Blinded By The Light
Blinded By The Light
Sherry Ashworth
A gripping thriller about a teenage boy sucked into the dark world of a cult.Eighteen-year-old Joe is bored. Stuck at home after a bout of glandular fever, all his friends have left Manchester and gone to university, leaving Joe with nothing but his rather annoying family for company. When he meets Kate and Nick on the train, something about them appeals to him. So he goes to see them at their commune, a farm in rural Todmorden.Gradually, Joe’s life starts to make sense. With the White Ones he is wanted, and his life has a purpose. When he meets Bea at the farm, he really feels that his life is complete, and he decides to leave his family and live with the White Ones forever.But there is something sinister about Fletcher, the Todmorden White Ones leader. Fletcher seems obsessed with Joe – convinced that he is a Perfect, and someone to be venerated. A dramatic trip to the wildest reaches of Orkney will show Joe his destiny – and reveal some shocking truths.
BLINDED BY THE LIGHT
SHERRY ASHWORTH
Copyright (#ulink_e48a7599-f69b-5b52-af77-fc1958278609)
Published by HarperCollins Children’s Books
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by CollinsFlamingo 2003
Text copyright © Sherry Ashworth 2003
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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Source ISBN: 9780007123360
Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2012 ISBN: 9780007394944
Version: 2016-05-19
Dedication (#ulink_987f9191-1984-57fb-af9c-cf5d6f946bb2)
Thanks to Linda Kerr, Robyn Ashworth, Jonathan Abel
For Greg and John
Contents
Cover (#uf8cdc933-ef17-515a-9bbd-684994355eeb)
Title Page (#u7f445495-c999-5673-ba54-ce2bf85ceadb)
Copyright (#u4796eb39-e916-5ff8-8ba8-c0fddf824a90)
Dedication (#u82e4bf46-8660-5d19-9457-95b8dafb59cb)
Part One: The Journey (#uac622aca-5fe6-59e9-94d1-1f46a014236e)
Bodies Recovered (#u59a2b839-41ff-5826-946c-4d7808ca0abe)
1. From The Preface, Rendall’s Book of Prayers (#uad148335-6cb7-5db5-9d8a-6cafea24d686)
2. From Rendall’s Parables: The Tale of the Traveller (#u4b048167-ff8e-59f4-9988-f333affe8d87)
3. From Rendall’s Laws Governing Purity: Abstinence (#u8cb4a2ef-ef61-5bbc-acce-2395ef52b58c)
4. From Rendall’s Book of Prayers: The Morning Service (#u9fc4b907-2362-56f0-9999-143495753750)
5. From Rendall’s Parables: The Tale of the Hungry Child (#ubf15181b-bf20-5676-b55a-30a67ba03fc4)
6. From Rendall’s Parables: The Tale of the Brothers (#udd1a3258-f136-5ba4-9bd4-317fe6ef60a1)
Part Two: The Arrival (#u136abfd8-dbc8-521a-9eb9-aa3f046e0a1d)
7. From Rendall’s Laws Governing Purity: Alternate Sense Deprivation (#u8b283714-1305-5668-ab13-73e774d9deb8)
8. From Rendall’s Book of Prayers: The Induction Service (#ua0344844-6639-5df6-8cbc-3de66f69528b)
9. From Rendall’s Parables: The Tale of the Stallion (#u51b183fe-8963-547e-92e2-97f5c87c1448)
10. From Selected Commentaries on Rendall: “They were male and female together.” (#u18ba05cb-26ca-50da-bdc2-5adcff00eaab)
11. Letter to all Cell Leaders: From Colin Rendall (#ufa4a794c-3324-549d-a1d9-02bdf4000467)
12. From Rendall’s Laws Governing Purity: Degrees of Passion (#u44b457e0-0abf-5c70-a3c8-d24f3946ced0)
13. From Rendall’s Laws Governing Purity: antimatter (#uffc0ec9c-302f-5e4d-a306-63bb706bf20c)
14. (#ud072d8d3-ad8b-5d0e-afab-f4604b47eeac)
15. From Rendall’s Book of Prayers: Prayer for Recovery (#u83293648-f60a-5329-9993-f3f120c32507)
Part Three: The Revelation (#u10db8e14-266c-55b0-ac1f-f2eeec503e82)
16. Bea’s Story (#ua3926c85-24ab-59ae-9769-bb1019036f6a)
17. (#ua8939757-e65a-50d9-a29d-28312cd17587)
18. Bea’s Story (#u8a26820f-3b84-51a6-8883-370cb2e842c0)
19. (#uc337b1e4-7bbf-5ef1-9ea3-0ebc6c550408)
20. Bea’s Story (#ue9b8e9d2-ab4e-52e5-8215-f2ddb3cf8b24)
21. (#u95af41ec-6eff-538a-982b-6ffac8975865)
22. Bea’s Story (#uab6108e5-0db4-54cd-8a7a-97ff6c9f7ea2)
23. (#u52e4c51a-96d8-559f-b6d5-10cf0f3bb7e4)
24. Bea’s Story (#u2f1af92a-22c4-59b9-8bc2-f1bbda4c50f0)
25. (#uc0b21f17-50d1-5e0b-8648-d5c98ae0f71d)
26. Bea’s Story (#u72703a51-0609-515f-bf2b-f6aed0beef60)
27. (#u22a3111f-252d-5eb0-b58e-0d9c518c6c3c)
28. Bea’s Story (#u967483ac-7a1a-592e-8bf0-9cf9ac5605a5)
29. (#u61cd2395-8ae5-505a-adf2-c1c9263f9622)
Keep Reading (#u8e5e9e79-4d69-592d-b988-c0579cb2aeae)
About the Author (#u69f35deb-c0df-5d4a-9f54-54b7071953b7)
By the Same Author (#u84a7b4da-a180-53e1-9435-b415e5ad9f9c)
About the Publisher (#u5b2316e6-78ff-5a84-afab-f6600e46d458)
PART ONETHE JOURNEY (#ulink_9d596dc5-b34c-5cf2-a727-0cd24a510423)
BODIES RECOVERED (#ulink_294c010d-439e-5d53-98ec-19d34ab4fb59)
The Orcadian April 5th, 1969
The bodies of Matthew Chalmers, 20, and Trevor Norrington-Smith, 21, were recovered today from Hoy Sound.
The young men, together with another friend, Colin Rendall, were students at Cambridge University, holidaying in Orkney. The accident occurred on Saturday evening, when the three men took a boat out for a midnight row. Rendall managed to stay afloat until he was picked up by Angus Middleton, 66, a retired fisherman, who had witnessed the capsizing from his bedroom window. Rendall was flown to Aberdeen, where he is recovering in hospital with his father by his bedside.
Police are refusing to comment on how the accident could have happened. The inquest will take place in Kirkwall after Easter.
1. From The Preface, Rendall’s Book of Prayers (#ulink_1aa99802-0f8c-50cd-9ee5-351e1e206899)
The pain and struggle ceased. I was travelling without effort, moving towards the Light. Where there had been terror, there was now beauty, and peace beyond all understanding. An angel swathed in brightness stood by a table. On it was the Book. White pages, whiter words, thousands upon thousands of them. In essence they said, be free, be pure, do not despair of Perfection. The Book remained inscribed in my head and heart. My purpose was clear.
Didn’t feel like talking to anyone. I was pissed off, to tell you the truth. I’d been on my own since two o’clock when Phil had to go to band practice and left me in the middle of campus.
“Great seeing you, Joe,” he’d said, thumping me in the ribs. I thumped him back even harder. We grinned at each other.
“The sixty or sixty-one’ll take you near the station,” he’d said. “Come up again. Any time, like.”
“Sure,” I said. I thought, I might, but then again, I might not. I slung my overnight bag over my shoulders and set out for the bus stop.
Hell, it wasn’t Phil’s fault. If all had gone according to plan I wouldn’t have been in Birmingham, or even in England for that matter. I would have been in a village in Kenya digging, or teaching kids, or doing some other GAP voluntary work. But just after my A2s, my throat swelled up like a balloon. I lay in bed for weeks – glandular fever.
At first I was too ill to care. Life was just Mum changing damp sheets, pain, nightmarish dreams. Then I was as weak as a baby. When Tasha came to see me she looked taken aback. I date the end of our relationship from that moment. But who could blame her? I was hardly sex on legs. I couldn’t even struggle on to my legs for that matter. Tasha shoved some flowers down by my bed, pecked me on the cheek, and stressed a bit about her forthcoming results.
But it was OK in the end. She got her place at Oxford, went up in October and was mesmerised by the whole experience. She sent me a couple of emails about the college and how cool it was, the amazing people she’d met, the course being harder than she thought, more about the amazing people and parties, and then there was the email which started, I don’t know how to tell you this… You can guess the rest.
