The Programme

CHAPTER ONE-1

CHAPTER ONE“Mr Crane.” Colin offered his hand. “Sit down, please.”

For a split second longer than necessary, Matthew clung onto Colin’s hand before he lowered himself elegantly onto an upright chair across the desk.

Matthew was probably older than Colin and taller; he had a distinct presence. Colin was both impressed and disturbed: there was something almost other worldly about the man, mesmeric was the word that popped uninvited into his head.

They were a study in opposites. Matthew was wearing an off-white suit, silk Colin thought. His jacket hung loose. He wore a silk shirt, also white, open at the collar. His shoes were a smart deck-shoe. He could be anything from Colin’s age - recently turned thirty five - to his fifties, it was impossible to say. He wore his hair long, almost to his shoulders, framing his face; he was lightly bearded.

Colin flipped open the thin cardboard folder with Crane’s name on it and studied the almost empty pro-forma stapled to the inside cover. Only two columns had anything in them: Crane’s name, and the sum of £500 - plus Value Added Tax - as a p*****t on account.

“How can I help you?”

Colin pushed his high-backed leather chair back on its rollers and crossed his legs beneath his desk, twisting the gold Dupont between each of his thumbs and forefingers.

Matthew said:

“I don’t know if you have heard of The Programme.” The way he said it made clear he was talking about an organisation.

Colin logged the soft American accent. He shook his head, repeating:

“The Programme?”

“It’s a group - an organisation - a way of life. A belief system, I call it.”

“Like - uh,” Colin fumbled for the name of a sect, without wanting to use the word. “Scientology? Children of God?”

He was already thinking: whatever it is, this is not for us. He did not like religions; he did not like sects or cults or recognise any distinction between them. His mother had been religious; she had used it to assert her moral superiority over both of the children and Charles; it had led to their separation.

Matthew smiled.

“A cult?” He was not frightened of the more pejorative expression. “Some people would say so; some people do. Everything’s a cult when it begins. I founded The Programme nearly ten years ago; now there are several hundred members; there are bigger cults but smaller religions.”

“Are you, uh, a registered charity?” Colin grasped at the first legality to come to mind.

“We’re not incorporated,” Matthew replied. “It’s built on trust; the people in The Programme trust each other; they trust me.”

“Forgive me, Mr Crane ...”

“I’m known as The Teacher inside the group; Matthew otherwise.”

“Matthew.”

“What were you going to say?” Matthew prodded him along.

“I was going to ask,” Colin corrected, “what it was you wanted from me, from a solicitor?”

“One of our members - former members, I suppose you’d say, though we prefer to think of it as a temporary separation - deeded some property over to the group; now, er ...”

“They want it back,” Colin supplied.

“Right.”

Colin was tempted to say: so give it back. Instead, he asked:

“How much property?”

Matthew shrugged carelessly.

“It’s a farm in upstate New York - Hammer Reach; I don’t know what it’s worth. It is going to be the base for an American Chapter. There was some money, too. A quarter of a million.”

“Dollars or pounds?” Colin pulled a notepad towards him, rolled the Dupont one last time between his forefingers and thumbs and removed its cap. Despite himself, he felt his interest stir. He had no idea of New York agricultural land values, but nowhere could be worth less than six figures. They were into a half-million dispute - dollars or pounds.

“Pounds,” Matthew said. “I don’t remember exactly how much it was originally.”

“Who was he?”

“She. Amanda Kroger. American,” he added.

“Was it her own money? How did she come by it?”

“Inheritance. Her father made some kind of patented dairy product. There was - is - a trust fund; that’s untouched; this was additional capital. Entirely hers.”

“And the land?”

“It had been left to her outright. There were several children; she was a bit wild; I think the idea was to try and get her away from the city. Does it matter, as long as it was hers?”

“What was your relationship with her?” Colin asked bluntly.

“She was a member of The Programme; she gave it to me as a member of The Programme. Members of The Programme trust me with their worldly assets as they trust me with their lives. They would not be members otherwise.”

Colin noted that he had avoided answering.

“Has she issued a writ? Here? Or there?”

“It’s not her. One of her sisters, acting as administrator. There’s a court order, appointing her to manage Amanda’s affairs. She’s, uh, undergone some sort of breakdown. I’ve got a letter.”

Matthew picked up his satchel and extracted a sheet of paper which he slid casually across the desk. Colin finished scribbling a note, skimmed the letter quickly, pressed a button on his phone. Before he could say anything, his secretary appeared and, wordlessly, took the letter from him. Colin explained:

“She’ll take a copy. I take it, from the fact that you’re here, you’re not willing to give it back?”

“I would give it back to Amanda in a moment if she asked for it herself. But I’m not giving it back to anyone else. Amanda gave it to me, to The Programme; I think she’ll be back one day; I think when she does, she’ll expect us to have used it for the group, the way she intended. Who is to say what is in her interests? Her sister, or me?”

“According to the letter, the court says the sister,” Colin replied dryly.

“That’s just one side. What if I appealed against the order, or had it set aside, however you do it?”

“I wouldn’t know; not in New York. But if the court there approaches it the same way as here, I’d tell you not to waste your money. The best you could get, if you managed to persuade a court the sister isn’t acting in, uh, Amanda’s best interests, would be to get someone else appointed. It wouldn’t be you; and they wouldn’t let you keep the money.”

“Not without Amanda, right?”

Colin nodded; seeing at once where Matthew was leading.

“And a court case takes a while, right?”

Colin thought before saying:

“It’s an American case.”

“The money’s here.”

“True. They haven’t issued proceedings here, though.”

