by Simon Parke
‘I would be careful what you say.’
‘Why should I be careful?’
‘Stupid words, they cause trouble.’
‘Which of my words are stupid?’
‘Stupid words are like escaped ferrets. They rip at the poor rabbit’s throat.’
Peter was taken aback. ‘That’s a violent image,’ he said.
Malcolm breathed in deeply.
‘Do you perhaps have a particular rabbit in mind?’ asked Peter. ‘Perhaps you had a pet rabbit?’
Malcolm paused. He was known for his slow release of information and a life of deep secrets.
‘I don’t keep pets.’
‘You have other interests?’
Was Peter now being too pushy? Press too hard and Malcolm would close like a clam.
‘My occupations are shelf filler and painter. My vocation is contemplation.’
‘A fine vocation,’ said the Abbot appreciatively. ‘Though not necessarily a lucrative one.’
Silence.
‘Did you need Clare?’
Malcolm brought his hands together in tense union. Each squashed the blood from the other in restless struggle. And for the first time, Abbot Peter noticed how strong they were and how ready for work.
‘It doesn’t matter if it was a violent image, Abbot. The only interesting question is this: was it a true image?’
True image? Or, as the Latin had it, vera icon: the cloth of legend used by St Veronica to wipe the brow of Christ on his way to crucifixion, left stained with the outline of his face. It was a holy relic in the Vatican to this day.
‘Beware the true image which plays false, Abbot. That is what I say to you.’
‘You’re saying there is one here who is not what they appear?’
‘I do the accounts, remember.’
Peter had entered this sanctuary in search of peace. But with a corpse before him and disturbance behind, he now felt only dissonance. The protruding hand of Clare was pale and lifeless, the forefinger pointing in death to something beyond. But to what? If you traced the eye line, it took you straight to the vestry door. Yet likely as not, this was random directing. Unless Peter was mistaken, here was a body dumped, dragged perhaps, wedged in and left. Perhaps an act in haste?
‘What have the accounts got to do with it?’ asked Abbot Peter.
There was no answer but rain against the glass. Malcolm Flight, ‘the ghost’, had left as silently as he’d arrived. Peter turned to the altar once again. The Christ now looked directly at the body that lay sprawled beneath him.
So what, or who, had brought Clare to this holy place? It was time for this sanctuary of grace to be invaded by the law.
Forty Five
The Sarkar was gazing across the valley with a smile.
‘I’m ready,’ said Gurdjieff, still king on his stone throne and eager for more.
‘The Five is sometimes likened to the fox, they wish to see but not to be seen. Detachment is both their glory and their grave. They see things deeply but not always truly, blinded by the emotional isolation they believe will save them. When unhealthy, of course, they hoard unshared things, become separate people, withdrawing, secretive, uninvolved, compartmentalizing life. They are restrained with time given to others. Distant and thinking, they withdraw themselves from people, feelings and possessions. They regard all people as a threat to their survival. Fives are content with little material wealth but how they fear inner emptiness. They hoard knowledge, of whatever sort, like a squirrel hoards nuts. Strangers in the world, knowledge gives them power and the foolish Five imagines it will save them. Healing for Fives comes when they leave their self-denying isolation, engage with their long-lost feelings and take their place in the world. From nightmare to glory! Here they reveal deep knowing, spontaneity, vulnerability, transparency, a great sense of investigation; and here they become a window on the universe. Now they see like owls but act like lions, embodied wisdom as their true majestic self. Wonderful.
‘‘You describe yourself!’ said Gurdjieff.
‘Look to your own heart.’
‘But it is you.’
‘I describe the Five,’ said the Sarkar, smiling.
‘And the Six?’
Gurdjieff was enjoying this. It made so much sense of other readings he’d undertaken and observations he’d made. Much was still a mystery but he was excited by the truths he was hearing.
‘The Six seeks security but where will they find it?’ said the Sarkar. ‘That is their life quest. Untrusting of themselves, they seek another to trust or a cause to believe in. When unhealthy, of course, they are cowardly, insecure, indecisive, paranoid, argumentative, accusatory, doubting little bigots. They are fearful people, scanning the surroundings for possible attack; wishing always to know where they stand. They think much but they don’t think well; they think a hundred possible outcomes, imagine problems long before they happen and most never do. They can be rule-bound, wary of breaking laws for fear of stepping out of line. And we note their ambivalence towards authority figures, sometimes reacting with craven submission, another time, with angry opposition. Greatness for the Six arrives when they learn to trust their substantial selves, discover their own true selves to be the authority they’ve been seeking. From nightmare to glory! From here on, they instruct the world not in fear but in courage. They are serene, strong, hospitable, protecting, questioning, loyal, bright, trustworthy, clear in their perceiving, their majestic self revealed. Wonderful’
‘Soloviev!’
‘My answer to you is as before. We must first know ourselves before pronouncing on others.’
‘I like Sixes,’ said Gurdjieff. ‘But fear makes them stupid. Soloviev should have come with me here.’
