Borderliners, page 6
I gaped at him, but let him continue.
‘It’s a mission based community rather than an apostolic one. Their sole purpose is to lead lost souls to salvation rather than practice discipleship per se.’
I nodded.
‘Take Julia and Iain, for example,’ he continued. ‘They have really taken on board the need to recruit lost souls. You know in other organisations, you don’t see that so much.’
A shift in the atmosphere caused me to look up: Julia was weaving her way through the tables towards us. Oblivious to the stony expression on her face, Tony waved the hand in which he was holding his roll-up, and smiled gently. Julia’s eyes flickered but she kept her eyes fixed on me.
‘It was a little discourteous of you to just leave whilst my friend was talking to you about our community earlier,’ she said, ignoring Tony.
‘Sorry, I-‘
She cut me off. ‘Save it, Elena. It’s a waste of time dealing with people like you. I’ve seen plenty of your type come and go and it’s always the same.’ She turned on her heel.
Tony got up and made to follow Julia out of the tent. I made no attempt to move. Sipping my drink, I stared into space for a few minutes, attempting to still my anger. Instinct told me Tony was one of those people who lived at the edges of society, on the borderline. I knew it. And it was a truth I cared little for. I thought about how all people were on the edges of existence to a greater or lesser extent, victims of life, of contradiction, of the constant struggle to balance the need for flexibility with the desire to stand firm and constant against the world.
But there were some who were closer than others to the intersections of time and space: sometimes I felt that the left field was never far away: it was only there that anyone had the chance to understand the true nature of the world. I also knew that some people in society were drawn to the fragile minds of others, instinctively understanding how to manipulate and exploit them.
Such people were dangerous.
I’d almost finished my drink when a different kind of shadow darkened my table accompanied by a light, musky scent which hit my nostrils before I glanced up.
‘Elena, we were looking for you earlier.’ His expression was impassive.
‘Hi Vince.’ I motioned for him to sit down.
He pulled out the spare chair and sat down, leaning on his elbows. I shifted slightly.
‘Did you catch up with Emma?’
‘No, I got side tracked. How is she getting on?’
‘OK until it started raining.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the tent opening. ‘Look,’ he went quite still, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you about that girl who died. There’s been some more odd talk around the village.’
‘So I gathered. But you didn’t expand on that the last time this came up.’ I held his gaze, my expression sour.
‘Well, I wanted to listen around a bit more to be sure. Apparently, Martha worked at that New Age shop sometimes and she was into some weird stuff. There’s talk that you’re involved with that place too.’
‘Why would I be involved with the New Age shop people?’
‘I never thought you were.’ But even as he said it, I noticed his expression was wary.
‘There’s also some other talk going round about you. That you’re making trouble for the Charismatics in some way.’
‘That’s not true,’ I said. ‘But even if it was, I don’t see what that has to do with the death of that poor girl.’
‘Well, she was known for her opposition to the Charismatics as well, wasn’t she?’
I didn’t miss a beat. ‘Was she? That would explain a lot.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Oh. Something and nothing.’ Julia’s visit came to mind immediately and I thought of the odd things Martha had said in therapy. And of the diary. I shivered.
Outside the rain had abated. The tent started to empty out again as people reopened stalls. The oppressive darkness lifted. Vince leaned in to me a bit further, close enough for me to catch another hint of his aftershave. I watched his lips move.
‘Just while we’re on the subject, there are other things we need to talk about, but not here. After the next council meeting.’
He got up and nodded a curt goodbye as he left whilst I tried to guess what he needed to discuss with me. I watched him swagger off, lithe and easy, but he kept his head down and was less open to greeting people than I would have expected. Gripped by a sudden tightness in my throat, I got up and made my own way across the field, driven by a question about Martha which had not presented itself in my mind before. Vince’s words rang in my head - she was known for her opposition to the Charismatics.
I rushed over to the parking field, climbed into my car and drove straight home.
