“Purgatory? For Theo? What makes you think that?” she asked.
Patrick wore a secretive mask.
“Has Theo shared his past with you?” Juliet persisted.
“As it happens, yes, I do know a thing or two about what he’s been up to. It’ll be purgatory for him, all right,” maintained the Irishman.
“How many years do you think he’ll get?” she queried, hoping Patrick would lighten up. But her flippancy belied her true feelings. She hardly knew Theo, after all. And neither did Zoe. And Patrick’s words had increased her doubts about the clergyman even more.
The Irishman’s face darkened. “It’s not for us to know the exact timings. But he’s been too lax. An earlier word from his bishop might have pulled him into line. But by the time he arrived here the rot had already set in.”
“In what sense?”
“That book of his. I’ve read it. It has the devil in it.”
“Does it? How fascinating!” She resolved to read it as soon as possible. Meanwhile, she reckoned Patrick needed careful handling. “I haven’t read the book yet so I can’t comment. And Theo may not be back again. He’s already been away two nights.”
“Oh no, he’ll be back.” The Irishman set about reloading his paintbrush. “He phoned Craig half an hour ago.”
She pulled up at this news. “Did he? What happened at his disciplinary review?”
“No idea. But I reckons they’re far too liberal, the Anglicans. They probably gave him a second chance.” Patrick’s expression hardened. And he fell silent. Clearly he felt they’d both said enough. Juliet thought it unwise to push him. He resumed his painting, and she walked on until, reaching the fir trees at the western perimeter of the vegetable garden, she found a bench to sit on.
Then she noticed three figures crossing the forecourt from the house towards the garden gate. Shading her eyes from the now-dazzling sun, she focused on them.
Laura and Edgar were easily identifiable but not their companion, a wild-looking character with matted hair, in unsavoury rags. For a moment she wondered whether he’d wandered in from the lane at the top of the drive, and they were just escorting him off the premises. He clutched a well-stuffed plastic supermarket bag, and every so often he poked his fingers in it and spent some time exploring the contents.
Then she snapped her fingers: of course. James. He’d once more slipped into his alter ego. He was at it again. What a spectacle he made. When she compared it with the elegant man who usually graced the community with his exclusive tailoring and Noel Coward-like manner, she found it hard to believe.
She got up again and walked towards them, Nagra once more set to record, holding the microphone to her mouth and setting the scene with a few well-chosen words. She held the microphone out close to the group. The trio approached Patrick, who turned, paintbrush in hand, seemingly unconcerned by the sight of James in full costume and stage make-up. Juliet moved closer with her mike; if they objected to her activities, no one mentioned it. In fact, they ignored Juliet throughout. It was a perfect fly-on-the-wall piece of recording.
Laura, Edgar and Patrick embarked upon an animated discussion. She adjusted the levels, and made sure it was all coming over clearly.
Laura gesticulated in the direction of the main entrance gate at the top of the drive. “Theo will be back soon. But I agree, Patrick. When he returns, he’ll need to make his stance clear. Either he’s a straight down the line one of them, or he’s one of us.”
“He’s one of us.” Edgar looked exasperated.
“How can you be sure?” asked Laura.
“Theo listened when we wanted to talk, didn’t he?” said Edgar. “He enjoyed being here. He accepts us. Which one of us has seen him get up on a soapbox? He didn’t when he came in February, and nor did he this time, either. I can’t understand you, Laura. You had a crush on him back then.”
This silenced her for a few moments. Her face burned.
Yes, Juliet had guessed this much.
“All right. But when he returns, he can’t carry on like he did on Wednesday,” Laura insisted.
“Why not?” said Edgar, provocatively.
“You know full well. We can all see the way things stand with Zoe.”
Juliet stiffened.
“They make a lovely pair,” dribbled James, producing a beer bottle from his bag.
“No they don’t,” Laura flared. “Theo was so sweet to me back in February. But this time, he’s ignored me. He’s been all over Zoe instead. And I even swatted up 1 Corinthians 13 for him.”