‘Fear overcame loyalty and he had no inner strength to hold onto. It must have been a terrible struggle inside.’ Gurdjieff thought back to their last moments by the chasm but quickly put away such thoughts.
‘We have three more numbers, Sir, and after Six comes Seven.’
‘The Seven may charm you, win you over.’
‘Really?’
‘Sevens are sometimes called butterflies, bright but always moving, never staying, restless, colourful and dancing away from pain. So we might call them The Butterfly, though some prefer The Monkey because of their monkey minds. When unhealthy, they are eager for distraction, shallow, insensitive, rationalising, attention-seeking, fearful, angered by restraint, shame-avoiding, emotionally cold and quite unable to take responsibility for their actions. They touch lightly on life, picking what suits, like a thief at a banquet. They avoid sadness, and worship at the shrine of their mistaken imagining. They are those on the run from the moment, from the now, the great idealists, imagining better and best round the corner. They are future people because they cannot trust this present moment, cannot trust life’s beautiful unfolding.’
‘They sound like frightened people.’
‘Of course. Fear fuels their flight from present to future, fear and shame of their abandoned and unacceptable selves. You look shaken, my friend.’
‘No. Why should I be shaken?’
‘But of course in their substantial selves, their home selves, they are the true contemplatives. From nightmare to glory! They leave their planning and their frightened future behind and allow the delightful unfolding of the present where they are truly acceptable to themselves. Having passed through the garden of sadness, they are spontaneous, calm, content, playful, testing, positive, connecting, creating, encouraging, cool decision-makers, reflective joy-bringers. Here is true contemplation and their true self. Wonderful.’
Gurdjieff breathed deeply.
‘Contemplatives?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Who would have guessed? Eights?’
The Sarkar drank some water from
his bottle and rubbed his eyes. The sun was high in the sky of the Hindu Kush. He got up from the rock where he sat and walked a little, stretching arms and legs. He climbed up now onto a higher rock, which looked down on the Seeing Stone where Gurdjieff remained.
‘The Eight is one who likes to confront,’ he continued. ‘To confront is what they do, how they work. They wish to boss, lusty for power and all else besides. When unhealthy, of course, they are over-bearing, impulsive, insensitive, brooding, raging, stubborn and running from selfblame. The Eight is a leader, openly displaying force and at home with anger. They have been compared to the African rhinoceros and their life to a Spanish bullfight, always wanting blood. They seek power for themselves but dress it up as justice. They are people who are against others, who like to oppose, people who must carve out their own kingdom or die in the attempt.’
‘Why so?’
‘They have never been allowed to be weak so they fear weakness in themselves; and fearing it in themselves, they batter and bruise it in others. But beyond this diminished creation, born of shame and fear of weakness, is their substantial self, strong not for their own gain but for the weak and needy. From nightmare to glory! Here they are vibrant, direct, truthful and unifying. The world is no longer a battleground but a unity. They reveal innocence of intention and become great challengers of deceit. They will be like a strong tree in whose branches many can rest and find protection. Their true majestic self! Wonderful.’
‘And so to our final number?’
‘And our final number is the Nine, there at the top of the circle, the number which holds all others in a manner. Indeed, sometimes the Nine is more aware of other’s needs than their own.
‘So how will I recognize them?’
‘They will avoid conflict; this is one feature of their lives.’
‘They’re hardly alone in that.’
‘It is particularly so with them and there are reasons. They do not like the rage they have buried so deep and conflict stirs this. So the Nine is the mediator, one who seeks peace and harmony around them. When unhealthy, of course, they become neglectful, complacent, lost in others’ needs, slothful, stubborn, comfort-seeking and dwellers in the land of false peace. Sometimes the Nine is called The Sloth or The Elephant. They can appear peaceful and self-deprecating souls but are stubborn, set within and move for no one. As I say, anger is their buried feeling, one not allowed when young, erupting only occasionally in a flood of hot lava. They give themselves little worth and therefore the world little worth; a deep river of cynicism flows through them. Unresolved anger leaves them at the doorway of despair and depressive states; and their insecure self can be spiteful. But when secure, when they wake the self they put to sleep and connect with action over avoidance, these people can hold and love the world like no others, great and magnanimous leaders! Here they are outward-facing, generous, unifying, reassuring, patient, guileless, receptive, mediating, strong bringers of harmony. From nightmare to glory, the majestic self awakes! Wonderful.’
‘And that is the human race?’
‘We have barely started, you understand.’
‘Of course. But that is the human race?’
‘Scarcely ruffled the hair of this creature we call the Enneagram’
‘Quite so.’
‘Certainly my brief descriptions are entirely inadequate.’
‘I understand, but -.’
‘I have lived with it for forty years and still regard myself as a novice, a beginner in so many ways. You have known it for five minutes, so stay humble, stay cautious, stay open, stay listening and uncertain. Uncertainty is fertile.’
‘And I’ve noted that. But still, with all those hesitations, conditions and provisos, the nine states you have just described, that is the human race?’
‘That is the human race.’