I’d left the last entry in the diary unread. Somehow I felt that if I read no more, I’d remain untouched by the author’s fate, but now I wondered. I was already in too deep. I’d known Martha was an outsider, but Julia seemed to be telling me she was a member of their community. Had she fallen out of favour, like Joan, or was it something more extreme? I wondered when she’d left the community, if it coincided with her treatment dates. And it occurred to me then, that she might not be the only person who opposed the Charismatics.
I felt as if I was almost out of time.
Chapter 8
Tony
25 September
Excitement and a chill wash over me at the same time in waves, a unique feeling to replace the usual. I’m so glad Julia asked me to come here and study her community. It coincided well with my new treatment and provided the new impetus I needed, as my PhD had been stalling somewhat…But now I have a new focus, an interesting element to add.
Today we talked about the traditions of the early Christians and about Julia and Iain’s community, otherwise known as the ‘Charismatic Community’. I’d been wondering when I could bring it up when the moment came. We were having tea in their sitting room, my tinnitus calm for once. Julia asked me how things were going. Somehow the conversation turned to a discussion of their prayer group. Until today I’ve had no opportunity to talk about it with them in more depth. I’m glad we did. This is why I am here, after all.
Julia said, ‘Tony, would you like to come to our prayer group on Sunday? I know you’ve been looking at our beliefs and we’ve given you some of our books to help, but there’s nothing like the real thing, you know, nothing which replaces that direct contact with the divine which comes when you are in a group of believers.’
There was an odd pause. A disconnect.
I wonder if she had expected me to answer straight away, but I had to think. Eventually, I nodded my agreement but Julia was already on her way out to get more tea and biscuits. After a few minutes in which I contemplated the idea, Iain fixed his beady eyes on me. They are opaque, somehow blank, and it disconcerts me that I cannot read my soul in their reflection, in fact, I can read very little there. We sat like that, in silence, until Julia returned, unperturbed by the peculiar atmosphere in the room. She placed the tray on the table at the centre of the room and poured me a cup of tea. Iain, I noticed, did not have one.
‘We’re having another one of our “open house” parties in a couple of weeks’ time,’ Julia said. Yet her eyes didn’t match the rest of her body language. They were cold, so cold, and when she turned to look at me I felt icy fingers of dread rooting around inside my head, as if she was looking for something she was sure to find.
‘What kind of a party is that?’ I asked, all of a sudden desperate for a roll-up. Julia’s gaze locked me in and prevented me from getting up to fetch my Rizla papers.
‘Just a little cocktail party with some nibbles. You know, a kind of drop in type of an affair.’
It struck me then, that she uses words like an affectation to mask her Scottish roots – she doesn’t quite add up. But then, maybe nobody does.
Later on in the day Iain agreed to let me interview him. It will be useful in case I use the Charismatic Community as a case study in my PhD.
Intellectually, I struggle with what he told me, and yet… A word comes to mind, whispered from the beyond. Whispered. Right into my ear. This man is crazy, it tells me but none are crazier than I and who am I to question what is best left a mystery?
I asked him, ‘Tell me more about the Charismatic Community? What do you believe in? What exactly is your doctrine?’
‘We don’t exactly have one,’ he replied. His tone was not altogether kind and I could smell his breath, rancid and sour, from where I was sitting. Normally my nostrils are filled with the lingering scent of my own roll-ups and the smell of another was unwelcome. It brought to mind my late father, who had often reeked of alcohol. His hitherto blank eyes sharpened with something I could only recognise as hatred, although hatred of what? That’s the question (Ha! Thus spake Hamlet in my ear). It’s one of the questions, anyway - hatred that is. What’s the point of it? I find it everywhere in my studies.
He was talking again, so I broke off my inner dialogue to listen.
‘Our Charismatic movement is not bound to dogma as other movements are.’
