Clive Bamford was already running late by the time he finally found the track leading up to Kennedy Farm. The postcode on Robin Kennedy’s card had taken his satnav only to an apparently random point on the main road, and it had taken him longer than he’d expected to identify the route that Rowan Wiseman had then taken on his previous visit.
He had assumed the place would be thronged with cars, but there were no other vehicles parked in front of the house. The other attendees were presumably parked somewhere at the rear. Perhaps, Clive thought, some of them were already staying at the farm.
The truth was that he had no idea what to expect. He had no sense of what kind of people might attend these sessions or how the process might work. He’d spent the hour or so before setting off searching through the various leaflets that Kennedy had given him in the hope of finding some further information, but there was nothing that seemed relevant.
All he could do was go with the flow. Kennedy would presumably be aware he would be approaching this with no prior knowledge and treat him accordingly. After all, that was presumably the point of this. To immerse him as soon as possible in the activities of the movement so that he could develop a full understanding of what they were all about. Today was the first step on what he expected to be a very exciting journey.
He was still feeling guilty at missing work. He kept telling himself no one would really miss him or his contribution today. Some of his colleagues pulled sickies all the time. And this was likely to be far more important to him in the longer term than anything he might achieve in his mundane office job. Even so, he still had the sense he’d crossed a line, however trivial it might seem. He couldn’t decide whether that idea was terrifying or exhilarating.
He toyed with taking his own car round to the rear of the house but couldn’t immediately see how to do so. Finally, he parked in the same spot that Rowan Wiseman had used on their previous visit. As before, he was afraid of making a fool of himself, but he reasoned he was more likely to do so trying to navigate his way around the house. If Kennedy preferred him to move the car elsewhere, he’d presumably say so.
He climbed out of the car and stood for a moment in the chill afternoon sunshine. The place felt eerily silent. On his way over here, he’d been envisioning that the house would be a hive of activity, with substantial numbers of people attending. But perhaps the symposium was a more intimate affair than that.
There was no immediate response to the doorbell. Clive pressed it again and waited, wondering if he could have somehow misunderstood Kennedy’s invitation. But surely it had been clear enough, unless the symposium was taking place somewhere else on site. Clive looked around in case he’d missed some sign or other indication, but as far as he could see there was nothing. He looked at his watch. It was already nearly 2:30. If he didn’t find the location of the meeting soon, he’d be late. He pressed the doorbell one more time, telling himself that if there was still no response he’d try the rear of the house in the hope of tracking down the other attendees.
But this time, finally, he heard a movement from within and the door was opened. To his slight surprise, Robin Kennedy himself was standing inside. Clive had been expecting the door to be opened by Eric Nolan or some other member of the team.
‘Clive, welcome! We’re delighted that you were able to come at such short notice.’ There was, Clive noted, no apology for keeping him waiting or even an acknowledgment of the delay in opening the front door. ‘Come in.’
Clive had half-expected that the symposium would be held in some conference room, but instead Kennedy led him along to the same living room in which their previous meeting had taken place. Kennedy pushed open the door and ushered him inside.
Clive took a step forward and then froze. ‘I don’t understand.’ He looked back at Kennedy. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Welcome to our symposium, Clive. You’re our guest of honour.’
Clive looked around at the small group gathered in the room and blinked. It was, essentially, the same group who had been here on his previous visit, although there was no sign of Eric Nolan. Rowan Wiseman. The man known only as Charlie. There was only one newcomer, whose face looked vaguely familiar.
‘I wasn’t expecting—’
‘No, we appreciate you weren’t, Clive. I’m afraid we haven’t been entirely honest with you.’ He paused. ‘But then I feel you haven’t been entirely honest with us.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Please do take a seat.’ Kennedy gestured to an armchair that had been moved to the centre of the room. The remainder of the seats had been arranged in a circle around it. Clive lowered himself on to the seat, acutely conscious of the others’ gaze fixed upon him. He’d expected to be here as an anonymous observer. He had no idea of what role he was now being asked to play.
Kennedy took his own seat directly opposite Clive. He was still dressed casually in an open-necked shirt and expensive-looking trousers, and he looked as relaxed as he had on Clive’s previous visit, It struck Clive for the first time that Kennedy’s appearance and image were very carefully cultivated. The full but neatly trimmed beard, the swept-back mane of hair. A man who was out of the ordinary, but fully in control. ‘I had read some of your material, Clive. Some of the articles you’ve produced.’
‘Yes, I know. You told me—’
‘I told you I’d been impressed by them. Yes, I know. That was one of the areas in which I haven’t been entirely honest with you. I’m afraid I didn’t really like them.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Don’t misunderstand me, Clive. They seemed well-researched. Thorough. Perhaps even well-written, though I’m not the best judge of that. But far too sceptical. Far too muck-raking.’
‘I try to make them objective—’
‘We believe you also have contacts on the national tabloids, Clive. That you’ve fed sensationalist titbits to in the hope of furthering your own journalistic career.’ The last word was spoken with an edge of irony. ‘We’ve also read the sensationalist pieces that resulted.’
‘I’ve never done anything inappropriate.’ He had no idea how Kennedy had found out about his tabloid contacts. But he didn’t understand anything that was happening here.
‘We all have different ethical standards, Clive, and I’m not interested in judging yours. But I do know that we became a little uneasy when we discovered that you were sniffing around ours and some similar organisations. We really don’t want that kind of publicity.’
‘But I thought—’
‘I’m afraid we gave you the impression we were interested in working with you. We really aren’t. I wanted to meet you to see if I was misjudging you, to see if you were the kind of person we might work with. But I quickly realised that your knowledge and understanding was very superficial. I think you’d be interested only in presenting a sensationalist view of our activities.’
Clive knew he ought to be feeling furious at the deception. But even now he felt as if this was all his own fault, as if in some way he’d let Kennedy down. Yes, he had considered whether any of his findings here might be of interest to the national media, although he’d never intended to misrepresent or sensationalise anything. But somehow he still felt as if he’d been caught out.
‘You see, Clive, our range of work here is complex. The movement is small and discreet and works very well for us. We achieve enlightenment through materialism and that involves expanding our material resources. We do that in a variety of ways, some of which the authorities might disapprove of. So we demand loyalty from our inner group, and we have ways of establishing and enforcing that.’
Clive still wasn’t really following what Kennedy was saying, but he realised the final sentence carried an undertone of threat. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I’ve misunderstood what you wanted from me. But perhaps I should just go now.’
Kennedy shook his head slightly. ‘I don’t think so, Clive. We have some other plans for you.’
Clive began to rise from his seat, but Kennedy nodded to Charlie, who immediately rose, walked over and pushed him back down. Charlie stood over Clive, glowering down, his hand firmly gripping Clive’s shoulder. ‘I think you’d better show a little respect, Clive,’ he said, ‘and listen to what Robin’s telling you.’
‘You can’t just—’ Clive began but stopped as Charlie’s grip on his arm became even tighter.
‘Please don’t make things difficult, Clive,’ Kennedy said. ‘I do want to tell you a little about how the movement works, so you can understand why this is so important to us. I suspect that some of it will go over your head, but that can’t be helped.’
It was finally beginning to dawn on Clive that he really was in some kind of trouble. He didn’t understand how or why, or what any of this was about. But Charlie’s physical grip on his arm had convinced him that this was no longer a game. ‘Look, you can’t just—’
Kennedy smiled. ‘I think we can, Clive. And I’m sure you’ll be gratified to know that, despite our differences, you’ll be able to do your bit to help us on our way.’