To tell you the truth, I wasn’t really gutted. I saw it coming. But put together with the fact that I had to cancel the overseas stuff because I still wasn’t a hundred per cent, and all my mates were off at uni, and I was living at home, it was a bit of a bummer. OK, I was gutted. Tasha and I had been going out for ten months, which was a long time for me. And I liked having a girlfriend. The weird thing is, even when you’re close to your mates, as I was – as I am – you don’t talk to them in the same way as you do a girl. You say stuff to her you wouldn’t say to anyone else. You do things, too, but that’s another story.
But please don’t get the impression I was a loser. That’s never been the case, which was why being at a loose end that November was getting me down. I wasn’t used to it. As soon as I was well, I got myself some work – nights in a pub pulling pints and lugging crates around, and weekends in Electric Avenue selling geeks the latest PC, PlayStation and Dreamcast games. So I wasn’t short of cash. Or invitations. Dave, Rich and Phil all asked me to stay, and I took Phil up on it. So I spent two nights on his floor, both times in a drunken stupor. It was good, kind of.
But like I said, he had to go to band practice, and I made my own way back to Birmingham New Street.
Nowhere is more depressing than a railway station on a Sunday afternoon. There’s a kind of sour, dusty smell. People look fed up; they stand around eating junk food and swigging Coke. Their luggage makes them look like refugees. But you can’t help feeling that where they’re going to might be worse than where they’re coming from. You feel yourself becoming more trashy by the minute, sidling up to the newsstand and reading all the tabloid headlines about scandalous celebrity love lives – as if I gave a toss about which plastic bimbo went to bed with which braindead footballer. I’m tempted to buy the paper anyway – something to read, innit? But then again, I’m almost out of cash and I might want a coffee on the train.
I feel myself getting depressed and I don’t like it. It’s not me. I’ve had this a few times since the glandular fever, a sort of heaviness washing over me. I fight it by walking up and down the platform, reading the ads for frothy paperbacks for women with boring lives. I look down the line to see if the train’s coming. Gotta keep moving. The train should be here any minute now. And sure enough there’s a dot in the distance that grows into the front of an engine and, yes, it gets bigger and is arriving at my platform.
So I’m moving through the carriages to find my reserved seat, taking involuntary snapshots of people’s faces: Chinese guy reading a paper, couple of chubby pensioners with sandwiches in plastic bags, good-looking girl staring sullenly out of the window, fat bloke asleep with his mouth hanging open. I finally reach my seat and discover I’m on my own; mine is the window seat and the other three seats are empty, having only reservation tickets sitting on the top of them like shrunken hats. I get my Walkman and phone out of my bag and settle down. I glance at my mobile and want someone to text me. And with a jolt and a lurch the train moves forward.
I reckon it’ll take about two hours to get to Manchester, more if there’s works on the line, which there usually are. The guard announces all the stops, and then another voice takes over to talk about the buffet. When I was a kid I used to like train journeys, but this one feels like another form of waiting, which is all I ever seem to be doing at the moment. Waiting for texts, for phone calls, for next year when I start uni, for something – anything – to happen. Even when I go out to try to make something happen, nothing happens. Or I drink too much and forget what happened. I feel that slide into depression again and stop it by trying to remember the joke Phil’s mate told which had us falling about. Then I look out of the window, through the smears and grime. The train stops and starts. I see embankments with rubbish strewn down them, scrubby old plants. And then we pull up in Wolverhampton. And wait. And move again.
It comes as a shock when I realise the couple moving along the carriage in my direction are going to come and sit opposite me. But they check their tickets and acknowledge to each other that this is the right place. I sort of watch them. They can’t be much older than me. Girl has brown hair in bunches, a good figure, jeans, white sweatshirt. Bloke looks thin; he’s wearing a denim jacket over a white T-shirt, cream combats. Students? They don’t look seedy enough. I wonder if they’re an item but they don’t make body contact – I get the weird impression they must be brother and sister. She gives me a shy smile and he nods in a friendly way But like I said before, I don’t feel like talking to anyone.
So off we go. I try to go back to my previous stupor, but the presence of the couple opposite stops me. It’s hard sitting with someone and not interacting – it seems rude. But there’s two of them and only one of me, so I won’t make the first move. She’s pretty, the girl, brown eyes, heavy lids, well-defined lips – a thoughtful face. I can see her as a singer in a folk band in the sixties, say. The bloke is harder to place. He has to be a student – maybe the sporty type? Nah, he’s too skinny for that. But what’s intriguing me is their total ease with each other, and I can’t reconcile it with the read-out I’m getting that they aren’t a couple.
Yet they can’t be brother and sister because they’re being nice to each other. I have a sister – Gemma – who irritates the hell out of me. And even when we’re getting on, I’m always taking the mick, because that’s what you do with sisters. Sure, this couple opposite could be platonic friends, but I have my doubts. I don’t believe in platonic friendship. Take Tasha; she wants to be friends – I can’t stand the thought of losing your friendship, Joe! Like you should have thought of that before you split with me. It was your choice, Tash. I don’t reckon a bloke and a girl can be friends without sex coming into it somehow. Unless, of course, you don’t fancy the girl one iota. But then, she might fancy you. Which is worse in a way
And so I was drifting off again when the bloke spoke to me.
“Are you going to Manchester?” he asked.
I started. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Us too.” His voice, his body language all gave away that he wanted to talk. So I couldn’t see that I had a choice.
“We’re running late,” I said.
The girl joined in now. “Yeah. Half an hour, they said at Wolverhampton. We’ve been staying with friends from the university there.”
“Yeah, I was with a mate from Birmingham.”
“Are you a student too?” she asked.
“Will be. Next year. It’s my gap year,” I said. Weird how it’s easier to talk about yourself to strangers. I could feel my earlier reluctance to speak dissolving. I liked the way this girl was taking an interest in me.
“Cool,” she said. “What are your plans?”
I explained about the glandular fever and how I was earning money so I could travel – backpack, maybe – in the spring. I didn’t tell her that I seemed to be spending most of it on clothes and CDs and booze.
“Where are you thinking of going?” the bloke asked. He had bleached hair, wore glasses with thin black frames.
“Maybe Thailand, or India. I haven’t really looked into it yet.”
The girl smiled. “Nick’s been to India.”
I looked interested. I was, a bit. “Backpacking?”
“No. Teaching,” he said. “I was involved with a scheme that sent classroom assistants to Indian schools. I lived there for six months.”
I was impressed, and jealous, too. But this bloke – Nick – he didn’t seem as if he wanted to go on about it. I appreciated that. Still, I was curious.
“Did you live with Indians, like?”
“I had lodgings in a house and shared a room with one of the other assistants. A lot of the Indian families gave us hospitality. India changes you – you look at the world differently afterwards.”
“You mean, coming to terms with the poverty and that?”
“Yeah,” Nick nodded. “That, and just comparing other cultures. And it makes you appreciate different things about living here.”
“Like what?” I asked.
Nick paused before he answered, as if my question had made him think.
“The freedom to move about,” he said, which wasn’t what I was expecting. I found myself cheering up. It put me in a better mood to be able to talk about something not to do with my life.
“Have you travelled?” I asked the girl.
She shook her head deprecatingly. Yeah, she was pretty Not my type, but pretty.
“I’ve not had the chance yet. I did my art foundation course last year and I’m hoping to go on to college next year, but right now I’m getting some cash together.”
“Sounds familiar,” I said.
We all smiled, as if it was us three against the world, cash-strapped and just travelling. It was great, finding people to talk to like this, people I could relate to. I revelled in my luck at actually sitting opposite this couple, rather than a Palm-Pilot-obsessed man-in-a-suit, or a family with noisy kids. And weirdly, the sun made a last effort to brighten up the late afternoon sky Fields rushed by on both sides.
“So you live in Manchester too?” I asked them.
Nick answered. “Not in Manchester exactly. Just outside Todmorden. West Yorkshire.”
“Yeah – I know it well.”
“We share a house there.”
“Like, together?” I mumbled. I was fishing to see if they were boyfriend and girlfriend.
The girl laughed. “Not together in the way you mean! There are a few of us. We’re renting an old farmhouse.”
“Nice one!” That sounded great to me.
“What about you? I’m Kate, by the way” The name suited her. It was fresh and wholesome. And by now my tongue had loosened. My earlier blues had lifted completely Words were coming easily
“I still live with my parents – no choice, if I’m going to get some funds together. I probably wouldn’t mind if I’d planned to stay at home, but I imagined myself somewhere completely different. But I’m not complaining – they stay out of my hair. But it’s their place, know what I mean?”
Kate nodded vehemently Nick asked if I wanted anything from the buffet. I thanked him and asked for a coffee. I offered him the money but he was adamant in refusing it. This left me and Kate.
