The Disciple: a gripping psychological mystery (The Sister Veronica Mysteries Book 2) Page 5

  There were some battered old communal cars at the site that anyone with a driving licence was welcome to use. A shared kitchen, where the New Knights took it in turns to cook for each other. Everyone chipped in with care for the children, playing games with them, teaching them how to read, write and draw. They were all home-schooled, of course, Art loved the fact that these ‘innocents’ – as he called them – were having a life totally immersed in his philosophies from the very start. This kind of shared living was heart-warming, Lucan found, well certainly at the beginning of his time there. It felt like it was the way humans were meant to exist, all together, helping one another. Feeling looked after and valued was wonderful for a while. But then things had started to change.

  Too much of a deep thinker to ever fully accept that Art was in fact the returned messiah King Arthur, Lucan had ignored his doubts about that little detail in favour of belonging to a group. He needed New Avalon, it really was his own idea of utopia come true and he yearned to be fully immersed in it and accepted by everyone. So if that meant agreeing that Art was the returned king, it was a concession he would willingly make. And anyway, King Arthur was supposed to return when the nation needed a saviour, and Lucan found that idea beguiling; especially as he felt Britain did indeed need to be saved from itself. And what the hell did it matter if Art said he was King Arthur? In a way, it was kind of endearing, a bit like role-play for adults. That’s what he’d thought to start with, anyway.

  When he’d first arrived, Art was everything he wanted in a father figure; strong, chivalrous, handsome, charming, someone who put a strong emphasis on loyalty, honour and morality. A big contrast with his biological father who in 1990 had just been made redundant and spent his days drinking and watching darts on the television, only getting up to shuffle to the fridge to get himself another beer. His mother hadn’t been much better, always whinging about something, always depressed. It hadn’t been hard to separate from his parents – or the Externals, as outsiders were known – as Art required all new recruits to do.

  That little detail about Art actually being the returned messiah had come to occupy the centre of his existence over the years, and he now couldn’t remember how to have full confidence in his own thoughts. This worried him. But he’d been told so often that he must follow Art’s ways, or risk falling into ruin and going to hell, that he now felt confused, believing that in some way Art must be correct. Or was he? Lucan really didn’t know. On the one hand it was an absurd idea to think you were actually a returned mythical character, and on the other it seemed completely plausible, now that he knew Art. But Art and the New Knights never seemed to achieve anything with their ideals, with all the battling against capitalism that Art lectured them about. It was all talk and hardly any action, a few posters and protests, but nothing big. He’d begun to feel that Art’s interest didn’t actually lie in changing the world, but in having power and control over the group. Once, a long while ago, Lucan would have gone to Art for help with his thoughts, explained that he was having a bit of trouble. But he couldn’t now, no way. He no longer trusted him, and that was disturbing to admit.

  ‘Why are you whispering?’ Art’s sharp tones cut through his daydream. The comments were directed towards two of the young children, Savannah and Star, stationed to the side of their mothers. ‘God doesn’t like whispering.’ He bent down to speak directly into their faces. ‘Only serpents whisper with their flickering tongues. Come and see me afterwards and I will hand out penalties to you. You must learn, girls, that no one else talks when I am speaking.’

  He watched Celeste smile up at Art, pride all over her face, and wondered, not for the first time, how she could sleep with that old man. Granted, he looked younger than he was, but still, there was near enough forty years age difference between them. Followers at New Avalon were encouraged to be free with their sexuality, because, as Art always said, true freedom meant emancipation in all areas. Celeste and Art had been in a relationship for three years now, although they often shared their beds with others, of course, as was the way there. Lucan reckoned Celeste must have slept with most of the men at the compound, she certainly gave off that impression. But not with him though. Oh no. His heart belonged to her sister.

