The Disciple: a gripping psychological mystery (The Sister Veronica Mysteries Book 2) Page 3

  ‘Just one more thing, Sister,’ Joel called, as she made to walk off. ‘I didn’t talk to Mona much, didn’t get much of a chance. But one thing I do remember her saying was that it was so much nicer in Soho than in Somerset. Maybe that’s where she grew up? I remember being a bit shocked, as Soho is adorable but I’ve always thought Somerset is gorgeous.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’ Sister Veronica banked the information away, her head spinning. ‘I won’t take up any more of your time. Have a lovely day, both of you.’

  Right, she said to herself as she wheeled the pram away, gurgling noises from under the hood heralding the end of Hope’s nap. Sister Catherine is going to have to tell me everything she knows about Mona, and I’m not accepting any more of her ridiculous evasiveness. Somerset seems a good place to start the conversation.

  4

  Art Pendragon drummed his fingers against the pub table, wondering why his son thought it was okay to be late to their meeting. Obedience was the first thing he’d taught his children, and Gareth was usually good at it. Not like the other one, who had chosen the path to hell. He frowned as he thought about Lance, the black sheep of the family. After their mother, Shirley, had left the group – he’d obviously forbidden her from taking his sons with her, telling her to never contact them again – he’d trained the boys so well, told them exactly who they should be, how they should behave, and what they should think. It was a very necessary part of being a leader, and Art knew he was the best one around. The only one, in fact, the Almighty’s voice on earth, the messiah, King Arthur. He had triumphantly returned from the Otherworld to save his people in Britain; a fact that had been revealed to him by God in visions and dreams since he was sixteen. Returned to Avalon, the old Glastonbury, where he’d been looked after before he’d died all those centuries ago. Before then he’d believed what his parents had told him; that he was plain old Colin Sacks from Croydon.

  Since his first coming, Britain had been invaded in ways Joe Public was blind to; politicians and their spin-doctoring had taken over people’s thought processes. The media had brainwashed everyone into banal stupidity. Different religions – other than the true one: Christianity – that purported to have all the answers, were fuelled by greed, power and authority. The isle had been invaded by people of every culture who were ruining traditional British ways. And that was just for starters. He didn’t need to pull a sword out of any stone to know he was the true messiah; anyone with an ounce of sense knew that the sword story was a metaphor for justice for Christianity. Whoever had said the pen was mightier than the sword had been right. And he was proving a leader in this; he – King Arthur – was now mature, and had a clear vision for the future of Britain.

  Arthur – Art’s – sons were blessed to have been born at the New Avalon Commune; his followers – the New Knights – understood his offspring were spiritual gifts, sent to help spread his word, and he’d made sure the boys digested this as they grew up. Lancelot, the elder of the two, was supposed to take over the role of leader from him when the time came. He’d been primed for it for years. But no, that evil bitch Mona had to go and put doubts in his mind, telling him all sorts of lies and making him deluded and fearful. She’d set him on the path that led straight to hell. Oh, how history really does repeat itself. When he’d first been King Arthur, all those years ago, his son – Lancelot – had fallen out with him over a woman; Guinevere. And now, the fact that Lance had left New Avalon was Mona’s doing. He would never forgive her for that. Never. Art clenched his fists until the knuckles were white.

  ‘Sorry, Dad.’ Gareth’s flushed face appeared at the table. He was out of breath, his eyes fearful. ‘I couldn’t find a parking place. I know I’m a bit late, it won’t happen again.’

  Art gazed into his son’s eyes for a long time, saying nothing. His face, still handsome in its sixty-third year, motionless. You’re correct, Gareth, the gaze said. This won’t happen again. If I say we’re meeting at three o’clock, then we’re meeting at three o’clock, not a second afterwards. If this happens again there will be consequences. Is that understood? Gareth, who had been raised to be exquisitely attuned to his father’s thought processes, let his gaze drop. So much knowledge passed silently between them, but only the most alert observer would have grasped a hint of the meaning behind it. This was Art’s favourite way of communicating; it was quiet, intimidating, and oh so powerful. When he saw the deferent reaction in his son it reassured him that Gareth was still his. Art had always known it was much better if he did Gareth’s thinking for him. In fact, he did everyone’s thinking for them. This was why the New Avalon Commune was the harmonious place of integrity that it was; Art steered from the helm, and everyone else learnt the true ways. He was extraordinary, he’d been chosen by God to lead, and he was damn well going to do it and not let anyone stop him from his mission.