“I bet you have lots of friends, though?” she asked.
“Yeah, but they’re all at uni. Not all of them,” I corrected myself “but the crowd I went around with last year have all gone.”
“Your school friends, you mean?”
“Yeah, mainly”
“Which A2s did you take?”
“Maths, Politics, Economics. Actually, I’ve got a place to study law next year. At Bristol.” I said this to impress her. She seemed the sort to fall for that. She was, too. She raised her eyebrows and smiled.
“Why law?”
“Well, I got fed up with all of my A2s. I couldn’t see myself studying any one of them exclusively And even though I know law doesn’t guarantee you a job, it must improve your chances. But I don’t see myself as one of those city lawyers raking it in through extortionate fees.”
Kate was nodding, as if she emphatically agreed with me.
“I’d like to get involved with legal aid,” I continued, “helping the sort of people who find themselves outside the system. What appeals to me is representing people who can’t represent themselves.”
At that point Nick came back with drinks – a coffee for me, a fruit juice for Kate and a bottle of water for him.
“Nick – he wants to be – you haven’t told us your name yet!”
“Joe. Joe Woods,” I said.
“Joe’s going to be a lawyer.”
“But as I was saying to Kate, not at the business end. With the underprivileged.” This was a kind of reverse boasting. It was true, everything I said, but I hoped they would see me as a nice guy I wanted to create a good impression, and so I selected the things about me that I felt would go down well. Doesn’t everybody do that?
“But a lot of the people I was at college with were studying for a good job, pure and simple,” Nick said, unscrewing his bottle of water. “It was all about money”
“I know what you mean. But that pisses me off. Like, it’s a pretty meaningless world if you’re only looking after number one. To me, job satisfaction isn’t just about your salary, but about feeling you’ve done good.”
“Oh, I so agree with you!” Kate said.
“Are you religious? A Christian, or something?” Nick asked.
It was a fair question. I was painting myself as a bit of an altruist.
“Religious? Me? I can’t get my head round any of that stuff. It seems to me every religion asks you to believe things that can’t be true.”
Nick nodded. “Without ever giving you any proof.”
“Yeah – that’s right. I mean, I wouldn’t knock other people’s belief because it comforts them. But to me, thinking there’s a God is like kids believing in Father Christmas. It would be nice if it was true. But it ain’t.” I thought I sounded rather cynical so I backtracked a bit. “Don’t get me wrong – I’m not knocking morality – just Church and that.”
Kate nodded enthusiastically again. It was amazing to meet someone who agreed with me so much. I liked her. I also liked the way both of them were listening to me. It gave me the confidence to carry on spouting, hoping I’d hit on something else that built me up in their eyes.
“And school assemblies – what an exercise in hypocrisy! All those people singing hymns and not one person believing in any of it. Even the Head. Especially the Head.”
Kate laughed.
“It was the same where I was,” Nick reflected.
I took the lid off my coffee as it had cooled down. “What do you do?” I asked him.
“Freelance web design, working from home.”
It was my turn to be impressed. Kate interrupted.
“But I was interested in what you were saying. That you think people need to believe in something.”
“Yeah, that’s right. For some people it’s God, for others a football team. Or hero worship.”
“Hero worship?”
I was mouthing off now, but I didn’t care. Kate and Nick were a good audience. I rabbited about Gemma and her bedroom full of pop stars, and how growing up was about smashing idols. How unbelief was maturity How the world was a tough place and exploited by people who want to sell you stuff. I admitted I wore Nike trainers and Gap jeans, but only in an ironic way. Kate laughed again. We discussed how difficult it was to know where products came from these days, how hard it was to be an ethical consumer. Crewe. Macclesfield. We talked about music and films. We complained about the latest Hollywood blockbuster. I remembered the joke Phil’s mate told, and Nick was nearly crying with laughter. Stockport. The journey was nearly at an end. I had this crazy idea of suggesting we go for a drink, but something stopped me. What if they didn’t want to?
We pulled into Piccadilly. It turned out they were taking the tram to Victoria, so I went with them. We stood by the doors, chatting, as the tram rattled through a Manchester temporarily closed for business. Market Street was dead.
“You ought to come up and see us,” Nick said, as the tram clattered into Victoria.
“Yeah!” Kate said. “We’re having a get-together next Saturday Can you get up to Todmorden?”
“Sure,” I said. “I reckon I can borrow the car.”
Kate’s face lit up. I wondered for a moment if she fancied me, and I was flattered. Nick busily wrote some details on a scrap of paper – the address, some rough directions, a phone number.
“It’ll be a good night,” he said. “Give yourself a break and get some country air.”
I smiled as I knew that was a joke. Todmorden was hardly the country They got out and waved goodbye, and as the tram moved out of the station I watched them walk in the direction of the trains.
I found myself a seat now and settled down, smiling. It had been a good journey after all. Nick and Kate were sound. They were interesting, good listeners, a bit more to them than a lot of people I met. We talked, rather than just messed around. I wondered why. Perhaps it was because neither of them was fresh out of school. They were more mature – and they seemed to like me. OK, so I was flattered. Who wouldn’t be?
I tried to imagine what their house would be like, and speculated who their other housemates might be. If I had too much to drink, would they let me kip on the floor? Did they do weed?
Then I thought, would I actually have the courage to go all the way to Todmorden? I would have, if I had my mates with me. Alone, it seemed more difficult. What if I was to turn up and they’d forgotten who I was? I’d have to think about it and decide what to do. Whatever, it was good to have the option. I looked at the piece of paper Nick had given me. I had somewhere to go next Saturday night. Things were looking up.
2. From Rendall’s Parables: The Tale of the Traveller (#ulink_3eb645f1-f851-5e00-bd8a-708d28239ca0)
A Traveller is lost in a Wilderness. Despairing of ever finding his way out, he builds himself a shelter, a garden and a maze, in which he wanders endlessly. How can he be freed? By a journey towards the source of the Light.
It was a pretty average sort of week. Monday I slept in late, did a bit of cleaning otherwise Mum would hit the roof, emailed some friends, but said nothing about Kate and Nick to anyone, not even Phil. I read a bit, watched MTV. Last year I would have killed to be able to do nothing like this all day; now I feel like life is a head-to-head game with boredom.
Tuesday – much the same, except I went into Manchester and looked round the shops. I was getting low again. Sometimes Manchester strikes me as the best place to live – home of United, Oasis, Coronation Street – even when you meet people from other places and they take the rise out of you for your northern accent. At night, down Deansgate, the clubs in the village, girls walking down the middle of the road mad for it, you feel there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. But other times, when the sky is loaded with grey rain clouds and the smell of burger stalls hangs around and makes you sick, you wonder. All the shops are the same – HMV, Virgin, Our Price; Next, Top Shop, Burton; JD Sports, JJB Sports – you’re supposed to have all this choice but you can never find anything you want. I get to thinking that life never delivers. I have this feeling on some days that anything’s possible, that round the next corner it will happen – whatever it is – that there’s a prize waiting for me, and me alone. But I haven’t found it yet and I reckon that maybe I never will. That’s Manchester melancholy for you.
Wednesday was better because I had a shift at the Red King. It gave some focus to my day. Since I was working late, I had to sleep in, didn’t I? I began to think about whether to go to Todmorden at the weekend. I even got as far as asking my dad if I could have the car, and to my amazement he said yes. But by now I was feeling nervous. Sunday seemed a long time ago and maybe Nick was just being polite. A lot of people find it hard to say a plain goodbye and kid you with I’ll ring you, speak soon. Crap like that. I know, I’ve done it often enough. I reckoned, if something else came up, I’d give Todmorden a miss. Nick and Kate’s address was in the drawer by the computer. Lower Fold Farm, Lumbutts, near Todmorden.
There was fun and games that evening. Dad came home and opened the telephone bill.
“Bloody hell!” he shouted.
Mum, Gemma and I were in the lounge watching TV. I saw Gemma go dead still. Mum just raised her eyebrows. Dad came storming in, talking to us as if we were skiving employees.
“It’s over a hundred pounds this month. I just don’t credit it! What’s this? Eight pounds seventy-two to a mobile number? Which of you made that call?”
I saw Mum tapping her foot in irritation at Dad’s bad temper. Meanwhile Gemma’s eyes were glued to the local news. I felt it would be disloyal of me to say the call wasn’t mine (it wasn’t), so I just shrugged and grinned at my dad.
Well, as they say, the best form of defence is attack, and Gemma was no slouch as a military strategist. She suddenly bounced up from the sofa.
“Why are you all staring at me? You think it’s me, don’t you?” (It was.) “I get blamed for everything in this family! It’s so unfair! Other people use the phone, you know.”
“Fiona?” my dad said, passing the buck. It killed me how Dad never had the guts to tell Gemma off. He always went through my mum.
