Small Mercies

by Small Mercies (epub)

  ‘Not sure exactly. Rowan said she’d meet up here and drive us over. Assuming you want to go.’

  Greg nodded. ‘Okay, you’ve talked me into it. Do we have to wear blindfolds or what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When she drives us over to this secret location.’

  ‘It’s not a secret location. She just thought it would be better for her to be there to introduce us.’

  ‘I’m just pulling your leg.’ Greg pulled out his phone. ‘Hang on a sec. I just need to cancel a couple of things.’ He rose and wandered off towards the pub entrance.

  Like Clive, Greg was single, but he tended to have a much more active social life. He played various sports and was a member of clubs and societies that largely remained a mystery to Clive. No doubt he was having to unscramble some commitment to a game of five-a-side football or badminton, or whatever it was he was supposed to be doing tonight.

  ‘Clive?’

  He’d been watching Greg and had missed Rowan Wiseman entering the pub through the rear entrance from the car park. He found himself slightly disappointed to see that Charlie was also present. Clive pushed himself awkwardly to his feet. ‘Rowan. Good to see you. Charlie.’

  ‘We got time for a drink, Ro?’ Charlie asked. ‘I could murder a pint.’

  Rowan looked at her watch. ‘Yes, why not? They’re not expecting us till six thirty.’

  ‘I’ll get these,’ Clive said. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

  ‘You owe us one from last time anyway,’ Charlie pointed out. ‘But thanks. I’ll have a pint of that stout.’

  ‘Just a tonic for me,’ Rowan said. ‘As I’m driving.’

  By the time Clive returned from the bar with the tray of drinks, Greg had already rejoined the group. ‘All sorted,’ he said. ‘I’m yours for the evening. Assuming I’m welcome.’

  Rowan nodded. ‘Of course. Clive had told us you might be coming. You work as his assistant, he tells us.’

  Clive hadn’t quite expressed it like that, or at least he didn’t think he had. But he’d felt flustered when Rowan had called him, so he might have said almost anything. He could see Greg wasn’t pleased by the description.

  ‘I think of him more as the Watson to my Holmes,’ Clive said, though he wasn’t sure that was any better.

  ‘The Tom to his Jerry,’ Greg said, acidly. ‘I’m really there mainly to take notes.’

  ‘So where is it we’re going?’ Clive said, in an effort to move the conversation on.

  ‘They have a place near Bakewell,’ Wiseman said. ‘It’s a former farmhouse. They’ve converted it mostly themselves, and done an impressive job. They use it now as a kind of retreat and spiritual centre, if that’s the right phrase.’

  ‘They?’ Clive was beginning to think that this sounded suspiciously cultish.

  ‘The main guy you’ll be meeting is Robin Kennedy. They don’t have a hierarchy as such. It’s more a collection of largely autonomous groupings.’

  ‘Nexions?’ It was a term that Clive had picked up during his research, and he was keen to demonstrate his knowledge.

  ‘Exactly.’ Rowan spoke with the slightly exaggerated enthusiasm of a teacher praising a normally slow pupil. ‘That’s why I wanted you involved in this. Because you understand the background. Anyway, Robin is – well, I suppose I’d describe him as first among equals there. It’s a little hard to describe. He wouldn’t describe himself as the leader, but he gives spiritual direction to the group.’

  ‘How many are based there?’ Greg asked.

  ‘It’s very fluid,’ Rowan said. ‘There’s a small group living in the house, including Robin. And there are various people who come and go. Charlie and I stayed there for a while.’ She glanced across at Charlie. ‘It helped us out at a difficult time, didn’t it?’

  Charlie nodded, clearly prepared to offer no other comment. Clive wondered again what exactly the nature of their relationship was.

  ‘On top of that,’ Rowan went on, ‘there are people who stay there on retreats. Some come for a weekend, some for a little longer. That’s partly how they fund the upkeep.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to hearing more about it,’ Clive said. ‘I want to understand the realities of it all, rather than just the stuff I’ve read.’

  ‘Robin’s definitely your man,’ Rowan said. ‘I should warn you that he’d likely to treat tonight as something of a test.’

  Clive exchanged a glance with Greg. ‘A test?’

  ‘That’s partly why he invited you at such short notice. I should have said he sent his apologies for that.’

