Turning the page over, she jotted down a street she knew from surveillance work existed in Clapham, picked a house number at random, then invented a postcode of which only SW11 was likely to be accurate.
Looking up, she saw that most people had finished writing. Putting up her hand, she passed her finished letter to the smiling Becca and waited for everybody else to complete the task. Finally, when all letters, paper and pens had been collected in, they were permitted to rise and file back upstairs.
As Robin stepped out into the courtyard, she saw Dr Andy Zhou hurrying towards the farmhouse’s carved double doors, carrying what looked like a medical case. He had an abstracted, anxious air that contrasted strongly with his usual suavity. As those who’d been writing their template letters crowded around the pool of the Drowned Prophet to pay their usual respects on passing, Robin hung back, watching Zhou. The doors to the farmhouse opened and she caught a glimpse of an elderly Indian woman. Zhou stepped over the threshold and vanished from sight, the doors closing behind him. Robin, who was living in daily expectation of hearing that the pregnant Wan had gone into labour, wondered whether that explained Zhou’s haste.
‘The Drowned Prophet will bless all who worship her,’ she muttered when her turn at the pool side came, dabbing cold water on her forehead as usual, before falling into step with Kyle, Amandeep and Vivienne. Vivienne was saying,
‘… probably be really angry, like I give a toss. Seriously, they could both be in a textbook under “false self”. It’s only since I’ve been in ’ere I’ve, like, started to fully process what they’ve done to me, y’know?’
‘Totally,’ said Kyle.
The letter writers were some of the earliest to arrive in the dining hall and consequently had a choice of seats. Robin, who saw every meal as an opportunity to collect information, because it was the one time all church members mingled, chose to sit down beside a knot of church members having a whispered conversation. They were so deeply engrossed, they didn’t immediately notice when Robin sat down beside them.
‘… says Jacob’s really bad, but I think Dr Zhou—’
The speaker, a young black man with short dreadlocks, broke off. To Robin’s exasperation, Amandeep, Kyle and Vivienne had followed her to the table. The last’s loud voice had alerted the whisperers to their presence.
‘—then they can go to ’ell, frankly,’ Vivienne was saying.
‘We don’t use that expression,’ said the man with dreadlocks sharply to Vivienne, who turned pink.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean—’
‘We don’t wish hell on anyone,’ said the young man. ‘UHC members don’t want to swell the Adversary’s ranks.’
‘No, of course not,’ said Vivienne, now scarlet. ‘I’m really sorry. Actually, I need the bathroom…’
Barely a minute later, the shaven-headed, grumpy-looking young woman who’d been recently relocated from another UHC centre entered the rapidly filling hall. After glancing around, she headed for Vivienne’s vacated space. Robin thought she saw the idea of telling her the seat was already taken cross Kyle’s mind, but after opening his mouth he closed it again.
‘Hi,’ said the always talkative Amandeep, holding out a hand to the woman in glasses. ‘Amandeep Singh.’
‘Emily Pirbright,’ muttered the woman, returning his handshake.
‘Pirbright? Whoa – is Becca your sister?’ said Amandeep.
Robin understood Amandeep’s surprise, because the two young women didn’t resemble each other in the slightest. Aside from the contrast between Becca’s well-groomed, glossy bob and Emily’s almost bald head, the latter’s perpetual expression of bad temper formed a greater contrast to Becca’s apparently unquenchable cheeriness.
‘We don’t use words like “sister”,’ said Emily. ‘Haven’t you learned that yet?’
‘Oh, yeah, sorry,’ said Amandeep.
‘Becca and I used to be flesh objects to each other, if that’s what you mean,’ said Emily coldly.
The group of established church members who’d been whispering when Robin sat down had now subtly angled their bodies away from Emily. It was impossible not to draw the conclusion that Emily was in some form of disgrace and Robin’s interest in her doubled. Fortunately for her, Amandeep’s incorrigible sociability swiftly reasserted itself.
‘So you grew up here at the farm?’ he asked Emily.
‘Yeah,’ said Emily.
‘Is Becca older or—?’
‘Older.’
Robin thought Emily was conscious of her silent shunning by the group beside her.
‘That’s another old flesh object of mine, look,’ she said.
Robin, Amandeep and Kyle looked in the direction Emily was pointing and saw Louise wheeling the usual vat of noodles along, ladling them out onto plates at the next table. Louise glanced up, met Emily’s eyes, then returned stolidly to her work.
‘What, is she your—?’
Amandeep caught himself just in time.
A few minutes later, Louise reached their table. Emily waited until Louise was on the point of dropping a ladleful of noodles onto her plate before saying loudly,
‘And Kevin was younger than Becca and me.’
Louise’s hand shook: hot noodles slid off Emily’s plate into her lap.
‘Ouch!’
Expressionless, Louise moved on down the line.
Scowling, Emily picked the noodles out of her lap, put them back on her plate, then deliberately speared the only chunks of fresh vegetable out of what Robin was sure was tinned tomato, set them aside and began to eat the rest of her meal.
‘Don’t you like carrot?’ asked Robin. Meals were so scant at Chapman Farm, she’d never before seen anyone fail to clear their plate.
‘What’s it to you?’ said Emily aggressively.
Robin ate the rest of her meal in silence.
40
… the most sacred of human feelings, that of reverence for the ancestors.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
Strike made the long trip to St Mawes on Thursday by train and ferry. His uncle was so surprised and delighted to see him that Strike knew Ted had forgotten he was coming, in spite of the fact that he’d called that morning to tell his uncle what time he’d be arriving.
The house where the fastidious Joan had once presided was dusty, although Strike was pleased to see the fridge was well stocked with food. Strike understood that Ted’s neighbours had been rallying around, making sure he had enough to eat and checking in with him regularly. This increased Strike’s guilt about not doing more to support Ted, whose conversation was rambling and repetitive.
The visit to the GP the following morning did nothing to allay Strike’s concerns.
‘He asked Ted what date it is and he didn’t know,’ Strike told Lucy by phone after lunch. Strike had left Ted with a mug of tea in the living room, then slipped out into the back garden on the pretext of vaping and was now pacing the small patch of lawn.
‘Well, that’s not too serious, is it?’ said Lucy.
‘Then he told Ted an address and made him say it back, which Ted did fine, and he told Ted he was going to ask him to repeat the address a few minutes later, but Ted couldn’t.’
‘Oh no,’ said Lucy.
‘He asked if Ted could remember a recent news story and Ted said “Brexit”, no problem. Then he told him to fill in the numbers on a picture of a clock. Ted did that OK, but then he had to mark in the hands to make it say ten to eleven, and Ted was lost. Couldn’t do it.’
‘Oh shit,’ Lucy whispered, disconsolate. ‘So what’s the diagnosis?’