“Was it you?” Mum asked Gemma.
“That’s not the POINT, is it!”
I just kept my mouth shut. Dad ranted on.
“I just don’t understand why you have to be on the phone all the time. Absolute waste of money. Next time, you pay me back.”
“Like I have my own private income,” muttered Gemma.
So Dad marched upstairs, tail between his legs. Gemma sighed expressively and settled down in front of the TV. I couldn’t tell whether she was bothered or not. She’s quite good at cutting out the things she doesn’t want to hear. This didn’t include her mobile, which announced the arrival of another text. She’s all right, really, my sister, but she’s just typically fifteen – into boys, friends, gossip, all the girlie stuff. I tease her sometimes about being such a clone until she loses her rag, but she makes sure we’re never bad friends for too long, as she fancies most of my mates.
I went into the kitchen to get a coffee before work and Mum followed me out, as I thought she would.
“Your father,” she said, shaking her head. “Why does he have to come home and stir it up? I find it difficult enough to manage Gemma as it is.”
“He’ll have forgotten about it by the time he comes downstairs,” I said.
Mum just grumbled. She tends to use me as a sympathetic ear. When my GAP plans fell through she told me she was only too pleased to have me at home for another year, and she meant it. She once said I was her safety valve, whatever that meant. I’m certainly a bit of a go-between in the family Mum moans about Dad, Dad moans about Mum, Gemma moans about both of them, and they both moan about Gemma. Welcome to the Woods family.
Not that any of this was serious. Life in our house was much better than a lot of the families I knew. It was more that I’d outgrown them, which was natural. I was pleased to get to the Red King that night, even though there was a darts match on and we never stopped. So the next day I was shattered – I still wasn’t back to pre-glandular fever fitness levels. Then the pub again in the evening. And so on. And then it was Saturday.
It was slack at Electric Avenue and I did more than my fair share of staring into space. I’d decided more or less not to go to Todmorden. It just seemed too much effort. I thought I’d have an early night instead, gather my strength.
Kevin, the deputy manager, sidled over. He wasn’t much older than me, and because of that, he liked to throw his weight around, in my direction.
“Have you brought out the new Golf Tournament?”
I nodded.
“Got to keep you busy,” he said, only half joking. He was dressed in a flashy suit and his hair was brittle with gel. His eyes darted about the shop and were held by some girl who’d come in and was hunting through the GameBoy games. He nudged me conspiratorially. Kevin was pretty disgusting. He’d relay to the shop floor exactly what he got up to every weekend. Not that any of us wanted to know. When a bloke came into the store and put a proprietorial arm around the girl’s waist, Kevin looked away.
“Not my type,” he said. “No bum.”
I made no comment. I might think things about girls, but I don’t normally say them. Most of the time.
“So,” Kevin carried on. “What are you up to this weekend?”
“My little secret,” I said, trying to sound as careless as possible.
“Come on! Who is she?”
“Girl I met last week coming back from Birmingham,” I lied.
“You’re a fast worker,” Kevin said.
I felt a shit for lying but pleased the lie took effect. And then I thought, what the hell, I might as well make the most of it.
“Yeah, an artist. Lives out in West Yorkshire. I’m going out to her place.” I sounded cool. I liked how I sounded. Of course, I knew this meant I would never go to Todmorden now. But I wasn’t going to go, anyway.
“An artist, eh? So what are you going to do? Model for her? A Life class?” Kevin sniggered.
I laughed as if to dismiss his insinuations but concede nevertheless that there might be something in them. Yeah, all right, I was right down there at his level. But it felt good to impress, even a shit like Kevin. And the lying didn’t bother me. Everybody lies, even when they don’t mean to. Then some punters drifted in and we separated.
Business picked up, and I didn’t have any more time to think, except about what would make good Christmas presents and the new features of the latest Tomb Raider. Before I knew it, it was six o’clock, and Kevin was pulling down the grille at the front of the shop. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel too tired. I waved goodbye to everyone and sauntered to the bus stop.
Waiting for the bus, my mood began to spiral downwards again, perhaps because I was alone. Being with other people lifts me, makes me act OK, even if I don’t feel OK. By myself, reality bites. The reality was that I had nothing to do and it was Saturday night. Even Gemma was out with her mates, and when I got home she’d be prancing around asking me if she should wear her pink top, or the black one, and which trousers. I’d spend the night up in my room or in front of the box with my aged parents. If my luck was really in, Dad would buy in a four-pack of lager. Great.
Lower Fold Farm, Lumbutts, near Todmorden. I’d drive down the M62 to Milnrow, then go on through Walsden. I was pretty sure that Lumbutts was on the moors, a bit further down than Walsden. It would be interesting to see the farm. Not that I would see much in the dark. Stupid idea. Maybe there were some films on Sky. The bus came.
It was weird – for the first time in ages I had some energy. I wanted to go out. I wanted to go into town with my mates, only they were scattered all over England, in different campus bars at different universities. You can’t go clubbing by yourself.
And then I had my brainwave. Stu was still around. He’d failed all his A2s and was retaking them at a local college. I got out my mobile and texted him. My luck was in. He was at home, no plans, but no money either. I texted him back. I told him about a party I knew in Tod, that I had a sort of invite to. He said he was up for it. I said I’d pick him up on my way, as he lived in Rochdale. Sorted. Even if the party was a disaster, we could have a drink or two instead.
Now I’d decided to go to Todmorden, I realised it was what I’d wanted to do all along. Because Kate and Nick were new people, they were different. Everyone was meeting new people now except for me. I wanted to have an adventure too. I wanted to start living. So I got home, reminded Dad he said I could have the car, listened to the lecture about not drinking and driving, changed into some jeans and a sweatshirt, shovelled down the dinner Mum had made, told Gemma the pink top looked better than the black. And I was in the car, stereo playing loud. I was moving, life was moving again. At last. This was more like it.
Because the music was playing so loud I didn’t hear my mobile the first couple of times. I was already driving through Rochdale and it was in between tracks before I heard the ring. I pulled over to answer. It was Stu.
He sounded like death. Apparently he’d just spent the last hour or so throwing up. Either a stomach bug, he said, or something he’d eaten. Either way, he was going to have to cancel on me. I said that it was OK, and wished him better. He said he’d ring in a few days.
So much for my Saturday night.
Then I realised I had two choices. Either I turned the car around and went home, or carried on to Todmorden. Neither appealed. But just then, going back home seemed the worse of the two alternatives. I’d been vegetating all week, and as much as I love my parents, they aren’t exactly stimulating company. Going to Tod was risking the fact Nick and Kate wouldn’t remember me, or would have changed their minds about seeing me. But on the other hand, if it was a party, I could just blend with the crowd. It dawned on me I’d never gone to a party or club by myself before. That made me smile. I teased Gemma often enough about being a pack animal, and here I was, hesitating about going to a party just because I was on my own.
That decided me. I started the engine again and drove on. I saw an off-licence and pulled in, leaving the car to get some Bacardi Breezers – I didn’t want to arrive empty-handed. I was feeling better already The roads were clear, and just as I had remembered, the way to Lumbutts was clearly signposted just outside Walsden. I put the car in second as I took several steep corners past stone-built cottages teetering on the side of the road. I crawled along, as the road was narrow. On my left the whole of Todmorden was laid out, a sprinkling of yellow lights. On my right, dark masses of hills.
Eventually the road levelled out and I was up in the moors. I guessed I must be near the Pennine Way, but it was too dark to see much. It occurred to me then I might not find it easy to locate Lower Fold Farm. So I slowed right down, checking to see no one was behind me. The road was completely empty. I was the only idiot up here on a Saturday night.
In fact Lower Fold Farm was easy to find. There was a large painted board on my right announcing it. A rough track between two gateposts led to it. I turned in carefully and was relieved to see lights were blazing from the windows. The car bounced along the track and I tried to make out the size of the farm. There was the main house, painted white, several stone outbuildings and a grey-looking caravan. A rusty Transit van and a scooter were parked outside. I was too curious to be nervous now. I left the car by the side of what looked like an old barn, locked it and made my way to the front of the house. Too late to turn back. It seemed quiet for a party. What if I’d got the wrong day? I banged on the door.
Nick opened it and seemed to recognise me immediately.
“It’s Joe!” he shouted. There were footsteps and Kate appeared, her hair flowing loose.
“I knew you’d come,” she said, smiling.
