The Programme

CHAPTER EIGHT-1

CHAPTER EIGHTFather Micah, newly so promoted leads The Introduction. There are between thirty and forty newcomers present, a little bewildered, a little scared, impressed by their own courage.

“This is who you are,” Father Micah cries, clapping his hands.

“You are the army of God and Satan; you are the army of good and evil; you are soldiers whose battle is for a plot of earth to call your own - a plot of earth on which you are free of the demands and the rules which have left you drained, afraid, angry, isolated, hopeless, confused, unloved. Despairing you will ever find a way of life to be yourself. It doesn’t matter if you might choose different language for yourself: here’s two thoughts - if it was not true, you wouldn’t be here; and, until we all start using the same language, we are all truly alone.”

He looks around at them.

“Now; what we’re going to do, we’re going to have a short meditation; don’t be scared; there’s nothing mysterious about it - most of you have probably meditated at some time or another; maybe a few of you are adept at it.” He glances around, spots and memorises the faces of the members of the audience who glow and nod for recognition - these will be first targets as they gather to talk in the Coffee Lounge after; they have already been to the foothills for a solution and have been left wanting; they have come here for another shot.

“So, take a deep breath, let it out slowly; and again. That’s good.” The calm descending is almost visible. “One more time. Now, I want you to close your eyes; relax; let go. Stop thinking: stop thinking about me, about who I am. Stop thinking about what you’re doing here. Just think about the here and now: you’re in a room - we call it the Meditation Hall - there are people around you, they’re here for the same reasons you are, whatever they may be; we’re all here to learn, to change, to receive something and we all know that to receive something we have to give something; we’ve got to get ourselves ready for all of that - to give and to receive; we’ve got to learn to let go; relax, close your eyes, breathe deeply, think about the room, think about the meditation; let what comes come.”

Cassandra had been disturbed by Matthew’s presence at Hammer Reach.

There were times she almost managed to forget how much she had loved him- that long well-used body, the Christ-like head, the limitless compassion, the power with which he could draw people into his aura, the wisdom, the charm, the humour, the s*x. Her life-long quest had been for men bigger and stronger than herself; they had to be bigger and stronger not merely than at any given moment was she, but than she could at that moment imagine she would ever become. As soon as she could see that she would outgrow them, she was gone.

Matthew was different, not just in the degree of his strength but in its quality. Paimon had introduced them: Huw, then. They had been sharing a flat in Highgate. Huw was a year shy of a degree in architecture that he would never complete. At the time, she had already left a brief marriage to an actor behind her. Before that, she had been at the University of Aberystwyth, reading English Literature, with heavy emphasis on the Welsh poets with eyes and souls as dark as her own. From poetry to folklore, and from folklore to mysticism, were tiny steps, so small she could not now remember taking them.

Huw was three years younger, but they could not have been closer if they had been twins. They meant everything to each other, shared everything; if they had never quite crossed the final line, there were no modesties on either side, nor withholding of affections. The first time she had ever touched a woman sexually was when she crept into her brother’s bed wearing only a T-shirt, not realising that the sleeping body within was not Huw but someone he had brought back for the night.

Huw was like her, yet completely different. She was small and dark and haunting; men wanted to protect her, and in exchange take possession of her ethereality. Huw was a man: likewise small and dark, he frightened women; they skipped within his reach without appreciating how complex were his designs, and were scared to withdraw, hanging about until he lost interest. Huw liked power far more than money or s*x. That was why he had left The Programme: the power was Matthew’s and - through Matthew - Cassandra’s; the most he could ever be was number three.

Huw met Matthew first, at a New Age lecture. They were seated next to one another. Not long into the talk, they sensed that each was as unimpressed as the other. Huw mumbled a sly riposte to something the speaker had said, for Matthew’s ears; Matthew did not visibly acknowledge it; a while later, he whispered a sarcastic commentary of his own; another few minutes, it was Huw’s turn; by the end, they were soul-mates.

Huw brought Matthew back to the flat to show off his find to his sister. She had just emerged from the shower, wrapped in a towel. Unembarrassed, she made them tea before she went into her bedroom to put on a dressing-gown.

She listened as Huw and Matthew sparred for fun, then as Matthew began to talk about the group of people that was putting itself together around him. They were not losers, not drifters or disturbed, but bright young people from decent backgrounds who could not see a career or other kind of life that suited them.

After a while, as Huw pressed Matthew on his plans, she went back to her bedroom to get dressed. When she re-emerged, she sat on the floor beside Matthew, forearm resting on his thigh, cheek resting on his knee, still silent, exuding confidence that she knew what she was doing until, after five minutes or so, he began to stroke her hair, casually but rhythmically, accepting her challenge.

Huw took it well: better than she had expected. Around two in the morning, he went for a leak; when he returned, he remained standing.

“Time for me to go to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow?” He addressed the question at Matthew.

Matthew got up; they stood apart for a few seconds then, simultaneously, moved into the centre of the room to hug. They stood like that until Cassandra joined them, her arms around each of them.

She had grown within The Programme, as Matthew finally named it, but Huw had grown apart. The night before he left - while they were in Devon - she slipped into his bed and they lay facing each other, lightly holding each other, whispering tenderly, the way they had done as children.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

He nodded: he had given her no forewarning.

“Why, Huw? I need you with me.”

“No. Not now. You’ve got everything you need.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Wait for a while; wait and see.”

Their parents had died in a car crash. There was some money left, though much of it had already been poured into The Programme. He said:

“I’ll take what’s left.”

“Sure.”

They lay in silence for a while. He broke it.

“I’ll miss you.”

