The Programme

CHAPTER TWO-1

CHAPTER TWOCarey had put off looking at The Programme file until the last moment. It was a busy time, with several trials coming on within a few days of each other.

The morning of her meeting with Matthew she arrived at the office early. She had to be at the High Court at ten, to make one last attempt to persuade a client to agree to a settlement before she left counsel to conduct the hearing. Though there ought to be enough time to get back to the office to prepare for the midday appointment with Crane, Carey knew from experience how rarely conferences outside court kept to schedule.

She studied the cover symbol and read The Programme materials with a bit more care, feeling something akin to prurience, as if she was spying on a shameful, personal activity, something that, though she would never admit to it herself, none the less struck a reluctant, closet chord - like a secret eating binge, or m**********n, or the sudden, inexplicable impulse to pocket something belonging to someone else.

From the window of his own office on the first floor, Alistair watched Carey hail a taxi to take her to court. He had known her as a child, as a teenager, as a college student, as a trainee solicitor, now he saw her daily not just as a woman, but as the end product of that long history. He still could not say what made her tick or what she wanted out of life.

His door opened without a knock. His secretary, his trainee or Charles. It was the latter. He was not surprised.

“I thought you’d be in today.”

Charles lowered himself into the comfortable, leather armchair beside the window.

They each had offices to suit their personalities. Colin’s was uncluttered, lined with Halsbury’s Laws and Halsbury’s Statutes; his clients sat on high-backed chairs across from his desk; a photograph of Jan and the children was at one side, at right angles, so that they could see at once that he was a family man. Carey’s had piles of folders and files on every available top, pictures lining the walls reflecting tastes during different periods of her life - a Mexican bark painting, a framed poster of a William Morris exhibition, a Picasso bird of peace, a watercolour that belonged to Patrick Preston’s collection but to which she had taken a sudden liking and that - failing to persuade her to accept it as a gift - he had put up for her on permanent loan instead.

Like Carey’s room, Alistair’s was littered with mementoes. Some of them were of his wives; sometimes, they were things brought into the office while he moved out of one home or another, and which he had never taken out again objets, small sculptures, photographs of himself with friends and mentors, trophies from sailing when he was young and from the solitary competition he had won since he took up bridge. Others were gifts from clients, reflecting victories.

“What do you think, Alistair?”

“I think you’re working your way round the firm, finding out what everyone thinks before the partnership meeting so you can decide how to get your own way,” Alistair was amused at Charles’ transparency. “Let’s see, the way I calculate it, we’re about evenly split -which means it could go either way. Which is a risk you won’t take. So if you can’t talk them round with a main course of reason I imagine we’re in for a dessert of fire and brimstone. ’It’s not Arnott & Co but Arnotts’; ’this is my firm, I built it and if I have to I’ll bring it down’. That sort of thing?”

Charles laughed.

“I’m getting too old for this game. Perhaps I should give it up.”

“No one’s stopping you,” Alistair replied tartly.

“That’s what I like about you, old friend; you don’t pull your punches.”

“That’s something you taught me. But you also taught me that it’s sometimes important to let people do things, even when they’re wrong, just to find out for themselves.”

“So?”

“So, you’ve fought Colin every inch of the way for too long, Charles. He’s a good Managing Partner; he won’t harm the firm.”

“No, but he might sign it up for the Tory Party.”

“Balls, Charles. He’s still your son. His instincts are still good. You’ve locked onto the idea that he’s your enemy. Don’t be so stubborn; give him a chance to do it his way.”

Charles raised an eyebrow.

“Stubborn, Alistair? Me?”

“I want to talk to you,” Cassandra slid onto the bench of one of the Coffee Lounge booths opposite Matthew. Matthew was eating his breakfast: tea, fruit, bread baked by the members. The Coffee Lounge was not yet open to the public.

She was followed onto the bench by Father Caleb, her archangel of destruction, a self-educated student of the black and paganic arts, of whom “Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law” was the Aleister Crowley saying - of the many that he liked to quote - that summarised his philosophy.

Matthew did not acknowledge them immediately. He finished his melon and sipped his tea. Then he looked up calmly at Caleb and waited. Caleb met his gaze with something close to defiance but was unable to hold it without muttering:

“I am one.”

“And we are many,” Matthew replied heartily.

He thought of Nabal: ’The man was churlish and evil in his doings; and he was of the house of Caleb’.

Caleb used to think that the sun rose and set on Matthew; like others too quick to follow, he had also found it easy to desert to Cassandra’s cause.

“Good morning,” Matthew added, addressing Cassandra.

“I want to talk to you,” she repeated.

One of the Coffee House Initiates approached the booth, head bowed, with a fresh pot of tea. Matthew gestured towards The Seer and her lieutenant. Caleb shook his head, but Cassandra, keen to keep the younger members on her side, said:

“Thank you, Brother Martin.”

After he had retreated from ear-shot, Matthew said:

“This is about Anthony.”

“I told you we couldn’t handle him,” she said.

Anthony, son of Arthur: the bad blood of the Rockworths. At the age of eight, Anthony had been expelled from his boarding school for pissing on a sleeping child in his dormitory. At ten, though small for his age, he had managed to punch a maid to the ground and kick her unconscious. At eleven, he was arrested for kidnapping and torturing the five-year-old son of a neighbour in the wealthy hamlet in which the Rockworths lived outside Marlow. The police, welfare agencies and child psychologists had all been involved: the case had been buried by a financial snow-storm that included a million pound investment in the neighbour’s business and a peremptory move across the border into Oxfordshire.

