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‘That, then, is the materialist world,’ Jonathan said at last. ‘And if our task seems overwhelming, it is because the Adversary’s forces are powerful… desperately powerful. The inevitable End Game approaches, which is why we fight to hasten the coming of the Lotus Way. Now, I ask you all to join me in meditation. For those who have not yet learned our mantra, the words are printed here.’
Two girls in orange tracksuits mounted the stage, holding large white boards, on which were printed: Lokah Samastah Sukhino Bhavantu.
‘A deep breath, raising the arms,’ said Jonathan, and though the benches at the tables were cramped, every arm was slowly raised, and there was a universal intake of breath. ‘And exhale,’ said Jonathan quietly, and the room breathed out again.
‘And now: Lokah Samastah Sukhino Bhavantu. Lokah Samastah Sukhino Bhavantu. Lokah Samastah Sukhino Bhavantu…’
Robin caught the pronunciation of the mantra from her neighbours. A hundred people chanted, and chanted, and chanted some more, and Robin began to feel a strange calm creeping over her. The rhythm seemed to vibrate inside her, hypnotic and soothing, with Jonathan’s the only distinguishable voice among the many, and soon she didn’t need to read the words off the board, but was able to repeat them automatically.
At last, the first bars of David Bowie’s ‘Heroes’ blended with the voices of the crowd, at which point the chants became cheers, and everyone jumped to their feet, and began embracing. Robin was pulled into a hug with the elated Danny, then by her blond neighbour. The two young men embraced each other, and now the entire crowd was singing along to Bowie’s song and clapping in time. Tired and hungry though she was, Robin smiled as she clapped and sang along with the rest.
28
This hexagram is composed of the trigram Li above, i.e., flame, which burns upward, and Tui below, i.e., the lake, which seeps downward…
The I Ching or Book of Changes
Strike had to change the rota to accommodate his interview with Abigail Glover on Sunday evening. Only then did he see that Clive Littlejohn was off work for four days. As Strike wanted to see Littlejohn’s reaction in person when he asked why he hadn’t disclosed his previous employment at Patterson Inc, he decided to postpone their chat until it could be done face to face.
Strike spent Saturday afternoon at Lucy’s, because she’d persuaded their Uncle Ted to come for a short visit. There was no doubt that Ted had aged considerably since their aunt’s death. He seemed to have shrunk, and several times lost the thread of conversation. Twice, he called Lucy ‘Joan’.
‘What d’you think?’ Lucy whispered to Strike in the kitchen, where he’d gone to help her with coffee.
‘Well, I don’t think he thinks you are Joan,’ said Strike quietly. ‘But yeah… I think we should get him looked at by someone. Someone who can assess him for dementia.’
‘It’d be his GP, wouldn’t it?’ said Lucy. ‘First?’
‘Probably,’ said Strike.
‘I’ll ring and see if I can make an appointment for him,’ said Lucy. ‘I know he’ll never leave Cornwall, but it’d be so much easier to look after him here.’
Guilt, which wasn’t entirely due to the fact that Lucy did considerably more looking after Ted than he did, prompted Strike to say, ‘If you make the appointment, I’ll go down to Cornwall and go with him. Report back.’
‘Stick, are you serious?’ said Lucy, astonished. ‘Oh my God, that would be ideal. You’re about the only person who could stop him cancelling.’
Strike travelled back to Denmark Street that evening with the now familiar faint depression dogging him. Talking to Robin, even on work matters, tended to lift his mood, but that option wasn’t open to him and might not be possible for weeks. Another text from Bijou, which arrived while he was making himself an omelette, caused him nothing but irritation.
So are you undercover somewhere you can’t get texts or am I being ghosted?
He ate his omelette at the kitchen table. Once finished, he picked up his mobile with a view to dealing with at least one problem quickly and cleanly. After thinking for a few moments, and dismissing any idea of ending what, in his view, had never started, he typed:
Busy, no time for meet ups for foreseeable future
If she had any pride, he thought, that would be the end of the matter.
He spent most of a chilly Sunday on surveillance, handing over to Midge at four o’clock, then drove out to Ealing for his meeting with Abigail Glover.
The Forester on Seaford Road was a large pub with an exterior featuring wooden columns, window baskets and green tiled walls, its sign showing a stump with an axe sticking out of it. Strike ordered himself the usual zero-alcohol beer and took a corner table for two beside the wood-panelled wall.
Twenty minutes passed, and Strike had started to wonder whether Abigail had changed her mind about meeting him, when a tall and striking woman entered the bar, wearing gym gear with a coat hastily slung over it. The only picture he’d found of Abigail online had been small and she’d been wearing overalls, surrounded by fellow fire fighters who were all male. What hadn’t been captured by the photograph was how good looking she was. She’d inherited her father’s large, dark blue eyes and firm, dimpled chin, but her mouth was fuller than Wace’s, her pale skin flawless and her high cheekbones could have been those of a model. He knew her to be in her mid-thirties, but her hair, which was tied back in a ponytail, was already grey. Strangely, it not only suited her, it made her look younger, her skin being fine and unlined. She nodded greetings to a couple of men at the bar, then spotted him and strode, long-legged, towards his table.
‘Abigail?’ he said, getting to his feet to shake hands.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘Timekeeping’s not me strong point. They call me “the late Abigail Glover” at work. I was in the gym, I lost track of time. ’S my stress buster.’
‘No problem, I’m grateful you agreed to—’
‘D’you wanna drink?’
