The Programme

CHAPTER THREE-4

They had wine at dinner. Jan raised an eyebrow at Colin as Carey helped herself to a second glass. Carey spotted the gesture. “It’s all right. I’m not driving.”

“I didn’t mean,” Jan blushed but didn’t bother to finish the lie: she did mean it and they both knew it. Tim sat next to Carey and showed her how his organiser worked. He had figured most of it out already. Carey shook her head. “That’s amazing, Tim. The man in the shop tried to explain it to me and I still couldn’t understand it.”

With an offer that he could keep the lights on for ten more minutes to play with his new toy, they got Tim up to bed without any greater persuasion. Carey offered to help clear up; Jan refused; Colin suggested they take their coffees through to the living-room. The format of these visits never varied, there were no surprises.

“Are you all right, Carey?” Colin asked.

She read the question the way he intended it.

“I’m all right,” she answered, sliding in the equivocation. “You know me. I get on with it.”

“How are things with Patrick?” He had known from the beginning.

“Oh, Patrick. You know. Much the same. Going nowhere.”

“Pity,” Colin murmured. He liked Patrick. They were on the same side. Though eccentric, he could not imagine anyone more ordinary making a match with his sister; and, at heart, he was a kind man who treated her well. It was all Colin asked.

“What did you make of Matthew Crane?” Carey tried to sound casual.

“I sort of found myself quite drawn to him, sort of in spite of myself. You know? I didn’t like it; like he was making me.”

“Yes, that’s more or less how I felt to begin with. There is something quite special about him, though. How much of that stuff did you read?”

“I skimmed it. Enough. Crap on toast?”

She laughed despite herself.

“Yes, I’m sure that’s right.”

“Only?”

She hesitated, then admitted:

“Only not quite certain. I mean, when you look at it closely, there’s very little in it to take exception to.”

“Pulls in as many punters as he can,” Colin scoffed.

“Maybe.” She stirred her coffee.

“Do you want a brandy?”

“No. I’m fine. Even I know my limits.”

“So what are you saying?” he asked cautiously. They were close; they loved each other; there was nothing they could not tell each other. Yet the relationship remained brittle, touchy even.

“Oh,” she was exasperated, with herself not Colin, “I don’t know. I’ve seen him a couple of times, had lunch with him once, read a few of their books, looked at their site on the Web.” It was her job to monitor the firm’s Website: to see it was kept up to date, to log on changes, to note the hits, to compare their site with others. It was a job she often undertook from home, late in the evening, when she had nothing else to do. Sometimes, a drink too many and lonely, she’d add an hour surfing at random. “I’ve corresponded with New York too. There’s more to the case than appears; I couldn’t put my hand on my heart and say who was the bigger charlatan - Matthew or Kroger’s sister; it’s not her first time out, either.”

“Whose?” This he could relate to: a case.

“The sister. The good Missus Gruenfeld has a track record: first she tried to argue the division of the fatherly spoils; then she successfully argued mummy into a rest home with a consensual guardianship appointment. The legal information network they’ve got up on the Web makes us look like we’re still developing precedent over dinner in the Inns.”

“Good work,” he complimented. “How’s the jurisdiction argument?”

“Not so good; they get to have a trial over there on who gave what to whom and where the brown envelope was delivered.”

“Are you going over for it? Is he?”

“I didn’t want to let him originally; I suppose I didn’t trust how he’d come over on the stand. But now, I’m not sure he couldn’t pull it off. Either way.” On jurisdiction, or on the substantive, capacity issue.

“I take it, uh, you’re not trusting him too far in other ways,” he asked delicately.

“No,” she laughed. “Don’t worry; he’s paid up front.”

Jan joined them.

“Talking shop. Who’d’ve guessed.”

After he saw Carey to the door, Colin went directly to his study. A few moments later, Jan brought him a last cup of coffee: it was no surprise that he was returning to work. Tonight, though, instead of leaving him to it, she asked:

“What was that all about?”

“What?” He acted as if he didn’t understand.

“I don’t know. Just before I came in, there seemed to be something going on, something in the air. Something’s worrying you.”

“I’m not sure. I gave her a case; I think she might be getting in a bit over her head.”

“Carey?” She had never heard him say that his sister was not capable of doing her job.

“It’s the client, really. It’s unusual: I shouldn’t have given her the case.”

