‘Let me explain a little about how we work, Clive.’ Robin Kennedy had begun to walk around the room, with the air of a professor delivering an extemporised lecture. ‘I can’t expect you to understand or follow all of it, and you will probably misinterpret our motives as so many do. But I’d like at least to try to explain. In the circumstances, you deserve at least that.’
Clive still had no idea what Kennedy was talking about. He had begun to wonder if Kennedy was simply insane, but he suspected that the truth was simpler and more mundane. For all his superficial charisma, Kennedy was just an articulate con man, peddling the twenty-first century equivalent of patent medicine. Clive didn’t consider himself to have much of an intellect, but perhaps that was why he could see through this stuff. If he’d been brighter, he’d have made more effort to try to engage with what Kennedy was saying and after a while he’d no doubt have begun to find some spurious meaning in it. As it was, it just sailed above his head, leaving him convinced it was all just vapid nonsense.
Unless, of course, Kennedy was right and he was just too dim to understand. But that was the anxiety that people like Kennedy played on. Nobody wanted to admit that they didn’t understand, so they fooled themselves into believing they did.
Even so, Clive was scared. He didn’t know where this was leading or what a man like Kennedy might be capable of. It was already clear to Clive that he was being held against his will. Although he’d made no further efforts even to rise from his seat, let alone leave, he had little doubt he’d be stopped forcibly if he tried. Charlie had returned to his seat but was watching him closely. Clive had also now managed to place the semi-familiar face of the man sitting in the corner of the room. He’d seen him on TV a few times, usually in the middle of some filmed altercation. Today, he was incongruously dressed in a dark blue business suit rather than his usual T-shirt and jeans, but Clive recognised the short muscular body, the close-cropped hair, the air of barely contained steroid-fuelled aggression. It was that far-right thug, the one who risibly called himself Bulldog. Mo Henley. Clive considered the man a joke, but he didn’t doubt that he’d be more than capable of real violence.
The real question, of course, was why Kennedy was associating with someone like that in the first place. And why Rowan, who had seemed so warm and likeable in their previous encounters, now remained blank-faced and silent. Clive was beginning to realise how flawed his perceptions had been from the start. Next time, he thought, he should perhaps pay more attention to Greg Wardle’s scepticism.
That was assuming there would be a next time. Clive still couldn’t really believe he was in any physical danger here, but he also couldn’t see where this was heading. Was Kennedy just going to deliver some lecture and then let him go? Even for a man with Kennedy’s outsized ego, that seemed odd behaviour.
Clive had decided that for the moment he had little option but to play along. He’d sit and listen to whatever Kennedy might have to say, make some polite noises, express his regrets that Kennedy didn’t want his services, and then try to find a way to get the hell out of there. If they tried to stop him – well, surely in the end they wouldn’t. No one really behaved like that. Not someone like Kennedy anyway.
He was conscious Kennedy was still talking, though Clive had no real idea what he’d been saying. He tried to force himself to concentrate on Kennedy’s words.
‘You see, Clive, the key to our movement is materialism. Some religions try to divorce spirituality from the real world, but they’re simply deluding themselves. Denying the reality all around them. But, for us, material wealth isn’t something to be embarrassed about or ashamed of. None of that nonsense about camels and needles’ eyes for us. Acquiring wealth is part of the path to enlightenment. I see myself, in effect, as a spiritual entrepreneur.’
In other circumstances Clive would have laughed out loud at the preposterous phrase. But he felt he had no choice but to engage with Kennedy’s arguments until he could see where the hell this was going. ‘So how do you do that?’
‘In any ways we can. And that’s the other point. We don’t worry about the supposed ethics of what we do. Those kind of small-minded constraints are what prevent people from genuinely embracing the material world. We simply do what we need to. Breaking free of those hypocritical shackles is one of the keys to achieving true enlightenment.’ He paused and moved to stand beside Clive, gazing down at him. ‘That was why I knew you could never be one of us, Clive. You’re a creature of convention, aren’t you? A rule-taker, not a rule-breaker.’
‘I’m not a believer in anarchy, if that’s what you mean.’ Clive intended the words to sound defiant, but he knew they merely sounded petulant.
‘We’re not anarchists, Clive. But we believe in a higher set of laws. Something beyond the pettifogging limits that you accept.’
‘Like what?’ Clive felt as if he needed to puncture this airy nonsense. He still had no real idea of what Kennedy was talking about. ‘How do you make your money?’