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Sherry Ashworth
A gripping thriller about a teenage boy sucked into the dark world of a cult.Eighteen-year-old Joe is bored. Stuck at home after a bout of glandular fever, all his friends have left Manchester and gone to university, leaving Joe with nothing but his rather annoying family for company. When he meets Kate and Nick on the train, something about them appeals to him. So he goes to see them at their commune, a farm in rural Todmorden.Gradually, Joe’s life starts to make sense. With the White Ones he is wanted, and his life has a purpose. When he meets Bea at the farm, he really feels that his life is complete, and he decides to leave his family and live with the White Ones forever.But there is something sinister about Fletcher, the Todmorden White Ones leader. Fletcher seems obsessed with Joe – convinced that he is a Perfect, and someone to be venerated. A dramatic trip to the wildest reaches of Orkney will show Joe his destiny – and reveal some shocking truths.
BLINDED BY THE LIGHT
SHERRY ASHWORTH
Copyright (#ulink_e48a7599-f69b-5b52-af77-fc1958278609)
Published by HarperCollins Children’s Books
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by CollinsFlamingo 2003
Text copyright © Sherry Ashworth 2003
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.
Source ISBN: 9780007123360
Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2012 ISBN: 9780007394944
Version: 2016-05-19
Dedication (#ulink_987f9191-1984-57fb-af9c-cf5d6f946bb2)
Thanks to Linda Kerr, Robyn Ashworth, Jonathan Abel
For Greg and John
Contents
Cover (#uf8cdc933-ef17-515a-9bbd-684994355eeb)
Title Page (#u7f445495-c999-5673-ba54-ce2bf85ceadb)
Copyright (#u4796eb39-e916-5ff8-8ba8-c0fddf824a90)
Dedication (#u82e4bf46-8660-5d19-9457-95b8dafb59cb)
Part One: The Journey (#uac622aca-5fe6-59e9-94d1-1f46a014236e)
Bodies Recovered (#u59a2b839-41ff-5826-946c-4d7808ca0abe)
1. From The Preface, Rendall’s Book of Prayers (#uad148335-6cb7-5db5-9d8a-6cafea24d686)
2. From Rendall’s Parables: The Tale of the Traveller (#u4b048167-ff8e-59f4-9988-f333affe8d87)
3. From Rendall’s Laws Governing Purity: Abstinence (#u8cb4a2ef-ef61-5bbc-acce-2395ef52b58c)
4. From Rendall’s Book of Prayers: The Morning Service (#u9fc4b907-2362-56f0-9999-143495753750)
5. From Rendall’s Parables: The Tale of the Hungry Child (#ubf15181b-bf20-5676-b55a-30a67ba03fc4)
6. From Rendall’s Parables: The Tale of the Brothers (#udd1a3258-f136-5ba4-9bd4-317fe6ef60a1)
Part Two: The Arrival (#u136abfd8-dbc8-521a-9eb9-aa3f046e0a1d)
7. From Rendall’s Laws Governing Purity: Alternate Sense Deprivation (#u8b283714-1305-5668-ab13-73e774d9deb8)
8. From Rendall’s Book of Prayers: The Induction Service (#ua0344844-6639-5df6-8cbc-3de66f69528b)
9. From Rendall’s Parables: The Tale of the Stallion (#u51b183fe-8963-547e-92e2-97f5c87c1448)
10. From Selected Commentaries on Rendall: “They were male and female together.” (#u18ba05cb-26ca-50da-bdc2-5adcff00eaab)
11. Letter to all Cell Leaders: From Colin Rendall (#ufa4a794c-3324-549d-a1d9-02bdf4000467)
12. From Rendall’s Laws Governing Purity: Degrees of Passion (#u44b457e0-0abf-5c70-a3c8-d24f3946ced0)
13. From Rendall’s Laws Governing Purity: antimatter (#uffc0ec9c-302f-5e4d-a306-63bb706bf20c)
14. (#ud072d8d3-ad8b-5d0e-afab-f4604b47eeac)
15. From Rendall’s Book of Prayers: Prayer for Recovery (#u83293648-f60a-5329-9993-f3f120c32507)
Part Three: The Revelation (#u10db8e14-266c-55b0-ac1f-f2eeec503e82)
16. Bea’s Story (#ua3926c85-24ab-59ae-9769-bb1019036f6a)
17. (#ua8939757-e65a-50d9-a29d-28312cd17587)
18. Bea’s Story (#u8a26820f-3b84-51a6-8883-370cb2e842c0)
19. (#uc337b1e4-7bbf-5ef1-9ea3-0ebc6c550408)
20. Bea’s Story (#ue9b8e9d2-ab4e-52e5-8215-f2ddb3cf8b24)
21. (#u95af41ec-6eff-538a-982b-6ffac8975865)
22. Bea’s Story (#uab6108e5-0db4-54cd-8a7a-97ff6c9f7ea2)
23. (#u52e4c51a-96d8-559f-b6d5-10cf0f3bb7e4)
24. Bea’s Story (#u2f1af92a-22c4-59b9-8bc2-f1bbda4c50f0)
25. (#uc0b21f17-50d1-5e0b-8648-d5c98ae0f71d)
26. Bea’s Story (#u72703a51-0609-515f-bf2b-f6aed0beef60)
27. (#u22a3111f-252d-5eb0-b58e-0d9c518c6c3c)
28. Bea’s Story (#u967483ac-7a1a-592e-8bf0-9cf9ac5605a5)
29. (#u61cd2395-8ae5-505a-adf2-c1c9263f9622)
Keep Reading (#u8e5e9e79-4d69-592d-b988-c0579cb2aeae)
About the Author (#u69f35deb-c0df-5d4a-9f54-54b7071953b7)
By the Same Author (#u84a7b4da-a180-53e1-9435-b415e5ad9f9c)
About the Publisher (#u5b2316e6-78ff-5a84-afab-f6600e46d458)
PART ONETHE JOURNEY (#ulink_9d596dc5-b34c-5cf2-a727-0cd24a510423)
BODIES RECOVERED (#ulink_294c010d-439e-5d53-98ec-19d34ab4fb59)
The Orcadian April 5th, 1969
The bodies of Matthew Chalmers, 20, and Trevor Norrington-Smith, 21, were recovered today from Hoy Sound.
The young men, together with another friend, Colin Rendall, were students at Cambridge University, holidaying in Orkney. The accident occurred on Saturday evening, when the three men took a boat out for a midnight row. Rendall managed to stay afloat until he was picked up by Angus Middleton, 66, a retired fisherman, who had witnessed the capsizing from his bedroom window. Rendall was flown to Aberdeen, where he is recovering in hospital with his father by his bedside.
Police are refusing to comment on how the accident could have happened. The inquest will take place in Kirkwall after Easter.
1. From The Preface, Rendall’s Book of Prayers (#ulink_1aa99802-0f8c-50cd-9ee5-351e1e206899)
The pain and struggle ceased. I was travelling without effort, moving towards the Light. Where there had been terror, there was now beauty, and peace beyond all understanding. An angel swathed in brightness stood by a table. On it was the Book. White pages, whiter words, thousands upon thousands of them. In essence they said, be free, be pure, do not despair of Perfection. The Book remained inscribed in my head and heart. My purpose was clear.
Didn’t feel like talking to anyone. I was pissed off, to tell you the truth. I’d been on my own since two o’clock when Phil had to go to band practice and left me in the middle of campus.
“Great seeing you, Joe,” he’d said, thumping me in the ribs. I thumped him back even harder. We grinned at each other.
“The sixty or sixty-one’ll take you near the station,” he’d said. “Come up again. Any time, like.”
“Sure,” I said. I thought, I might, but then again, I might not. I slung my overnight bag over my shoulders and set out for the bus stop.
Hell, it wasn’t Phil’s fault. If all had gone according to plan I wouldn’t have been in Birmingham, or even in England for that matter. I would have been in a village in Kenya digging, or teaching kids, or doing some other GAP voluntary work. But just after my A2s, my throat swelled up like a balloon. I lay in bed for weeks – glandular fever.
At first I was too ill to care. Life was just Mum changing damp sheets, pain, nightmarish dreams. Then I was as weak as a baby. When Tasha came to see me she looked taken aback. I date the end of our relationship from that moment. But who could blame her? I was hardly sex on legs. I couldn’t even struggle on to my legs for that matter. Tasha shoved some flowers down by my bed, pecked me on the cheek, and stressed a bit about her forthcoming results.
But it was OK in the end. She got her place at Oxford, went up in October and was mesmerised by the whole experience. She sent me a couple of emails about the college and how cool it was, the amazing people she’d met, the course being harder than she thought, more about the amazing people and parties, and then there was the email which started, I don’t know how to tell you this… You can guess the rest.
To tell you the truth, I wasn’t really gutted. I saw it coming. But put together with the fact that I had to cancel the overseas stuff because I still wasn’t a hundred per cent, and all my mates were off at uni, and I was living at home, it was a bit of a bummer. OK, I was gutted. Tasha and I had been going out for ten months, which was a long time for me. And I liked having a girlfriend. The weird thing is, even when you’re close to your mates, as I was – as I am – you don’t talk to them in the same way as you do a girl. You say stuff to her you wouldn’t say to anyone else. You do things, too, but that’s another story.
