Perhaps this would succeed in burning away all the negative emotions of the last few days, she reasoned to herself: self-doubt, jealousy, distrust, mutterings of mutiny, frustrated sexual longings...
But something important was lacking; the wholehearted dedication and fervour she’d sensed the first time she’d attended Dynamic Meditation. Some, she suspected, were merely going through the motions of obeying Craig. Theo did not participate. He stood beside the long oak table set against the west wall of the barn, watching thoughtfully. She wondered what was in his mind. Don, she noted, was also sitting this one out. She glimpsed him in the shadows at the far end of the barn.
Meanwhile, she speculated about how much longer the beautifully crafted staircases would withstand the pounding of the group members’ feet, as they thundered up one spiral, streamed across the gallery, and down the other at the far end.
Then Llewellyn spoke out. “I’m here to announce the end of this madness,” he declared, raising his hands in the air like a priest bestowing a blessing. “The Wheel of Love needs to change direction. With me in the driving seat, we’ll take a different route. Tomorrow night, you’ll see the old order destroyed.”
At this, the frantic activity of the group came to a halt. Everyone seemed set in a freeze-frame, staring at Llewellyn. Then they all seemed to break out into speech simultaneously. “What did he say?” “What does he mean?” “What’s he on about?”
Juliet looked at Craig for his reaction. So, too, did the group members, each arrested in a different pose.
“Llewellyn,” said Craig in an authoritative tone of voice. “Come down here.”
The poet remained where he was. Shocked whisperings broke out at this defiance. Beth bit her nails; Al stood hands on hips, sweat dripping down his face, his jaw hanging low. Sam started to shake. Theo’s face was in shadows, and Juliet couldn’t gauge his response. She felt a rising sense of panic. How was Craig going to deal with this? Surely he could not possibly lose a battle of wills? This behaviour seemed so uncharacteristic of Llewellyn, too. She could barely believe this was happening.
“Enough, Llewellyn,” said Craig again, in a level tone of voice, but with icy control. “Come down here. Do as I say. You have some explaining to do.”
All waited. Not a sound could be heard in the lofty space of the barn. After what seemed like several agonising seconds, Llewellyn moved, and went slowly down the eastern spiral to join Craig. The two men walked out of the main doorway together. What happened between them after that, Juliet had no idea. Everyone else stood around, robbed of energy, conversing in low, scared tones, until after about ten minutes, with no reappearance by Craig or Llewellyn, they began to drift away in twos and threes.
Juliet didn’t even have the chance to speak to Zoe or Theo, as they left together before she could ask for their reactions. She too walked out of the doorway with her recording equipment. Everyone seemed to have disappeared. There was nothing for it but to go back to her room.
And so the evening ended.
Early the next morning, she leaned her elbows on the balustrade and looked down into the tranquil meeting room, marvelling at the beauty of her surroundings. The artistry of the timber construction and the graceful proportions of the space delighted her, as did the house and outbuildings, not to mention the gardens, orchard and valley in which these were all set. And yet this perfection and charm was marred by the growing anarchy within its boundaries.
She sank her chin in her hands. Today was Sunday, and it was to be her last day at the community; she was due to pack her bags and leave after lunch. But how could she go? Llewellyn had promised something disruptive this evening. Last night he’d declared that they’d all see the old order destroyed. He’d challenged Craig’s authority. The Wheel of Love was in a dire state. Surely she needed to see what happened tonight, and record it. And yet…
Heavy-hearted, she moved along the gallery, down the eastern spiral, and out through the great central doorway of the tithe barn. She found the atmosphere even milder and warmer, if possible, than when she’d entered the building forty minutes ago. She glanced up to a fair, bright sky. Then she looked across the car park. Was that where Theo’s colleague had envisaged a sculpture courtyard? It would be quite good….
As ever, she carried her recording equipment, slung over her shoulder in a carrying case. Just then she heard sounds of movement behind her. Turning, she saw Edgar approaching from the south east corner of the barn. Immediately she switched on her microphone and went to meet him.
His face was flushed and his eyes strangely bright.
“Hi, Edgar,” she said. “What’s up?”
He stopped short at sight of her. She held the mike out.
“Have you voted, Juliet?” he asked.
“Voted? What for?”
For a second, he remained still. Then he raised his hand, tapped his finger against his head, and hurried past her in the direction of the farmhouse, soon disappearing from view.
She frowned. What was that all about? She turned and saw a flash of movement ahead. She felt the familiar thump of her heart. Craig was jogging along the path towards her. She must get his news. Had he managed to reassert authority over Llewellyn, or not?
He slowed down, waving in acknowledgement. This morning he wore an indigo tracksuit with another pair of designer trainers. She gazed at him. His breathing was not yet fully under control, and his hair ruffled with the exercise he’d had so far that morning. She felt furious with herself for failing to master her physical reaction each time she saw him; the racing pulse, the stirring in her stomach...
He must have had women falling into his arms for years. But did he prefer men? Or was the truth even more complex than that? She still had much to quiz him about. Now was her chance. The mike was still on, and she held it up. “Good morning, Craig.”
“Good morning, Juliet,” he said. “Lovely day.”
