The Programme

CHAPTER TEN-1

CHAPTER TEN“I can’t get in, Colin,” she sobbed, standing at the top of the stone steps leaning against the solid front door of the office. “You’ve changed the lock,” she accused. “What did you do that for?”

Colin stood at street level, looking up at his sister, waiting for the complaint to pass. Then he c****d his head to one side comically and said:

“Eh, Carey?”

She left her briefcase by the door and ran down the stairs and into his arms, flinging her own around him, repeatedly kissing his cheek, almost urgently.

He could feel the tears on her face.

“Oh, Carey, what have you done to yourself?”

“Nothing,” she laughed, cried. “I’m just pleased to see you; it feels like it’s been forever.”

“Come on, let’s go inside before anyone else arrives.”

“What’s with the key?”

“New lock. They don’t make that lock anymore, we couldn’t get enough keys for the new people. Don’t worry, I’ve had one made for you.”

He stooped to pick up the mail lying just inside the door.

“When did you get back?”

“This morning.” She had come straight from the airport.

In the kitchen, Colin flicked the switch to make coffee: the restaurant-sized filter machine was always left ready for the next morning. Then he led her into his own office, already unwrapping the bundles of mail, automatically sorting it into piles.

“Congratulations on Kroger.”

“Yes, well, a bit of the icing’s already off that cake.”

“What?”

“Anthony Rockworth - Arthur’s son - remember? I told you he was in the group? Sort of, a deal to keep him out of trouble?”

Colin shrugged: he had a vague recollection.

“He killed himself at Hammer Reach.”

Colin shuddered at the implications as they leapt disordered into his mind. He asked, more sharply than he wanted to sound:

“What effect will it have?”

“I don’t know how Rockworth’ll react but, er, I imagine, not particularly well. He’s going to blame The Programme.”

“There’s nothing he can do, is there?”

“About Chesterfield Gardens? No: the lease has got a while to run.”

“It’s, uh,” Colin licked his lips nervously, “it’s not exactly the sort of battle we’d most want to be involved in at the moment. I’m sure you know what I mean.”

She nodded. She thought he looked tired, worn, and said so.

“I’m all right; it’s been a rough time.”

“Here? At home?” She asked after Jan, the kids.

“Here,” he said shortly, scanning letters as he spoke. “It’s been a lot harder than I expected.”

“In what way?”

“A lot of strutting legal egos taking each other’s measure.”

“You didn’t expect that?” She laughed. “I’ll fetch the coffee.”

“I’ll do it,” he surprised her: he liked being waited on.

She followed him back to the kitchen, watched from the door as he busied himself pouring them each a cup. She heard the front door bang: another arrival. He said, facing away from her:

“We haven’t sorted all the space out. There’s still works going on.”

“And?”

“Uh, I had to put someone in with you, for the moment.”

She took a deep breath: don’t react; it’s what he expects.

“Who?”

“I’m sorry, Carey. We didn’t know when you’d be back.”

“Ah, Colin, you could have waited.” Junior solicitors shared offices, not partners.

He did not reply until they had returned to his own office, shut the door behind them, settled himself behind his desk.

“Could I, Carey? There were times I began to wonder if you’d ever be back, never mind when.”

“Who?” she repeated.

“Jessica. Jessica Harvey. You met her.”

“Indeed I did,” she murmured, remembering the small, dark woman she had wondered if her brother was attracted to.

“You’ll like her - everyone does, even Charles; I’m sure you’ll get along,” Colin added lamely. “It’s not for long. We’ve got the decorators on the top floor. They’ll work their way down. By the end, it’ll be fine.”

“Is Charles here?”

“He’s at the apartment.” Antibes.

“How is he?”

“Worried about you. At least I think so; you know Charles; he doesn’t exactly pour his heart out to me.”

“I meant with the merger.”

“He’s coping.”

“You mean he’s not?”

“It frightens him: giving up control.”

“That’s something else you should have expected.”

“Who said I didn’t?”