“Why? What?” She leaned against the sideboard.

“Ever hear of something called The Programme? Cult-type thing?”

She started to shake her head, then - to his surprise - nodded.

“I’ve seen them on the King’s Road, selling their magazines. White suits, capes?”

“That’s them. His is silk though.”

“Who?”

“Their leader; The Teacher, he’s called.”

“A lot of mumbo-jumbo, I always thought; well,” she laughed, “I assumed. I’ve never bought any of their books.”

“Nor did I. But I had a look at them.”

“And?”

“And you’re right, it’s a lot of mumbo-jumbo.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“Oh, you know Carey; she’s always brooding, always discontented; always looking for something new, or someone.”

“What about Patrick?”

“He’s probably too nice to her. She says it’s not going anywhere.”

“So? What are you saying? You think she’s getting involved with this, um, this Programme thing?”

He smiled sheepishly.

“No, of course not. It just seems to be a bit more under her skin than I would have expected; or else he is.” Matthew.

Jan laughed and turned to go.

“Phooey, Colin. You’re carrying worrying about her far too far. Carey’s got her head screwed on as tightly as the rest of us.”

Http://www.the-programme.org.uk (turn on sound if available).

What do we believe? We believe that as we came from mere energy, we shall return to mere energy: ashes to ashes, dust to dust, the spirit returns to the spirit and the flowing river rejoins the sea. We are like drops of water off rivulets off streams off rivers off the ocean. We do not float; we do not sink; we are the sea. We believe that no one can feel complete on his or her own and that so long as we are on the earth, there is a natural longing to be at one with others. We believe that this is how we recreate the sense of belonging that is our nature. No ghosts and Gods, no belief in the supernatural or the superstitious, no pagan rituals or mystical ceremonies, just a journey taken together by people who began together and who it is inevitable will return together.

There is an end to the path, a fire in the hearth. We may never be aware of reaching it, not with our heads and our minds and our bodies, but we can stretch out towards it, and in reaching for it we can experience something of what it must mean to arrive - a destination is a product of its journey and if the journey is all that we are to enjoy then it is its own arrival. A fire in the hearth - the fire beyond.

Carey had rung for a cab to take her home. She had identified Islington as her destination. She let the driver head towards town before she told him otherwise. She had known all along that this was what she was going to do but had been putting off admitting it.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “I want to go to Mayfair: Chesterfield Gardens, do you know it?”

She saw the driver’s eyebrows rise and guessed what he was thinking: at this time of night, a good-looking woman on her own. The driver did not answer; she did not explain.

He let her off at the end of the cul de sac that was Chesterfield Gardens. It was a short road with huge double-fronted Georgian houses in three terraces - one each side and a short one at the end - tall and wide and proud of their heritage. Each house had double porticoes, steps down to a basement. Some of them had brass plates suggesting businesses or diplomatic uses. The Programme occupied a building about half-way down on the right. She could see the lights from the basement and the main entrance hall from the end of the street. No other houses were still so alive. She glanced at her watch: nearly eleven o’clock; she had read that the Coffee Lounge remained open until midnight, two o’clock at the weekend. That was fine; she would not be staying long.

She dithered between going down into the basement and ringing at the upstairs front door buzzer. She wanted to get a feel for The Programme as it was yet at the same time she did not want to seem to be a mere visitor. Between ego and discretion, the latter won and she trod carefully down the steps to the Coffee Lounge entrance self-conscious about her work clothing and her briefcase. The door was painted black, as was the porch by which it was protected from the rain, but there was a port-hole in it through which the light shone and through which she could sense movement.

The door opened to her touch. Inside was an open foyer to the left-hand side of which were stairs which would lead up to the main entrance-hall; to the right, a door led into the Coffee Lounge itself, the famous Coffee Lounge, she protected herself with sarcasm, of which she had read on the Internet. There was a table between the internal door and the door to the outside on which were displayed issues of the magazine, two of which she had read. Above it, the now familiar symbol of The Programme, the segmented circle. The door to the Coffee Lounge was shrouded by a curtain, but she could hear music and laughter from within. She felt like a party-crasher, wanting to be a part of it and acutely conscious that she did not belong.

