Heartbreaker (35 page)

CHAPTER SIX

Gavin

Emotional dis-ease lies behind many illnesses. The breakdown of relationships in marriages, families and other human groups strains the well-being of those involved. Drug addiction and alcoholism, the abuse of the human body and mind, and the prevalence of crime, violence and racism are signs of a deep-rooted sickness in our local and national life.

A Time to Heal
A REPORT FOR THE HOUSE OF BISHOPS
ON THE HEALING MINISTRY

It’s nightmare time at Hellfire Hall. Asherton’s popped up without warning, like the genie in a Christmas panto who erupts onstage as soon as Aladdin rubs his magic lamp. But this genie’s no cute pantomime demon. He’s all smarmed down and brushed up in a Savile Row suit and looking respectable enough to cringe at the word “vice.” I’m so shattered that I stand in the doorway like a statue someone’s tried to deliver to the wrong address.

“We met at the opera, didn’t we?” says Asherton with a curve of his pin-thin lips. “Good evening, Mr. Blake.”

“Good evening, sir.” I finally get my feet working again and move forward to accept the routine glass of champagne from Old Toffee-Nose, the butler. What I really want is a double brandy with a pint of lager on the side. Or a double lager with a pint of brandy on the side. Anything but another round of that plug-awful Froggy-Pop.

Meanwhile as I think these frenzied thoughts about booze, my self-preservation instinct kicks in and I realise I’ve got to remind myself who knows what because if I make one slip now I’ll be heading for the Pain-Palace in no time flat. Let me think, let me think, let me think . . .

Right, here we go. One: nobody’s aware that Asherton and I are long-standing acquaintances. Two: Asherton doesn’t know I’ve met either Nicholas or Carta prior to this weekend. Three: Colin thinks I met both Nicholas
and
Carta for the first time at Richard’s funeral, and he thinks I first heard about the Appeal there, but although he learned about the Appeal through me he’s not going to tell either Asherton or anyone else that I’ve done a full-blooded fundraising number in the bedroom. And four: Nicholas and Carta won’t breathe a word to Asherton about any of my fundraising activities because the subject’s confidential, and they also won’t breathe a word about any other confidential conversation I’ve had with them, particularly the one involving my braindead admission that Elizabeth’s interested in recruiting Colin for a “club” run by a friend of hers who’s a suit. So . . . if everyone acts in character and keeps quiet about the facts which could sink me, I might just survive this nightmare intact.

Meanwhile, as I’m trying not to shit bricks, the life-saving cavalry arrives in the form of the other guests, the innocent ones: Mr. and Mrs. Local Doctor and Mr. and Mrs. Local Parson—all middle-aged, middle-class, middle-brow, middle-everything, the dead norm of magnificent British decency which still flourishes outside that crude Thames-side cesspit which calls itself London and kids itself it speaks for England. But before I can heave a sigh of relief I notice Asherton boggling at the sight of another clerical collar, and suddenly I wonder what Colin’s playing at. Just how far has Asherton got with reeling in this big fish? I told Nicholas that Colin knew nothing about GOLD yet, but it looks as if I was wrong. The obvious explanation for Asherton’s presence here is that he’s already played the GOLD card and won a favourable response, but supposing the big fish now turns out to be Jaws, ready to chomp up everything in sight?

Grappling with these apocalyptic thoughts, I shelter by Mr. and Mrs. Local Doctor and act as if I’m too shy to do more than speak when spoken to.

“And what’s
your
connection with Sir Colin?” says Mrs. Local Doctor kindly.

Lady, if only you knew. “I’m his second cousin’s son,” I murmur almost inaudibly. “I’m contemplating a career change and I’m hoping Colin will point me in the right direction.”

Asherton’s approaching. He’s slithered away from both clerics, sidestepped Carta and he could be closing in on me—but no, he’s fastened on the doctor, who turns to talk to him. That means I can go on sheltering in the lee of the doctor’s wife. The clerics are busy chatting. Carta’s looking at me as if she’s longing to find out why I’m being so self-effacing, but any conversation with her could be dangerous—it might look to Asherton as if I know her well, and besides I’m so churned up at present about Carta that I don’t want to talk to her. My glorious bed-dream’s been wiped. She used the P-word. I’m really upset. But at the same time I’m riveted because she says she likes me, the real me, not Gavin Blake Superstud, not Gavin Blake Fundraiser Supremo, not even Gavin Blake Ordinary Bloke, but Gavin Blake
Me,
the load of rubbish that’s no use to anyone. I wouldn’t believe this but I do because she mentioned the magic moment when our hands clasped. I was no one else then but myself, but if she liked me at that moment the liking just has to be real because the handclasp was all about a very deep reality, I know that now. But what exactly is this deep reality, and what are Carta and I supposed to do with each other if we can’t fuck?