  Founding New Avalon just outside Glastonbury, Somerset, in 1983 had been the best decision of his life. Slowly, people had joined from all over the country, news of the peaceful commune spreading by word of mouth. By 1997 the number of followers had reached sixty-two, all of them swearing allegiance to the returned messiah, King Arthur, with many babies being born to group members. Shirley had been a delight to start with but had started wanting to be treated equally, or some such feminist rubbish. How could a man and a woman be treated the same? Or more to the point, how could King Arthur be equal to one of his followers? It just didn’t make sense. He’d been glad when she’d left, it hadn’t been hard deflecting her attempts to contact the boys and after a few years she’d given up.

  It had been such a joy to raise his sons and all the other innocents in the right way from the start, away from devilish societal ways of capitalism, greed, immorality and duplicity. He’d taught them well, he knew he had. But in every rose bush there is a thorn, and in his case her name was Mona. So different from her younger sister Celeste – the beautiful girl who still loved him dearly. Chalk and cheese, those two. Good and bad, innocent and corrupt. One thing was certain; Mona the betrayer had made a grave mistake by going against his will – God’s will, and Art was still suffering from her actions today. The ramifications of her accusations had been huge, had nearly destroyed him, with the sullying of his reputation and group followers leaving the commune. It had nearly broken him. But not quite. No, Mona would never have the power to do that. And now he was gaining energy again; God was spiritually feeding him – his favourite King; Arthur – and soon he would be strong enough to do what he needed to do to repair the damage and see justice.

  ‘Sorry,’ Gareth muttered again, pushing his hair behind his ears and slowly sitting down opposite his father. Art regarded him. Gareth’s features were softer than his, less defined. He watched the light go out of his son’s eyes. Good. He’d learn to be more vigilant in future.

  Art purposefully said nothing. He would not openly forgive Gareth too soon, that would only cause problems and encourage equilibrium between King and knight. And anyway, they had another transgression to discuss. Gareth must work hard for his father’s mercy, earn it. It was the only way he would learn. Art tucked his long, greying, well-conditioned hair behind his ears and waited. Gareth fidgeted in front of him, his dark eyes flickering from his father’s stare to the tabletop, then back again. The pub waitress arrived to take an order for Gareth’s drink, but Art waved her away. He took a sip of his Guinness and licked his lips.

  ‘Gareth,’ he said at last, allowing his brow to furrow. ‘I’m worried about you. For so long I was sure you were on the path to salvation. You’ve been the best pupil, the most attentive, quick to understand the ways of God, and an obedient and loving son to me. But recently, well…’ Art let his words trail off, and he gave a small shrug. ‘I fear your brother leaving New Avalon has influenced you somewhat. I would hate to see you also turn towards the Devil. Is that a new bag?’ He squinted at the black satchel on Gareth’s knee. ‘My, my, how advertising affects you these days. Have you forgotten, Gareth, that constant
ly buying new possessions blocks us from God’s true will? We become beholden to “stuff” instead of to The Almighty. And that makes him very angry, but it makes Lucifer clap his hands and focus his red eyes on us, does it not?’

  ‘I know – no, no this isn’t new,’ Gareth stammered. ‘Well, I mean it is, but it was free. It came with the laptop. You told me to buy one, Dad. To set up the new website with.’

  Art felt a small surge of anger swill across his insides. The boy was right, he had told him to purchase a laptop, told him the exact model to get. But being contradicted was hard to take. Art knew he was very good at controlling his anger these days, in fact he was good at most things. So he smiled.

  ‘Of course, you’re quite right. I did. But let’s leave discussion of the website to another time. Today I want you to tell me why you’ve been contacting Lance. Did I give you permission to do this?’ Art gained much pleasure from the look of horror that consumed his son’s face.