  ‘No, that’s fine. We entirely understand. Don’t we, Greg?’

  Greg nodded. ‘My five-a-side team were very understanding. Remarkably few expletives, in the circumstances.’

  Wiseman smiled. ‘Robin wanted to see you cold, as it were. He didn’t want you to be able to prepare for the meeting. He’s had that before. Tabloid-type reporters who’ve genned up on the most salacious stories about satanism, in the hope that Robin or one of the others will say something provocative or outrageous. Completely missing the point, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously,’ Clive agreed. ‘But you know that’s not how I work.’

  ‘I’ve told Robin that. He’s had a look at some of your work, and he likes what he’s seen.’

  ‘He doesn’t need to be worried,’ Clive said. ‘I’ll be mainly there to listen. I mean, I’ll want to question if I’m not following something or if I’m not convinced by what I’m being told. But my first objective will be to absorb information, to understand what this is all about.’

  ‘That sounds perfect,’ Rowan said. ‘I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. Robin isn’t an intimidating man—’

  ‘He scares the hell out of me,’ Charlie said over the top of his pint.

  Wiseman glared at him. ‘Ignore Charlie. He and Robin have a bit of a fractious relationship, but they go way back.’

  ‘We go way back right enough,’ Charlie said. ‘That’s why I don’t take any bullshit from him. And neither should you. But Ro’s right. He talks a bit of bollocks sometimes, but he knows what he’s about and he’s nobody’s fool. Don’t underestimate him.’

  ‘I don’t intend to,’ Clive said. He was keen to ensure that Rowan didn’t have misgivings about the introduction.

  Rowan had finished her drink, and rose to leave the table. ‘I think everyone can potentially benefit from this. But we’d better get moving. We don’t want to start off on the wrong foot by being late, do we?’

  Chapter Eighteen

  The journey took place almost in silence. Clive had hoped that Rowan would provide them with more background information as they were travelling over, but she said little, clearly focused on driving. Charlie sat in the front seat beside her, apparently lost in his own thoughts.

  Clive himself sat in the cramped rear seat of Wiseman’s small Fiat, Greg squashed up against him. Greg had muttered a few sarcastic comments as they’d made their way out to the car park, but had since remained silent.

  ‘Not far now,’ Rowan said, as they entered the outskirts of Bakewell. ‘It’s just the other side of the town. The place itself feels fairly remote, but it’s really only a mile or two out.’

  After another mile, Wiseman took a left turn and then, shortly afterwards, a further turn to the right, taking them on to a single-track road. Clive had been trying to keep track of their location. He knew the route well until they’d turned off the main road, but now was in countryside he’d never visited before.

  After a few minutes, Charlie gestured through the windscreen. ‘That’s the place ahead. Kennedy Towers.’

  Clive finally spotted a small cluster of lights ahead. As they approached, he saw an illuminated sign that read ‘Kennedy Farm’.

  ‘You thought I was joking, didn’t you?’ Charlie said. ‘Okay, not Towers, but close enough. He’s not exactly devoid of ego, old Robin.’

  Rowan shot Charlie a look that was clearly intended to shut h
im up. It seemed to have the desired effect. She turned past the sign on to a rough uphill track. ‘Sorry it’s a bit bumpy. They’ve been talking about sorting this drive for years, but I reckon Robin likes it the way it is. Deters unwelcome visitors.’

  As they reached the summit of the hill, the house suddenly appeared before them. It was an older building than Clive had expected; he guessed that the original cottage, or perhaps cottages, that formed the core of the building probably dated back to the eighteenth century. At some point in the subsequent decades, the house had been sympathetically extended to form a sizeable farmhouse. It looked welcoming enough. There were a couple of brass carriage lamps set each side of the front door, casting a warm orange glow across the gravelled parking area. The overall effect was of an upmarket country bed and breakfast.

  ‘It looks lovely,’ Clive said. ‘Not entirely what I was expecting.’

  Rowan had parked close to the front door, and now looked back over her shoulder at him. ‘What were you expecting?’

  ‘I’m not sure exactly. Maybe somewhere a little more austere. This looks positively cosy.’

  ‘Whatever else he does, Robin will always make sure he gets his creature comforts,’ Charlie said, earning himself another icy look from Rowan.

