Page 139 of The Running Grave

46

An individual finds himself in an evil environment to which he is committed by external ties.

But he has an inner relationship with a superior man…

The I Ching or Book of Changes

The routine of the higher-level recruits changed with the arrival of the Season of the Stolen Prophet. They were no longer spending entire mornings watching footage of war atrocities and famine in the farmhouse basement but were given more lectures on the nine steps to pure spirit: admission, service, divestment, union, renunciation, acceptance, purification, mortification and sacrifice. They were given practical advice on how to achieve steps one to six, which could be worked on concurrently, but the rest were shrouded in mystery, and only those who were judged to have successfully mastered the first half dozen were deemed worthy to learn how to achieve the last three.

Robin also had to endure a second Revelation session. For the second time, she escaped sitting in the hot seat in the middle of the circle, although Vivienne and the elderly Walter were less fortunate. Vivienne was attacked for her habit of changing her accent to disguise her moneyed background and accused of arrogance, self-centredness and hypocrisy until she was reduced to heaving sobs, while Walter, who’d admitted to a long-running feud with an ex-colleague at his old university, was berated for egomotivity and materialist judgement. Alone of those who’d so far been subjected to Primal Response Therapy, Walter didn’t cry. He turned white, but nodded rhythmically, almost eagerly, as the circle threw insults and accusations at him.

‘Yes,’ he muttered, blinking furiously behind his glasses, ‘yes… that’s true… it’s all true… very bad… yes, indeed… false self…’

Meanwhile the bottoms of the medium-sized tracksuits Robin was given once a week kept sliding down from her waist, because she’d lost so much weight. Other than the irritation of having to constantly pull them up again, this didn’t trouble her nearly as much as the awareness that she was slowly becoming institutionalised.

When she’d first arrived at Chapman Farm, she’d registered her own tiredness and hunger as abnormal, and noticed the effects of claustrophobia and group pressure during lectures in the basement. Gradually, though, she’d stopped noticing her exhaustion, and had adapted to making do with less food. She was alarmed to find the unconscious habit of chanting under her breath becoming more frequent and she’d even caught herself thinking in the church’s language. Pondering the question of why the unknown Jacob, who was clearly too ill to be useful to the church, was being kept at Chapman Farm, she found herself framing the possibility of his departure as a ‘return to the materialist world’.

Unnerved by what she was still objective enough to recognise as partial indoctrination, Robin tried a new strategy to maintain her objectivity: trying to analyse the methods the church was using to force acceptance of its world view.

She noted the way duress and leniency were applied to church members. Recruits were so grateful for any let-up in the constant pressure to listen, learn, work or chant that they showed disproportionate gratitude for the smallest rewards. When older children were permitted to run into the woods at the perimeter for unsupervised leisure time, they took off with the kind of glee Robin imagined children in the outside world might have displayed on being told they were going to Disneyland. A kind word from Mazu, Taio or Becca, five minutes of unsupervised time, an extra scoop of noodles at dinner: these triggered feelings of warmth and delight that showed just how normalised enforced obedience and deprivation had already become. Robin was aware that she, too, was beginning to crave the approval of church elders, and that this craving was rooted in an animalistic urge for self-protection. The regular re-sorting of the groups and the ever-present threat of ostracism prevented any feeling of real solidarity developing between members. Those giving lectures had impressed upon all of them that the pure spirit saw no human being as better or more loveable than any other. Loyalty was supposed to flow upwards, towards the divine and the heads of the church, but never sideways.

Yet her strategy of objectively analysing the church’s means of indoctrination was only partially successful. Kept in a permanent state of tiredness, it was a constant effort to reflect on how obedience was compelled, rather than simply complying. Finally, Robin hit upon the trick of imagining herself telling Strike what she was up to. This forced her to discard all church jargon, because he wouldn’t understand or, more likely, would mock it. The idea of Strike laughing at what she was having to do – though she did him the credit of doubting he’d find Revelation amusing – was a better means of keeping a foothold in the reality that lay outside Chapman Farm, and even broke the chanting habit, because she trained herself to imagine Strike grinning at her when she found herself doing it. Not once did it occur to Robin that she might have imagined talking to Murphy, or any of her female friends, rather than Strike. She was desperately looking forward to his next letter, partly because she wanted to hear his opinion on the Polaroids she’d placed in the plastic rock the previous Thursday, but also because the sight of his handwriting proved he was real, not just a useful figment of her imagination.