  ‘N-n-no, you didn’t give me permission to do that, Dad,’ he said. ‘But–’

  ‘But you did it anyway,’ Art said slowly, deliberately. ‘And now you’re going to tell me why.’

  Gareth swallowed.

  ‘I don’t really know why. I just… miss him, I suppose. I wanted to know why he left me.’

  Art stared at him, wondering how it was possible for Gareth to still be so innocent.

  ‘Oh Gareth, still so ignorant, and after everything I’ve taught you,’ he said, careful not to show any pleasure on his face. The stress in his son’s eyes was causing him deep satisfaction. ‘Lance didn’t leave you, he left God. He chose darkness instead of light, hell instead of heaven. He left New Avalon, but more importantly he left me. He knows I’m God’s messenger, his voice in the physical world. He knows that to gain eternal life when he passes he must follow my word alone. But the evil temptress Mona turned his mind. She’s wicked, and he’s weak. I didn’t think he would be, but he is. There’s no room for weakness, Gareth. Can’t you see how that as cracks appeared in Lance’s faith in me the Devil crept in to him? He doesn’t love you or me, or any of us anymore. Can you see how easy it is for that to happen, for someone who turns away from me to go to the darkness?’

  ‘Yes, Dad.’ Gareth nodded. His eyes had tears in them. He’d been looking forward to meeting his dad, had a few website ideas to discuss with him; he’d been so proud to have been put in charge of launching the commune’s new webpage. It had been a huge moment in his life because it meant his dad trusted him, was giving him some responsibility. Had made him feel as though Art was taking notice of him for once. But now he realised he’d done wrong, insulted King Arthur who he was so blessed to have as a father, and thrown his salvation into jeopardy. It was only right that his actions should be corrected. He needed to atone for his wrongdoing. But Lance leaving had ripped his heart out. He still loved his brother, even though he understood that this was wrong and self-centred. He’d just wanted to see him, to understand why Lance had left.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I was being selfish, just thinking of my own needs and not the good of New Avalon. It won’t happen again.’ Under the table, Gareth rolled up his sleeve and scratched at a scab on his arm. He needed to feel the pain, he deserved the pain. He picked part of the scab off and threw it on the floor. Then he scratched and scratched at the wound until he felt moisture ooze from it.

  Art narrowed his eyes, satisfied. Oh yes, Gareth was still his all right, he could see how much agony disappointing his father had caused him. Lance leaving had caused Art pain too, of course. Lance had always been the golden child, the stronger, better-looking boy, so confident and clever. Gareth was more anxious, his face so serious. He was always on the outside of conversations looking in, never at the centre of things. But he was all Art had left now, and he was still loyal and respectful, which was very important.

  ‘Gareth,’ Art addressed his son. ‘I have great hope that there is still a good chance you will be saved. Just follow my words and you will be well.’

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ Gareth said. His sad eyes stared into his father’s, while his nails – hidden from view – continued to scratch away at his arm.

  ‘Very good. Listen carefully.’ Art leaned forward. ‘God has given me this mission, Gareth. He’s chosen me to be his voice on earth, He puts words and thoughts in my head, and tells me to share them with you and the other New Knights. I’m asking you to join in the fight against the evils in Britain, help me rid her of this consumerism, capitalism, media obsession and worship of false idols. Do something that matters, Gareth. Something big. Make a stand, make me proud of you.’

  5

  Mona’s stomach contracted and she let out a soft moan, trying to change position and ward off the pain. It had been over twenty-four hours since her captor had last chucked the dry bread through the door. Her hands, now untied, grasped for the water bottle under her knees and she sucked the final drops of liquid out. There was not nearly enough left to quench her deep thirst. Her body was numb, every part of her was so weak. Her joints – forced to bend in unnatural ways for too long in a cramped airing cupboard – were seizing up.

  ‘Asha,’ she whispered. ‘I love you, baby girl.’ She wondered if the universe could transport her words to her baby’s heart. Maybe if a feeling for someone was super strong it would transcend time and space. The only thing that mattered was that Asha was safe, well and happy. And very, very loved.