“Perhaps you’d have done better learning a piece from the Song of Solomon,” said Patrick. “He’d have preferred that. Plenty there about erotic love.” He looked disapproving.
“I don’t think that would have worked either,” said Edgar, looking like a jolly monk who’s just blended a new liqueur. “You would have gone to all that trouble to please him, and all to no avail. Why? Because he only has eyes for our pretty little Zoe. And so, Laura,” he added, “my advice is: stick to Al. There’s no point in keeping your options open.”
Laura tossed her head.
James’s rags flapped in the breeze. He lifted the beer bottle to his lips, allowing most of the contents to spill down his chin. Laura drew back in disgust.
“So we are agreed,” said Edgar. “Theo and Zoe should be allowed to have their fun.”
“I don’t think we’ve agreed that at all,” said Laura in a snide manner.
“Well, James and I have,” said Edgar. “You and Patrick can beg to differ if you like.”
This produced a range of reactions from Laura and Patrick. Juliet felt she detected annoyance, moral outrage and even a hint of envy.
Then Edgar said casually, “And that book of his… Hot stuff. What do you think, Patrick? You read it after me.”
This guaranteed the renewed attention of Laura.
Patrick snorted. “Burn it! That’s what I think.”
James lurched closer to the hedge and leaned back against the leaves.
“You’re biased, Patrick,” continued Edgar, clearly satisfied that he now had the upper hand over them, “I think it’s stunning. My God, I wish I’d had something like that to show those bastards who axed my research grant.”
“Well, all well and good, but small comfort to me,” began Laura again. “When Theo returns, we must call a halt to his play-acting.”
“In what role?” enquired Edgar with a sly smile.
“You know full well,” she said. “Lustful priest.”
“Licentious cleric,” growled Patrick.
“Very popular literary and dramatic role, goes back to medieval times,” said Edgar. “And may I add to your list the flirtatious friar? We meet one of those in Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. Chaucer’s friar loves associating with the fairer sex, and is kind enough to perform marriages which he has made necessary.”
“That’s enough on the subject, Edgar,” shouted Laura. For one dangerous moment, Juliet thought Laura was going to slap Edgar’s face. But Laura restrained herself.
Edgar, however, still didn’t seem to think the subject had been pushed far enough. “You and Al can bend the rules,” he said to Laura, “then you call the censors in when Theo falls for Zoe.”
“Well…” Laura spluttered for a few moments. “That’s outrageous, Edgar. Al and I have no reputation to maintain, if that’s what you mean. Whereas Theo…”
“…has standards to live up to,” maintained Patrick. “Constantly changing ones, too. But that’s the Church of England for you. Always shifting their goalposts.”
This remark was met by stony silence from Laura and Edgar. Humming tunelessly to himself, James sank back into the hedge, perilously close to the wet paint. The Irishman snatched up his brush, and plunged it into the paint pot, as if planning to give James a new colour scheme along with the gate.
Whilst pleased with the recording, Juliet felt dismayed by what she’d learned. All this stuff about Theo. She couldn’t trust him. What
were his intentions towards Zoe? And when she’d questioned him on the subject of his past, he’d steered her away from the mystery of his disappearance, and had instead told her a tale about the Garden of Gethsemane. That had been interesting, of course, but he’d still not thrown any light on the other dark areas of his life that really concerned her. James, Edgar, Patrick and Laura had evidently seen enough of Theo, though, to begin forming strong opinions about him.
“Personally,” said Edgar, placing a warning hand on the Irishman’s arm, as Juliet closed in with the mike again, “I’m at a loss to understand all this fuss. I’ve no problem with Theo. I like him.”
“Maybe you do,” Laura sniffed. “I appreciate you and Patrick have read his book, whilst none of the rest of us have yet had that advantage.”
“Borrow my copy,” advised Edgar. “Patrick has it at the moment. He’ll give it to you.”
“I’ll throw it on the flames first,” growled Patrick.
