The journey took place almost in silence. Clive had hoped that Rowan would provide them with more background information as they were travelling over, but she said little, clearly focused on driving. Charlie sat in the front seat beside her, apparently lost in his own thoughts.
Clive himself sat in the cramped rear seat of Wiseman’s small Fiat, Greg squashed up against him. Greg had muttered a few sarcastic comments as they’d made their way out to the car park, but had since remained silent.
‘Not far now,’ Rowan said, as they entered the outskirts of Bakewell. ‘It’s just the other side of the town. The place itself feels fairly remote, but it’s really only a mile or two out.’
After another mile, Wiseman took a left turn and then, shortly afterwards, a further turn to the right, taking them on to a single-track road. Clive had been trying to keep track of their location. He knew the route well until they’d turned off the main road, but now was in countryside he’d never visited before.
After a few minutes, Charlie gestured through the windscreen. ‘That’s the place ahead. Kennedy Towers.’
Clive finally spotted a small cluster of lights ahead. As they approached, he saw an illuminated sign that read ‘Kennedy Farm’.
‘You thought I was joking, didn’t you?’ Charlie said. ‘Okay, not Towers, but close enough. He’s not exactly devoid of ego, old Robin.’
Rowan shot Charlie a look that was clearly intended to shut him up. It seemed to have the desired effect. She turned past the sign on to a rough uphill track. ‘Sorry it’s a bit bumpy. They’ve been talking about sorting this drive for years, but I reckon Robin likes it the way it is. Deters unwelcome visitors.’
As they reached the summit of the hill, the house suddenly appeared before them. It was an older building than Clive had expected; he guessed that the original cottage, or perhaps cottages, that formed the core of the building probably dated back to the eighteenth century. At some point in the subsequent decades, the house had been sympathetically extended to form a sizeable farmhouse. It looked welcoming enough. There were a couple of brass carriage lamps set each side of the front door, casting a warm orange glow across the gravelled parking area. The overall effect was of an upmarket country bed and breakfast.
‘It looks lovely,’ Clive said. ‘Not entirely what I was expecting.’
Rowan had parked close to the front door, and now looked back over her shoulder at him. ‘What were you expecting?’
‘I’m not sure exactly. Maybe somewhere a little more austere. This looks positively cosy.’
‘Whatever else he does, Robin will always make sure he gets his creature comforts,’ Charlie said, earning himself another icy look from Rowan.
Outside, the earlier rain had passed and the sky was clear and rich with stars. As they emerged from the car, the front door of the house opened, a figure silhouetted in the entrance. Rowan hurried towards the doorway. ‘Hi, Eric. Hope we’ve not kept you waiting?’
Clive heard the man say, ‘Perfectly timed, Rowan, as always. You always knew how to keep Robin happy.’
Then he went on, more loudly: ‘Gentlemen, welcome. Welcome to Kennedy Farm.’
Clive stepped forward. ‘We’re delighted to be here, Mr…?’
‘Eric Nolan. But call me Eric.’ The man shook Clive and Greg vigorously by the hand. There was a trace of an American or Canadian accent, Clive thought, though overlaid with something more local. ‘I’m Robin’s… number two, I suppose you’d say. His right-hand man.’
‘Monkey to his organ grinder,’ Charlie offered from behind them.
‘And a good evening to you, Charlie,’ Nolan said. ‘I see you’re in your usual fine spirits.’
‘I’m never not, Eric.’ Charlie shivered exaggeratedly. ‘Don’t hang about. Bloody cold out here.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Nolan ushered them in through the front door. ‘Robin’s waiting for you in the lounge.’
‘Of course he is,’ Charlie said. ‘Not one to answer the door himself when he’s a lackey to do it for him.’
Nolan led them down a broad hallway into a large living room. Clive’s first response was to feel slightly overawed by what greeted them. It wasn’t that there was anything particularly distinctive about the room or its furnishings, but the whole effect spoke of a good taste and opulence beyond anything Clive was accustomed to. The furniture and decor had clearly been chosen with an expert eye, and much of it looked as if it had been hand-crafted to suit the age and character of the building. The wall opposite the door comprised one enormous picture window. The curtains were still drawn back and through the glass Clive could see a panorama of scattered lights across the adjacent valley. He guessed that in daylight the view would be spectacular.
The man he took to be Robin Kennedy had been sitting on a large sofa at one side of the room, and now rose to greet them as they entered. ‘Good evening, gentlemen. And Rowan, of course.’ He gave a slight nod in Rowan’s direction, and then came forward to shake their hands.