  When would the footsteps next ascend the stairs? And when they did would they bring food, drink or punishment? She’d been too weak to make any noise for the last two days. Life was now about survival at the most basic level. Existing. Enduring.

  Mona shut her eyes and drifted into a semi-conscious state. Reality was more comforting like this, blurred and distant. She could let go of everything and just float. And her prison guard couldn’t hurt her when she was like this. No one could. She let herself drift further and further away, inviting oblivion to totally engulf her.

  6

  As dinner at the convent drew to a close, Sister Veronica reflected that it had become a chaotic event since Hope had come to live with them. Perhaps the baby had not napped enough today, but she’d been in a decidedly hostile mood all evening; spurting puree from her mouth at every opportunity, whilst crashing cut-up pieces of fruit and vegetables from her baby tray on to the floor with her fist. The highlight of the meal for Sister Veronica had been when Sister Irene had stood up with a piously depressed expression – as well as orange puree – on her face and exclaimed:

  ‘I cannot live under these conditions for much longer,’ before exiting the dining room. No doubt off to write another letter to social services, Sister Veronica had thought, narrowing her eyes at the retreating nun’s back.

  Or perhaps, Sister Veronica mused, as she wrangled the fretting baby out of the highchair whilst making soothing noises, Hope just misses her mother. She’s bound too, really, it’s only natural, and from what the two men were saying it sounds like Mona – with all her faults – really loves her child. Which makes it all the more worrying that the baby’s here and Mona is goodness knows where. Oh, how I do wish the police would keep us informed of what they know, it would help soothe my mind to know even the tiniest bit of information. Oh well, I’ll just have to pursue the case myself until she’s found.

  Sister Veronica hitched the baby on to her hip and turned, to find Sister Catherine snoozing in the chair at the end of the table, her head lolling to one side.

  ‘Catherine. Catherine!’ she called, walking over and shaking her friend’s shoulder. ‘I’m afraid it’s time to wake up, I need to talk to you as a matter of urgency.’

  The nun rubbed her eyes.

  ‘Did I drop off again? Honestly, that baby will be the end of me.’ She yawned.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ Sister Veronica said, knowing she’d probably regret her bargaining strategy later that night, ‘If you come to the library now for a chat, I’ll look after Hope tonight. How does that sound?’
>
  ‘All right,’ Sister Catherine said groggily, heaving herself up. ‘You’ve got yourself a deal.’

  Minutes later the two of them were ensconced in the chilly library, blankets tucked round their knees. Sister Veronica had passed Hope to Mother Superior as she left the kitchen, and the head nun had immediately swept the fretting infant away to chapel, saying it was never too early to learn the benefits of prayer and devotion.

  ‘Right,’ Sister Veronica said, looking her friend straight in the eyes. ‘I think there’s something we need to discuss, isn’t there?’

  ‘Is there?’ Sister Catherine’s cheeks went a shade pinker. Her hands twisted over one another in her lap. ‘What’s that then?’

  Sister Veronica sighed, smoothing out the rug on her knees with her hands.

  ‘Hope’s mother, Mona,’ she said quietly. ‘Although I’m pretty certain you already know that, Catherine.’

  The nun opposite her lowered her gaze, exhaling. She sat silently for a minute.

  ‘Right,’ she said, as she looked up. ‘Yes, sorry, Veronica. I know I’ve been a bit unhelpful about Mona, but it’s not an easy subject for me to talk about, really. You’ll understand why in a minute.’

  ‘No problem at all, just take your time,’ Sister Veronica said gently. ‘But we do need to find Hope’s mother, for everyone’s sake, Catherine. And please know that I’ll treat everything you tell me with the strictest confidentiality.’

  Sister Catherine nodded, taking a deep breath.

  ‘Well, as you know, I came over to England from Australia about a year and a half ago,’ she said. ‘My family are originally from England, Somerset to be precise, but my father emigrated in 1970. The government was offering a ten pound scheme to the British, as Australia wanted help populating its shores, and my father took advantage of it as he thought he’d have a better life there. And he did; he got a good job, built his own house, met my mother, and had us kids. But I still have quite a few relatives in the UK. I know some better than others.’