The Essence Of Life

by Tom Morris

taken for itself the title of "The Gnostic Reincarnation" had achieved registration as a charity with all the advantages that such a status conferred and seemingly took every opportunity to defend itself robustly against its critics, harassing perceived enemies with psychological abuse, character assassination and where necessary costly litigation. Needlessly to say I was completely bemused by this discovery and could only conclude that Arthur had decided to embrace the life of a charlatan, with, it would seem, some considerable success. I assumed that in some way he was incorporating the EEG apparatus that Roger Williams had adapted for him and who presumably was now abetting him in his new occupation. It just so happened that I was due to present a paper at a symposium in London at the end of the month, and my curiosity whetted, I determined to try to find Arthur and seek an explanation of his extraordinary activities.

  An initial search on the internet failed to produce any useful information and even the ubiquitous 'Wikipedia' was strangely silent as regards any real information with seemingly some major deletions from an original entry. This being the case I made a telephone call to the newspaper which had published the disclosure and asked to speak to the journalist, one Alex Wainwright by name, who had written the story. I was somewhat taken aback to find the response less than helpful. The reporter, I was told, no longer worked for the paper and they refused to provide me with any details by which I might contact either him or the mysterious Gnostic Reincarnation. It seemed that my quest to find Arthur was to be doomed to failure before it had even started.

  A few days later as I sat on the afternoon intercity train from Leeds station to Kings Cross I reflected on the strange experiments that Arthur had been conducting and the outrageous theory he had derived regarding the existence of a life essence and the fate of all living things after death. Again I puzzled over the nature of the strange entities which he had christened as the Psychids which he claimed to inhabit those hidden realms of the Collective Unconsciousness'. Were these, I wondered, somehow involved in his sudden disappearance and his new activities? I arrived in London in the early evening and made my way to the Spillsbury Hotel where I was staying. While I was unpacking a sudden idea came to me. The hotel was in the area of Covent Garden, not too far from Fleet Street and I was fairly certain that there were a number of public houses in that neighbourhood which were likely to be frequented by journalists. Perhaps if I were to visit these some fellow writer might be able to provide me with some help in finding Wainwright. Accordingly, after I had settled in and had enjoyed a more than adequate meal at a nearby Greek restaurant, courtesy of the somewhat generous expenses allowed by the organisers of the Symposium, I made my way eastward past the Royal Courts of Justice and the Old Bailey until entering Fleet Street I could see the majestic dome of St Paul's Cathedral at the far end of Ludgate Hill. Although many of the daily newspapers have moved from the area to more prestigious offices at Wapping and Canary Wharf there is still a number of journalistic enterprises in the area and the proliferation of public houses, long the haunt of those engaged in such enterprises gave me some hope of success and so, rather naively perhaps, I embarked on something of a pub crawl.

  My first somewhat clumsy amateur attempts at playing the detective were dismal failures. My enquiries were rebuffed, in some cases quite rudely, and any knowledge of the man I was seeking was denied in a manner which quite obviously indicated that such questions were unwelcome. After about the fifth or sixth attempt, somewhat dispirited and a little inebriated, I had just about given up on my quest and was trying to find my way back to the hotel when I came across a somewhat down-at-heel pub which I found more or less by accident up a back street. I was tempted to abandoned my quest and walk past the dingy exterior but decided to try my luck one last time. The entrance was down a short flight of steps which led down into a dimly lit saloon bar redolent of stale beer and musty furniture. The few occupants gave me a cursory and indifferent inspection and then ignored me. I made my way to the counter and once more asked after my quarry. The publican gave me a rather quizzical stare, then shrugged, nodded towards a shadowy figure sitting in the far corner, hunched over a nearly empty glass, and resumed his study of the racing times. More in hope than expectation I made my way across to his table. It was obvious that the man was much the worse for drink and from his disheveled appearance had not been enjoying a particularly happy standard of living for some time.