The journey across the dark field and through the woods the following Thursday was her easiest so far, because the route through the trees was becoming familiar. When she opened the plastic rock and turned on the torch, she saw the longest letter from Strike yet, and two Cadbury’s Flakes. Only as she began unwrapping one of these and easing herself into position behind a tree, to make sure her torchlight wasn’t visible to anyone who might be looking through the woods from the farm, did she realise there was no note from Ryan. Too nervous and ravenous to worry about that now, she began gobbling down the chocolate while reading Strike’s letter.

Hi,

Your last was very interesting indeed. The tin you described dates from 1987. Assuming the person who took the Polaroids owned the tin, and assuming the tin was taken to the farm when new, it got there before the church started, which might suggest our amateur pornographer was there in the commune days, even if his models arrived later. Could be the Crowthers, Coates, Wace himself, Rust Andersen, or someone we don’t know about. I’m inclined to discount the Crowthers or Coates, because they specialised in pre-pubescents. The blonde girl’s hair looks like Cherie Gittins’, though obviously there could have been more than one blonde, curly haired girl there. I also wondered about the boy with the tattoo on his arm. Shanker’s got me a date with Jordan Reaney, so I’ll ask him if he’s got any skulls up his sleeve.

Other news: Frank One posted a birthday card through the client’s door. Hard to prosecute over that, but Barclay’s found out one brother’s a flasher and the other one’s got previous for stalking. I called Wardle and I think/hope the police are going to pay them a visit.

We’re still lumbered with Littlejohn, unfortunately. Wardle recommended an ex-copper and I interviewed him, but he’s taken a job with Patterson instead. Says the pay’s better. News to me, Dev says they pay less than we do. Maybe he just thought I was a dick.

Pat’s in a bad mood.

Murphy apologises for the lack of letter, he’s had to go up north. Sends his best.

Take care of yourself in there and any time you want to leave, we’re ready.

S x

Robin now unwrapped the second chocolate bar, propped the pile of blank paper on her knee and began to write back, pausing regularly to take more bites of Flake and try and recall everything she needed to tell Strike.

Having apologised for not having anything new on Will Edensor, she continued:

I told you about the two girls who let the little boy escape. Both have had their heads shaved. It’s clearly a punishment, which means Louise and Emily Pirbright have been punished, too, but I don’t yet know why. I haven’t been able to talk to Emily Pirbright again. Two nights ago I also saw the back of the black girl, whose bed’s a couple away from mine. It had weird marks on it as if she’d been dragged along the floor. I haven’t had any opportunity to talk to her. The trouble is, everyone in here shuns/avoids people who’ve been told off or punished, so it’s very obvious if you make overtures to them.

I’ve heard more about Jacob from a girl who’s been helping look after him. She says he’s getting better (not sure that’s true) and that people ‘like him’ are euthanised in the materialist –

Catching herself, Robin crossed the word out.

– materialist outside world. She also said people like Jacob don’t really understand about the false self and the pure spirit so they can’t heal themselves. Will keep an ear out for more.

We’re now in the middle of a lot of lectures on how you become pure spirit. There are nine steps and the third is when you start committing a lot of money to the church, to divest yourself of materialism. I’m a bit worried about what’s going to happen when they expect me to start setting up bank transfers, given that they think I can afford £1k handbags.

I don’t want to come out yet –

Robin paused here, listening to the rustling leaves, her back sore from leaning against the knobbly bark of the tree, her backside and thighs damp from the wet grass. What she’d written was a lie: she very much wanted to leave. The thought of her flat, her comfortable bed and a return to the office were incredibly tempting, but she was certain staying would provide opportunities to find something incriminating against the church that would be impossible from the outside.