The Disciple: a gripping psychological mystery (The Sister Veronica Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  His pile of white powdery ketamine was on the side table, amid Rizla papers, bongs, and glasses of water. Bending forwards, ignoring the pain in his chest and the way he couldn’t quite catch his breath, and guiding his trembling hand towards his Oyster card, Lance cut two more fat lines and snorted them. Then he lay back, his eyelids drooping. The prickling in his skinny arms and legs didn’t matter now. His numb lips were interesting. If memories of Mona and his father thought they could torment him, they were wrong. Lance was in control, and nothing would get the better of him. No one would EVER dominate and manipulate him, not one more time. His father would NEVER again cause the deep depression Lance had waded through for so many years, internally battling with the ideology he was taught and the actuality of living with his autocratic, insane parent. Medication was a wonderful thing. He’d given up on having any sort of relationship with his mother, Shirley, years ago. When he’d finally found out her address and contacted her, aged nineteen, she’d made it quite clear she couldn’t see him anymore, that he belonged to Art, not her. All the more reason to bump up his self-medication, it eased the pain of rejection. And, of course, he knew where Mona was, but he wasn’t going to tell that to the fucking pigs who’d been sniffing around his friends, asking questions. Mona didn’t matter now. No one mattered now. He was a free agent at last, a lone wolf. A smile broke out across his face as he sank willingly into oblivion. He rather hoped he’d die this time.

  11

  ‘Sister Veronica, what on earth is wrong with you?’ Mother Superior, Sister Julia Augusta, said, lowering her half-rim reading glasses. She leant forward and stared. The nuns were gathered in the chilly convent library, each partaking of an activity of their choice. Hope, asleep for once, slumbered quietly in her baby bouncer near the fireplace, a pink knitted blanket tucked around her cosily. Mother Superior had been trying to read the next page of The Awakening of Miss Prim: A Novel, but the soft moaning coming from Sister Veronica’s hard-backed chair was putting her off. ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘I don’t think she’s poorly, Mother, not in a physical sense anyway,’ Sister Agnes said in hushed tones. Sister Veronica had taken her best friend at the convent into her confidence after returning from her meeting with Melissa, explaining the necessity of her travels to Glastonbury and the opposition this suggestion was likely to meet from Sister Julia. Agnes had, of course, agreed to help her, smiling gleefully at the thought of giving their dramatic head nun a taste of her own medicine for once. ‘I think she’s suffering mentally.’

  At this point Sister Veronica took the opportunity of slumping sideways with a low groan. Her head came to rest on the cool wall, and she shifted her knees until her book fell to the floor.

  ‘I see.’ Mother Superior narrowed her eyes. ‘How strange. She looked perfectly well at afternoon tea, indeed I believe she ate the majority of the chocolate biscuits, much to Sister Irene’s sorrow. I wonder what could have happened to her over the last couple of hours to cause the sorry state I see before me?’

  ‘Mother Superior!’ Sister Agnes said. ‘How can you be so heartless? You know very well that Sister Veronica has endured the most horrific times recently. And she has borne her suffering quietly and heroically to the point where I think we have all become blind to what she’s going through.’

  Agnes’ words, although hammed up for the purpose of Sister Julia, nevertheless touched a raw nerve inside Sister Veronica, and the undealt with pain and shock of the evils she’d stumbled upon during her quest to right the wrongs done to children of the ordained overtook her. Weeks of pent-up stress bubbled to the surface and before she knew it huge sobs were shaking her body, rivers of tears flowing down her cheeks.

  ‘Veronica.’ Sister Agnes – her face registering genuine shock – hurried over to her friend, grasping her hand tightly. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. There, there, my dear, you have a good cry. It will make you feel much better.’

  Mother Superior watched, aghast, as Sister Pemii, Sister Catherine and their new novice nun, Sister Anne crowded round the prone Sister Veronica, stroking her hands and knees and making soothing noises. Sister Irene, sitting at a desk in the corner, put her copy of The Devil’s Advocate down, regarding the proceedings with a steely gaze.

  ‘Well, I–’ Sister Julia said. This was most unusual, she’d never seen Sister Veronica in a state of such undoing. ‘I didn’t mean to be harsh, Veronica, and I’m sorry if it seemed that way. Of course you have been through many trials recently. You just seemed to be coping so well. Perhaps it was a mistake for you to come back to the convent so soon.’