I suddenly realise Mrs. Local Parson’s glided alongside me to ask what part of the world I come from and we go through the rigmarole of where I went to school and what my father’s profession was. But this lady’s smarter than Mrs. Local Doctor. She never asks how I know Colin.

After an interval which seems more like thirty years than thirty minutes dinner’s announced and in an effort to avoid Asherton I decide to be the last one to leave the room. Bad decision. He falls into step by my side as soon as I move into the hall and by this time the others are too far ahead to hear us.

“Did you know Darrow was going to be present?”

“No, sir.”

“What the hell’s going on?”

“Colin heard about St. Benet’s and thinks it might be good PR to donate to their Appeal.”

“Why didn’t you tell Elizabeth this?”

“I’ve only just found out.”

The opportunity for private conversation ceases as we enter the dining-room and wander around scanning the place cards. Colin’s put Nicholas and Asherton facing each other in the middle of the table and they’re flanked on either side by the four innocents: Asherton’s sitting between the doctor and Mrs. Local Parson, Nicholas between the parson and Mrs. Local Doctor. Both women are on either side of Colin, who’s at the head of the table. Carta and I are seated opposite each other, she next to the parson and I next to the doctor, but as there are an uneven number of guests Colin has no one facing him at our end of the table.

Dinner begins with a mush-ball on rabbit food, the kind of knickknack cuisine which one can toss off in two bites and be even hungrier afterwards than one was before. I’m still recovering from my brush with Asherton, but when I start thinking clearly I realise there’s been no announcement that Nicholas and Carta are going to do a St. Benet’s number.

“Do tell us about your ministry, Nicholas!” one of the innocents is saying warmly, and Nicholas answers: “I believe I’m going to be encouraged to do so later,” but Colin neither looks at him nor comments. What the hell’s he playing at? Meanwhile my neighbour the doctor is talking to Asherton about the rising levels of teenage drug abuse in rural areas. Asherton’s looking wonderfully shocked. I sip some wine and decide it tastes poisonous. I wish to hell someone would wheel on a trolley groaning with all the drugs anyone would need to get totally freaked out and beamed up.

“. . . and of course the young are encouraged by the absence of good role models to regard drug-taking as normal,” the doctor’s saying, and adds to me: “You must be under thirty—what do you think?”

“I’m not interested in drugs, sir. I’m into keep-fit. Minimum alcohol, regular work-outs, no junk food.”

“Splendid!” exclaims the doctor heartily. “How encouraging!”

“A perfect role model for the young!” agrees Asherton creamily, and the sound of that sugar-and-cyanide voice makes me toss back the rest of my dud wine.

After the starter comes the fish course, a sliver of lemon sole in a slimy sauce with a shrimp stuck on top. Another bottle of wine appears but I turn up my glass because I can’t afford to get seriously trolleyed, particularly since the doctor zeroes in on me again during the next course (beef Wellington, duchesse potatoes, mixed veg) and I’m kept busy explaining my fictitious job as a gym equipment salesman. By the time we’ve all finished pudding I’m knackered, but there’s no respite because after the cheese and fruit have circulated Colin drops his H-bomb.

“Now we come to the climax of the party!” he declares, beaming at us. “We’re going to have a debate. On the one hand—” He gestures to Nicholas “—we have a representative of the Church of England who is at present engaged in a fundraising drive for his ministry of healing at St. Benet’s-by-the-Wall in the City of London. And on the other—” He gestures to Asherton “—we have a representative of a religious society, the Guild of Light and Darkness, which is a form of the ancient Gnostic tradition, and he too clearly has hopes that I might contribute to his cause. Two religious men—and both after my money! Whom should I favour? Well, gentlemen, let’s see how well you perform before a jury of your peers who will decide the winner of the debate! Do you want me to toss a coin to decide who goes first?”