Kennedy was a tall, fairly heavily-built man. He was older than Clive had expected, perhaps in his early sixties, although that impression was partly contradicted by his thick mane of slightly overlong hair. The hair was slightly greying at the temples, but had otherwise retained its colour. Likewise, Kennedy’s dense beard showed no signs of grey. He was dressed casually, although to Clive’s inexpert eye the open-necked shirt looked expensive and well-tailored.
If you’d glanced at Kennedy superficially, you might have assumed he was in his forties, Clive thought. It was only as you looked closer that the lines in his face became apparent.
Kennedy grasped Clive by the hand, then gave him the kind of two-handed handshake normally favoured by overenthusiastic politicians. There was an intensity to his manner that Clive found both compelling and oddly disturbing.
‘You must be Clive Bamford,’ Kennedy said. ‘Rowan’s told us so much about you. And I’ve read some of your work, of course. I’m delighted you’ve managed to find the time to come and see us here tonight. You sound like exactly the man we need.’
Clive nodded warily, taken aback by Kennedy’s manner. ‘It’s a privilege for us, Mr Kennedy. I’m looking forward to hearing more about the…’ He hesitated. ‘About the movement, if that’s the right word.’
‘I’m hoping that’s something you’ll be able to help us with, Clive – I can call you Clive? And please do call me Robin.’
‘Of course,’ Clive said. ‘How do you mean? About helping you?’
‘One of the questions we wrestle with is how we should describe ourselves. I’m personally not keen on terms like “religion” or “faith”. They’re accurate enough as far as they go, I suppose, but they don’t really convey the right impression. And we don’t want to use any terminology that would suggest we were some kind of cult. We tend to talk about the “movement” for want of any better term, but for me it slightly smacks of something political. That’s not quite what we want to convey either.’ He turned to face Greg Wardle. ‘You must be Clive’s assistant?’
‘We work together, yes,’ Greg said. ‘Greg Wardle.’
Kennedy treated Greg to a much more perfunctory handshake. ‘Good to meet you, Greg. I hope you have an interesting evening.’
‘I’m sure I will, Robin.’
‘Now, can I get you something to drink?’ Kennedy said. ‘Tea, coffee or perhaps something stronger? I’m on this fine single malt.’ He held up his glass.
‘I wouldn’t say no to a Scotch.’ Greg had clearly decided to extract maximum value from the evening, one way or another.
‘Just a coffee for the moment, please,’ Clive said. ‘Best if I keep a clear head.’
‘A wise man,’ Kennedy said. ‘Perhaps we can tempt you once we’ve got business out of the way.’
‘Whisky for me,’ Charlie said. ‘Can always trust your taste in single malts, Robin.’
‘Of course, Charlie, I’ll make it a double in your case. What about you, Rowan?’
‘Just a coffee,’ she said. ‘Driving.’
‘Of course.’ Kennedy nodded to Nolan. ‘Can you do the honours, Eric?’
‘Charlie and I will give you a hand, Eric,’ Rowan said. ‘Give Robin a few minutes to get to know Clive and Greg.’
Kennedy gestured for Clive and Greg to take a seat. Greg lowered himself into one of the large armchairs, allowing Clive to sit alongside Kennedy on the sofa.
‘Do you mind if Greg takes notes for us?’ Clive gestured towards Greg, who was pulling out a laptop from the bag he’d brought in with him.
‘It’s one of my duties,’ Greg said. ‘As Clive’s assistant. I’ll just tap away quietly, if that’s okay.’
‘Of course. Whatever you feel is most useful.’ Kennedy’s attention immediately returned to Clive. ‘I suppose the first question is how much you know about our movement.’
Clive paused, conscious that a misstep now could destroy his credibility in Kennedy’s eyes. ‘As Rowan probably told you, I’ve really only recently begun researching in this specific area. Obviously, I’ve done considerable research into other areas of what I suppose you might call esoterica.’
‘Esoterica,’ Kennedy echoed, and for a moment Clive thought he might be about to mock the choice of word. ‘Yes, that’s a good, non-judgemental description.’
‘I’m not sure if it’s quite the right word,’ Clive acknowledged. ‘But I’m really just using it to describe a wide range of – well, less conventional belief structures. I’ve researched widely in that area, and that’s really what led me to look at the so-called “left-hand path” religions.’ He hesitated. ‘I don’t know whether that’s terminology you approve of?’
Kennedy shrugged. ‘It’s better than some terminology that’s sometimes applied to us. We’re not satanists, for example. Not in any clichéd sense, at least.’ He offered them a smile, presumably intended to indicate he was joking. ‘I suppose my problem with the term “left-hand path” is that it associates us with a largely indiscriminate group of belief structures, to use your words. I’m not sure that’s always helpful.’