  “I believe you are Alex Wainwright," I said. "I need to talk to you about an article you wrote describing an organisation calling itself the Gnostic Revelation.”

  He looked up at me with dull, bloodshot, bleary eyes and shook his head. “There’s nothing I want to say about them,” he muttered. “Enough is enough.”

  I persisted. “I’m trying to contact an old friend of mine, Arthur Harrison. I believe he is connected in some way with them.”

  He gave a bitter laugh. “He’s connected alright, he’s the one that started it and runs it and God help anyone who crosses him, I should know.”

  I persisted. “You implied that there were rather unpleasant practices involved. I knew Harrison well. I know a little of the techniques he was developing and which I suspect he is employing. I need to meet him to find out what he is involved in.”

  “I’ve nothing to say,” he muttered. “I don’t want any more involvement with them.”

  He hunched his shoulders and gripping his glass peered into its depths, his face showing every aspect of misery and dismay.

  I made my way back to the bar and ordered a double whiskey and a beer chaser and taking them back to the table placed them in front of him. I felt a surge of guilt in attempting to bribe him with more alcohol and in taking advantage of his obvious state of despair but by now I was determined to get at the truth by fair means or foul.

  “All I need,” I said, "is their address, that’s all. You have my word that I will keep anything you tell me a secret.”

  He seized the shot glass and downed its contents in one gulp. “On your own head be it,” he said. “That article cost me my job and my livelihood. They have fingers everywhere and won’t stand for anyone nosing about in their business. You can find them in Great Camben Street, number 33 where they call themselves the Institute For Metaphysical Research.” Suddenly he reached across the table and clutched my hand. I don’t know what your game is,” he whispered, "but if you find out anything useful come back and tell me. I’m here most nights. If you get hold of anything I can use you must let me know. Somehow they’ve got to be stopped. What they are doing is just plain wrong. They're brainwashing people, people with influence, worming their way into positions of power. I still have a few contacts left who will publish something, if I have some real proof.” He looked nervously round. “Just don’t let on that you have been talking to me, I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

  At the time it seemed to me that this was all rubbish, concocted from drink and a desire to get some revenge for his dismissal. It was, as I was soon to learn, frighteningly all too true. I gave him some vague half-promise to return and left him to his drink, all too conscious of the landlord's eyes following me as I went out into the street.

  The following morning I arrived at the conference hall, my thoughts more on searching out Arthur and his strange Society than on the paper I was about to deliver. As it turned out it was reasonably well received. Its subject ‘A Bilateral Approach To Societal Divergences’ was not particularly contentious and there were few questions asked in the subsequent open session. It was with some relief that I took the opportunity to slip away after lunch and make my way to the address provided me the previous night. It proved quite easy to locate. A nondescript building, surrounded by similar looking offices housing stockbrokers, lawyers and business headquarters. The name plate outside identified the Institute as being located on the second floor and accordingly I made my way up a somewhat ornate marble staircase and opened the door into what I took to be the reception room. Its
only occupant was a severe looking woman of perhaps middle age, somberly dressed in black, with greying hair tied back tightly in a bun. She acknowledged me without evincing any great degree of welcome and asked my business. I explained that I had heard of the Institute and was keen to learn more of what it had to offer.

  She sniffed depreciatingly. "I am afraid Professor Harrison doesn't see anyone without an appointment. He's a very busy man."

  I suppressed a wry chuckle at Arthur's self-promotion from Senior Lecturer and smiled ingratiatingly. “I’m sure if you would let him know I am here he would be able to spare me a few minutes,” I insisted. “If you could just mention that it is James Curzon and that I will be leaving tomorrow.”

  At the mention of my name a brief flicker animated her features. With a curt “Please wait here,” she rose and knocked softly on the door behind her and disappeared inside. Within a few moments the door reopened and Arthur emerged. Given the nature of our meeting I was not at all sure what sort of a reception I would be given. It was therefore no great surprise that his greeting was not particularly