  Outside, the earlier rain had passed and the sky was clear and rich with stars. As they emerged from the car, the front door of the house opened, a figure silhouetted in the entrance. Rowan hurried towards the doorway. ‘Hi, Eric. Hope we’ve not kept you waiting?’

  Clive heard the man say, ‘Perfectly timed, Rowan, as always. You always knew how to keep Robin happy.’

  Then he went on, more loudly: ‘Gentlemen, welcome. Welcome to Kennedy Farm.’

  Clive stepped forward. ‘We’re delighted to be here, Mr…?’

  ‘Eric Nolan. But call me Eric.’ The man shook Clive and Greg vigorously by the hand. There was a trace of an American or Canadian accent, Clive thought, though overlaid with something more local. ‘I’m Robin’s… number two, I suppose you’d say. His right-hand man.’

  ‘Monkey to his organ grinder,’ Charlie offered from behind them.

  ‘And a good evening to you, Charlie,’ Nolan said. ‘I see you’re in your usual fine spirits.’

  ‘I’m never not, Eric.’ Charlie shivered exaggeratedly. ‘Don’t hang about. Bloody cold out here.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Nolan ushered them in through the front door. ‘Robin’s waiting for you in the lounge.’

  ‘Of course he is,’ Charlie said. ‘Not one to answer the door himself when he’s a lackey to do it for him.’

  Nolan led them down a broad hallway into a large living room. Clive’s first response was to feel slightly overawed by what greeted them. It wasn’t that there was anything particularly distinctive about the room or its furnishings, but the whole effect spoke of a good taste and opulence beyond anything Clive was accustomed to. The furniture and decor had clearly been chosen with an expert eye, and much of it looked as if it had been hand-crafted to suit the age and character of the building. The wall opposite the door comprised one enormous picture window. The curtains were still drawn back and through the glass Clive could see a panorama of scattered lights across the adjacent valley. He guessed that in daylight the view would be spectacular.

  The man he took to be Robin Kennedy had been sitting on a large sofa at one side of the room, and now rose to greet them as they entered. ‘Good evening, gentlemen. And Rowan, of course.’ He gave a slight nod in Rowan’s direction, and then came forward to shake their hands.

  Kennedy was a tall, fairly heavily-built man. He was older than Clive had expected, perhaps in his early sixties, although that impression was partly contradicted by his thick mane of slightly overlong hair. The hair was slightly greying at the temples, but had otherwise retained its colour. Likewise, Kennedy’s dense beard showed no signs of grey. He was dressed casually, although to Clive’s inexpert eye the open-necked shirt looked expensive and well-tailored.

  If you’d glanced at Kennedy superficially, you might have assumed he was in his forties, Clive thought. It was only as you looked closer that the lines in his face became apparent.

  Kennedy grasped Clive by the hand, then gave him the kind of two-handed handshake normally favoured by overenthusiastic politicians. There was an intensity to his manner that Clive found both compelling and oddly disturbing.

  ‘You must be Clive Bamford,’ Kennedy said. ‘Rowan’s told us so much about you. And I’ve read some of your work, of course. I’m delighted you’ve managed to find the time to come and see us here tonight. You sound like exactly the man we need.’

  Clive nodded warily, taken aback by Kennedy’s manner. ‘It’s a privilege for us, Mr Kennedy. I’m looking forward to hearing more about the…’ He hesitated. ‘About the movement, if that’s the right word.’

  ‘I’m hoping that’s something you’ll be able to help us with, Clive – I can call you Clive? And please do call me Robin.’

  ‘Of course,’ Clive said. ‘How do you mean? About helping you?’

  ‘One of the questions we wrestle with is how we should describe ourselves. I’m personally not keen on terms like “religion” or “faith”. They’re accurate enough as far as they go, I suppose, but they don’t really convey the right impression. And we don’t want to use any terminology that would suggest we were some kind of cult. We tend to talk about the “movement” for want of any better term, but for me it slightly smacks of something political. That’s not quite what we want to convey either.’ He turned to face Greg Wardle. ‘You must be Clive’s assistant?’

  ‘We work together, yes,’ Greg said. ‘Greg Wardle.’

  Kennedy treated Greg to a much more perfunctory handshake. ‘Good to meet you, Greg. I hope you have an interesting evening.’