‘How would you characterise your movement, Robin?’ Greg had been apparently focused on his note-taking, and asked the question without looking up from the laptop. ‘How would you describe it?’
Kennedy looked at Greg with apparent surprise, as if he hadn’t been expecting him to contribute to the discussion. ‘Since you ask, Greg, I’d say we were realists. Materialists. Perhaps even humanists.’ He turned his attention back to Clive. ‘Does that surprise you, Clive?’
‘I’m not sure. I suppose it does slightly in that I’d assumed your beliefs were primarily spiritual. But perhaps that’s not a contradiction?’ He hoped the question sounded incisive. The discussion wasn’t quite going in the direction he’d anticipated. He already felt quite confused and wasn’t sure what they were discussing, but didn’t want to appear dense.
‘That’s an excellent point, Clive. You’ve pinpointed very precisely the tension that’s intrinsic to our thinking. Of course you’re right. There’s a very substantial spiritual component to our beliefs. The whole purpose of this is to seek enlightenment, to move beyond the earthly into something much more transcendent. But whereas conventional religion seeks to achieve that by denying life, by denying humanity, we believe that true enlightenment can be achieved only by embracing the material and the mundane.’
Clive had no real idea what Kennedy was talking about. ‘Of course. And how exactly do you do that?’ He glanced at Greg, hoping that some help might be forthcoming from that direction, but Greg continued to tap away on the laptop, with only a slight shrug that eloquently conveyed the message: You’re on your own, mate.
‘Another excellent question, Clive. I can see that Rowan’s judgement was as sound as ever. This isn’t perhaps the moment to get into the detail of our practices – we can proceed to that once you get down to serious work with us – but suffice to say that what we try to do is engage with reality, with what life really means, perhaps even with the darker side of existence. We try to challenge convention, question hackneyed ways of acting and thinking. Get people to put aside their prejudices and preconceptions, so that they can see life as it truly is. We help people to draw back the veil, so to speak.’
‘To see through the Matrix,’ Greg offered from behind his laptop.
Kennedy stared at him for a moment. ‘If you say so, Greg. I’m afraid that analogy means nothing to me.’
Clive was saved from immediate further discussion by the arrival of Eric Nolan bearing a tray containing an expensive-looking bottle of single malt whisky, two coffees, two glasses, milk, sugar and a small jug of water. Rowan Wiseman and Charlie followed behind him, and took seats on a second sofa on the opposite side of the room.
Nolan placed the tray on the table in front of Kennedy with the delicacy of an old-school butler. It wasn’t the first time he’d played this role, Clive thought. He realised now that Nolan made him feel uneasy. It was as if his urbane manner concealed something darker, more threatening.
‘Please do help yourselves,’ Kennedy said.
When they were finally all settled with their respective drinks, Kennedy said, ‘I was just explaining to Clive the core principles behind our movement.’
‘It’s all very interesting,’ Clive said. ‘I’m looking forward to hearing more about the detail. How many followers do you currently have?’
Kennedy laughed. ‘I have no followers. I’m not a leader in any conventional sense.’
Clive rather doubted that, but realised he’d expressed his question clumsily. ‘Of course. I meant the movement, rather than you personally.’
‘I have a little discomfort with the term “followers” even in that context,’ Kennedy said. ‘Again, we’ll have to get your advice on how we might describe ourselves more appropriately. In a sense, the whole point of the movement is that people don’t follow. We work collectively, as a network, if you like. We encourage people to seek their own paths, to challenge and test the established ways of doing things. By definition, this isn’t for everyone. And, to be honest, we don’t want just anyone joining us. People come to us through recommendations from existing members, and even then we have to ensure they’re suited to the demands of the movement.’
‘Demands?’
‘We’re looking for people who can buy into our principles, but also who will grow and develop both their own and our thinking. At the same time, we want people who will do this responsibly. We’re not seeking sheep, but we’re not seeking anarchists either.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Clive was still unclear what Kennedy was talking about. ‘So what does that mean in practice? That you put people through some kind of selection process?’
‘I suppose you might describe it like that,’ Kennedy said. ‘Nothing quite so explicit, of course. In most cases, to continue your analogy, people select themselves out. We help people to understand what will be expected of them, what personal challenges they will face if they choose to join us. We try to give people a taste of what we do. At that point, some simply decide that it’s not for them, particularly if they’ve been looking for something more passive or if they are looking for someone else to give them the answers. If that’s what they’re seeking, then there are many conventional faiths that are more likely to suit their needs.’
‘And if they still want to proceed but you don’t think they’re suited…?’ Clive prompted.
‘We give them a chance to progress, of course. Sometimes an individual who initially seems unsuited to us will ultimately prove that they can grow and develop in the ways we want. If not, then at some point – and usually sooner rather than later, so we don’t waste their or our time – we make it clear to them that it’s not working and that they’d be better off looking elsewhere.’