“Certainly is,” she replied. “Did you find out what Llewellyn meant last night?”
He searched her face, then replied with another question. “Have they pulled you in on this vote?”
She felt bewildered. “Edgar mentioned something about a vote but it’s a mystery to me.”
He looked at her strangely, then completely changed the subject. “Pleased with the interviews you’ve collected, Juliet?”
“Come on Craig, why are you being so distant with me?” she burst out. “You know there are things I want to know about you, questions you haven’t answered.”
He gazed at her. Moments passed. Was he going to change appearance, to evade the need to supply an answer?
“Ask, Juliet,” he said. “Feel free.”
“I asked you about your experience of guilt. About whether you’ve ever struggled to forgive. And you refused to respond.”
“Yes. That is an area I do refuse to talk about. Sorry Juliet.”
“And I’m sorry, too.”
“Planning to leave us later on, aren’t you?” he said.
She felt a rising sense of despair. How could he be so cold?
“Yes,” she said quietly.“I hope...” Craig began, then stopped.She decided to come back for a second attempt. “Craig, I must ask you something else.”
His expression was guarded. “Of course,” he said in a cool tone of voice.
But the question she asked wasn’t the one she’d intended to pose. “Do you love your father?” she asked.
Several moments passed. He focused on her all this while, his eyes darkening. “I won’t answer that question,” he said. Then he reached out and switched the mike off.
She nearly cursed under her breath. “Craig, you still feel bad about the past, don’t you? And let it affect your relationships, despite what you tell your followers.”
“Tell me something, Juliet,” he said. “Do you believe I’m qualified to be a spiritual teacher?”
This question disconcerted her. She felt like saying, “No.” But instead… “Qualified? How can I judge? And
surely it doesn’t matter what I think.”
“You’re quite wrong there. It does,” he said, “very much.”
She looked at him, anxious excitement prickling beneath her skin.
“But,” Craig continued, “I fear you’ve shared more of that with my father than you have with me.”
“And you’re surprised?” she cried. “When every time I try to move beyond a certain level with you, you shut down the barriers?”
“And why do you think I do that?” he shot back.
She was taken aback by the edge of bitterness in his voice. “Come on, Craig,” she burst out.
His eyes burned into her. “You speak of my father. He wants me to sell up. You know that, of course. In more ways than one.”
“Surely…” she began again.
He regarded her, his expression blending invitation and challenge. “First, the property. Who do you think he wants me to sell it to?”
She gave way to the temptation to be flippant. “The devil, perhaps? Or a business management consortium?”
“No. His company. McAllister Bloody Developments. Hell will freeze over first.”
“Really, Craig.” She lost her patience. “What’s so bad about his company owning it? Get real. Surely that’s better than losing it entirely.”
His eyes narrowed. She hoped he wasn’t going to perform his appearance-changing trick again. “Juliet, I’ve spoken to you before about…”
“…about not getting involved with things that are no concern of mine? Too late. You’ve involved me. That’s the way it is.”
He held her in his sights for several seconds. During this time, she found it impossible to gauge his emotions. For one moment, she was convinced he meant to grasp hold of her, crush her to him, and kiss her. But instead, with one swift movement, he was past her. She swung round. Before she could form another word, he strode out of sight.
A little later back in her room, she began reluctantly to pack her bag in preparation for her return to London. And what of Zoe? Would she agree to come with her? Seemed very unlikely. Oh God. This was a mess.
Then her mobile buzzed. Toby. She hadn’t been in touch for days. He’d want a progress report, of course. What would she say to him? She was so keen to sell her documentary to him. It would be her big break. But she needed more time. What for, she hardly dared admit to herself.
The mobile kept buzzing, insistent as a trapped wasp. She pressed receive. “Hello.”
“Juliet, how’s it going?”
“Fine, Toby. Couldn’t be better.”
“Delighted to hear it. I was beginning to wonder whether your abandoned mobile was ringing out into the charred remains of a torched farmhouse.”
“No such drama.”
“Will I see you in my office next week? With a mass of great material?”
“Toby, I need to talk to you about that…”
“Not enough interviews? You need more time?”
“Toby, you’re a mind-reader. There are still questions I need to ask. I know you wanted to see it next week to decide whether it’ll be right for that slot. But … can we make it the following week instead?”
Two or three moments passed. Then Toby said, “You know, something struck me just before I called you. And it wasn’t that lump of plaster that fell from the ceiling as I walked into the office.”
“Glad to hear it.” She breathed more easily. It sounded like he might be lenient about her request.
He broke into her thoughts. “You know what you’re up for?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s your main sticking point?” She took a deep breath. “Your sister?” he asked before she could reply. She felt she’d been handed a perfect opportunity to throw him off the scent. She was about to speak when again he got there first. “In trouble, is she?”
“Kind of. She’s in love with Theo. Remember him? Clergyman, ex-broadcaster? I mentioned him to you.”
“Ah. Theo Lucas. I was astonished to hear that he had resurfaced. I wish he’d got back in touch with us. I have vivid memories of him.”
“You do?” She wasn’t sure he’d prove a better topic of conversation than her own emotional involvements here. But it was probably best to play along.