I raised my eyebrows. I could hear my own father saying ‘What a load of codswallop!’ Instead, I said, ‘What do you mean?’ and pretended to write notes. Realistically, I don’t need to do that. My memory is good enough. After all, I have a first from Oxford although I suspect this would be lost on Iain.
At this point I asked him if he minded if I smoked. He said he did, which disconcerted me. Smoking helps me to concentrate better, sometimes.
‘In my organisation we don’t approve of vices,’ he said. ‘Julia and I don’t drink or smoke. Well, we might have the occasional drink, but that’s it.’
I wondered why he said ‘organisation’ rather than ‘community’ but just nodded, keen for him to return to our previous topic of conversation. He was boring me. When he didn’t speak, I prompted.
‘So, tell me how your ‘brand’ of religion, your philosophy-’ I chuckled but he did not reciprocate, ‘-compares to that of other organisations or movements?’
He cleared his throat and began talking in that strange monotone of his, ‘Well, take the Rapture for example. It’s close now, really close.’
I nodded. There was a lot of this about. Again, I could hear my father laughing. A bit louder, if anything. I wanted to laugh along with him, but managed to stop myself just in time. Iain didn’t seem to notice, and continued talking, as if I was lapping up every word.
‘Religious leaders, you know. They just can’t see it. It’s going to hit them like a bus, but they just don’t see it. We see it, because we have the gift of prophecy - that’s one of the gifts Charismatics have. But they don’t. They give us no choice.’
I was thoughtful afterwards. I do not think him particularly intelligent and his lack of biblical references intrigues me. In my experience, people of his standing and profession normally quote regularly from whichever holy text they adhere to. An irritating but strangely comforting trait that Iain does not possess. He is devoid of comforting traits.
‘It’s another thing we have to drum into people here,’ he continued, as if this were the most normal thing to say in the world. ‘We have to deal with a lot of people who have lost their way.’
And I thought, deal with, deal with…The words echoed about in my head. They rattled and shook. Julia was nowhere to be seen throughout the conversation. Even now, as I write three hours later, I cannot place the whereabouts of Julia.
Chapter 9
Thoughts of Martha and Tony plagued me in the days which followed. Where, only a few weeks ago, I’d been working to make a difference to my patients, making slow progress in my relations with the other villagers, now I was hurtling towards something else. Someone was trying to scare me and that wasn’t all. I was worried about Joan, her otherworldly air too reminiscent of the one which had settled around Martha in the months leading up to her death. Isolation in a small place like this was alienating, I knew this better than anybody, but there was something else. Both Joan and Martha before her were afraid.
Alone in my consulting room, I flicked back through the diary. Something about its yellowed pages, which emanated a peculiar mix of perfume and cigarette smoke, brought to mind my childhood. I screwed up my eyes trying to remember the brand of perfume my mother had used. As ever, when I thought of her, I blinked back a tear or two. My younger self hadn’t often been given the chance to snuggle up and breathe her in. Nevertheless, there was something familiar about this scent. I racked my brains for clues, fighting an uncomfortable feeling the answer was lying just out of reach.
Flicking to the back, I read through the last couple of entries.
Dream journal, October
Again, the same dream.
I entered the occult shop, pushing on the door with renewed vigour and force. The glass was cold on my fingertips and my refracted expression, nestling within its depths, was intense and clear. It slid away as I moved onwards, leaving the door to close softly behind me.
A phone rang and the sound reverberated around, cutting through that murky air which lurked around, clinging to the bookshelves and the indistinct piles on the floor. I moved towards the sound over the obstacle course which lay between the door and the till where the phone was situated. The ringing became shriller as I got closer. It was almost unbearable, and I covered my ears as I drew level with the till.
Then, I stretched out my hand and picked up the receiver, which was black and covered in a thick film of dust. As the dust slid off it I noticed the floor was covered in ash. The light changed and I was standing in the middle of the clearing with the receiver in my hand, the shop having fallen away to leave nothing but burning ashes and a till with a phone resting on it. I was exposed to the woods.