  ‘Oh yes, she returned too quickly.’ Sister Agnes turned, tears in her own eyes now. It was unbearable to watch her friend in real pain, she’d had no idea her words would be so upsetting. But she had promised to help her friend reach her desired goal. ‘I think she needs a break, somewhere peaceful.’

  ‘Perhaps the convent in the Scottish Highlands would be an ideal place?’ Sister Irene’s reedy voice said. ‘There’s nothing more relaxing than the sight of lochs, I always say. Good for the soul. No one else around to trouble you.’

  Sister Agnes glared at her.

  ‘I think we should ask Sister Veronica where she’d like to go, don’t you, Irene?’ Sister Agnes said, her tone sharp. ‘After all, if she is going to go away to recuperate it needs to be a place she feels comfortable with.’

  ‘Somerset,’ Sister Veronica mumbled through her tears. ‘I’ve always loved it there. So green and peaceful. I feel it calling me.’

  Sister Irene rolled her eyes.

  ‘Yes, yes, Somerset it is.’ Mother Superior flapped her hands, as though wanting the whole scene in front of her to go away. ‘Great Saints in Heaven above, I’ve never seen such a carry on. And in the convent library too.’ She put a hand to her forehead. ‘I feel quite weak myself now. I’m going to chapel, I need sustenance. Agnes, you can help Veronica now, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Sister Agnes said to Sister Julia’s departing back. She bent down, wrinkles creasing her forehead.

  ‘I think you really do need a break, Veronica,’ she whispered, as her friend’s noisy sobs diminished. ‘Honestly, you had me quite worried there for a minute.’

  Sister Veronica shifted herself into an upright position, and the other nuns melted away, taking up their activities once again.

  ‘Sorry.’ She sniffed. ‘I don’t know what came over me, Agnes. All this pain inside me just welled up as you spoke.’

  ‘And that’s exactly why you need to get away,’ Sister Agnes said. ‘Although I’m not sure throwing yourself into another potentially difficult situation is the right way to go. I hate to say it, but perhaps Sister Irene has a point. Maybe you would benefit more from a complete rest, away from the whole Mona-and-baby situation–’

  ‘No.’ Sister Veronica sat upright, anger flushing through her cheeks. ‘Sorry, Agnes, but I have to do this. Can’t you see? I’ve been sitting around in this convent for years, being pretty useless, not helping anyone much. But what happened with Jamie showed me how hardly anyone is doing anything about the suffering in this world. If I don’t help this baby then who will? The police? Do you really think they are going to put themselves out to get to the bottom of this? If I don’t locate Mona and bring this case with Hope to some resolution, I fear social services will dump her with a foster family and that will be that. She’ll be forgotten about, or adopted out and she’ll never have a chance to know the truth about her parents. I know what that’s like, Agnes. Don’t forget what happened with my father. Please, you’ve helped me so much this evening. Now I just need to secure a place close to Glastonbury.’ She exhaled.

  Sister Agnes wound her hands together, her arthritic knuckles red and swollen.

  ‘Oh, Veronica, you are wonderful. And you’re making me feel quite guilty. I suppose I’m also rather useless, sitting in this convent, not able to do much other than pray these days.’

  ‘No, Agnes,’ Sister Veronica said. ‘You help in your
own way, everybody does really. Perhaps I was being too judgemental. I suppose what I mean is, that not many people go the extra mile to help someone. You can’t, you have too much physical pain to deal with yourself. But you help people here and in the community, like you did with me just now. And that is rather wonderful. Perhaps I’m just being an old fool, but I passionately feel that I must carry on trying to find Mona. That’s all.’

  ‘Then we’ll make it happen,’ Sister Agnes said, her voice firm, as Sister Veronica rose to her feet. ‘Don’t you worry, Veronica, we’ll have you off to Glastonbury in no time.’

  12

  Art’s face remained expressionless as he watched Lucan talking to Celeste. The New Knights were seated quietly at round tables in the Food Hall, munching warm bread rolls filled with shredded pork. They knew better than to make a din at meals. Art liked to have things quiet and orderly; it was much more civilised, he said. A delicious meaty aroma was filling the canvassed space. Cooking and cleaning were communal activities at New Avalon; everyone was expected to pull their weight, including the children. Some were better at this than others and Art had no problem letting it be known who wasn’t working hard enough.