‘In a number of ways, Clive. Some of them are straightforward and perfectly legal. We have a substantial property business, for example. Mainly private rentals. A very lucrative business if you have the capital to invest. And we obtain and build the capital in a variety of ways, some of them less straightforward. Drugs. Money laundering. Various financial… arrangements, let’s say. We have a substantial network.’
‘This is a joke, isn’t it? I mean, if any of this was true, you wouldn’t tell me about it. You wouldn’t talk about it so openly.’
Kennedy gestured expansively at the group seated around him. ‘We have one key rule in the movement, Clive. One iron law above all others. Whatever we do, we do it collectively. We involve all our more senior members in all decisions. That way, we’re all involved. And we’re all complicit.’ He smiled. ‘The thing is, Clive, I’m not really talking to you. Not primarily. It’s amusing to treat you as my audience, and I’ll enjoy explaining what we have in store for you. But, frankly, I wouldn’t waste my time simply on an intellect like yours. It’s important that everyone here fully participates in our acts and understands their implications.’ He looked around the group, as though seeking their approval, although it was clear that he expected no interruption. Rowan Wiseman nodded slightly. The others continued to sit in silence. ‘If you’d really read and understood the material I gave you, you’d already have grasped this, Clive.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ Clive said. ‘Look, I’ve had enough of sitting here being insulted by a tinpot tyrant like you—’ He made a move to stand, but saw that Charlie and Henley were already rising from their seats. ‘You can’t just keep me here.’
‘I think we can, Clive. Just for a little while. Just for as long as it takes.’
‘As long as what takes?’
‘Patience does not seem to be one of your virtues, Clive. Just wait and all will be revealed.’
Kennedy stopped as a mobile phone buzzed on the low coffee table behind him. Without turning, he said, ‘Can someone get that? It’ll be Eric.’
Rowan Wiseman picked up the phone and took the call. She listened for a few moments, and then held out the phone to Kennedy.
Kennedy took the phone. ‘Everything going to plan?’ He stopped, listening. ‘Okay. But make sure you’re really on top of this. We can’t afford a fuck-up.’
The change in tone was noticeable, Clive thought. The smooth urbane manner had briefly evaporated, replaced by something much less polished. It was only momentary, but Clive suspected he’d briefly glimpsed the real Kennedy. The rest of it was nothing but a performance. Kennedy wasn’t just a con man. He was a thug. Suddenly the association with Mo Henley made much more sense.
The thought was far from reassuring. Up to now, despite everything that had happened, Clive had found himself almost seduced by Kennedy’s manner. He’d told himself that, whatever nonsense he might be talking, Kennedy was essentially a civilised man who, ultimately, would behave in a civilised way. But the man who had just been revealed seemed like a very different beast.
Kennedy ended the call and then turned back to Clive. He was smiling and the mask seemed to have slid back into place. ‘All more or less going to plan,’ he said. He sounded as if he was talking to himself as much as Clive. ‘They have the target in their sights. Eric has it all under control, I’m sure.’
‘Target?’
‘Target, Clive. Your target, in fact, though you don’t yet know it.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘No, of course you don’t. In due course I suppose you’ll have a very small place in history, though you’ll never be aware of it.’
‘Are you sure about this, Robin?’ The unexpected intervention came from Rowan Wiseman. Apart from Charlie’s earlier threats to Clive, it was the first time any of the assembled group had spoken. ‘Eric sounded a bit unsure about how reliable—’
‘Nothing’s gone wrong, Rowan. The situation’s under control and Eric is more than capable of dealing with it.’ It was clear that Kennedy regarded her comment as unwelcome.
‘It’s not Eric I’m worried about.’
Kennedy glared at her. His tone and manner were as smooth as ever, but Clive once again detected the uglier personality beneath the surface. ‘You know how we work, Rowan. You know how we initiate neophytes. That’s how we gain their commitment.’
‘I’m just saying it’s a risk. It’s one thing to bump off some two-bit toerags who’ve tried to go freelance. This is an entirely different—’
‘Rowan.’ Kennedy had barely raised his voice but the threat was unmistakeable. ‘If you want to continue this conversation, we do so at another time.’
Rowan clearly wanted to say more, but lapsed back into silence. Kennedy turned back to Clive, who had been listening to the exchange with mounting anxiety.
‘Now, Clive,’ Kennedy continued, as if Rowan’s interruption had never taken place, ‘let me finally put you out of your misery.’