In the distance I saw a group of men and women in ball gowns and tuxedos advance towards me through the trees. Tentatively, I put the phone to my ear as if it were providing me with a lifeline or escape, hearing instead, a deep, lilting voice.
‘The Hanged Man, The High Priestess, The Hermit, The Moon and Death. Let them be a warning to you.’
I looked up to see that it was too late. The moon above came out from the cloud covering to stare down at me, directing the stares of the silent and waiting crowd. So I ran. I ran on gravel, as fast as I could through the trees, so fast I was almost floating above the turgid mud and mass of dark, matted leaves below. The deserted car park was completely black making the burning light behind the barn windows brighter. I got closer and closer but then I found I was running in slow motion, unable to get right up to the windows to see inside.
Above, the moon was bright and full, mottled grey cloud moving swiftly past it, failing to eclipse its hypnotic brightness. A desire to float towards it instead pushed me right up to the window, face against the glass, up close to unseeing figures, now inside. A falling sensation threatened, but I held on as I caught sight of a tall brunette in the centre.
A young woman knelt before her, blindfolded with her hands outstretched, pleading.
Without warning the light inside the barn turned to burning flame, high and bright, back-lighting the silent faces inside. The tall woman turned, and her eyes were upon me as the flames licked higher, engulfing and swallowing the ring around. She raised her hands to the sky, which opened up above my head, and threw burning cards into the air shouting:
‘Beware, the occult!’
Dream diary, October
I sat in charred remains. There were others with me, and there were cinders smoking all around us, rising up slowly to taper into the blue sky above our heads, and I could just make out the bottom of the bonfire, in which the heat of the fire remnants worked away at a pile of golden binders, peeling away at their pages, layer by layer. A pair of dark eyes regarded me from across the way, remaining on my face as their owner spoke, her hair cascading around hollow cheek bones.
‘You are important to the community. We have a plan for you…,’ the cheekbones said, ‘You sit between worlds, between this world and the next, between heaven and hell-’
‘Between…?’ I interjected, but the eyes just looked over at me, unmoved.
The bones continued. ‘I was put here to help lead the flock, to identify the lonely and the lost. I even counted you among those – I thought I could help you. But no. Just look at you.’
The eyes changed and their darkness merged into deep purple, the colour of death. I could feel their vice-like grip on my soul and feel their pull, their calling to my loneliness. I felt the darkness encircle me and the smoke from the fire thicken as it snaked its way over to where I was sitting, its edges tainted by the burnished gold of burning books between us.
At that point the diary just seemed to tail off. There were no more entries. What had happened to the owner of the diary after this point? I flicked back and forth pondering the New Age shop and its contents. I sat back in the chair and thought for a moment. The books described bore an uncanny resemblance to the volume I’d found next to Martha’s body on the night of her death. I cast my mind back to the reading which had been left on my coffee table and I didn’t like it. Rummaging about in my bag, I fished out my phone and brought up the photo stream to browse through the images I’d snapped of the cards that night. I remember Nonna Rosa telling me how the Death card had more to do with change than death itself. She had taught me not to fear change and I’d taken her advice all my life, although some might say, I embraced too much of it. I was accustomed to that sinking feeling brought about by making a big change in life. I knew how it felt to leave people and places behind and move on. The feeling of dread was so acute I could taste it on my lips and feel it in the shiver of remembered anticipation which shuddered through my body. That feeling of an unknown quantity, of a path without a clear ending. I reflected on how, for many months, my world had been closing in on me. It was an ever-decreasing circle, a trap maybe? I felt as if I had been walking a corridor that lead to nowhere, one which presented me with an array of tightly shut doors. Had the owner of the diary felt this way too? And had the person who had left the card reading wanted to warn me of a change, maybe a catastrophic one? Or was their purpose more sinister?
