouthful. He never had much of an appetite. Will meanwhile shovelled his food down. He used to be a soldier, I’d learned. He was a straightforward kind of guy, loyal, no nonsense – the most ordinary person you could think of. He’d come from a group of White Ones in Scotland – because I’d learned there were groups everywhere. Not that they advertised themselves. They didn’t seek to convert, but just wanted to live according to their principles. Fletcher said to Nick, “You look better.” Then he turned to me. “When Nick was in India, Joe, he picked up a parasitical infection. He’s not completely cured yet. We’re all focusing on his recovery, and Nick’s doing what he can to overcome it. It’s a matter of boosting his immune system.” “Yes,” Nick said. “The mental and physical are linked.” I nodded vigorously “Like when I had glandular fever – it was after my exams, when I was exhausted.” “Yes,” Nick continued, looking flushed. “But your body also expresses its spiritual lack of balance in an external fashion.” “Come again?” I said. “Illness isn’t random – it seizes on a weakness, a fifth column in your system. Tackling illness is as much about spiritual discipline as medicine. Rendall shrunk a tumour through a full SD vigil.” That was interesting. Rendall, I knew, was the Father of the White Ones. SD was sensory deprivation. However, White Ones mainly practised Alternate Sense Deprivation – ASD – as a spiritual discipline. I’d seen them do it, wearing blindfolds, stuffing their ears, covering their skin. They did without one sense each day. But full SD! I wondered what that would be like. Before I had a chance to ask, Bea spoke. “I only wish I’d met the White Ones when my mother was ill.” I saw Auriel reach out to hold Bea’s hand and I wished I’d thought of doing that. Bea had told me her mother had died of cancer, around two years ago. We were all sombre for a moment. Then Fletcher said, “She is with the Light.” Bea looked at him gratefully. Just then she looked so vulnerable and lost I wanted to hold her tight to me and show her that someone loved her. But instead I had to satisfy myself with being part of the group. Still, when the meal, such as it was, had finished, I asked Bea if we could have some time alone. She looked a little unsure and I noticed how her eyes sought Fletcher’s. He answered my question. “Later,” he said. “There’s some things I’d like to talk to Joe about.” It was a friendly suggestion, and I was made to feel as if there wasn’t enough of me to spread around. So later I followed Fletcher up to his quarters. Nick came too, leaning on Will’s arm for support. I’d not been to Fletcher’s room before. We walked up the stairs and along a corridor into a large living/bedroom with a door leading off, presumably to a private bathroom. There was a fireplace with a three-bar electric fire standing in it, a bed with a faded patchwork bedspread, a desk with books, papers, and an anglepoise lamp. In one corner there was a rail with a few items of clothing hanging down. There was a poster on the wall of that mushroom-effect explosion you associate with nuclear bombs. Quite striking, when you looked at it. The floor was just polished floorboards scattered with cheap rugs. The effect was fairly Spartan, but also comfortable, the kind of place you wouldn’t mind spending time in. Fletcher sat on the floor, cross-legged, his back against his bed. Nick sat by him on the bed, like a sort of bodyguard. Uncertain what to do, I followed Will and sat on the floor, below the poster, my back against the wall, my legs stuck out. I had this feeling that the guys had something important to say to me and my first thought was that I’d done something wrong. I felt a bit fidgety. Or maybe they were going to say that I’d spent enough time with them and they wanted me out. Why was it I always expected the worst? “So,” Fletcher began. “How’s it going?” “Fine,” I said, a bit nervous. “Have you got any questions?” Why is it your mind always goes blank when people ask you that? “Questions about what?” I parried. “Us. The Light. Anything. We’ve seen you getting more and more involved and thought it was time.” “Time for what?” “Time for you to be honest. Why are you here, what do you want, what do you want from us?” With Fletcher, you always told the truth. He had no truck with lies. “I like you all as people,” I said, “and I’m interested in what you do here. It gives me something to do with my time.” Whenever I spoke like that, completely honest, I felt kind of naked, or as if I’d crept out from behind a bush and a sniper had me in his targets. Fletcher rested his chin on his hand and thought about what I’d said. “It gives you something to do with your time. Most people don’t think about how they spend their time. They’re just led by their desires, towards food, sex, material possessions. Thinking is what separates White Ones from the rest.” I was flattered by what he said. “I admire the fact you’re prepared to be different,” I said, “and I admire your principles. But what I can’t get my head round is your belief system. Tell me if I’m right. You believe in the forces of Light and Darkness. That Light is Good and Good is Light and you have to be one with the Light by living as purely as you can. And then when you die you sort of merge with the Light. And you fight the forces of Darkness. Like the Jedi,” I kidded. But Fletcher didn’t look amused. “That’s only a very crude description,” he said. “There’s much more to it than that,” Nick agreed. Fletcher looked me in the eyes. “There are countless religions and superstitions all over the world, but in fundamentals they’re all very similar. There’s this belief in a divinity – God, Allah, Yahweh. And before the so-called discovery of God, people still saw the forces of nature at play, and still had the need to believe in something. What people call God is just their way of naming the incomprehensible.” I went along with all of that. “Like Father Christmas,” I added, trying to be a good student. “He’s just a symbol.” Fletcher nodded but didn’t really seem to hear me. “We would never deny anyone’s concept of God. But what we know is that there is a force for Good. That this Life is not all there is. And that there is a reason why we’re here.” It intrigued me, the way he sounded so definite. He had a certain power, Fletcher. He had a compelling presence. When he talked, you listened. You were only aware of him in the room. His voice was slower than most people’s and his eyes held you. “Before Creation, there was just bliss. It existed beyond time and space in a unity of thought and emotion. Then a vast explosion occurred. Matter was formed, and antimatter. Matter is what our world is made of; antimatter is pure evil. It causes bad thoughts and propagates illness. All living things in our world have a yearning to return to the time that was. We can return to that time, but only through self-purification – achieved through self-control – keeping our bodies pure, total honesty, confession and working towards an end to hypocrisy and corruption in the world around us. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/sherry-ashworth/blinded-by-the-light/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. 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