  ‘I’m sure I will, Robin.’

  ‘Now, can I get you something to drink?’ Kennedy said. ‘Tea, coffee or perhaps something stronger? I’m on this fine single malt.’ He held up his glass.

  ‘I wouldn’t say no to a Scotch.’ Greg had clearly decided to extract maximum value from the evening, one way or another.

  ‘Just a coffee for the moment, please,’ Clive said. ‘Best if I keep a clear head.’

  ‘A wise man,’ Kennedy said. ‘Perhaps we can tempt you once we’ve got business out of the way.’

  ‘Whisky for me,’ Charlie said. ‘Can always trust your taste in single malts, Robin.’

  ‘Of course, Charlie, I’ll make it a double in your case. What about you, Rowan?’

  ‘Just a coffee,’ she said. ‘Driving.’

  ‘Of course.’ Kennedy nodded to Nolan. ‘Can you do the honours, Eric?’

  ‘Charlie and I will give you a hand, Eric,’ Rowan said. ‘Give Robin a few minutes to get to know Clive and Greg.’

  Kennedy gestured for Clive and Greg to take a seat. Greg lowered himself into one of the large armchairs, allowing Clive to sit alongside Kennedy on the sofa.

  ‘Do you mind if Greg takes notes for us?’ Clive gestured towards Greg, who was pulling out a laptop from the bag he’d brought in with him.

  ‘It’s one of my duties,’ Greg said. ‘As Clive’s assistant. I’ll just tap away quietly, if that’s okay.’

  ‘Of course. Whatever you feel is most useful.’ Kennedy’s attention immediately returned to Clive. ‘I suppose the first question is how much you know about our movement.’

  Clive paused, conscious that a misstep now could destroy his credibility in Kennedy’s eyes. ‘As Rowan probably told you, I’ve really only recently begun researching in this specific area. Obviously, I’ve done considerable research into other areas of what I suppose you might call esoterica.’

  ‘Esoterica,’ Kennedy echoed, and for a moment Clive thought he might be about to mock the choice of word. ‘Yes, that’s a good, non-judgemental description.’

  ‘I’m not sure if it’s quite the right word,’ Clive acknowledged. ‘But I’m really just using it to describe a wide
range of – well, less conventional belief structures. I’ve researched widely in that area, and that’s really what led me to look at the so-called “left-hand path” religions.’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t know whether that’s terminology you approve of?’

  Kennedy shrugged. ‘It’s better than some terminology that’s sometimes applied to us. We’re not satanists, for example. Not in any clichéd sense, at least.’ He offered them a smile, presumably intended to indicate he was joking. ‘I suppose my problem with the term “left-hand path” is that it associates us with a largely indiscriminate group of belief structures, to use your words. I’m not sure that’s always helpful.’

  ‘How would you characterise your movement, Robin?’ Greg had been apparently focused on his note-taking, and asked the question without looking up from the laptop. ‘How would you describe it?’

  Kennedy looked at Greg with apparent surprise, as if he hadn’t been expecting him to contribute to the discussion. ‘Since you ask, Greg, I’d say we were realists. Materialists. Perhaps even humanists.’ He turned his attention back to Clive. ‘Does that surprise you, Clive?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I suppose it does slightly in that I’d assumed your beliefs were primarily spiritual. But perhaps that’s not a contradiction?’ He hoped the question sounded incisive. The discussion wasn’t quite going in the direction he’d anticipated. He already felt quite confused and wasn’t sure what they were discussing, but didn’t want to appear dense.

  ‘That’s an excellent point, Clive. You’ve pinpointed very precisely the tension that’s intrinsic to our thinking. Of course you’re right. There’s a very substantial spiritual component to our beliefs. The whole purpose of this is to seek enlightenment, to move beyond the earthly into something much more transcendent. But whereas conventional religion seeks to achieve that by denying life, by denying humanity, we believe that true enlightenment can be achieved only by embracing the material and the mundane.’

  Clive had no real idea what Kennedy was talking about. ‘Of course. And how exactly do you do that?’ He glanced at Greg, hoping that some help might be forthcoming from that direction, but Greg continued to tap away on the laptop, with only a slight shrug that eloquently conveyed the message: You’re on your own, mate.