She was at the point of telling herself not to be silly, to make up her mind whether or not to go in, when a young woman emerged from the Coffee Lounge, smiling and humming. She was one of the members: she was wearing a white sweater, white slacks; around her waist was a belt, held together with a buckle in the shape of the symbol. The woman - an American - said:

“Hello. My name’s Lilith. What’s your name?” She was not asked what she was doing there or what she wanted, the questions she was preparing to answer.

“Carey,” she answered nervously. “Carey Arnott.”

“Hello Carey,” Sister Lilith held out a hand. She was also wearing a ring in the shape of the symbol: it was rapidly moving from familiarity to ubiquity. “Would you like to come into the Coffee Lounge?”

The woman was warm, welcoming, almost physically comforting, yet there was something distant about her too.

“Yes, all right,” Carey replied, feeling as lame as she sounded.

Sister Lilith led her into a vast, light room -more of a chamber or a hall -which had been split into two levels. There was a spiral staircase to the left of the door, leading up to a second-tier platform. It was all built in blond wood: despite the polished perfection of it, she guessed that it would all have been of their construction and handiwork.

At both levels, tables were in individual booths. Above each table, there were drawings or paintings in a common style which most immediately brought Richard Dadd to Carey’s mind: writhing figures, faces distorted by madness, entangled with one another and divided by fire. Few of those seated were members of The Programme; most of them were young, though here and there was an older face looking to her as out of place as she felt. There was a distinctly American atmosphere - accents, clothing, music. Matthew had told her that - as well as himself - many of the members were American and it seemed so also were many of their followers and customers. Several people turned to stare at her, openly and unashamed.

“Would you like to sit upstairs?” Lilith asked, sensing her discomfort. “It’s easier to just watch.”

It was taken for granted that this was not an ordinary coffee bar or restaurant: people did not come here for a bite to eat or a drink; they came to meet, to talk, to join in - ultimately, Carey supposed, some of them came to join.

She nodded and followed her hostess up the narrow steps to the less crowded upper level, allowed herself to be ushered into a booth at the other end, overlooking the whole room. She slid into the booth, grateful for the consideration, glad to recover her anonymity.

There was a menu on the table, with a small selection of snacks and more filling foods listed on one side, drinks on the other. The food was mainly vegetarian: she glanced down the list at an ’exotic melanesia - rice, nuts, vegetables, raisins’, and vegetable stew concoctions with ’our own, home-baked bread’. The drinks ranged from conventional coffees, teas and soft drinks - coke, of course, another ubiquity - through mixtures of their own making.

Still waiting, Sister Lilith suggested:

“Have the ’Job’s Reward’. It’s my favourite.”

Carey raised her eyebrows but it sounded good - frozen yoghurt, crushed nuts, chunks of grape, slivers of melon, she wondered whether it was a meal or a drink.

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Is there anything else you want?”

Carey almost let it go. Suddenly, she said firmly:

“Yes. There is. Could you find out if The Teacher might be free.”

Lilith started to protest: no one walked in and saw The Teacher on demand; The Teacher was the reward at the end of the game.

Carey raised a hand to forestall her. “Actually, he invited me here.” She almost said that she was his solicitor but realised that the general membership might be unaware of any need for legal counsel.

Lilith looked at Carey as if to make sure she wasn’t insane then nodded.

“Carey Arnott, you said?”

“Right. Thank you, Lilith.”

She did not have long to wait. In a few minutes, first his handsome head then the rest of his long body rose out of the spiral staircase like a god from the fire. In contrast to the way people had stared openly at her when she entered the Coffee Lounge, they lowered their eyes modestly as he passed.

She started to get up to greet him but before she could do so he had sat down opposite her. He smiled and took her hand across the table in both of his, holding onto it.

“Carey,” was all he said.

“Hello, Matthew. I hope you didn’t mind my dropping in like this. I just thought, well, I wanted to see the place, get a feel for it. Besides, you said.”

He could have told her to stop apologising; but that would have been as redundant as the apology itself.

“And?”

“And? And what do I think of it?” He nodded. She laughed. “I only just arrived. But people seem, well, very nice, very friendly. Welcoming.”

“You are, you know: welcome.”

“Yes. I think I do know that. I mean, I feel welcome.”

At her house, the phone rang. When the answering machine picked up, the caller disconnected without leaving a message. Ten minutes later, it happened again. And again. The caller did not stop trying until after one o’clock.

It was Emily, calling from the hospital.