  A stabbing pain caused Lucan to lean forwards as he remembered Mona; he’d really loved that girl. Really loved her. Their encounters had been infrequent, usually after one of the mead-soaked great dinners the New Knights shared a few times a year. Yes, he’d been thirty years her senior, but it hadn’t seemed to matter for Mona, who was a breath of fresh air, and an amazing conversationalist, much more intelligent than Celeste in his opinion. Her departure had left him reeling, he hadn’t seen it coming, everything had happened so suddenly. Her revelations, the awful truth. The rejection had broken him. And what she’d revealed about Art that terrible night before she’d gone had cut him to the core. Lucan exhaled, trying to steady his emotions. In his heart he knew he would do anything to help Mona, keep her safe from the evils of this world; now as prevalent in New Avalon as they were anywhere. He’d told no one about his recent, secret trip to London. Art had just thought he was out on a stock run for the Glastonbury Café he worked in. That hadn’t caused any problems, as the king liked his followers to bring in as much revenue as possible. Lucan hugged his knowledge to himself as his mind ticked fast. He now knew what his next move would be. He was going to save Mona’s soul. He hated what she’d become, but he was strong enough to help her, he knew he was.

  9

  ‘Hello, Melissa,’ Sister Veronica barked. She glared at the gurgling baby lying in the pram next to her chair. She’d been cursing her bargaining tool with Sister Catherine all morning; what a ridiculous idea to say she’d look after the baby all night. Goodness gracious, what a kerfuffle it had been; there’d been wriggling, playing, crying, winding, a tiny bit of sleeping, then more crying and playing. She’d barely made it down to breakfast on time, Sister Agnes had already started on the washing-up when she and Hope had eventually sat down, and all that remained on the table were some cold slices of toast.

  She was sitting at the central table in Soho’s community library, the pram at her side, surrounded by shelving units containing rows of higgledy-piggledy books. Far from being Sister Veronica’s ideal place of book worship – she was indeed one to revere books – it was more like a supermarket, always noisy, with too many people, the wares on offer presented with less flare than duty by the tired-looking librarians.

  ‘Ooooh, this must be the new addition to the convent,’ Melissa cooed, bending down to stroke Hope’s cheek. She was too used to her friend’s changeable moods to take any notice of her abrasive tone. ‘She’s absolutely adorable.’

  ‘She’s an adorable insomniac,’ Sister Veronica said. ‘Slept in two-hour blocks last night, at four thirty-seven this morning we were both up and pacing round my room, weren’t we, Hope?’ Another glare.

  ‘Hope?’ Melissa said. ‘Is that her name? It’s pretty.’

  After explaining how the baby’s temporary name came about, and accepting Melissa’s offer of going for a strong coffee and perhaps some custard cream biscuits after their library chat, Sister Veronica got down to business.

  ‘So what we need to do,’ she said, watching Melissa open her laptop, ‘is find the address of Mona Adkins’ sister, Celeste. Sister Catherine believes she may still be living in a cult in Glastonbury.’

  ‘A cult, ooh now that is interesting,’ Melissa breathed, tapping in her password. ‘I’ve always found the idea of cults fascinating, haven’t you? Wondered what makes people join them, and give up their lives with their friends and families?’

  ‘No,’ Sister Veronica said shortly. ‘Nothing is more dangerous than stopping people thinking for themselves.’ Although the parallels between this claim and some practices of my own religion are very uncomfortable and need deeper investigation, she added to herself. Although many would disagree.

  ‘Right, let’s have a look.’ Melissa leaned forw
ard, scanning the results of her Google search. ‘Look, Sister. We’ve got a result already. I put in “Celeste Adkins Glastonbury” into the search engine and it says “Celeste’s Cards: A Tarot Reading service”. The address is Goddess World on Glastonbury High Street.’

  Sister Veronica rocketed forward and stared at the screen.

  ‘Tarot cards?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, look.’

  Sister Veronica stared at the words in front of her. This was too much of a connection to be a mere coincidence, surely? Melissa clicked on the link and they watched as a page full of bewitching designs loaded against a purple background.

  ‘“Celeste is an experienced tarot card reader”,’ Melissa read. ‘“She offers individual, couple and group readings. A clairsentient psychic, Celeste gives positive readings that provide clarity and hope to her clients, enabling them to forge deeper connections with their intuition and energies. With her guidance, clients find it possible to heal and remove obstacles in their lives, while delving deeper into an understanding of their true nature”.’