But please don’t get the impression I was a loser. That’s never been the case, which was why being at a loose end that November was getting me down. I wasn’t used to it. As soon as I was well, I got myself some work – nights in a pub pulling pints and lugging crates around, and weekends in Electric Avenue selling geeks the latest PC, PlayStation and Dreamcast games. So I wasn’t short of cash. Or invitations. Dave, Rich and Phil all asked me to stay, and I took Phil up on it. So I spent two nights on his floor, both times in a drunken stupor. It was good, kind of.
But like I said, he had to go to band practice, and I made my own way back to Birmingham New Street.
Nowhere is more depressing than a railway station on a Sunday afternoon. There’s a kind of sour, dusty smell. People look fed up; they stand around eating junk food and swigging Coke. Their luggage makes them look like refugees. But you can’t help feeling that where they’re going to might be worse than where they’re coming from. You feel yourself becoming more trashy by the minute, sidling up to the newsstand and reading all the tabloid headlines about scandalous celebrity love lives – as if I gave a toss about which plastic bimbo went to bed with which braindead footballer. I’m tempted to buy the paper anyway – something to read, innit? But then again, I’m almost out of cash and I might want a coffee on the train.
I feel myself getting depressed and I don’t like it. It’s not me. I’ve had this a few times since the glandular fever, a sort of heaviness washing over me. I fight it by walking up and down the platform, reading the ads for frothy paperbacks for women with boring lives. I look down the line to see if the train’s coming. Gotta keep moving. The train should be here any minute now. And sure enough there’s a dot in the distance that grows into the front of an engine and, yes, it gets bigger and is arriving at my platform.
So I’m moving through the carriages to find my reserved seat, taking involuntary snapshots of people’s faces: Chinese guy reading a paper, couple of chubby pensioners with sandwiches in plastic bags, good-looking girl staring sullenly out of the window, fat bloke asleep with his mouth hanging open. I finally reach my seat and discover I’m on my own; mine is the window seat and the other three seats are empty, having only reservation tickets sitting on the top of them like shrunken hats. I get my Walkman and phone out of my bag and settle down. I glance at my mobile and want someone to text me. And with a jolt and a lurch the train moves forward.
I reckon it’ll take about two hours to get to Manchester, more if there’s works on the line, which there usually are. The guard announces all the stops, and then another voice takes over to talk about the buffet. When I was a kid I used to like train journeys, but this one feels like another form of waiting, which is all I ever seem to be doing at the moment. Waiting for texts, for phone calls, for next year when I start uni, for something – anything – to happen. Even when I go out to try to make something happen, nothing happens. Or I drink too much and forget what happened. I feel that slide into depression again and stop it by trying to remember the joke Phil’s mate told which had us falling about. Then I look out of the window, through the smears and grime. The train stops and starts. I see embankments with rubbish strewn down them, scrubby old plants. And then we pull up in Wolverhampton. And wait. And move again.
It comes as a shock when I realise the couple moving along the carriage in my direction are going to come and sit opposite me. But they check their tickets and acknowledge to each other that this is the right place. I sort of watch them. They can’t be much older than me. Girl has brown hair in bunches, a good figure, jeans, white sweatshirt. Bloke looks thin; he’s wearing a denim jacket over a white T-shirt, cream combats. Students? They don’t look seedy enough. I wonder if they’re an item but they don’t make body contact – I get the weird impression they must be brother and sister. She gives me a shy smile and he nods in a friendly way But like I said before, I don’t feel like talking to anyone.
So off we go. I try to go back to my previous stupor, but the presence of the couple opposite stops me. It’s hard sitting with someone and not interacting – it seems rude. But there’s two of them and only one of me, so I won’t make the first move. She’s pretty, the girl, brown eyes, heavy lids, well-defined lips – a thoughtful face. I can see her as a singer in a folk band in the sixties, say. The bloke is harder to place. He has to be a student – maybe the sporty type? Nah, he’s too skinny for that. But what’s intriguing me is their total ease with each other, and I can’t reconcile it with the read-out I’m getting that they aren’t a couple.
Yet they can’t be brother and sister because they’re being nice to each other. I have a sister – Gemma – who irritates the hell out of me. And even when we’re getting on, I’m always taking the mick, because that’s what you do with sisters. Sure, this couple opposite could be platonic friends, but I have my doubts. I don’t believe in platonic friendship. Take Tasha; she wants to be friends – I can’t stand the thought of losing your friendship, Joe! Like you should have thought of that before you split with me. It was your choice, Tash. I don’t reckon a bloke and a girl can be friends without sex coming into it somehow. Unless, of course, you don’t fancy the girl one iota. But then, she might fancy you. Which is worse in a way
And so I was drifting off again when the bloke spoke to me.
“Are you going to Manchester?” he asked.
I started. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Us too.” His voice, his body language all gave away that he wanted to talk. So I couldn’t see that I had a choice.
“We’re running late,” I said.
The girl joined in now. “Yeah. Half an hour, they said at Wolverhampton. We’ve been staying with friends from the university there.”
“Yeah, I was with a mate from Birmingham.”
“Are you a student too?” she asked.
“Will be. Next year. It’s my gap year,” I said. Weird how it’s easier to talk about yourself to strangers. I could feel my earlier reluctance to speak dissolving. I liked the way this girl was taking an interest in me.
“Cool,” she said. “What are your plans?”
I explained about the glandular fever and how I was earning money so I could travel – backpack, maybe – in the spring. I didn’t tell her that I seemed to be spending most of it on clothes and CDs and booze.
“Where are you thinking of going?” the bloke asked. He had bleached hair, wore glasses with thin black frames.
“Maybe Thailand, or India. I haven’t really looked into it yet.”
The girl smiled. “Nick’s been to India.”
I looked interested. I was, a bit. “Backpacking?”
“No. Teaching,” he said. “I was involved with a scheme that sent classroom assistants to Indian schools. I lived there for six months.”
I was impressed, and jealous, too. But this bloke – Nick – he didn’t seem as if he wanted to go on about it. I appreciated that. Still, I was curious.
“Did you live with Indians, like?”
“I had lodgings in a house and shared a room with one of the other assistants. A lot of the Indian families gave us hospitality. India changes you – you look at the world differently afterwards.”
“You mean, coming to terms with the poverty and that?”
“Yeah,” Nick nodded. “That, and just comparing other cultures. And it makes you appreciate different things about living here.”
“Like what?” I asked.
Nick paused before he answered, as if my question had made him think.
“The freedom to move about,” he said, which wasn’t what I was expecting. I found myself cheering up. It put me in a better mood to be able to talk about something not to do with my life.
“Have you travelled?” I asked the girl.
She shook her head deprecatingly. Yeah, she was pretty Not my type, but pretty.
“I’ve not had the chance yet. I did my art foundation course last year and I’m hoping to go on to college next year, but right now I’m getting some cash together.”
“Sounds familiar,” I said.
We all smiled, as if it was us three against the world, cash-strapped and just travelling. It was great, finding people to talk to like this, people I could relate to. I revelled in my luck at actually sitting opposite this couple, rather than a Palm-Pilot-obsessed man-in-a-suit, or a family with noisy kids. And weirdly, the sun made a last effort to brighten up the late afternoon sky Fields rushed by on both sides.
“So you live in Manchester too?” I asked them.
Nick answered. “Not in Manchester exactly. Just outside Todmorden. West Yorkshire.”
“Yeah – I know it well.”
“We share a house there.”
“Like, together?” I mumbled. I was fishing to see if they were boyfriend and girlfriend.
The girl laughed. “Not together in the way you mean! There are a few of us. We’re renting an old farmhouse.”
“Nice one!” That sounded great to me.
“What about you? I’m Kate, by the way” The name suited her. It was fresh and wholesome. And by now my tongue had loosened. My earlier blues had lifted completely Words were coming easily
“I still live with my parents – no choice, if I’m going to get some funds together. I probably wouldn’t mind if I’d planned to stay at home, but I imagined myself somewhere completely different. But I’m not complaining – they stay out of my hair. But it’s their place, know what I mean?”
Kate nodded vehemently Nick asked if I wanted anything from the buffet. I thanked him and asked for a coffee. I offered him the money but he was adamant in refusing it. This left me and Kate.
“I bet you have lots of friends, though?” she asked.
“Yeah, but they’re all at uni. Not all of them,” I corrected myself “but the crowd I went around with last year have all gone.”
“Your school friends, you mean?”
“Yeah, mainly”
“Which A2s did you take?”
“Maths, Politics, Economics. Actually, I’ve got a place to study law next year. At Bristol.” I said this to impress her. She seemed the sort to fall for that. She was, too. She raised her eyebrows and smiled.
“Why law?”