Arthur Rockworth was the wealthiest man Matthew had ever met. He was rarely at home, rarely in England: his corporate interests straddled both the Atlantic and the Pacific. He was also said to be personally shy, although he used the media as part of his business weaponry like an accomplished general.

Rockworth and his wife had been married for twenty-three years: in addition to Anthony, there was an older son, who had also been difficult, but not in Anthony’s league of psychosis. He had finally fallen onto the right side of the line. After dropping out of university, he worked now for his father and unexpectedly - had recently become engaged to a girl Arthur believed was strong enough to keep him under control.

Anthony, though, had gone from bad to worse. They had managed to keep him in schools - with lashings of money conferred on individuals and institutions- until he was sixteen. Subsequently, he was taken care of by what was euphemistically termed a private tutor, but whose duties more closely resembled those of a warden.

Much of this Matthew had learned during a strange talk in the back of a stretch-limousine parked alongside a village bonfire party for which Rockworth like a squire had paid. One of the properties in the village was a house which belonged to the parents of a member who were now living abroad and which they allowed The Programme to use as a retreat. The house was in walking distance of the village green.

That weekend Matthew was present with Helen and a small party of Programme children. The older children lived in a sprawling, mansion-block apartment in South Kensington that had been rented for so long it was hard to remember whose lease it had originally been, which at one time had been Matthew’s home, and which still provided a useful annexe to the Mayfair Chapter.

Matthew tried to spend some time with the children every few months, talking with them individually and in groups, telling them stories, teaching them games and educating them in the rituals of The Programme. He found the presence of children in the group the most exciting part of The Programme. These children were growing up - the oldest had just begun her teens - believing in his teachings and in himself from such an early age that they had never known anything else; when they came to adulthood and -in the fullness of time -succeeded to The Programme, he would finally be complete.

Until a couple of years before, they had sufficient qualifications within the group to be allowed to provide education at home. As Tamar - the daughter of Brother Micah and Sister Hannah - turned eleven, it had become necessary for her to attend secondary school and, now, so also did her brother, Thomas. Meanwhile, Micah and Hannah had separated; for a time, Hannah had been with Father Simon - Matthew’s closest ally and friend - while Brother Micah had embraced celibacy and, to date, had yet to depart from it. They were sometimes called the union of opposites, an incarnation of the principles of The Programme: Micah was tall, rangy, with flaming red hair; Hannah was tiny, dark and hawk-like.

The attendance of the children at state schools posed the challenge of preserving the dominance ofProgramme teachings. Matthew intensified his personal attention; Cassandra, too, sought competitively after their minds and their vitality. Between them, just as they had forged The Programme out of tension, they had convinced the children of the singular reality of their lives within it. They taught them to hide their disdain for the childish attitudes and antics of their school-mates; they were Junior Messengers - a rank to which they had been elevated over members many years older - who knew the importance of keeping their own counsel; their teachers believed that they were angels -Matthew and those closest to them alone understood the truth.

The visit to the bonfire party was a treat for the children. They normally saw fire only in spiritual terms: the fire beyond, the key goal of The Programme.

Matthew was standing at the edge of the crowd watching the children, preferring their pleasure to his, when a voice spoke softly behind him:

“That’s a smart pack of children. They can’t all be yours.”

Matthew did not turn around.

“No. I don’t have any children of my own.”

“I have two,” Rockworth added.

“I know,” Matthew replied.

They stood in silence for a while. Rockworth observed:

“You’re watching the children, not the fireworks.”

“Men made fireworks,” Matthew answered, keeping his tone light, meaning but not saying “God made children”.

“Are you visiting the village?” Rockworth commented on Matthew’s accent.

“We have a cottage.”

Another long silence. Then:

“That’s my younger son,” Rockworth pointed to a spot near to the fire. “I have to be here.” He apologised without any need to do so.

Helen left the younger children in the care of the older. She waited to make sure she was not interrupting before she said demurely: “Matthew. The youngest children are tired. I think I should take them home.”

Matthew looked at her and nodded. She read the activity in his eyes.

“You stay a while.”

“Yes.”

Rockworth - surprising himself - held out a hand.

“I’m Arthur Rockworth.”

“Helen,” she said, taking his hand. “Will you excuse me?”

They watched as she went back for the children.

Rockworth said:

“Lovely girl.”

When Matthew didn’t comment, he asked: “I don’t know your name?”

“Matthew. And, yes, she is lovely.” He turned to share a smile.

“What do you do, Matthew?”

“I work with people.”

“People in trouble?” Rockworth understood.

“Some of them; some of the time.” Rockworth wanted to talk. It was the need Matthew often brought out in people, sometimes on sight alone. It had to be Rockworth’s decision.

“Do you drink, Matthew?” Rockworth made up his mind. “I don’t mean wine.” He gestured towards the trellis from where hot mulled wine was being dispensed to adults, hot chocolate for the children.

“I’d like that,” Matthew said.

Rockworth led him to his car. It was an imported Packard, perhaps twenty or more years old, parked across the road from the green. As they approached it, a uniformed chauffeur scurried back from watching the fireworks. Rockworth waved him off.