  ‘She’s very pretty,’ Sister Veronica said, staring at the blonde-haired beauty at the centre of the screen. ‘And she promises the earth. If only life were that simple. Do you think she looks like Mona at all?’

  They spent a few minutes studying Mona’s photo and comparing it to the face on the screen. The images had been taken at two such different times in the girls’ lives, their inner energy seemed the biggest contrast between the two; Celeste looked glowing whereas Mona looked run-down.

  ‘Maybe a bit,’ Melissa said. ‘Their noses are similar, and so are their mouths. It’s hard to tell, it’s not a great picture of Mona.’

  ‘I know,’ Sister Veronica agreed. ‘It was the best I could get from her Soho working friends. Does it mention this Celeste’s surname anywhere? Adkins?’

  Melissa studied the page.

  ‘Not that I can see,’ she said. ‘But there’s the tarot card connection, and that’s a great starting point. I remember you telling me about the card left with Hope. But it’s hard to imagine that this girl would be involved, she looks so lovely.’

  ‘Never be fooled by external appearances, Melissa,’ Sister Veronica said, reaching out to rock the pram back and forth as Hope was becoming increasingly vocal. ‘Many crimes have been committed by beautiful people, you know. I mean look at that monster Ted Bundy, from the United States. He killed at least thirty young women, but because he was good-looking and seemed respectable, everybody liked him and didn’t want to believe he’d committed the murders. I read an article about him once at the doctors while I was waiting for Sister Agnes to get her new arthritis medicine prescribed. Even the judge at his trial congratulated him for being a nice person. People can be so blind sometimes, and so very stupid.’

  They spent a few minutes scrolling through the rest of the search results. Then at Sister Veronica’s request Melissa spent some time looking up cults in and around Glastonbury, with the nun marvelling at her dexterous use of the keyboard. Sister Veronica was very suspicious of digital technology in general and was still refusing to get a phone, despite Melissa’s assurances that it would make her life a lot easier. The new style of phones, with all the mysterious swiping of the screens, looked far too complicated, and anyway she enjoyed going incognito whenever she felt like it, and couldn’t think of anything worse than people being able to contact her whenever they wanted. Sister Irene would no doubt be constantly ringing with complaints and Mother Superior would be able to keep continuous tabs on her. No thank you, that sort of thing was definitely not for her. Now a pad of paper and a pen, that was where true happiness lay. Her latest crime novel – started many months ago and still not finished, more’s the pity – would be penned entirely on paper, exactly as it should be. Stationery shops were her favourite type of place to browse around; all that paper – stacked and tidily bound together – was exciting, the untapped potential in it seemed to hum whenever she perused the shelves looking for yet another new, bigger, better notepad. Laptops and computers just didn’t do that. The only hum they omitted was due to the ridiculous amount of electricity flowing through them, and frankly she could do without that sort of carry on.

  ‘There are no other obvious leads here, Sister,’ Melissa said after a while. ‘Celeste sounds like the best starting point we’ve got. And by the way, cults aren’t exactly going to label themselves as “a cult” on the internet, they probably don’t even think of themselves like that, so we’d never have any luck finding it that way. So does this mean we’re going on a field trip to Glastonbury to have our tarot cards read?’

  ‘Yes, I believe that’s exactly what we should do,’ Sister Veronica said, thinking, still rocking the pram, with Hope amusing herself by making loud squawking noises. ‘Although how I’m going to get this past Mother Superior I do not know. She’s watching me like a hawk these days. It’s a blasted pain, to tell you the truth.’

  Melissa snorted with laughter.

  ‘You’re such a rebel, Sister,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t be a nun, you should be a revolutionary.’

  ‘One can be both, you know, my dear,’ Sister Veronica said, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. ‘Although I’m nowhere near extraordinary enough to be a revolutionary. I’m just a stubborn old woman who can’t keep her nose out of trouble.’

