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a catastrophe.

      V

      In my rational moments, as I’ve already noted, I wasn’t attracted to underweight women who looked fragile enough to break during intercourse. But this was not one of my rational moments. The obsession to achieve a healing had unplugged my brain.

      She didn’t break during intercourse. It was afterwards that she went to pieces.

      As soon as she could speak she said in a shaking voice: ‘You’re not standing in for Christian at all. You couldn’t. You’re quite different.’

      ‘It’s okay, Katie, it’s okay –’

      But of course it wasn’t.

      ‘I never realised how different it could be – I thought all men made love in the same way.’

      ‘Look, don’t be upset, I –’

      ‘I’ve betrayed him. And you’ve betrayed me!’

      ‘No, no – honestly – just think of it as a kind of therapy –’

      ‘Therapy? My God, how utterly revolting!’

      ‘But Katie, I didn’t mean –’

      ‘You’ve deliberately taken advantage of my grief – you’ve cold-bloodedly exploited me –’

      ‘But all I wanted to do was help you!’

      ‘You think that could help? You deceived me into thinking you could stand in for Christian and then raped me when I was in no fit state to fight you off!’

      ‘It couldn’t have been rape. Raped women don’t have orgasms.’

      She hit me. I gasped. ‘Katie, for God’s sake –’ She hit me again. ‘Get away from me!’ she said revolted. ‘Never come near me again! I hate you, I hate you, I HATE YOU –’

      I grabbed my clothes and fled.

      In my sitting-room I found I couldn’t recite the Jesus prayer to calm me down, couldn’t even remember it. I buttoned my shirt wrong, nearly fell over as I pulled on my jeans, and all the while I was becoming aware that the room was a shambles, the fallen chairs and smashed glass creating the impression of a violated space. The chilly air had a peculiarly desolate quality, and as I shuddered I at last remembered the mantra.

      ‘Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner …’

      Never had the prayer seemed more appropriate.

      In the bedroom Katie began to scream for Marina.

      I shuddered again and knew I was in hell.

      VI

      Marina returned ten minutes later. As soon as I saw the car I went to the bathroom, where Katie had barricaded herself, and told her the good news. She ran downstairs sobbing. Outside the two women embraced before Marina guided Katie into the car and drove away.

      Leaving the landing window I stumbled downstairs. Sounds in the dining-room indicated that the members of the Community were having lunch. No conversation was permitted at meal-times but Dorothy the ex-missionary was reading aloud from Pilgrim’s Progress. Silently I slunk into the kitchen and swiped the brandy bottle, which was kept in the house for medicinal purposes. It lived under the sink next to the spare bottles of lavatory-cleaner, a home reflecting the contempt with which the Community regarded alcohol. I had a swig straight from the bottle. My tastebuds felt as if they’d been mugged but within a minute I felt steadier. Burying the bottle in the cupboard again I rinsed out my mouth with water and set off rapidly through the back garden to my father’s cottage in the woods.

      VII

      I knew I could tell my father only a highly censored version of what had happened, but nonetheless I knew I had to see him. Whenever I was in pieces there was only one person who could weld me together again.

      ‘Ah, there you are,’ said my father as I entered his cottage. ‘Thank goodness. I had the feeling you were troubled in some way, perhaps even a little frightened.’

      ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, can’t you switch off sometimes? I’m sick and tired of you invading my privacy with your ESP!’ Of course I was terrified how much he had intuited.

      My father’s grey eyes filled with tears. He was very, very old now, almost eighty-eight, and he moved slowly. His great height had been reduced by a stoop. He was still compos mentis but his body was wearing out. Eight years after his successful prostate operation he was suffering from bladder problems again, and although tests had revealed there was no cancer the pain and difficulty continued. His digestion, which had always been excellent, had begun to cause trouble. He vomited, suffered headaches. The doctor continued to prove there was no cancer and in despair prescribed some tranquillisers which my father, much insulted, flushed down the lavatory. Now something had gone wrong with his hands and he refused to see the doctor at all. He made his own diagnosis, eczema, and rejecting all offers of help from Rowena, Agnes and Dorothy, he somehow managed to bandage the hands himself. Mark and Luke, the ex-monks, and Bob, the ex-naval-chaplain, spent hours arguing about the dermatitis entry in the medical dictionary but came to no conclusion. Morgan, the ex-pop-star, had left the Community long ago after abandoning his attempt to write an opera about God, and Theo, the ex-ordinand who thought he was being persecuted by Buddha, was now in a mental home. The Community had been reduced to six.

      ‘Oh Father, I’m sorry, I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to yell at you like that …’ I couldn’t stand it when his eyes filled with tears. This tendency to weepiness was new, another result of extreme old age. He couldn’t control his emotions as well as he used to, and his psychic powers, once so formidably disciplined, were now more erratic. I was sure he hadn’t deliberately tried to tune in to my activities; the tuning in would have been a mere reflex, triggered by his anxiety.

      Hating myself for losing patience with him I said: ‘As a matter of fact you were right in sensing that I’ve been having an awkward time.’ Picking up Whitby, who was skulking around my ankles, I dumped him in my father’s lap. I did this not just to give myself a chance to review the censored story I had prepared but because I thought it was once more time Whitby earned his keep by having a tranquillising effect on those nearest and dearest to him.

      I stroked the striped fur. So did my father. Whitby tried to knead my father’s knees but collapsed in ecstasy seconds later. The sonorous rise and fall of his purring thrummed around the room.

      Having reviewed my story I took a deep breath and said: ‘I’ve just had a very disturbing visit from Marina and Katie. They wanted me to hold a séance but of course I told them that was out of the question. However, when I realised Katie wanted to make contact with Christian in order to obtain his forgiveness, it occurred to me that this was a pastoral situation where I could be of use. I thought that if we all prayed together … the grace of God … love and peace … well, I might have been able to alleviate this mysterious burden of guilt, mightn’t I? It really did seem as if I could be of use.’

      ‘Nicholas, you’re not yet a priest. And you’re certainly not a doctor. If Mrs Aysgarth was in such a troubled state, you should have advised her to seek professional help.’

      ‘Yes, of course. However –’

      ‘Very well, tell me the worst. What happened?’

      I prepared to skate on thin ice. ‘We sat down at the table in my sitting-room and I led them in prayer. I wanted to convey that Christian was at peace with God, so I prayed that we might be allowed to experience that peace. I didn’t pray for his soul – I thought non-church-going Protestants might have balked at prayers for the dead – but I thought that if we simply remembered him before God … well, there’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’

      ‘No, but what exactly was

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