The Programme

CHAPTER TEN-2

Matthew put an arm around his friend’s shoulders, Nahum his around Matthew’s waist, rested his head on his shoulder. Matthew stroked his hair, not like a lover, like a father. Shortly after, they went back to the house together.

The house was silent as he crept up the main stairs to the room he had occupied with Carey just a few nights before. He had been alone on the porch, now he needed company. He climbed another flight to Cassandra’s attic suite, opened the door without knocking or pause for hesitation. There were no curtains on the windows: he could see by the moonlight that she was awake, waiting for him.

In the oak-panelled offices of his New York lawyers, Rockworth video-conferenced with his lawyers in London.

“I. Want. Them. Out.”

Chesterfield Gardens; the London Chapter House; the lease.

Three of his lawyers shook their collective heads.

“There’s no way to do it.”

The fourth, a young associate, shrugged nonchalantly.

“Not apparently.”

Across three thousand miles, Rockworth fixed him with a look of steel that lost nothing in the transmission.

“I’ve been through the lease a few times,” the associate explained. “I did wonder about the consents clause, but it’s difficult.”

“Consents clause?”

“They have to comply with local authority regulations, bye-laws, planning requirements. We could use that to harass them, but - as I understand it - they seem to have a temporary permission to use the property for a meeting place, coffee bar.”

Rockworth scowled.

“I arranged it.”

“I know that.” The associate reminded him calmly that the problem was of his own making: it was something clients tended to forget. “There are things like health and safety at work, food safety. The difficulty is, they can always just comply, or else there are appeals that can take years.”

Into the camera, Rockworth made a beckoning gesture with his hand open facing upwards: gimme.

“There’s also a conventional illegal and immoral user clause. You can forfeit the lease for illegal or immoral use.”

“So? They’re a religion; at least, that’s what they call themselves.”

“That’s what they say. Some of the time. I’ve read the New York papers.”

One of the partners asked cautiously:

“s*x? In this day and age, I wouldn’t have thought.”

“No, I agree. The s*x on its own isn’t enough,” the associate replied. “But if we could make out some sort of case on the basis of organised s****l use of members, I would have thought, well, we’ve got a lot of merits before we begin, haven’t we?”

“Merits?” Rockworth’s eyes sparkled: this he understood; the hell with the principles - the case would be decided on the merits; all they needed to hand the judge was a peg on which to hang the result. “Yes.”

“We don’t have any evidence,” expostulated the litigation man.

“Get it, then,” said the most senior partner.

“Yes,” the young associate said: “That was what I was thinking.”

The New Hampshire state motto is ’live free or die’. Caleb’s friend, Al, newly released from jail, believed in it and had moved near to Concord to sell dope to bikers and guns to survivalists.

Father Caleb had not left Hammer Reach because of impending publicity. He left because he needed to keep moving forward. The Mass had been his fantasies come real. They had proved that there was nothing they could not do to themselves and to each other - no limits. His boys were wired; some of the women too. Left to their own thoughts and devices, there was a risk of counter-purpose, perhaps even shame, trying to put back into the box what they had not known they were capable of; or - worse to his mind than denial - they might rewrite it as nothing more than a s****l adventure. He wanted to keep the spirit of it alive, explore where further it could lead them.

Only Christopher knew where he was going. He took the VW bus in which Nahum and Jemima used to tour. There were six of them: Caleb, his three most devoted disciples, and Sisters Mary and Pascale cut loose from Diana, terrified by what they had watched her do, eager for a new role for themselves.

By nightfall, they still had not found Caleb’s friend: they slept in the van, fully clothed. In the morning, Caleb took the van and Sister Pascale and left the rest of them to find gas stations and restaurants in which to wash up and eat. If they got bored, they could go donating. He made calls to track Al down. Eventually, he found his way to a biker bar at the north end of the city, where the morning boozers wolf-whistled at Pascale, drank the beers he bought them and - jail-credentials examined and established - sent him in the direction of the Merrimack where, with luck and another beer, they would find Al’s isolated home.

Sister Pascale sat up in the front with him, close enough for their thighs to touch. She was a tall, thin girl, but gawky, with sallow skin, stringy hair: they had found her in London, living in a squat, working in a dry-cleaners. She was scared of being alone with Caleb and excited. When she had watched him enter Diana the other night, ram into her and hold her, her stomach had gone into a free-fall which had not yet ended; she felt as if she was on a permanent trip, better than crack or smack, better than prayer and meditation both. She asked:

“When are we going back for the others?”

“Are you afraid of being alone with me?”

“You seem different,” she admitted, but she did not pull away.

“’Individuality comprises several orders of existence’,” he quoted Crowley. “Tell me what you see.”

“In the Chapter Houses, at Hammer Reach, I don’t know, you always seem so in control. I mean, well, to be honest,” she laughed, “most of us are pretty scared of you most of the time.”

“And now?”

“Now it’s different,” was all she could manage.

“Where’d you get a name like Pascale?” he asked inconsequentially.

“My mother was French. My father hated it; he wanted me to be English; said I’d get teased and bullied at school if they knew I was French.”

“Everyone hates outsiders,” he muttered.

“You too?”

“I don’t do that,” he answered.

“What?” she asked, startled and confused.

“Exchange confidences; talk about myself.” His eyes were fixed on the road, looking for the junction.

“That’s what’s different,” she said. “This is you, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“This; driving; visiting someone you were in jail with; looking for what?”

“You’re not as scared of me as you say, are you?”

She shook her head firmly, boldly.

“Do you want me to make love to you?”

Without any hesitation she nods, then says aloud:

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m not going to.”

