Page 127 of The Running Grave

‘Can I help?’ said a quiet voice beside Robin.

Becca had noticed that Robin wasn’t writing and had stepped through the people sitting on the floor to talk to her.

‘Well, I’d like to write to my parents,’ said Robin, ‘but they’re on a cruise. I can’t even remember the name of their ship.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Becca. ‘Well, you’ve got a sister, haven’t you? Why don’t you write to your parents, via her?’

‘Oh, that’s a good idea,’ said Robin, who could feel sweat rising beneath her sweatshirt. ‘Thanks.’

Robin bent her head over the letter, wrote Dear Theresa, then looked back up at the screen, pretending to be looking for phrases to copy down, but actually trying to think of a solution to her dilemma. She’d unthinkingly given Theresa a job in publishing and now wished she’d made her a student, because a hall of residence might have been harder to check for her presence. Hoping to make it as hard as possible for the UHC to decide definitively that Theresa didn’t exist, Robin wrote:

I can’t remember when you said you were moving, but hopefully –

Robin thought rapidly. A nickname seemed safest, because it could apply to anyone who might be actually living at the random address she was about to write down. Her eyes fell on the back of Walter the professor’s balding head.

- Baldy will send this on if you’ve already left.

Robin looked back up at the screen. Most of a template letter was there, ready to be copied.

Letter of Declaration of UHC Membership

Dear X,

[As you know] I’ve just completed a week’s retreat at the Universal Humanitarian Church. I’ve [really enjoyed it/found it very inspiring/gained a huge amount] so I’ve decided to stay on and [pursue my spiritual growth/explore further self-development/help with the church’s charitable projects].

Robin dutifully copied out a version of this paragraph, then moved to the second.

Chapman Farm is a closed community and we don’t use electronic devices because we find them disruptive to a meditative spiritual environment. However, letters are passed on to members, so if you’d like to, write to me here at Chapman Farm, Lion’s Mouth, Aylmerton, Norfolk, NR11 8PC.

Robin copied this out, then looked up once more. There were a few final bits of advice about the letters’ contents, and how to terminate them.

Do not use phrases like ‘don’t worry about me’, which may lay you open to emotional blackmail.

When signing off, avoid pet familial terms such as ‘mum’ or ‘granny’, and terms such as ‘love’. Use your given name, no diminutives or nicknames, which demonstrate continuing acceptance of materialist possession.

Write the address to send the letter to on the back of the page.

Robin now wrote:

Please can you let our parents know I’m staying, because I know they’re on their cruise. It’s great to have a sense of purpose again and I’m learning so much. Rowena.

Turning the page over, she jotted down a street she knew from surveillance work existed in Clapham, picked a house number at random, then invented a postcode of which only SW11 was likely to be accurate.

Looking up, she saw that most people had finished writing. Putting up her hand, she passed her finished letter to the smiling Becca and waited for everybody else to complete the task. Finally, when all letters, paper and pens had been collected in, they were permitted to rise and file back upstairs.

As Robin stepped out into the courtyard, she saw Dr Andy Zhou hurrying towards the farmhouse’s carved double doors, carrying what looked like a medical case. He had an abstracted, anxious air that contrasted strongly with his usual suavity. As those who’d been writing their template letters crowded around the pool of the Drowned Prophet to pay their usual respects on passing, Robin hung back, watching Zhou. The doors to the farmhouse opened and she caught a glimpse of an elderly Indian woman. Zhou stepped over the threshold and vanished from sight, the doors closing behind him. Robin, who was living in daily expectation of hearing that the pregnant Wan had gone into labour, wondered whether that explained Zhou’s haste.

‘The Drowned Prophet will bless all who worship her,’ she muttered when her turn at the pool side came, dabbing cold water on her forehead as usual, before falling into step with Kyle, Amandeep and Vivienne. Vivienne was saying,

‘… probably be really angry, like I give a toss. Seriously, they could both be in a textbook under “false self”. It’s only since I’ve been in ’ere I’ve, like, started to fully process what they’ve done to me, y’know?’

‘Totally,’ said Kyle.

The letter writers were some of the earliest to arrive in the dining hall and consequently had a choice of seats. Robin, who saw every meal as an opportunity to collect information, because it was the one time all church members mingled, chose to sit down beside a knot of church members having a whispered conversation. They were so deeply engrossed, they didn’t immediately notice when Robin sat down beside them.

‘… says Jacob’s really bad, but I think Dr Zhou—’

The speaker, a young black man with short dreadlocks, broke off. To Robin’s exasperation, Amandeep, Kyle and Vivienne had followed her to the table. The last’s loud voice had alerted the whisperers to their presence.