Death in Disguise (3 page)

Janet's heart pounded as she glanced at, then quickly looked away from the blue-white milky limbs and fine breakable ankle bones. You could crush them as easily as the rib cage of a bird. The brush slipped and swirled in a suddenly sweaty hand. She reached out, briefly touching near-transparent skin, before pushing the Mickey Mice aside.

‘Mind your feet everyone.' Aiming for casual busyness she sounded only gruff.

‘And you, Arno?' asked Christopher.

‘I shall carry on with Tim,' replied Arno. He got up, collecting the square, stone salt cellars and horn spoons. ‘We're working on a new straw hood for the hive.' Every member of the community was artisanally virtuous.

‘You take such trouble,' said Heather. The words were shrill little pipes. A gymslip of a voice.

‘Oh well…you know…' Arno appeared embarrassed. ‘We had a little astro-ceremony for him last night, didn't we Heather?' said Ken.

‘Mmm. We held him in the light for ever so long.'

‘Then we offered the auric centre of his being to Lady Portia—the pale gold master of serenity.'

They were so unshakeably positive. Arno said ‘thank you' not knowing what else to say. Neither the Beavers for all their ring of bright confidence, nor the Lady Portia could help Tim. No one should. He could be loved and that was all. It was a great deal of course, but it was not enough to lead him from the shadows.

But it would be useless, Arno knew, to point this out. It would be unkind too, for Ken and Heather had brought the practice of positive thinking to a state-of-the-art meridian. No naughty darkling hesitancies for them. If one peeped out it was swept back under the carpet p.d.q. This refusal to acknowledge the grey, let alone black, side of life made them supremely complacent. A problem was barely described before the answer was on the table. Postulation. Simplification. Solution. Each stage liberally laced with Compassion. Soft-centred, honey-coated and as simple as that.

Trixie dragged her chair back, saying: ‘I'm glad I'm not on kitchen rota for the grand occasion tonight. I can have a nice long drink in The Black Horse instead. I'm sure we're all going to need one.'

Ken and Heather Beavers smiled indulgently at this roguish whimsy. No one at the commune had ever been into the village pub. Janet emerged and got up rubbing her knees.

‘What do you mean?' asked Arno. ‘About needing a drink.'

‘Mr Gamelin. Don't tell me you'd forgotten his visit.'

‘Of course not.' Arno now collected the plastic washing-up bowl from which everyone had helped themselves to muesli. One of the community rules was: Never Leave The Table Empty-Handed, and, although this occasionally meant something vanishing before anyone had had a chance to make use of it, on the whole the system worked very well.

‘Will you be making your Quark soufflé Heather?'

‘I thought I wouldn't in case he's late. You know what tycoons are.' She spoke with rueful authority as if hot-foot from the Stock Exchange.

‘We thought the three-bean lasagne,' said Ken stroking his comanchero moustche.

‘That is certainly very filling.'

‘Then use up the Quark with some stewed pears. Beat in some of Calypso's yogurt if it won't stretch.'

‘Excellent.' Arno beamed as if it really was and thought, there's always the birthday cake.

‘I bet he'll buy her an amazing present,' said Trixie.

‘What they really like, ruthless tycoons,' said Janet, ‘is tearing into a big red steak.'

‘Quite a father-in-law you've chosen Christopher.' Ken and his crystal twinkled across the table.

Christopher said: ‘Let's not get carried away,' and started to collect the cutlery.

‘Well he won't get a steak here.' Heather shuddered. ‘How do you know he's ruthless anyway, Jan?' Janet hated being called ‘Jan'. Except by Trixie.

‘I saw him on the box ages ago. One of those studio discussions.
The Money Programme
I think it was. He ate the lot of them up in the first five minutes then started on the table.'

‘Now, now,' chided Arno. He had not seen the programme. There was no television at the Manor House because of the negative vibes.

But Janet remembered it well. That square powerful figure thrusting forward as if about to smash its way through the screen, crackling with aggression. Head held low and to one side, motionless like a bull about to charge. ‘I wish he wasn't coming.'

‘Stay mellow.' Ken waved his hands up and down,
diminuendo
. ‘Don't forget. Not only is there one of him and ten of us, but we are standing in the light of the divine ocean of consciousness. We understand there is no such thing as anger.'

‘He wouldn't have been invited you know,' said Arno when Janet still looked worried, ‘if the Master had not thought it wise.'

‘The Master is very unworldly.'

‘Gamelin doesn't realise the challenging situation he's coming into,' chuckled Ken. ‘It'll be a golden opportunity for him to change his karma. And if he's half the man you reckon, Janet, he'll jump at it.'

‘What I don't understand,' said Trixie, ‘is why Suhami didn't tell us until the other day who she really is.'

‘Can't you?' Janet gave another unamused laugh. ‘I can.'

‘Just as well,' continued Trixie, ‘that Chris had already started declaring his intentions. Otherwise she might think he was only after her money.'

A sudden silence greeted this intemperate remark, then Christopher, tight-mouthed, picked up the knives and forks, said ‘excuse me' and left the room.

‘Honestly Trixie…'

‘It was only a joke. I don't know…' She stomped off without carrying as much as an egg spoon. ‘No sense of humour in this place.'

Now Ken struggled to his feet. He had ‘a leg' which stopped him doing quite as much as he would have liked around the house and garden. Some days (especially if rain was forecast) it was worse than others. This morning he hardly limped at all. He picked up the breadboard, saying ‘No peace for the wicked.'