“Well, I got fed up with all of my A2s. I couldn’t see myself studying any one of them exclusively And even though I know law doesn’t guarantee you a job, it must improve your chances. But I don’t see myself as one of those city lawyers raking it in through extortionate fees.”
Kate was nodding, as if she emphatically agreed with me.
“I’d like to get involved with legal aid,” I continued, “helping the sort of people who find themselves outside the system. What appeals to me is representing people who can’t represent themselves.”
At that point Nick came back with drinks – a coffee for me, a fruit juice for Kate and a bottle of water for him.
“Nick – he wants to be – you haven’t told us your name yet!”
“Joe. Joe Woods,” I said.
“Joe’s going to be a lawyer.”
“But as I was saying to Kate, not at the business end. With the underprivileged.” This was a kind of reverse boasting. It was true, everything I said, but I hoped they would see me as a nice guy I wanted to create a good impression, and so I selected the things about me that I felt would go down well. Doesn’t everybody do that?
“But a lot of the people I was at college with were studying for a good job, pure and simple,” Nick said, unscrewing his bottle of water. “It was all about money”
“I know what you mean. But that pisses me off. Like, it’s a pretty meaningless world if you’re only looking after number one. To me, job satisfaction isn’t just about your salary, but about feeling you’ve done good.”
“Oh, I so agree with you!” Kate said.
“Are you religious? A Christian, or something?” Nick asked.
It was a fair question. I was painting myself as a bit of an altruist.
“Religious? Me? I can’t get my head round any of that stuff. It seems to me every religion asks you to believe things that can’t be true.”
Nick nodded. “Without ever giving you any proof.”
“Yeah – that’s right. I mean, I wouldn’t knock other people’s belief because it comforts them. But to me, thinking there’s a God is like kids believing in Father Christmas. It would be nice if it was true. But it ain’t.” I thought I sounded rather cynical so I backtracked a bit. “Don’t get me wrong – I’m not knocking morality – just Church and that.”
Kate nodded enthusiastically again. It was amazing to meet someone who agreed with me so much. I liked her. I also liked the way both of them were listening to me. It gave me the confidence to carry on spouting, hoping I’d hit on something else that built me up in their eyes.
“And school assemblies – what an exercise in hypocrisy! All those people singing hymns and not one person believing in any of it. Even the Head. Especially the Head.”
Kate laughed.
“It was the same where I was,” Nick reflected.
I took the lid off my coffee as it had cooled down. “What do you do?” I asked him.
“Freelance web design, working from home.”
It was my turn to be impressed. Kate interrupted.
“But I was interested in what you were saying. That you think people need to believe in something.”
“Yeah, that’s right. For some people it’s God, for others a football team. Or hero worship.”
“Hero worship?”
I was mouthing off now, but I didn’t care. Kate and Nick were a good audience. I rabbited about Gemma and her bedroom full of pop stars, and how growing up was about smashing idols. How unbelief was maturity How the world was a tough place and exploited by people who want to sell you stuff. I admitted I wore Nike trainers and Gap jeans, but only in an ironic way. Kate laughed again. We discussed how difficult it was to know where products came from these days, how hard it was to be an ethical consumer. Crewe. Macclesfield. We talked about music and films. We complained about the latest Hollywood blockbuster. I remembered the joke Phil’s mate told, and Nick was nearly crying with laughter. Stockport. The journey was nearly at an end. I had this crazy idea of suggesting we go for a drink, but something stopped me. What if they didn’t want to?
We pulled into Piccadilly. It turned out they were taking the tram to Victoria, so I went with them. We stood by the doors, chatting, as the tram rattled through a Manchester temporarily closed for business. Market Street was dead.
“You ought to come up and see us,” Nick said, as the tram clattered into Victoria.
“Yeah!” Kate said. “We’re having a get-together next Saturday Can you get up to Todmorden?”
“Sure,” I said. “I reckon I can borrow the car.”
Kate’s face lit up. I wondered for a moment if she fancied me, and I was flattered. Nick busily wrote some details on a scrap of paper – the address, some rough directions, a phone number.
“It’ll be a good night,” he said. “Give yourself a break and get some country air.”
I smiled as I knew that was a joke. Todmorden was hardly the country They got out and waved goodbye, and as the tram moved out of the station I watched them walk in the direction of the trains.
I found myself a seat now and settled down, smiling. It had been a good journey after all. Nick and Kate were sound. They were interesting, good listeners, a bit more to them than a lot of people I met. We talked, rather than just messed around. I wondered why. Perhaps it was because neither of them was fresh out of school. They were more mature – and they seemed to like me. OK, so I was flattered. Who wouldn’t be?
I tried to imagine what their house would be like, and speculated who their other housemates might be. If I had too much to drink, would they let me kip on the floor? Did they do weed?
Then I thought, would I actually have the courage to go all the way to Todmorden? I would have, if I had my mates with me. Alone, it seemed more difficult. What if I was to turn up and they’d forgotten who I was? I’d have to think about it and decide what to do. Whatever, it was good to have the option. I looked at the piece of paper Nick had given me. I had somewhere to go next Saturday night. Things were looking up.
2. From Rendall’s Parables: The Tale of the Traveller (#ulink_3eb645f1-f851-5e00-bd8a-708d28239ca0)
A Traveller is lost in a Wilderness. Despairing of ever finding his way out, he builds himself a shelter, a garden and a maze, in which he wanders endlessly. How can he be freed? By a journey towards the source of the Light.
It was a pretty average sort of week. Monday I slept in late, did a bit of cleaning otherwise Mum would hit the roof, emailed some friends, but said nothing about Kate and Nick to anyone, not even Phil. I read a bit, watched MTV. Last year I would have killed to be able to do nothing like this all day; now I feel like life is a head-to-head game with boredom.
Tuesday – much the same, except I went into Manchester and looked round the shops. I was getting low again. Sometimes Manchester strikes me as the best place to live – home of United, Oasis, Coronation Street – even when you meet people from other places and they take the rise out of you for your northern accent. At night, down Deansgate, the clubs in the village, girls walking down the middle of the road mad for it, you feel there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. But other times, when the sky is loaded with grey rain clouds and the smell of burger stalls hangs around and makes you sick, you wonder. All the shops are the same – HMV, Virgin, Our Price; Next, Top Shop, Burton; JD Sports, JJB Sports – you’re supposed to have all this choice but you can never find anything you want. I get to thinking that life never delivers. I have this feeling on some days that anything’s possible, that round the next corner it will happen – whatever it is – that there’s a prize waiting for me, and me alone. But I haven’t found it yet and I reckon that maybe I never will. That’s Manchester melancholy for you.
Wednesday was better because I had a shift at the Red King. It gave some focus to my day. Since I was working late, I had to sleep in, didn’t I? I began to think about whether to go to Todmorden at the weekend. I even got as far as asking my dad if I could have the car, and to my amazement he said yes. But by now I was feeling nervous. Sunday seemed a long time ago and maybe Nick was just being polite. A lot of people find it hard to say a plain goodbye and kid you with I’ll ring you, speak soon. Crap like that. I know, I’ve done it often enough. I reckoned, if something else came up, I’d give Todmorden a miss. Nick and Kate’s address was in the drawer by the computer. Lower Fold Farm, Lumbutts, near Todmorden.
There was fun and games that evening. Dad came home and opened the telephone bill.
“Bloody hell!” he shouted.
Mum, Gemma and I were in the lounge watching TV. I saw Gemma go dead still. Mum just raised her eyebrows. Dad came storming in, talking to us as if we were skiving employees.
“It’s over a hundred pounds this month. I just don’t credit it! What’s this? Eight pounds seventy-two to a mobile number? Which of you made that call?”
I saw Mum tapping her foot in irritation at Dad’s bad temper. Meanwhile Gemma’s eyes were glued to the local news. I felt it would be disloyal of me to say the call wasn’t mine (it wasn’t), so I just shrugged and grinned at my dad.
Well, as they say, the best form of defence is attack, and Gemma was no slouch as a military strategist. She suddenly bounced up from the sofa.
“Why are you all staring at me? You think it’s me, don’t you?” (It was.) “I get blamed for everything in this family! It’s so unfair! Other people use the phone, you know.”
“Fiona?” my dad said, passing the buck. It killed me how Dad never had the guts to tell Gemma off. He always went through my mum.
“Was it you?” Mum asked Gemma.
“That’s not the POINT, is it!”
I just kept my mouth shut. Dad ranted on.
“I just don’t understand why you have to be on the phone all the time. Absolute waste of money. Next time, you pay me back.”
“Like I have my own private income,” muttered Gemma.
