‘Bit of a problem ...’ said Heather getting her breath back, ‘vandalism.’
(Vandalism? A crisp packet?)
‘Compton Dando’s rather a spiritual desert. No one’s really soul-aware.’
(So what’s new?)
‘We link up with extra-terrestrials of course for interplanetary cleansing ...’
(You do what?)
‘But Hilarion says till our akashic records are given egoic clearance, earth will remain locked into the same lethal agenda.’
‘Hilarion? Your husband?’
‘Oh ... oh.’ Heather chuckled, slopping in all directions. ‘Hilarion’s been dead for hundreds of years.’
(Jesus.)
‘But you still talk to him?’
‘Ken does. He’s clair audient. A channel for the great ones to come through. He wrote all Shakespeare’s plays you know.’
(Did I leave a number at the office?)
Ave sat down in the porch and produced a tape recorder from her bag and a mike like a bulbous grey sponge. ‘I just want a bit of background. If you could tell me briefly how many people live here, what your general beliefs are. If you’re into UFOs - that kind of thing.’
But Heather had hardly drawn attention to the multi-stellar glories of the soon-to-be-expected Venusian reconnaissance before Ave was asking how Guy Gamelin came on the scene and what could Heather tell the Pitch’s readers about the habits of the murdered man.
‘Are there a lot of young girls here for instance?’ Heather looked bewildered. ‘Boys then?’ Even more so. The mike went back in the bag. ‘OK, I’ll fill in the details later.’ Ave rose and lifted the wooden latch on the front door. ‘This is the country all right. Leave your place unlocked for two minutes in London, somebody does you over. Terry ...’ Her voice raucoused up a notch. ‘We’re going in.’
‘Right.’
‘Could you please keep ... if you wouldn’t mind ... not shouting ...’
Heather’s heart, only just settling down after her tempestuous marathon, was once more beating fast. She wondered where Ken had got to and looked round anxiously. A vague belief in the law of averages left her certain that if a house held eight people, the time must surely be close when one of them should appear, or at least glance out of the window.
‘Ave ...’ she plucked at the denim arm. ‘Miss Rokeby ...’
‘Ave’s fine.’
Terry pushed past Heather and a moment later all three were in the hall. Ave said, ‘God - this smells like my old convent,’ and started to wander round, the metal tips on her heels savagely scoring the venerable boards.
‘’Ullo, ‘’ullo.’ Terry was standing by the round table which held the pamphlets and wooden bowls. Ignoring the ‘Guilty’ card, he picked up the one marked ‘Love Offering’. ‘This where you put your names when you want a bit is it?’ He sniggered and turned his attention to the reading matter. Hugs and Laughter Workshop. How to Nurture Your Spiritual Tool.
‘Who turns out this stuff?’ He waved Ken’s Romance of the Enema.
‘Different people.’ Heather went over, saying pridefully, ‘We’re all writers here. My husband’s responsible for that one. It’s done terribly well. The Health Shop in Causton sold out the first week.’
‘No shit?’ said Terry, throwing the leaflet down.
‘Could I ask you,’ Heather restacked neatly, ‘please to ...’ But he was off again, shooting the staircase and gallery.
‘Ave?’
‘Uh-huh?’ She was opening the elder of the chests, dragging out some curtains.
‘The thing is we decided ... Ken and myself ... that we’d rather talk to you outside. In the village perhaps. There’s a nice little pub -’
‘Forget it.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Away from the sunlight, Heather could see how sallow the other woman’s skin was, how dry her hair. Despite the mini skirt she wasn’t really young at all.
‘We talk here because this is where it happened, OK? And Terry’ll want some piccies of the actual room.’
‘You can’t do that!’ Horrified, Heather looked round and round again as if the very suggestion might materialise wrathful inmates. ‘The Solar is a holy place kept strictly for prayer and meditation.’
‘You could have fooled me,’ said Ave, and she and Terry guffawed.
‘Human interest, darlin’,’ said Terry. ‘A quick flash won’t do it any harm.’ He danced about as he spoke. On the move all the while, the camera nosing everywhere. Reversing images, pinning them down. Wheeze, click. Wheeze, click. Hammer beams, stone Buddha, the glorious lantern. Heather stared, both fascinated and repelled by the impersonality of the thing. It was horrible - like something in a science-fiction film. A black and silver one-eyed metal brain between two hairy paws, swinging, staring, recording. Threatening. A movement in the corridor made her jump.
But it was only Ken. He approached limping, left arm folded diagonally across his breast - the hand, open-palmed, resting against his shoulder. The right hand held a flower. He was draped in a mass of dingy cheesecloth with a green sash and he wore his headband with the blue tiger’s eye crystal. His moustache was newly trimmed.
Murmuring, ‘Blimey - a master of the universe,’ Terry clicked again.
‘Where have you been?’ Heather ran to her husband. ‘Leaving me on my own!’ Then, noting his look of displeasure, ‘it’s not my fault. They just pushed in.’
‘Not to worry.’ Ken put her calmly aside. ‘I’ll handle everything now.’ He approached Ave and bowed, the crystal swinging out and clunking back again. ‘We will only discuss matters relevant to the current issue off the premises. So ... if you please ...’ He walked to the door opened it and waited.
Ave returned to the chest and discovered some old copies of the Middle Way and a broken lamp shade. Terry knelt in front of the Buddha, screwing himself right round in an attempt to get a wide-nostrilled distortion of its calm and placid countenance. This action had hiked up his jeans, and nylon socks became clearly visible. They seemed to express his essential philosophy. One was covered with the word ‘get’ in many languages, its fellow said ‘stuffed’.
Ken cleared his throat and said, ‘Excuse me -’
‘I’ve tried all that,’ cried Heather. ‘Why don’t you listen?’
Tension combined with all the running had started a pain in her chest. Control of the situation had quite slipped away, if indeed it had ever been within her grasp. She sensed an unpleasant tightening in the atmosphere. A determined energy running back and forth between the two visitors. They hardly conferred, yet seemed to know each other’s ways like a crack team of whippers in.
‘Where’s this solar, then?’ When there was no reply, Terry said: ‘Come on, come on.’ A hard Cockney barrow-boy whine. Cam orn ... cam orn ... He bounced on the balls of his feet, perky and aggressive, a boxer looking for an opening. ‘Did you ask us down or didn’t you?’
‘Ask you down?’
The words boomed out above their heads and, briefly, Terry and Ave were disoriented. Then they saw at the top of the grand staircase a female figure magnificently clad in a flowing multicoloured robe, the bodice of which was adorned by a glittering crescent moon. A lofty mass of auburn hair added to this creature’s already splendid height.
Terry muttered, ‘Funky bisons,’ and took aim. Dimly in the light from all this reflected radiance, he perceived another person. A slender girl in a green and gold sari positioned, like a handmaid, one step behind. As the flash went off, she turned quickly away, covering her face with a fold of silk.