Everyone gapes, gobsmacked.

I’ve never seen Asherton look so rattled.

“My dear Colin,” he says rapidly, “I’m afraid you entirely misunderstand the nature of my metaphysical interests! My society is, as I thought I’d made clear to you, entirely private and can’t possibly be the subject of a dinner-party discussion!”

“What a pity!” says Nicholas at once, staging a speed-of-light recovery from the H-bomb’s blast. “But never mind—my metaphysical interests are open to all, not merely to a privileged few, and I’m more than happy to discuss them with anyone anywhere!”

“Surely it’s not quite
comme il faut
to discuss religion at dinner parties?” says Mrs. Local Doctor, too nervous to realise she’s shafting her host by implying he doesn’t know how to behave.

“Quite right!” exclaims Asherton, more than willing to slam a backhander at his host after Colin’s not only ignored the fact that GOLD’s top secret but has even blasted its full name around the table. “Religion is essentially a private matter, far from the reality of public affairs and normal social engagements.”

“Do you really think so?” says Nicholas politely, subtly conveying an impression of amused astonishment—as if Asherton’s opinion was almost too quaint to be taken seriously. “Surely the idea that religion should be locked away from everyday existence implies, if you’ll forgive me saying so, a failure to understand what religion is all about. A great religion’s a world-view and a way of life, and if it doesn’t address itself to the realities of day-to-day living then it’s of no use to those seeking meaning and value in their daily lives.”

“Oh come, come, Mr. Darrow!” oozes Asherton. “Isn’t Christianity really only about ‘pie in the sky when you die’?”

“If that were true everyone would be queueing up to commit suicide, but as we all know, that kind of mass exit is confined to phoney cults and perverted religion.”

(I think: nice one, mate. Cheers.)

“But nevertheless,” persists Asherton, still slimeballing away, “think of the Sermon on the Mount! Aren’t so many Christian concepts just an escape from reality?”

“How strange you should believe that!” says Nicholas, wide-eyed as if with innocent wonder. “I always understood that it was the Gnostics who sought to evade reality with their themes of escaping into other worlds! Surely it’s Christianity, in the person of its crucified leader, which confronts the blood, sweat and tears of reality head on?”

(I think: another nice one, mate! Let no one say you haven’t gone down fighting.)

Asherton says sardonically, easing up on the charm: “Ah, but such an exaltation of death and suffering surely risks being seen as an exercise in sado-masochism!”

“Confronting the reality of death and suffering isn’t the same as exalting it. You’re forgetting that Christ preached life in abundance and the primacy of love, not multiple destruction and the triumph of hate.”

(I suck in my breath at this third whack in succession and think astonished: POW!)

“Life in abundance!” exclaims Asherton with a little designer-sniggle of a laugh. “But everyone knows that Christianity has a record of dealing out death and destruction second to none!”

“How about those death-dealing atheists Mao Tse-tung, Pol Pot and Stalin?” enquires Nicholas instantly. “The truth, surely, Mr. Asherton, is that all religions can be corrupted—take Gnosticism, for instance. Gnosticism should be about a collection of beautiful fictions containing profound spiritual truths, but how much of that tradition is incorporated in your Guild of Light and Darkness? Just what kind of Gnosticism are you actually promoting here?”

“I read such an interesting article on Gnosticism the other day,” chips in Mr. Local Parson, trying to pour oil on the troubled waters as the temperature of the debate rises. “It referred to that splendidly readable book by—” He says a name that sounds like Inane Bagels, but I realise it’s probably Elaine Bagels—or maybe Elaine Pagels, since the “b” sound was more of a pop than a blast—but Mr. Local Doctor, not listening, says irritably: “I don’t understand this Gnostic stuff. What’s the core premiss?”

“The importance of spiritual liberation,” says Asherton, very hushed, very reverent.

Nicholas says crisply in a down-to-earth voice: “There were different strands of Gnosticism in the old days, some close to Christianity, some far removed from it—the nearest equivalent today would be the New Age Movement—but generally speaking it centred on the belief that you can attain salvation by secret knowledge, occult knowledge, given only to an elite. Christianity, on the other hand, believes that salvation—wholeness of body, mind and spirit leading to liberation and empowerment—is available to all through the example, power and grace of Jesus Christ.”