  The Food Hall, like the Great Hall – the place of their regular meetings – had snippets of Art’s manifesto emblazoned on the walls. ‘We are the chosen ones’, ‘We will battle the evils of the world together’, ‘King Arthur, the Messiah, has returned to save his people’, ‘Loyalty, Honour and Integrity are key’, ‘We reject sin and strive for salvation’, ‘We are one family, we need no others’, ‘The New Knights are peaceful warriors’ and ‘We will continue to battle dark forces, and save those who come to us for redemption’.

  Something wasn’t right. It wasn’t the fact that Lucan was talking to Celeste that was bothering him, after all, sexual freedom was a gift they all shared at New Avalon, and jealousies from one partner to another were quickly ridiculed, usually in public by Art at meetings. Anyway, Art knew Celeste belonged to him. She always had and she always would, no matter who she spent the night with. If he actually thought her heart was leaving his and turning towards another’s, well, now that would be a different story. It was the fact that he knew Lucan wasn’t telling him something, and that cut to the core of Art’s philosophy about absolute loyalty and honour. He must know everything that went on at his commune, or it wouldn’t work. Look what had happened with Mona and Lance; they had no doubt been plotting their departure for weeks, maybe months, before it had happened, and he hadn’t suspected a thing. But he was vigilant now, and he’d had his eye on Lucan for a while. Knew he visited that damn whore Kay, who Art never wanted to see again, knew he took her food. He was mixing with the wrong company. Once, Lucan had been one of his most trusted knights. But now he couldn’t rely on him at all. Art couldn’t put his finger on exactly why this was, Lucan was still doing and saying all the right things. But something in his eyes told a different story. Also, God had recently imbued Art with the gift of knowing; an almost psychic ability to tell when someone wasn’t being straightforward with him. This meant that God wanted him to deal with people like Lucan, who were showing signs of bringing more trouble to the community. And deal with them he would.

  ‘Celeste, you better get going or you’ll be late for your shift at Goddess World.’ Art made sure his smile was kind as he wandered slowly over to the chatting couple. She looked up at him, surprise registering on her face. ‘I’m only telling you because I care. I know you wouldn’t want to keep your clients waiting.’ Art stroked her hair.

  Lucan grinned up at Art.

  ‘Hey, Big King,’ he said, using his usual affectionate address for his leader. ‘Do you want me to look over the accounts later? I know I haven’t done that for a while, but I’ve been busy with more shifts at the café.’

  ‘Yes, Lucan, that would be good.’ Art turned his gaze on to him, as Celeste gathered up her flowing skirt and stood to give Art a kiss on the cheek. ‘Our income is very prosperous at the moment I believe, much helped by you, of course. As you know, I always value your expert opinion on the books.’

  ‘Right, I’ll be off then, boys.’ Celeste picked up her jewelled handbag. Her lips parted, forming the beautiful smile that captured so many hearts at New Avalon. ‘I have many fortunes to tell and lives to heal. I’ll be seeing you later.’ She turned and headed for the door.

  Her eyes, bright as usual, looked particularly sensual today, Art thought. He suspected he was in for another wonderful night. He waited until she had left the Food Hall, then sat down next to Lucan.

  ‘Is there anything you want to tell me, brother?’ he said, staring Lucan straight in the eyes. ‘Anything at all?’

  ‘What? No.’ Lucan laughed. ‘I’m afraid you know all the news that I do, Big King. It’s one of the downfalls of living together in a commune.’

  ‘One of the downfalls.’ Art rolled the words around in his mouth slowly. ‘Tell me, what are the other downfalls of living here? Come now, be honest.’

  Lucan laughed, but Art saw the change in his eyes. They were playing a game now, and both of them knew it. But Art was damned if he’d let another man get the better of him.

  ‘Oh you know.’ Lucan’s tone was light. ‘I don’t always get my favourite spot here in the Food Hall. And sometimes all the bigger portions are gone. Oh yes, and little Tristan in the hut next to mine enjoys waking me up at the crack of dawn; he loves an early morning loud rampage.’ All the adults at the commune had their own huts, Art found that it made partner-sharing so much more accessible.

  Art chuckled, but his eyes were hard.