Laura stared at him. “You said that before, Patrick. And I most definitely do want to read it. I’ll get it off you as soon as possible.”
Then James created a diversion. He shambled over to Laura, and put his hand on hers. “Gotta few pence to spare, lady?”
Juliet couldn’t help laughing. He was a good actor. No wonder the casting directors liked him. Ideal for those cameo roles he’d mentioned.
Laura found voice again. “I’ll slap your face, James, if you come near me again with that disgusting stench. Where do you get it from? And keep your bottle away from me, too.”
James backed off slightly, drooling. Laura foraged in the sleeve of her cardigan, brought out a lacy handkerchief and scrubbed at her hand. But she couldn’t resist returning to the subject of Theo. “I thought he was going to be our saving grace.”
“Did you?” Edgar’s bald head glimmered in the sunlight that had just broken through the clouds again. “Why?”
“Never,” declared Patrick, “not with his background.”
James sloped over to the Irishman again, and plucked at his sleeve. It struck Juliet as rather appealing that the tramp among them should be playing peacemaker. “Aw, go on,” drooled James. “Give Theo a break. He only did it for a year or two…”
Did what? Juliet wondered.
Patrick retreated from James.
Edgar now seemed more determined to take the lead. “But there’s one more thing I wish to say.”
“And what’s that?” Laura asked.
“Simply this,” continued Edgar. “A few years ago, as we well know, through no fault of his own, Theo was tested, and cracked under the strain. So? Are we to condemn him for that? It could happen to any of us. That’s why we’re here – and because of Craig, too, of course.”
Juliet fought her urge to dash forward and ask him to explain. They were in full flow, the Nagra was capturing everything, and she didn’t want to interrupt.
“Although,” Edgar went on, “I happen to know Craig still has one big fear he’s never overcome – and this despite all his workshops on the subject.”
Silence cut in. “Not exactly a fear, surely?” said Laura. At that point her mobile buzzed. She answered it. Then she began to simper.
Edgar started to walk away. “It’s lover boy. I’m off. Finish painting, Patrick. We’ll discuss this again later.”
And they all separated, leaving only James, who slowly sank to the gravel, where he remained in a heap of rags, looking like something that had been tipped off the back of a recycling lorry.
Juliet debated inwardly whether to go over and interview James. She decided not to. Instead, she finished recording, and walked away. She was more interested in asking Patrick to give her Theo’s book before the Irishman burned it. She might at least find clues there about Theo’s background. And Theo himself would be back soon. She was more than ever determined to ask him directly, and hear it from his own lips, rather than from the gossip of Craig’s group members.
After all, she didn’t want her sister ending up with someone even more dubious than Craig himself. And as for Craig, she still had too many questions about him, including whether he was straight or not.
Later that afternoon, at five o’clock, she was just about to leave her room with her recording equipment when she saw James making his way stealthily along the passageway away from her. She stopped short. His face shone with cleanliness, his hair had been shampooed and brushed. He wore a silk shirt with a pair of cream linen trousers. Her heart beat fast. She still couldn’t get used to these changes of appearance. They were almost as spooky as Craig’s.
What was he up to? There were four rooms in the roof: hers, Zoe’s, the bathroom, and the room set aside for Theo. She waited just inside her ajar door, her eyes upon his back.
He reached Theo’s door, and stopped. Then he turned suddenly, and looked back in her direction. She froze. But, fortunately, he didn’t spot her.
She continued to watch as he put his ear to Theo’s door and quietly knocked. Was he back then? They both waited. No response. He then slowly turned the handle, opened the door, and entered.
She trod carefully along the floorboards, flattened herself against the wall near Theo’s room, and listened. She could hear drawers being opened and closed. What was he hoping to find? If she stayed any longer, he’d see her when he came out. So she turned and stole back towards the staircase.
Once down on the first floor, she glanced at the alcove opposite Llewellyn’s door. On a chair lay an open book. She picked it up and looked at it. Poetry, of course. The title of the poem was Writing in the Dark.