“All right then, he should have,” she said crossly; she didn’t want to come back to family games or wars.

“He said he did, but I think he expected them to fall into line. You know how it is, Carey, all those years of walking on water.”

She got up to stretch, uncomfortable in her suit. She came around the desk, leaned against him from behind, massaged his shoulders, kissed the top of his head, rested her cheek against the bald patch in the middle.

He reached around to take her hand.

“You are back, aren’t you, Carey?”

She stood for a moment longer, returned to her seat, lit a cigarette.

“I hope so, Colin; that’s the best I can say for the moment.”

“Where have you been, Carey? What’s going on with you?”

“Could we have lunch, dinner?”

“I can’t, Carey,” he apologised. “I’m in conference from midday. How about lunch tomorrow?”

“I’ll still be here,” she said, barely concealing her disappointment.

“I’m sorry. You know how Jan is about surprises.”

“Is that it? Or would she be afraid I’d try to convert the children? Or are you?”

“Will you?” he rasped. Then he laughed. “Here we go again, eh?” He got up to see her out, put an arm around her, hugged her tightly.

She hugged him back, shaking, still weepy.

“Do you love him, Carey?” Colin asked quietly, reading her like a book. “

I don’t know,” she murmured into his shoulder. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday. It’s too long ago to remember.”

The publicity hit like a tidal wave.

Within a day, it had been on the local radio stations; by nightfall, it had been picked up by the national news media; by the weekend, on front pages across the country.

“MYSTERY DEATH IN KROGER CULT.”

“ROCKWORTH SON IN SECT SUICIDE.”

“POLICE INVESTIGATE CULT COUNTRY HOUSE.”

The speed would have been surprising if it were not for the Rockworth factor. There were no forensic grounds for suspicion: no signs of struggle or blows, no evidence that the stock-whip had been used for anything other than by the boy to hang himself; there were no fingermarks where he might have been lifted up or other bruising, no drug traces external or internal nor any evidence to suggest anything other than just what it appeared to be - suicide by a boy well-documented as emotionally disturbed.

The single issue arising from the forensic examination was how Anthony supposedly in isolation - came to have traces of different types of s****l activity about his body. That, too, was prayed in aid: shame at breach of both the contact rules and cell discipline might well have been the final straw. Cassandra fought hard to prevent Romero pursuing it - or with whom it had been. In the end, he let it go - there were no legal grounds on which to insist, let alone on the basis of which to carry out any tests.

Cassandra had not seen Caleb for a day before the police were called, though she thought nothing of it at the time. She kept Father Christopher at Hammer Reach, sent Paimon - Father Paimon, as she had elevated him - to Boston the same evening, after his initial police interview. She had a new toy for him: Helen.

She had told Christopher of her decision the day after the Special Mass:

“Stay with Diana.”

It was a decision Father Christopher had hoped for. He had been uneasy with Helen, she appeared to exist only to serve, but beneath the surface was a mystery. For a short while, it had excited him, to have someone who, he believed, still belonged to Matthew, but it was already turning to resentment. He was pleased to give her up. Something special had passed between himself and Diana during the Mass.

Father Christopher had come into The Programme from computers: he understood the nature and essence of programmes - they were all, always and only about the organisation of information. He did not aspire to lead The Programme. He was happiest as the power behind the throne, whoever for the time being it might be; he liked Cassandra to ask his advice, to watch her make the moves he had designed; everyone else, even his friend Caleb, he kept at a distance. Too many members were merely playing at The Programme; even Cassandra would get up and walk away from it if it no longer suited her; he alone understood that it was a game for life - there was nothing beyond, not even the fire.

It was late by the time Matthew and Nahum arrived from New York. Matthew was outwardly calm but inside he was seething. Christopher greeted him:

“I am one, Matthew.” Matthew, not Teacher.

“We are many. What happened?”

“He was never happy.”

“Where had he been?”

Cassandra descended the stairs.

“Very good, Matthew; I thought you’d understand.”