“I know. I love you.”

“It isn’t forever.”

“Nothing’s forever; everything’s forever.” One of The Programme aphorisms of the period: nothing is forever in the sense that it will continue; everything is forever in the sense that what has happened cannot be undone. They kissed and hugged a last time and she went back to bed with Matthew. In the morning, he was gone.

Shortly afterwards, Phillipe reappeared.

Phillipe Lamarque was forty pounds heavier than when Matthew had last seen him: before Katrina, New Orleans was fat city; the highest level of obesity in the USA; thirty-eight per cent overweight. It cooked good and ate more. He sat in an easy chair, legs stretched out and fat ankles crossed, smoking a joint in the back room of his house, a long-necked bottle of Miller Draft by his side.

“Was she here, Phillipe?”

“Sure; she was here then, you here now.” He spoke with a lilt in his voice that had been absent the last time they had met; his English was intermittently wilfully and unnecessarily sloppy.

The three of them had sat through part of a Voodoo ceremonial - a small part designed not to offend Voodoo’s essential secrecy: Voudon, religion, way of life, banned by slave-owners, forced underground, mixture of conventional Catholicism and West African tradition, a pantheon of godheads - loas- a Supreme Being - Gran Met- to rival freemasonry’s Jabulon: kind, cruel, violent and vindictive, wise and generous, all things to anyone willing to acknowledge his supremacy. Even the names were alike: Danbhalah, Jabulon, Jahweh. Danbhalah does not speak, but hisses: hence, snake fetish. Langage is Voudon’s liturgy: Danbhalah governs water and sun, the sun on the water makes a rainbow, Aida-Wedo, his wife. Aida-Wedo is also Erzulie, goddess of beauty and love, dark and vain and angers easily: Cassandra. Danbhalah and Aida-Wedo make blood sacrifices; their communions are governed by Papa Legba, who is Christ, Christopher.

“God, I love s*x,” Phillipe eyed Carey, Emily, Matthew.

“It’s not why we’re here, Phillipe.” Matthew contained the beast.

“It’s not why you think you’re here,” Phillipe grinned wickedly, leaning towards Carey. “Take this,” he offers her the joint. She reaches to accept it; he snatches her wrist, pulls her hand towards him, presses it against his cheek. “It is soft, no?”

“Soft, yes; gentle, no.”

Before, Phillipe had greeted them as honoured guests: they were the only white people present at his service. Now, he treats them like students or servants. Carey inhales, passes the joint to Emily; they barely exchange a glance. Matthew takes it from Emily, studies her, it, passes it untouched to Phillipe. The older, bigger man laughs.

“You don’t know what I want, Matthew; you never have done.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah; sure. I am Baron Samedi.”

Baron Samedi is the undertaker who kills with his c**k. He drinks and smokes and f***s what walks. He drifts easily from gentle Rada ritualists who wear white to sacrifice chickens, goats and bulls to the rhythm of oxhidecovered drums, and the Pedro-ists in red, who dance wild and menacing and demonic and who sacrifice pigs to the sound of two drums, covered in goatskin, struck only by hand.

“Stop playing, Phillipe.”

“You came to see me.”

“Yes,” Matthew admitted. “Now I’m not sure why.”

Phillipe asked:

“You want a drink?”

Matthew shook his head.

Carey said greedily:

“Yes.”

“You,” Phillipe pointed at Emily, “in the kitchen; bring us some beers.”

She gave Phillipe his beer first. He took it in one hand, her in another.

“Are you frightened, girl?”

“No,” she said truthfully.

“Excited, then?”

“I think so.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m here,” Emily shrugged. “Make up your own reason why.”

Phillipe roared with laughter.

“You always got the good ones, Matthew.”

“Maybe.”

“You want to know what it’s all about, man?” Phillipe was suddenly a rationalist. “All we want, we just want the best chance to get laid. What do you think?”

“I think,” Matthew hesitated, then grinned broadly, “I think it’s not the worst part of it.”

Stoned, Carey took her beer from Emily, studied it like it was holy grail, hissed in anger and in pain:

“Is that what it’s about, Matthew?” It was not what she had left family and firm behind for, so Matthew could f**k her.

Emily stood behind her; gripped her shoulder, leaned against Carey’s back.

“What I said was, it’s not the worst part of it. What do you say? Why do you sleep with me, then? Out of burden, duty?”

“Maybe I love you.” She was sitting on her heels, hunkered down, rocking. “Do you ever think of that?”

Emily kneaded her shoulders from behind. This was about her too. They were lean, fit, aggressive together. Her eyes met Phillipe’s while Carey and Matthew attacked one another. She thought: he’s f*****g me in his head; and, she thought, I like it. He grinned knowingly. She winked back. “Yeah,” he had said. She mouthed at him: “Yeah.”

Carey reached up to her shoulders, covered Emily’s hands with hers.

“Sometimes, you don’t seem to know what you want, Matthew - Teacher. How am I expected to follow if you don’t know where you’re going?”

“She’s right,” Phillipe jeered. “You don’t know where you’re going. If you’re going to lead them off the path, be sure they can read a compass - and you can too.”

“Whose side are you on. Phillipe?” Matthew asked lightly.

“What are the choices? You know what I hear The Programme is now? The army of God and Satan. I love it - the army of God and Satan in a white uniform bought from a mail-order catalogue, like doctors and nurses? Matthew, my old friend, dear old friend, there’s a world out here, you know it, a twilight world, living by what they think are different codes and all of them, all of us, we are just the same. People like you and me, we’re offering addictive soup in kitchens without a back door. We’re building families and we think a family will do it.