‘They wouldn't know what to do with it if there was,' said Janet, and Heather put on her patient Griselda face.

Janet was Heather's cross and a great challenge. She was so left-brained; so intellectual. It had been difficult at first for Heather to cope. Until one day, appealed to, Ken's spirit guide Hilarion had explained that Janet was the physical manifestation of Heather's own animus. How grateful Heather had been to learn this! It not only made absolute sense but brought about an even deeper feeling of caring commitment. Now, using a tone of exaggerated calm she said: ‘I think we'd better get on.'

Left alone with Janet, Arno looked at her with some concern. He was afraid he intuited some sort of appeal in the whiteness of her face and the strained rigidity of her hands and arms as she hung on to the dustpan. He wished to do the right thing. Everyone at The Lodge was supposed to be available for counselling at any time of the day or night and Arno, although he was by nature rather fastidious about the spilling of his own emotions, always tried to be open and receptive if needed by others. However there were resonances here which disturbed him deeply and that he did not understand. Nevertheless…

‘Is there something worrying you, Janet? That you would like to share?'

‘What do you mean?' She was immediately on the defensive, as if goaded. ‘There's nothing. Nothing at all.' She was irritated by the word ‘share', implying as it did an automatic willingness to receive.

‘I'm sorry.' Arno backtracked, unoffended. His freckled countenance glazed over with relief.

‘Unless you go around with a permanent grin on your face, people keep asking you what your problem is.'

‘It's well meant—'

But Janet was leaving, her angular shoulder blades stiff with irritation. Arno followed more slowly, making his way to the great hall. It appeared empty. He looked around. ‘Tim…?' He waited then called again but no one came. The boy had lately found himself a quite impregnable retreat and Arno, appreciating Tim's need to be safe and lie securely hidden, made no attempt to seek him out. When the Master emerged from his devotions, Tim also would show himself—following in his beloved benefactor's footsteps as naturally as any shadow. And crouching at his feet when he halted like a faithful hound.

So Arno put the beehive hood aside for another day. Then he made his way down the long passage to where the Wellingtons, galoshes and umbrellas were kept, found his old jacket and panama hat, and disappeared to work in the garden.

After everyone had gone and the main house was quiet Tim appeared, edging his way into the hall.

Here, in the centre of the ceiling, was a magnificent, octagonal stained-glass lantern thrusting skywards forming part of the roof. On bright days brilliant beams of multicoloured light streamed through the glass, spreading over the wooden floor a wash of deep rose and amber, rich mulberry, indigo and soft willow green. As the clouds now obscured and now revealed the sun, so the colours would glow more or less intensely, giving the illusion of shifting, flowing life. This area of quite magical luminosity had a compelling fascination for Tim. He would stand in it, slowly turning and smiling with pleasure at the play of kaleidoscopic patterns on his skin and clothes as he bathed in the glow. Now he was poised beneath a powdery haze of dust motes suspended in the radiance. He saw them as a cloud of tiny insects: glittery-winged harmless little things.

Sometimes he dreamed about the lantern. In these dreams he was always in motion, occasionally swimming upwards, parting the spreading shiny light with webbed fingers, pressing it behind him, kicking out. But more often, he would be flying. Then, weightless in a weightless world, his body would soar and spin and dive, looping the rainbow loop. Once he had been accompanied by a flock of bright birds with kind eyes and soft unthreatening beaks. Waking after a lantern dream he would sometimes be filled with a terrible sense of fear and loss. He would spring out of bed then and race on to the landing to check that it was still there.

When Tim had first been brought to the Manor House and it had been impossible to persuade him to take any food, the Master, seeing the transforming effect of the dancing colours, had had two cushions brought and placed on the hall floor. Then, sitting with the boy, he had coaxed him to eat as one does a child—a spoonful at a time on the ‘one for me and one for you' principle. He had kept this up for nearly two weeks. Tim was better now of course. He sat at the table with everyone else and played his part in the community as well as he was able, struggling with his allotted simple tasks.

But he never stopped being frightened. And now, when a door on the landing opened. even though it was only Trixie going to the bathroom, Tim ran like the wind to the nearest foxhole and once more hid himself away.

In the Solar the Master sat, a tisane of fresh mint-and-lemon balm in his hand. Suhami, who had asked to see him urgently, seemed in no hurry to speak now that she was here. Being in the Master's presence frequently affected people so. Whatever disturbance of mind or body drove them to seek his counsel, they would find hardly had they come before him than the matter did not seem so urgent after all.

And in any case thought Suhami as she rested upon her cushion, spine supple and elegantly straight, it was now too late for words. The damage had been done. She looked at her teacher. At his delicate hands, enrapt features and thin shoulders. It was impossible to be angry with him; foolish to expect him to understand. He was so guileless, his concerns purely of a spiritual nature. He was in love (Janet had once said) with the ideal of purity and so saw goodness everywhere. Suhami pictured her father, soon to be on his dreadful juggernauting way, and her distress returned, keen as before.

Guy Gamelin was about as spiritual as a charging rhino and had been known to leave an equivalent amount of chaos in his wake. The Master could not possibly imagine a person so volatile; so alarming when thwarted; so consumed by massive gobbling greed. For he thought there was that of God in everyone and all you had to do to reach it was to be patient and love them.