“What did you think I’d understand, Cassandra?” Matthew kept the snarl out of his voice, not from his eyes.

“Don’t worry; we’ve already told the police he was in retreat, in the cells.”

“No,” Matthew snapped: that wasn’t all.

Cassandra laughed and led the way onto the terrace. Matthew could only follow.

“We were trying to heal him; what you might call a healing meditation.”

Matthew grunted: he could picture it; Anthony locked in his cell; the remainder of them in the basement meditation area, working on him - at him. It could be enough to destroy a less fragile mind than Anthony’s.

“What do the police think?”

“They think exactly the way it happened.”

“Yes? And how are they writing up healing meditation?”

“Are we ashamed of the ability to heal, Matthew?” Christopher asked, feigning the disingenuous tone of a curious student rather than someone who was starting to challenge his teacher.

“We might acquire the humility to be a little ashamed of failure, Christopher.”

Cassandra reached across Christopher, grasped Matthew’s knee.

“It was not a failure, Matthew.”

“No, that was what I thought.”

“What do you think, Matthew?” Christopher asked in the same tone as before.

“Christopher, I’ve known you for more than ten years. If it wasn’t intentional, it will have been the first accident I’ve known to you to be capable of.”

Cassandra clapped her hands with glee.

“He’s right, Christopher, he’s right.”

“Where is everybody?” Matthew asked, ignoring his wife. If she was pleased by the speed with which he was putting two and two together, there had to be more to the total than four.

“Some people left this afternoon. Paimon started for Boston just before you arrived.”

“Caleb?”

“Away,” Christopher answered shortly.

Matthew saw a look of surprise flit across Cassandra’s face and registered that she had not known. He repeated:

“Where’s Caleb, Christopher?” He was The Teacher.

“He’s away, Matthew. I sent him away,” he added. “I didn’t think he’d make a good impression.” On the police.

“He has a record,” Cassandra snatched the tale from the air and began to make it her own.

Matthew got up and stepped off the porch, down to the ground.

“I’m going to find Nahum. I’m supposed to see the police in the morning. You come with me,” he told Cassandra. Cassandra nodded, pleased: she did not want him talking to Romero alone.

From The Seer’s Lesson On Purity:

Unification is a symphony of pure harmony. To achieve it, we must perfect all its instruments. The trumpeter must play the trumpet. The violinist, the violin. Let the drummers beat upon their drums. It is not about mixing up all of the talents and all of the instruments until some bland, grey uniformity results, everyone half good at everything, no one excels at anything. When the choral angels sing, let the devils roar. When we can hear them evenly, when we can perform their dance, we will have achieved pure harmony.

If God and Satan can withstand the tension between them, so can you! If Satan survived the fall from Heaven, you can too! The Programme is just this - a means of bringing to the surface the darkness within, and for the light to survive the dark! Pure light, pure dark, pure life itself, pure death!

Matthew found Nahum at The Temple work-site, shimmery in the moonlight. He was seated cross-legged on the ground. Matthew lowered himself to the ground beside him.

“Doesn’t seem like much has been done while you’ve been in New York,” Nahum said. After a while, he added:

“That barn there,” he gestured over the top of a cement mixer towards the nearest one to them.

“The Meditation Hall?” Matthew queried.

“And a dormitory above. It’s strange. They’ve dug some kind of a pit in the ground. That’s what they’ve been working on.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Nor do I. I didn’t get long too look around. I saw a light as I walked over.

Part of my building group - there was a section of flooring, in the ground, they were just covering it up, patting it into place, in a hurry like they didn’t want to be seen.”

“You didn’t ask?”

Nahum glanced slyly at Matthew.

“You think that would have been a good idea?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what that means at the moment; do you?” Nahum was momentarily confused, then understood, flushed hotly.

“We’ve been friends a long time, Matthew.”

“I know. Forgive me. Others have been with me a long time too.”

“I said, we’ve been friends a long time,” Nahum corrected him.