“Not yet.”

Still prevaricating, Colin asked:

“Chesterfield Gardens?” The address on the letter. “Is that your home?”

“It’s our home, our base.”

“Expensive.” In the heart of Mayfair, in the shadow of the London Hilton, around the corner from the historical Shepherds’ Market. There was real money in the background all right; real as in big.

Matthew shrugged.

“If we went into court, you realise it would mean, uh, declaring everything about the organisation - financially and otherwise.”

“I have nothing to hide,” Matthew would still not be drawn.

Colin said:

“I don’t think, to be honest, I’m not sure we’re the right firm for you. I’m not even sure why you came here.” He hated to turn work away; he hated to turn away a case with money in it; but - however Matthew dressed it up - it was closer to a domestic dispute than to anything that might be called a business enterprise; and, it would be controversial.

“I looked around a bit. Read up on the Internet.”

Arnotts had been one of the first firms to post their own board. If one knew the site name, it could be accessed directly; otherwise, it was accessed through half a dozen different directories, from community advice through corporate finance. It hadn’t been intended to attract clients like this.

“You seemed to be the best for civil rights.”

“Civil rights?” Colin didn’t disguise his surprise. “What does this have to do with civil rights?”

“Isn’t it? If this was property deeded to the Catholic Church, you think they’d be trying to get it back?”

“Questions of consideration,” Colin answered lamely, admitting that Crane was right. “All the same, it’s not what you might call a conventional civil rights issue; people, uh, tend to see these things from the individual’s perspective, not the organisation’s.”

“That’s your job, isn’t it? To get them to see it the other way around. Individual rights aren’t worth much if you can’t exercise them. And that’s what we’re talking about here.”

“Which is what? What is The Programme?”

“That’s a question. I’ll tell you what, Colin, I’ll leave you a couple of booklets; you have a look at them and make up your own mind. If you’re willing to act for us, fine; if not, well, it won’t have cost you anything.”

Matthew’s tone was light, carefree, as if none of it was his problem, none of it touched him. Colin found it unnerving. This sort of first interview was supposed to be his forte, yet it was as if it - and he - had been completely controlled by Matthew.

They rose simultaneously. Matthew drew the booklets from his leather satchel and placed them face up on the desk. They were emblazoned with his photo, the pose unmistakably that of the Christ. The covers were all glossy, richly coloured, expensively produced. Colin casually flicked open one of the booklets: well printed, too. Each of the volumes bore the group’s symbol, a circle, in four segments, not joined up, the sides of each segment ever so slightly curved inwards concave.

Colin walked Matthew to the front door.

“I still don’t think we’re the right people for you, but I’ll read your, uh, books and I’ll talk to one or two of the partners and, uh, I’ll give you a ring.” They shook hands. Matthew held onto his, smiling gently. “It’s not worth it if it’s going to make you unhappy.”

“If I only took the work that made me happy, I wouldn’t have much to do,” Colin barely managed to reply.

He watched Matthew walk down the road towards Smithfield. Their offices were on St John’s Street: halfway between the City and the Angel, Islington, a spit away from Clerkenwell Green. That was about right. Historically, Clerkenwell Green had been a centre for radicalism, and the Angel once an immigrant and working-class melting-pot; that was his father, Charles’ constituency. The City was money - Colin’s.

Just as he was about to go back in to the office, his father’s car pulled up. From one God to another, Colin thought as he leaned down and spoke through the window:

“I didn’t expect you in today.”

“Sorry,” Charles answered cheerfully, not meaning it. “I’m having lunch with your sister. Care to join us?” he added as Carey came out of the office behind Colin.

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

Why do some find self-fulfilment and others do not? We know we have an infinite capacity to expand and to advance ourselves, so why don’t we do it? What holds us back? We say fear: fear to let go of the same codes of belief and behaviour that everyone around you adheres to even though you know that it confines you; fear to invest your imagination and hope except in the same stocks everyone else invests in, even though it’s the stock with the lowest return! The only thing The Programme can offer you is courage; after that, you’re on your own. How do we do it? Example, support, love: that’s our programme. Come and meet us; we have a home in Chesterfield Gardens in Mayfair; you’re welcome to drop in just to say hello, or for a meditation, or come and eat in our Coffee Lounge. There are no conditions, no catches, just people.

Carey was a forceful lawyer, strong enough to dominate her own clients, and an aggressive litigator. In her private relations, however, she was just the opposite: almost timid at first meeting, tentative - fragile was a word that came to people’s lips, brittle a less flattering alternative.

She had been an unhappy child and she was an unhappy woman, darting between relationships and experiences, unable to commit, desperate for love and direction, terrified in case she made the wrong choice, most frightened of all that if she let anyone get close enough to love her, they would learn just how unlovable she really was, anyone but Charles and Colin who must surely by now already have found out and forgiven her.

Colin was the older by five years. When their parents separated, he was in his teens, she was just shy of them. They had been supposed to go to live with their mother. They had prevaricated and postponed the moment until, in less than a year, she had died of a violent, unannounced colonic cancer and it was too late. After that, it was just the three of them and their guilt.

Carey was tall for a girl, the same height as Colin. Colin was stocky, she was slight. Colin was beginning to bald; her hair was as fine and as full of lights as when she had been a child; she looked not much older than when she finished university. She had her mother’s high cheek-bones; his were flat, giving the impression of a single, straight surface from jaw to forehead. Sometimes they joked that they must have had different fathers. It was only a joke because the idea of their mother being unfaithful to Charles was absurd; almost as absurd as the idea that he might ever have stayed faithful to her.