Clive Bamford laboriously tapped out a few more words on his keyboard, then sat back to appraise the quality of what he’d written. He was never sure whether he loved or hated writing. A bit of both, he supposed, with the love usually just about winning out. At times like this, though, it felt as if hate might be gaining the upper hand.
Although he generally felt satisfied with the outcome, the process of writing didn’t come naturally to him. For a start, he lacked the education. He’d always been the cocky one at school, ready to shoot his mouth off at the teachers, playing for the attention and approval of his classmates. When he wasn’t suspended, he was studiously ignored by teachers who had better things to do with their time than waste it on him.
He’d left at sixteen, having failed virtually all his GCSEs, and eventually found himself work in the kitchen of an upmarket country house hotel near Buxton. He’d hated every second of it. The pay had been piss-poor, the conditions awful, and the head chef had fancied himself as the next Gordon Ramsay. He’d been more than a match for Ramsay in generating expletives, but his culinary skills were less impressive. The hotel went bust within a year of Clive joining.
In retrospect, that had proved to be a blessing in a very light disguise. He spent a few weeks on the dole, until the jobcentre found him a temporary job in a junior administrative role with the local authority. And Clive had quickly realised he was much less stupid than he’d always assumed.
By the time he’d lost his job at the hotel, he’d begun to wise up a little, finally realising he wasn’t in much of a position to make a go of life. The administrative job, although not much in itself, had felt like a second chance and for the first time he’d actually found himself looking forward to going to work each morning. He’d applied himself diligently, demonstrated to his manager that he was more capable than his background suggested. The temporary job became permanent, and within six months he secured a promotion to a more responsible and demanding position.
Now in his late twenties, he was a junior manager in the same local authority. He earned a decent living, had a small but comfortable house on the outskirts of Buxton, and was reasonably content with life. The day-to-day work ticked over, satisfying enough if not exactly stimulating, giving him time to pursue his other interests.
He couldn’t remember when he’d first developed his fascination with the arcane material that now dominated his life outside work. Even as that unruly teenager he’d had a mild obsession with the paranormal, always reading supposedly true accounts of ghosts, UFOs and strange phenomena. As he’d grown older his interest had widened and deepened, taking in a wide range of unexplained happenings, and, increasingly, the mechanisms used to conceal what he increasingly saw as the truth.
He’d pitched a few ideas for articles to online specialist magazines and, after several rejections, had finally received a positive response. His first published article had been something about the supposed recurrent UFO sightings in the Longdendale Valley in the north of the county. His own view was that the frequency of sightings could be at least partly explained by the proximity of the flight path into Manchester Airport, but he’d written a balanced piece recounting some of the more interesting experiences and potential theories. The piece now seemed clumsy and amateurish to him, but it had gone down well, and he’d been commissioned to write more.
His reputation was a very niche one, but it was slowly growing. He’d managed to persuade the Fortean Times to take one of his pieces, and he was hopeful they’d take more in due course, including possibly the piece he was currently writing. He’d pulled together a number of his pieces into a book, which he’d self-published online. He hadn’t sold many, but his name was beginning to be recognised in the right places. He’d been invited to speak at a couple of small-scale conventions, and had begun to receive correspondence from readers interested by his work. Best of all, he’d made a couple of contacts in the national tabloids who had used, with credit, some of his material. He hadn’t been entirely pleased with the way the tabloids had sensationalised the content, but it had helped to raise his profile. He felt as if he was finally beginning to atone for his wasted education, slowly gaining respect for his specialist knowledge and expertise.
He was hoping his current work might push him a further rung or two up the reputational ladder. He’d been intrigued that Charlie had mentioned the so-called ‘left-hand path’ religions during his diatribe at the meeting. As it happened, Clive had for a while been interested in the history of various satanist and occult groups in the UK, some of which designated themselves as ‘churches of the left-hand path’, and had been considering the possibility of a series of articles on the topic.
Although there were a number of existing books and articles in the area, Clive hoped that his focus on the more recent history would enable him to uncover some new information and insights. He’d also floated the idea with his tabloid contacts, who’d expressed some initial interest.