So Dad marched upstairs, tail between his legs. Gemma sighed expressively and settled down in front of the TV. I couldn’t tell whether she was bothered or not. She’s quite good at cutting out the things she doesn’t want to hear. This didn’t include her mobile, which announced the arrival of another text. She’s all right, really, my sister, but she’s just typically fifteen – into boys, friends, gossip, all the girlie stuff. I tease her sometimes about being such a clone until she loses her rag, but she makes sure we’re never bad friends for too long, as she fancies most of my mates.
I went into the kitchen to get a coffee before work and Mum followed me out, as I thought she would.
“Your father,” she said, shaking her head. “Why does he have to come home and stir it up? I find it difficult enough to manage Gemma as it is.”
“He’ll have forgotten about it by the time he comes downstairs,” I said.
Mum just grumbled. She tends to use me as a sympathetic ear. When my GAP plans fell through she told me she was only too pleased to have me at home for another year, and she meant it. She once said I was her safety valve, whatever that meant. I’m certainly a bit of a go-between in the family Mum moans about Dad, Dad moans about Mum, Gemma moans about both of them, and they both moan about Gemma. Welcome to the Woods family.
Not that any of this was serious. Life in our house was much better than a lot of the families I knew. It was more that I’d outgrown them, which was natural. I was pleased to get to the Red King that night, even though there was a darts match on and we never stopped. So the next day I was shattered – I still wasn’t back to pre-glandular fever fitness levels. Then the pub again in the evening. And so on. And then it was Saturday.
It was slack at Electric Avenue and I did more than my fair share of staring into space. I’d decided more or less not to go to Todmorden. It just seemed too much effort. I thought I’d have an early night instead, gather my strength.
Kevin, the deputy manager, sidled over. He wasn’t much older than me, and because of that, he liked to throw his weight around, in my direction.
“Have you brought out the new Golf Tournament?”
I nodded.
“Got to keep you busy,” he said, only half joking. He was dressed in a flashy suit and his hair was brittle with gel. His eyes darted about the shop and were held by some girl who’d come in and was hunting through the GameBoy games. He nudged me conspiratorially. Kevin was pretty disgusting. He’d relay to the shop floor exactly what he got up to every weekend. Not that any of us wanted to know. When a bloke came into the store and put a proprietorial arm around the girl’s waist, Kevin looked away.
“Not my type,” he said. “No bum.”
I made no comment. I might think things about girls, but I don’t normally say them. Most of the time.
“So,” Kevin carried on. “What are you up to this weekend?”
“My little secret,” I said, trying to sound as careless as possible.
“Come on! Who is she?”
“Girl I met last week coming back from Birmingham,” I lied.
“You’re a fast worker,” Kevin said.
I felt a shit for lying but pleased the lie took effect. And then I thought, what the hell, I might as well make the most of it.
“Yeah, an artist. Lives out in West Yorkshire. I’m going out to her place.” I sounded cool. I liked how I sounded. Of course, I knew this meant I would never go to Todmorden now. But I wasn’t going to go, anyway.
“An artist, eh? So what are you going to do? Model for her? A Life class?” Kevin sniggered.
I laughed as if to dismiss his insinuations but concede nevertheless that there might be something in them. Yeah, all right, I was right down there at his level. But it felt good to impress, even a shit like Kevin. And the lying didn’t bother me. Everybody lies, even when they don’t mean to. Then some punters drifted in and we separated.
Business picked up, and I didn’t have any more time to think, except about what would make good Christmas presents and the new features of the latest Tomb Raider. Before I knew it, it was six o’clock, and Kevin was pulling down the grille at the front of the shop. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel too tired. I waved goodbye to everyone and sauntered to the bus stop.
Waiting for the bus, my mood began to spiral downwards again, perhaps because I was alone. Being with other people lifts me, makes me act OK, even if I don’t feel OK. By myself, reality bites. The reality was that I had nothing to do and it was Saturday night. Even Gemma was out with her mates, and when I got home she’d be prancing around asking me if she should wear her pink top, or the black one, and which trousers. I’d spend the night up in my room or in front of the box with my aged parents. If my luck was really in, Dad would buy in a four-pack of lager. Great.
Lower Fold Farm, Lumbutts, near Todmorden. I’d drive down the M62 to Milnrow, then go on through Walsden. I was pretty sure that Lumbutts was on the moors, a bit further down than Walsden. It would be interesting to see the farm. Not that I would see much in the dark. Stupid idea. Maybe there were some films on Sky. The bus came.
It was weird – for the first time in ages I had some energy. I wanted to go out. I wanted to go into town with my mates, only they were scattered all over England, in different campus bars at different universities. You can’t go clubbing by yourself.
And then I had my brainwave. Stu was still around. He’d failed all his A2s and was retaking them at a local college. I got out my mobile and texted him. My luck was in. He was at home, no plans, but no money either. I texted him back. I told him about a party I knew in Tod, that I had a sort of invite to. He said he was up for it. I said I’d pick him up on my way, as he lived in Rochdale. Sorted. Even if the party was a disaster, we could have a drink or two instead.
Now I’d decided to go to Todmorden, I realised it was what I’d wanted to do all along. Because Kate and Nick were new people, they were different. Everyone was meeting new people now except for me. I wanted to have an adventure too. I wanted to start living. So I got home, reminded Dad he said I could have the car, listened to the lecture about not drinking and driving, changed into some jeans and a sweatshirt, shovelled down the dinner Mum had made, told Gemma the pink top looked better than the black. And I was in the car, stereo playing loud. I was moving, life was moving again. At last. This was more like it.
Because the music was playing so loud I didn’t hear my mobile the first couple of times. I was already driving through Rochdale and it was in between tracks before I heard the ring. I pulled over to answer. It was Stu.
He sounded like death. Apparently he’d just spent the last hour or so throwing up. Either a stomach bug, he said, or something he’d eaten. Either way, he was going to have to cancel on me. I said that it was OK, and wished him better. He said he’d ring in a few days.
So much for my Saturday night.
Then I realised I had two choices. Either I turned the car around and went home, or carried on to Todmorden. Neither appealed. But just then, going back home seemed the worse of the two alternatives. I’d been vegetating all week, and as much as I love my parents, they aren’t exactly stimulating company. Going to Tod was risking the fact Nick and Kate wouldn’t remember me, or would have changed their minds about seeing me. But on the other hand, if it was a party, I could just blend with the crowd. It dawned on me I’d never gone to a party or club by myself before. That made me smile. I teased Gemma often enough about being a pack animal, and here I was, hesitating about going to a party just because I was on my own.
That decided me. I started the engine again and drove on. I saw an off-licence and pulled in, leaving the car to get some Bacardi Breezers – I didn’t want to arrive empty-handed. I was feeling better already The roads were clear, and just as I had remembered, the way to Lumbutts was clearly signposted just outside Walsden. I put the car in second as I took several steep corners past stone-built cottages teetering on the side of the road. I crawled along, as the road was narrow. On my left the whole of Todmorden was laid out, a sprinkling of yellow lights. On my right, dark masses of hills.
Eventually the road levelled out and I was up in the moors. I guessed I must be near the Pennine Way, but it was too dark to see much. It occurred to me then I might not find it easy to locate Lower Fold Farm. So I slowed right down, checking to see no one was behind me. The road was completely empty. I was the only idiot up here on a Saturday night.
In fact Lower Fold Farm was easy to find. There was a large painted board on my right announcing it. A rough track between two gateposts led to it. I turned in carefully and was relieved to see lights were blazing from the windows. The car bounced along the track and I tried to make out the size of the farm. There was the main house, painted white, several stone outbuildings and a grey-looking caravan. A rusty Transit van and a scooter were parked outside. I was too curious to be nervous now. I left the car by the side of what looked like an old barn, locked it and made my way to the front of the house. Too late to turn back. It seemed quiet for a party. What if I’d got the wrong day? I banged on the door.
Nick opened it and seemed to recognise me immediately.
“It’s Joe!” he shouted. There were footsteps and Kate appeared, her hair flowing loose.
“I knew you’d come,” she said, smiling.
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Sherry Ashworth
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Детская проза
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: A gripping thriller about a teenage boy sucked into the dark world of a cult.Eighteen-year-old Joe is bored. Stuck at home after a bout of glandular fever, all his friends have left Manchester and gone to university, leaving Joe with nothing but his rather annoying family for company. When he meets Kate and Nick on the train, something about them appeals to him. So he goes to see them at their commune, a farm in rural Todmorden.Gradually, Joe’s life starts to make sense. With the White Ones he is wanted, and his life has a purpose. When he meets Bea at the farm, he really feels that his life is complete, and he decides to leave his family and live with the White Ones forever.But there is something sinister about Fletcher, the Todmorden White Ones leader. Fletcher seems obsessed with Joe – convinced that he is a Perfect, and someone to be venerated. A dramatic trip to the wildest reaches of Orkney will show Joe his destiny – and reveal some shocking truths.