“Why not?”

“I liked Anthony,” Caleb answers.

“I’d heard that. But,” she replies, meaning that he also made love to women members - she had seen for herself, “why did you bring me with you, then?”

It is Al he wants her to f**k. It establishes good faith: people working for the government don’t sleep with the enemy, not even with a condom. It allows him to take his time, shut by Al into the concealed basement, examining Al’s treasures, piling to one side the weapons he can afford to take away with him. It is Christopher’s money, the secret fund. He could have bought a single gun anywhere, even two or three; not enough for the army of God and Satan.

From Programme and Progression:

We do the same with our ideas of God as we do with everything else: purpose and counter-purpose. We approach God with both belief, and reserve - by way of counter-purpose - our disbelief;. we identify God in one way, and an inch below the surface and a minute later, we identify God in another. Thus do we seek the best of all worlds and achieve a confused and confusing face of God. This is why we need to give to each of the conflicting directions its own identity - God, Satan, the angels and devils between - to allow counter-purpose its own voice, its own face, its own reality. It must come from within, because otherwise the conflicts are not your own. If you are not composed of your own conflicts and contradictions then there is nothing about you that is unique.

Cassandra loved the publicity. By the time they got back from seeing Romero in town, television vans were parked alongside the farm. While Matthew went to meet them, she slipped into the house. She emerged in a flowing robe of black silk, the silver chain from which hung The Programme symbol around her waist. The cameras swung from Matthew to The Seer, surrounded her before she could reach him.

“What’s your name?”

“Are you the group leader?”

“Were you here?”

“Was he your lover?”

“Why did he kill himself?”

“What’s your relationship with Rockworth?”

“One at a time, one at a time.” She managed them like a movie star, face stern, eyes twinkling. “You,” she waved gracefully at a man with a CBS microphone.

“What is The Programme, ma’am?”

“You can call me Mother Cassandra.” Friendly, no one to be scared of. “The Programme is a group I founded with my husband. He is our Teacher; I am The Seer.”

“How come you didn’t foresee what Anthony Rockworth was going to do, Cassandra?” a newspaper journalist asked.

“What happened to Anthony is our tragedy; but it was his choice.”

“Hey, Cassandra, what was he doing in a cell?”

“It’s a small downstairs room which people go to meditate in. Remember meditation? It’s how half the world gets by.”

“Can we see the room?” asked NBC.

“I’m sorry; we’re not going to allow you in the house. The house is our most private place; we’ve already had the police all over it. But you can visit our Chapters in Boston and New York.” She glanced over their heads at Matthew, met his eyes, added: “And in London.”

One or two of the press drifted back to Matthew: they had their pictures of the woman, but she was telling them nothing.

“Matthew, how does this tie in with the Kroger case?”

“It doesn’t. We have hundreds of members of The Programme; a lot of things are going on at about the same time - always. That’s it.”

“Coincidence?”

“There is no coincidence,” Matthew answered gravely. “Nor is there chance. Amanda Kroger’s sister knew what she was doing; sadly, it looks like Anthony did too.”

“Have you spoken to Arthur Rockworth yet?”

“No.”

“He doesn’t seem to think much of you right now, Matthew.”

“He thinks enough of us to let us use a house he owns in London, he made contacts for us in Boston, his son has spent the last few years with us and seemed happier than he’d been before. I think you should leave Mr Rockworth alone,” he added in a measured tone. “He’s in grief.”

“Hey, he should leave us alone,” a woman said. “We don’t need to ask; he’s telling.”

“You’re listening,” he reminded her.

“We’re reporters; it’s what we do.” She was flustered, finding herself being drawn into debate with him. His eyes swept over her; she felt herself caught up in him, floating; it would never show in a story, but for a moment she understood.

Cassandra pushed her way to Matthew’s side.

“How long had Anthony been ’meditating’?” The Daily News’ stringer sneered.

“Anthony had been properly fed each day, he came out to wash, he was free to leave at any time,” Matthew replied.

“A few days,” Cassandra declaimed. “It was nothing. Members of The Programme can meditate for weeks at a time.”

“What else can they do weeks at a time, Cassandra? How long’s a relationship last in The Programme?”

Eyes twinkling, Cassandra said:

“My husband and I have been married for more than ten years.”

“Yeah, sure. When did you last sleep together?” A reporter with no constraints of propriety asked.

Cassandra took Matthew’s arm and squeezed it.

“Last night. When did you last sleep with your wife?”

They had rearranged her room to fit two desks, placing them at angles in opposite corners, like boxers facing each other in a ring. For a moment she was confused which was hers, but the mile-high pile of messages gave it away.

She was oddly relieved to see that Patrick’s water colour loaner was still in the room, but it no longer faced her. Defiantly, she took it down and started to swap it around with the William Morris poster. That was what she was doing when Jessica arrived.

“Hi,” the woman said from the door, startling Carey as she stood on a chair, the print in one hand, steadying herself against the wall with another. “Here. Let me take that,” she added before Carey let it slip.

“Thanks,” Carey mumbled.

“This one?” Jessica pointed to the painting on Carey’s desk.

“Right.”

“It’s Patrick’s, right?” Jessica said as she handed it up to her.

“Right.” Carey wished she could come up with a more original answer: she had been daunted by the woman on the one occasion when they had previously met. “I thought he might have taken it out.”

“I think he was planning to.” Jessica helped her down from the chair.

“You stopped him?”

The woman carried the Morris print across the room. Carey dragged the chair over. Before she could stop her, Jessica had hopped up lithely, still holding the frame, and hooked it into place.