In his attempt to get the work started, he’d contacted a number of individuals who claimed either to have been involved in such occult groups or to have been affected by their activities. So far, though, he’d found it hard going. These organisations were notoriously secretive, fearful that their aims and activities would be misrepresented. It wasn’t surprising that current or past members should be reticent about talking to him. Even so, he’d been disappointed that even those who’d initially agreed to his request for an interview had either changed their minds at the last minute or been reluctant to offer anything more than basic facts. At the moment, the expected new information and insights were proving depressingly elusive.
Partly prompted by Charlie’s mention of the subject, he’d decided to have a first shot at drafting an opening to his article. He’d often found that producing those first few paragraphs helped him clarify his thinking and focus his subsequent research and interviews more effectively. He’d booked a day off work and had sat down at his keyboard to write.
So far nothing much was coming. He’d written his first sentence and then deleted it perhaps twenty times so far. He hadn’t yet attempted a second sentence. He usually told himself just to write, not to worry about whether it was any good or not. Just get something down. Today even that approach wasn’t working. He couldn’t manage to make his thoughts cohere into anything even half-sensible.
Eventually, he decided to take a break. Go for a walk to clear his head. Perhaps get himself a coffee. The weather had improved since the previous day, and a weak sun was struggling to force its way through the clouds. His house was on the edge of town, and a walk into the centre might be just what he needed to allow him to mull over the ideas drifting around in his head.
He wondered about calling Greg Wardle to see if he was free to meet. He’d couldn’t afford to waste one of his precious days away from work, but Greg was one of the few people he could bounce his thoughts and ideas off. They didn’t always agree and Greg couldn’t begin to match his own knowledge and erudition, but at least they were broadly on the same wavelength.
As it turned out, Greg’s phone went straight to voicemail. He was presumably tied up in some meeting or other. After a moment’s hesitation, Clive pulled on his coat and stepped out into the grey morning. He’d walk down into town, grab himself a coffee in one of the cafes and see if he could remove the fog from his brain.
He was halfway down the street when his mobile rang in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen, expecting it to be Greg responding to the message he’d left. But it was a number he didn’t recognise.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, there.’
The voice sounded familiar but he couldn’t immediately place it. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s Rowan. Rowan Wiseman.’
It took him another moment to recognise the name. ‘Oh, yes, Rowan. You were at the meeting the other day. What can I do for you?’ He’d given them all his mobile number at the conclusion of the meeting in case any of them wanted to discuss any issues with him. He hadn’t seriously expected any of them to take him up on this offer, least of all Rowan.
‘I was just wondering if we might meet up sometime. Before the next meeting, I mean. I’ve got a couple of things I’d like to discuss with you,’ she said.
Greg had commented after the meeting that he’d found Rowan Wiseman extremely attractive. Clive had offered some non-committal and vaguely disapproving response, because he felt it was patronising to judge women in those terms. Even so, he had to acknowledge that Greg was right. She was a striking-looking woman. ‘When did you have in mind?’
‘As soon as possible, really. I’m completely flexible.’
Clive hesitated ‘I suppose today’s not possible? I’ve got a day off work. Otherwise, one evening—’
‘Today’s fine for me. Do you live in town?’
‘Pretty much. I’m walking into the centre now, as it happens. Was planning to go for a coffee. Been working on an article but hit a bit of writer’s block.’
‘That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about, actually. Your writing. I’ve read a few of your pieces. They’re excellent.’
‘Really?’ It was rare for Clive to meet anyone who’d actually read his work. ‘I’m just starting out really. But it’s good to feel I’m making some sort of contribution.’
‘That was partly why Charlie and I came to the meeting. We recognised your name and were keen to come along and meet you. Sorry about Charlie, by the way. His heart’s in the right place, but he can be a bit opinionated. He enjoys the debate.’
‘No worries. So do I. That’s the point of doing this kind of thing, isn’t it?’ He’d almost forgotten the obnoxious Charlie. As far as Clive was concerned, opinionated hadn’t been the word. Clive had no idea whether or not Charlie’s heart was in the right place, but his brain seemed to have gone AWOL.
‘If you’re heading into town anyway,’ Rowan said, ‘we could have a coffee together. It’s only a five-minute walk for me.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well then, that was easy. Fortune must be smiling on us.’
She spoke the last words as if they were more than a familiar platitude. There was something in her manner Clive found mildly disconcerting, but he decided it wasn’t exactly unpleasant. ‘Looks like it,’ he said.