  ‘Is that so?’ he said. ‘Only little downfalls then, eh?’ He sat and stared at Lucan, who stared back. Art always found silence to be a powerful tool. It unnerved people.

  ‘How’s Kay getting on?’ Art said, several minutes later. He enjoyed seeing Lucan start with surprise. Kay’s name hadn’t left Art’s lips for weeks, his followers knew she was usually an absolute no-go topic for him.

  ‘She’s, er, fine, Art,’ Lucan said slowly. ‘I know she’d love to start joining in with things again soon, if you think it’s time.’

  Art exhaled.

  ‘Tell me, brother,’ he said. ‘What are the three main tenets we live our lives by here?’

  ‘Integrity, loyalty and honour,’ Lucan said.

  ‘And did Kay show me she could follow these beliefs?’ Art said.

  ‘No. Well, yes and no,’ Lucan said. ‘She honestly didn’t mean to offend you, Art. It’s just that–’

  ‘Brother. Anyone who talks behind my back, criticises our life here and complains and whines is not only offending me, they are offending God,’ Art said. ‘Who am I to go against God’s will? He has given me the power to look into people’s souls, and what I saw in Kay is nothing but rot and ruin. To have her back among us would only jeopardise our own salvation. Rot grows if left untended. The only thing we can all do is pray for her and ask the Lord to redeem her blackened heart.’

  Lucan nodded.

  ‘You’re right, Art,’ he said. ‘I can see that now.’

  Art stared at him.

  ‘I can see into your soul, too, Lucan,’ he said. ‘And do you know what I find there?’

  ‘What?’ The first glimmer of apprehension flickered across Lucan’s eyes.

  ‘Ah, now that’s for me to know, and you to find out.’ Art smiled, standing up. ‘Rest assured, Lucan, I mean to rid New Avalon of any other decay and corruption that I find. There’s no place for sinners in paradise. Morgana is helping me with this. Now there’s a lady with a pure, honest soul; I’m quite sure she would die for me if I asked her to.’ Art took a moment to enjoy this reverie, the ultimate show of loyalty a person could commit for him. ‘You’d be surprised if you knew all the titbits of information Morgana’s been feeding me with recently. Oh yes, you’d be very surprised.’ He watched Lucan’s eyes flit over to the majestic middle-aged woman on a nearby table. ‘We shall be discussing many of them at the next meeting.
But of course, you have nothing to worry about, do you, brother? As you clearly want me to believe your soul and mind are as clean as they once were when I first allowed you to live here. For your own sake, I hope they are.’ With that, Art walked over to the buxom Morgana, who as usual was spilling out of her bodice, her dyed-black, shoulder-length hair pulled into a half ponytail – a style he privately thought was too young for her. He bent down to whisper something in her ear.

  Lucan sat and stared straight ahead for several minutes after Art had left him. Surely Art couldn’t know what he’d done? He’d been so careful to cover his tracks, told no one at New Avalon or anywhere else. Perhaps the man was psychic? Sorcery had abounded within the Arthurian story for centuries, and Lucan was no longer clear whether he believed in it or not. Stress tightened his chest, but he was careful not to let his external appearance change. What on earth was he going to do now? How much did Art know?

  13

  Sister Veronica sniffed the air. A veritable feast of incense and food smells assaulted her nose. So this was Glastonbury Town, eh? Was she imagining it, or was there a tangible quality to the energy here, one that was so different to Soho’s cosmopolitan urban one? It seemed at once a place that was alive, yet apathetic; the musicians in front of St John the Baptist’s Church encapsulated this – two were standing and singing, banging drums as though their life depended on it, but the third lay on the paving stones in front of them, barely managing to tap his tambourine. The shops sold a mixture of conventional and outlandish wares; from baked beans to witches’ broomsticks, dog food to love potions. The unassuming buildings of the high street – that sported an assortment of stone and colourful facades – were like a stage set for the mixture of weird and wonderful people that trudged up and down the hill. So far she’d seen men dressed as women, witches, pagans, hippies, very conventional couples that looked like they’d stepped straight out of Town and Country magazine (she’d read a copy at the doctor’s, most informative), women dressed in white feathery garments and groups of listless teenagers. The biggest shock had been a bald-headed man who’d stopped right in front of them, opened his mouth, and let out a high-pitched shriek.