‘Will you teach me more?’
‘Oh yes. There is much still to learn.’
‘It seems to me you have described nine types of idiot,’ said Gurdjieff with a smile. ‘We must each discover our own brand of idiocy.’
‘An original thought. I have never heard it put that way, but yes, true. Nine brands of idiocy! You will learn more in community, of course.’
‘And then?’
‘Have you ever thought of going to Europe?’
Forty Six
Council worker Christopher Thornton was unhappy with himself and couldn’t sleep. What he had done, it really wasn’t right and his guilt, not up for discussion. But then what had he ever done which had been right? And when had guilt not been his companion? He’d done things which had the appearance of virtue but, in truth, were just convenient for him. He’d taken the easy path, the line of least resistance. This was how it felt as he fingered himself in bed. He liked to finger himself but tonight found neither pleasure nor response.
In some ways, it was stupid to allow such thoughts. All he had done was add a name to a list, for God’s sake! He wasn’t Stalin. He wasn’t Pol Pot. And the client - well, the queue jumper - was a deserving cause, no question about that. And they always said the money was not a bribe but a gift, just a way of saying thank you for their efficiency and kindness. But you can’t make a winner without making a loser and the loser was out there now, hurt. Well, of course they were hurt and they were hurt because of him.
And today they’d rung him up. He thought the matter finished with, weeks had passed without a sound. But now they’d stirred the pot all over again. They’d rung him up and made their case, pleaded desperately, heart-rendingly in a way. But Christopher didn’t care and had simply zoned out and lied to be rid of them. Least line of resistance; the fact was, the usurper was more pressing and he didn’t want a battle. He’d played the concerned and caring listener and claimed forces beyond his control to be responsible. Yes, of course he knew how important it was and yes, he would do all he could to rectify the matter.
He wouldn’t of course. That was just another lie in a long list of lies - his life seemed one extended game of ‘Let’s pretend’ - and this wasn’t why he’d joined the council. And he hadn’t joined the council to take bribes.
He got up to open the window. The cold air rushed in as white breakers hit the shore. Tonight, they were waters of judgement. Council worker Christopher Thornton knew what must be done.
***
And not far away, in the stillness of the night, a further entry was made in the murder diary. They weren’t lonely. How could they be lonely? But this notebook was certainly a friend, a trusted keeper of secrets. No, not secrets - that implied some sort of shame and how could there be shame? Such were the murderer’s thoughts as they wrote in their careful, almost childish, hand.
‘I am glad they’ve discovered Clare’s body. Apparently I left a hand hanging out in the prayer chapel, though I don’t believe I did. Did I leave her alive? Did she struggle for a while, try to get out from behind the altar? I don’t think I would have wished that on her; I’m not completely heartless.
In fact I’m not heartless at all. I just have a different heart.
I was surprised they didn’t find her earlier, of course. I wanted to get her away from there but how could I? The place crawling with police yet no one found her. Shows how few people pray, I suppose. Everyone loves the idea of a prayer chapel. No one actually uses it... once again I am the truth-teller.
Clare was not in my plan but the great strategists adapt in the field of conflict. The battle plan and the battle are two different things. That’s what my father used to say. How am I doing, General?’
Forty Seven
‘Chloroform again and then a knife in the stomach,’ said Tamsin, as they sat in Peter’s front room. ‘There was a struggle but the chloroform overpowered her. Clare was unconscious when wounded.’
‘When wounded?’
‘She didn’t die immediately.’<
br />
‘I see.’
‘She may have survived in some state or other for another twenty-four to thirty-six hours.’
‘So she may have been alive yesterday?’
‘Almost certainly.’
‘While the police walked to and fro, she was dying behind the side altar.’
‘Yes.’
‘We are most blind when we are most busy.’
‘So it seems.’
‘There she was, trying to get out -.’
‘You’ve made your point!’
Tamsin’s rage at the incompetence could be kept in no longer.
‘Don’t take this personally,’ said Peter.
‘I’m not,’ said Tamsin airily, ‘It’s other people, not me.’
She put down the pathologist’s report sent to [email protected].
‘Your printer takes an age,’ she said. ‘Ever thought of getting a new one?’
‘I’m never in that much of a hurry.’
‘And it groans.’
‘It’s always groaned, from its very first job. It’s one of life’s groaners. Everything is a problem, but everything usually gets done. It reminds me of my postman in the desert. We were fifty miles of rock and sand from his previous stop and my God, he groaned. But always delivered.’
‘She may have been by the main altar when attacked.’
‘Oh?’
‘We found a prayer candle on the floor there this morning. It seems likely she lit it. At least no one has else said they lit it.’
‘And yet that night, I was up by the altar. I went into the church to extinguish the main candle before leaving. There was no prayer candle burning then.’
‘Well, there was one there later.’
‘So why?’
‘Perhaps she’d murdered the vicar and felt a bit bad about it,’ said Tamsin.
‘Do you light a candle when you feel bad?’
‘I don’t know, I’ve never felt bad. Or lit a candle.’