‘This is absolutely fascinating, Robin,’ Clive said. ‘In terms of my involvement, how would you like to proceed? I suppose one of the key questions there is whether you’re happy for me to publish the fruits of my research in due course.’
‘In principle, we’d be delighted. As I say, one of our objectives in this is to try to present ourselves more effectively to the world out there.’
‘Why do you want to do that, though?’ Greg interjected. ‘I mean, if you’re so picky as to who you let join.’
Kennedy switched his gaze to Greg, his expression suggesting he had almost forgotten Greg’s presence. ‘As you say, Greg, we’re not exactly proselytising for new members. On the contrary. We have too many people who approach us for the wrong reasons, who think we’re something that we’re not.’
‘People who think you’re satanists, for example?’ Greg said.
‘In the most extreme cases, we have had people harbouring those kinds of misconceptions, yes. But mostly it’s more straightforward than that. It’s people who think we offer the comforts of conventional religions. If we were better understood out there, then perhaps we’d find it easier to identify the people who really would benefit from what we can offer.’
‘I explained to Rowan,’ Clive said, ‘and it probably goes without saying anyway, that I’m not a PR person. If you’re looking for someone simply to present you effectively to the external world, then I’m not that person. I see myself as a researcher and a journalist. I’d be looking to represent you fairly but objectively.’
‘I fully understand that, Clive. We’re not looking for any kind of slick PR presentation. Indeed, that approach would seem more likely to attract precisely the wrong kind of person. We want someone who can present us accurately – warts and all, if you like. That’s why we were so interested when Rowan showed us samples of your work.’ He leaned forward and carefully poured himself another finger of the whisky, then waved the bottle towards Greg and then towards Charlie. Greg shook his head. Charlie rose and helped himself to a large measure. Kennedy watched him with apparent amusement.
Once Charlie had resettled himself, Kennedy went on, ‘To return to your original question about how we’d like you to proceed, to a large extent that’s up to you. I see tonight just as an opportunity for us to get to know each other. We can confirm that you really are the man for us – though I think that decision’s already largely been made from our side – and you can decide if you want to take this on. Feel free to ask any questions you like. I can also give you some reading material to take away this evening, so you can absorb that also before making your decision. It’s important we all go into this with our eyes open.’
Clive was still unclear quite what he was being asked to decide. His understanding from Rowan had been that Kennedy would be able to provide access to individuals and material pertinent to Clive’s proposed research. But it felt as if Kennedy was seeking some more exclusive relationship. ‘I suppose what I need to think about, on the basis of what information you provide tonight,’ Clive said hesitantly, ‘is what the nature and format of my research might be. I’d originally envisaged some form of comparative study looking at a range of so-called “left-hand path” religions as a basis for highlighting the common themes and principles, but also the differences in thinking and approach. It sounds as if you’re envisaging something more focused on your specific movement?’
‘Again, I think that’s up to you, Clive. It’s not my job to tell you how to structure or conduct your research. But I think you might also find that a more detailed study of our approach would pay dividends. But these are presumably decisions you can make at a later stage once you see how the work is progressing?’
‘I suppose so,’ Clive said. The truth was he didn’t really have much choice. He was keen to pursue this particular topic because he thought it might help him establish his name, both among the rather esoteric audience who were interested in this kind of material and perhaps, through his tabloid contacts, to a wider public. Kennedy, like Rowan Wiseman, had been flattering about his work, but he knew he hadn’t yet succeeded in achieving the profile he was aiming for. What he really needed was a themed series of articles that would really establish his credentials.
At the same time, he’d so far had little success in penetrating this world. Tonight was the first time that, with Rowan’s help, he’d even managed to get through one of the right doors. Kennedy seemed to be promising him virtually unfettered access to their ideas and practices. He knew he’d be a fool to reject the chance.
‘I’m very grateful to you for being so open, Robin. Obviously, I’ll need to think carefully after this evening and I’ll read whatever material you provide with great interest. As you say, we can perhaps decide later on the most appropriate ways of presenting my findings. But I’m certainly very attracted to taking this on. Very attracted indeed.’
‘Good man,’ Kennedy said. Clive fancied that Kennedy had exchanged a look with Rowan, but couldn’t begin to interpret its meaning.
‘Now,’ Kennedy went on, ‘can I finally tempt you to that single malt, Clive? Perhaps we should raise a toast to what I hope will be a fruitful and mutually beneficial collaboration. To us.’
‘To us,’ Clive echoed, feeling as if he’d just unwittingly signed up to something he still didn’t fully understand.