“Yes,” said Toby. “He freelanced with us, flew off to Jerusalem, trespassed in the Garden of Gethsemane and nearly got gunned down. That wasn’t the original plan.”
She became more animated at Toby’s mention of this incident. “He told me about that. He scaled the fence, and recorded his thoughts.”
“That’s right.”
“And what were those recordings like?”
“Compelling. Among the best video diaries we’ve ever received from anybody. He worked with us for a couple of years, and then he just vanished.” Toby paused. “So he’s back in circulation. And Zoe has fallen for him, has she?”
“Yes,” said Juliet. “But I’m hoping he’ll be scared off before they reach the point of no return.” The idea of her sister as a vicar’s wife was the stuff of nightmare.
“Why, what have you got against him?”
“Theo? Nothing. Nothing at all…” Her voice trailed away. In fact, the very thought of Theo and Zoe together twisted her up inside. “That’s not the issue. They can do what they like.”
“Quite right, Juliet. Leave it to them to decide. Back to your own situation, then.”
“My situation?”
“Yes,” said Toby. “It’s plain you’ve got a special reason for wanting to stay on.”
“Just need to sort unfinished business, that’s all.” She wouldn’t allow herself to say more. Fortunately she didn’t need to for he changed the subject.
“This material had better be brilliant.”
Relief flooded her. “It will be,” she laughed.
“What you do next week is up to you, of course, Juliet. But take care. That’s my advice.”
“Yes, Toby. Understood. Over and out.” The call ended.
She took several deep breaths. She’d managed it. She still had a few more phone calls to make, to postpone other appointments. But she’d made her mind up. She was staying another week. Better go and tell Zoe, and Don. And Craig.
Llewellyn looked up as Juliet passed through the sitting room, Nagra slung over her shoulder, microphone in hand, in search of her sister. He was alone, apart from Groucho the parrot, and relaxing in an armchair with a cup of tea, studying a flyer. His eyes glowed at sight of her. He seemed to have forgotten about that incident at his bedroom door.
She turned her mike on and held it up.
“Did you get a voting slip, Juliet?” Llewellyn asked.
“Voting slip?” she said. “What voting slip?” She stared at him, challenging him with her eyes.
“Ah. Sorry, must have missed you out. Before I go on, one question. This is your last day with us. Am I right?”
“In fact no,” she said.
He jumped up, nearly knocking the mike to the floor, and gave her a big hug. She fell back, startled, and checked the mike was still OK and set to record.
“Great,” declared Llewellyn. “How long will you stay?”
“Probably another week. I’ll cancel my appointments.”
“Excellent.”
“So what’s this about a voting slip?” she asked.
“I put one under every door last night,” the Welshman said. “Collected them up this morning.”
“Oh, Llewellyn, I cannot believe this...”
“You’d better.”
She sighed. “Shame you missed me out.”
“No problem. I have a spare. I’ll go to my room to get it.”
“Don’t bother,” she said. “I can guess the choice. My answer’s Craig. But what’s the point of all this, Llewellyn? What do you hope to achieve?”
For reply, he showed her the flyer. Garishly coloured and presented in a variety of fonts, it announced:
Poetry as Therapy.
Speaker: Llewellyn Hughes.
; (Right of admission reserved)
The date on the flyer, she noticed, was the following Saturday. The place, a central venue in Cirencester. As she took all this in, her attention was disrupted by the sound of Groucho shredding a new apple-tree branch in his cage.
“But you can’t just take over, Llewellyn.”
“Yes I can,” he insisted, “if it saves the community.”
“Is it up to you to save it?”Juliet asked.
He didn’t reply. She noticed he’d unhooked one of Craig’s stringed instruments from the wall, and had placed it beside him on the cushion. He now started toying with it.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“A balalaika. Craig brought this back with him from Russia.” He stroked the strings. “Groucho likes to listen. He’ll be out in a minute, once he’s finished stripping that branch. Want a go?”
“No thanks,” she said, then began again. “Llewellyn, you do respect Craig don’t you?”
Groucho began loudly cracking nuts. Llewellyn looked cryptic, and Groucho noisily shook his plumage. The Welshman laid the balalaika down on the sofa beside him. “Come and sit beside me, Juliet.”
She did as he asked, mike still in hand, and on record. He studied her for a few moments. Was his mind wandering again, straying into areas best left untouched? Was he about to ask her to turn the mike off? “We were speaking of Craig,” she reminded him.
“Yes,” said the poet. “Craig’s trouble is his father. Not long ago, I suggested Don try and look for what binds him and Craig together, rather than what tears them apart.”
“Very wise,” she said.
“And the same goes for you and your sister,” he remarked.
“Me and Zoe?” She sat up abruptly. “Nothing tears us apart – other than Zoe’s tendency to fall for the wrong man.”
Groucho took off from his branch, and landed on the layer of sharp sand at the bottom of his cage. He began to strut around.
Then Llewellyn said, “Who makes the decision about the right and the wrong man? You, Juliet? Here’s my advice: don’t. Zoe and Theo are so keen on each other. I know of course that Theo still has much to sort out in his own life.”
Mystical Circles Page 23