She saw he’d underlined certain phrases in black ink:
Wait till morning, and you’ll forget.
And who knows if morning will come.
Was this how Llewellyn felt about being here? What did morning mean to him? Waking up and finding himself in the outside world? She read on. Again, she found words underlined:
Fumble for the light, and you’ll be
Stark awake, but the vision
Will be fading, slipping
Out of reach.
As she finished reading, Llewellyn’s door opened. She swung round to see the Welshman standing there looking, as ever, wide-eyed and eager. “Sorry, Llewellyn,” she said. “I was glancing at your book.”
“You’re welcome. Would you like to know why that particular poem has special meaning for me?”
“Well, yes.”
He gestured to the book. “Just imagine fumbling for the light and throwing yourself into a glaring wakefulness.”
“Uh-huh,” she said cautiously.
And now his puppyish manner was evaporating, taking on a darker quality. “That’s how I see myself, as I would be if I returned to the outside world.”
“That would be good, wouldn’t it?” she said, surprised, but intrigued.
“No, it wouldn’t. But let me explain. OK, I realise we’re all sleepers here.” He let his glance rest thoughtfully upon her. “And I prefer the dream world to the real one.”
“You could never expect it to last, though,” she said.
“But I do,” he declared, “because here, I need explain nothing.”
She considered this, following through the steps of his logic. “That’s not true, Llewellyn. Because I, for one, have plenty of questions.”
He made a sudden movement. His wing of hair lifted from his forehead, and settled back again. “But not questions seeking facts which define you. I wear a mask most of the time. What do you do? is the question I hate most of all.”
“Why?” she queried. “You’re one of the lucky ones, Llewellyn. You can say I’m a poet.”
“That’s no advantage,” he retorted. “The world doesn’t respect poets.”
“Yes it does,” she protested. “We love our poets. We flock to literary festivals to hear them perform. We read the latest offering by the Poet Laureate; and we enjoy poems on the underground.”
He looked glum. “That’s all true,” he admitted, “and progre
ss is being made, but still...”
“I respect poets,” she said firmly, “Laureate status or not.”
He reached out, closed his fingers over hers, and slid the book and the microphone from her hands.
“What…?” she began, disconcerted.
“Come into my room, Juliet. We can talk better there.”
“And may I record what you say?”
“No.”
She took a quick breath. What was she in for now? Not a poetry recital, surely, for he’d certainly want that to go out over the air. Something more intimate, then, perhaps? A warning sounded somewhere in her head. Nevertheless, she followed him through the doorway.
He indicated a sheet of A4 paper stuck to the wall. Two lines had been written on it. “This is how I feel about being here,” he said. “Words may have the power to make the sun rise again. I’ve remained faithful to the poet’s calling,” he went on. “And that’s why it’s important to me to keep a record of the night.”
“But you feel you’re among friends here,” she said. “And you clearly don’t want to leave. When you speak in these terms, you make it sound like you’re unhappy.”
He didn’t directly answer, but instead paced the room for a while, then swivelled to face her. “Juliet, you know why I asked you in here, don’t you?”
She had her suspicions, but she didn’t like to voice them. Better cover up her doubts with a firm reply. “Yes,” she said, “because I’ve shown some sympathy for the life of a poet.”
At this, he pulled up a chair. “I’ll take this. Come and sit on the bed.”
Was this a good idea, in the circumstances? Probably not. But she obeyed him. He sat opposite. “So, Juliet, you’ve told me your thoughts about this community. You don’t expect it to last.”
She shook her head. “I was referring to the dream world you’re living in,” she said carefully, “not Craig’s Centre.”
Llewellyn’s eyes narrowed. “How will it end?” he asked.
“Your dream world?” Juliet said. “You want me to predict that? Impossible. And I won’t be around to see it. I’ve spent a week with you all. Yes, unbelievably, I first came here last Friday. So this is my last working day here. I have a full diary next week. I must be back in London on Monday.”
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