  ‘Aha, I have an idea,’ Melissa said, her eyes suddenly glinting. ‘Glastonbury’s an amazing place, jam-packed with every kind of spiritual teaching you could think of. I love it there, I stayed in a hippy bed and breakfast on the high street with a friend a few years ago. There are so many different courses on offer, like circle training, mystical earth tours, cartomancy and obviously tarot. There are also retreats. Why don’t you explain to Mother Superior that you’re still a bit shaken after everything that went on while you were trying to find Jamie’s killer, and that you would benefit from going on a retreat for a few days. Surely she can’t object to that, isn’t that what nuns do?’

  ‘Yes, nuns do go on retreats, Melissa.’ Sister Veronica broke into a hearty laugh. ‘But not usually in places of alternative spirituality. Nevertheless, you have given me an idea. Leave it with me, and I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Hang on, my phone’s ringing.’ Melissa fumbled in her handbag, retrieving it. ‘Chris!’ she said loudly into the handset, standing up. ‘How are you, babe? Oh my God, I miss you so much, it’s unreal.’

  ‘Shhh,’ Sister Veronica hissed. ‘Melissa! Good Lord above, we are in a library, and you are being very loud.’

  An old man with a white moustache and beard – ensconced on a corner sofa – flicked his newspaper down and stared at Melissa, undisguised irritation on his face. Noisy and busy though the library was, their party seemed to have exceeded even the place’s usual standards of unrest.

  ‘Right,’ Sister Veronica said firmly, standing up and folding the laptop, before putting it back in Melissa’s bag. ‘I think it’s time we left, Hope, don’t you? We seem to be making quite a scene.’

  Hope gave a happy scream in reply and thrashed her arms and legs around.

  ‘What do you mean you have to stay in Rome for another two weeks?’ Melissa’s voice was getting even louder. ‘Babe! I thought you were coming back next Tuesday? I’m really missing you. Why is this taking so long to sort out?’

  Sister Veronica shepherded Melissa out of the library door and towards the nearest café, using the pram as a guiding shield. Despite the incessant noise around her, a plan was forming in her tired mind, and she hoped it was one Mother Superior would accept. But the wily head of the convent was no fool. Yes, she was dramatic, that was for sure; the amount of histrionics the nuns endured from her was unfathomable, and Sister Veronica privately thought she should be on the stage, cast as a tragic Shakespearean heroine. But underneath all the spectacle the woman was intelligent, you could see it in her eyes. Getting her to agree to another trip away so soon after Sister Veronica’s last impromptu disappearance from
Soho Square may be difficult, she reflected, if not impossible. But this was important and she needed to find a way to make it work…

  10

  Lancelot Pendragon closed his eyes. He was sinking into the sofa. The ketamine – taking a strong hold of him now – was both shutting his brain down while opening it up in a different dimension. He’d been up, now he needed to come down, it made scientific sense. He could hear chatting, although he was pretty sure no one in the room was talking. It had been a heavy night at The Orb club and it was getting more intense right now.

  He’d arrived at The Orb, one of his usual haunts, by himself. Met some regulars in the chill-out zone, and they’d shared their fares amongst themselves whilst sweaty ravers piled into the room around them. He couldn’t remember all the drugs he’d taken in the club but he was pretty sure cocaine, ecstasy and base speed were in the mix. He’d danced to the banging trance music for what seemed like hours, and in the end he’d successfully reached the level of zoned-out intensity that he always tried to attain. He, Lance Pendragon, had become one with the music and the universe. At that moment, it was all that mattered. It meant he didn’t have to think about anything else, none of the appalling circumstances in his life that he might have to face without drugs.

  Mona – no. He didn’t want to think about bloody Mona again. Why had that name popped into his head? She was nothing but trouble. She didn’t even know if the baby was his. Slag. His father – God, why was his brain tormenting him with these people, this pain? Lance forced his eyes open and leaned forwards, shaking his hair from his eyes. Three other people, two men and one woman, were lying on the floor, miles away in their private worlds of drug-induced delirium. He didn’t know them, had just accepted an invitation from the girl he’d chatted to in the club to go back to her flat. Quite standard, he did this sort of thing all the time.