no connection with the disaster of 1990 when the Reverend Nicholas Darrow, Rector of St. Benet’s-by-the-Wall and
bête noire
of the psychic con-trade, managed to close down the healing business which Elizabeth ran under another name out of a house in Fulham.
But before I can ask myself just why Asherton should be so gobsmacked at the thought of Darrow, Elizabeth stands up. Not a muscle of her face moves, but I know that what she minds most at this particular moment is not Richard’s tenuous link with St. Benet’s but the fact that Asherton’s seen she’s not in control of me.
“It’s all right, Ash,” she says quickly. “I’ll deal with this. Gavin just made an honest mistake, that’s all—he saw Slaney’s connection with St. Benet’s as minimal so he didn’t mention it for fear of upsetting me.”
“Yes, my love. But a church connection could have altered Slaney’s religious views. It should have been reported.”
I feel I must try to insist that although Richard had come to respect the St. Benet’s ministry of healing he was still nowhere near being a religious believer. “I think—” I begin, but this is where I get zapped.
“You’re not supposed to bother your pretty little head with thinking, my dear,” says Asherton, his voice now all cyanide and no sugar. “Your job is to fuck and do as you’re told.”
My tongue seems to have been instantly transformed into wood but I manage to say: “Yes, sir. I’m very sorry I messed up. It won’t happen again, sir, I promise.”
There’s a pause. Then Elizabeth relaxes and murmurs hospitably: “Another drink, Ash?”
“No, thank you, my love. I must be on my way.”
“Gavin,” says Elizabeth, “show Mr. Asherton out, would you?”
I turn on my heel, cross the hall and with unsteady fingers open the front door.
“Close that,” says Asherton behind me.
I close it. My scalp crawls.
“Kneel down.”
I kneel immediately, head bent, and wait for the blow. But it never comes. He’s just getting a kick out of making me think I’m about to be walloped.
“That’s a good boy!” he croons approvingly. “I do so like obedience . . . You haven’t forgotten how much I like obedience, have you, my dear?”
I’m now having a hard time breathing. I feel him caress my hair and again I wait for the blow, but in the end he only pats my head as if I’m a dog.
“Open the door.”
I stagger to my feet.
“Good night, Gavin,” he purrs as I somehow get the door open again, and without waiting for a reply he walks to the curb where he signals to his chauffeur. The car’s parked at the top of the nearest side road in order to avoid the bus lane which runs past the house.
The Rolls glides along, pauses to pick up its owner and melts away towards glitzy SW1 on the other side of Lambeth Bridge.
I’m left feeling shit-scared and subhuman, like a circus animal who’s messed up a trick in the ring and can think of nothing but the trainer with the big whip. Wiping the sweat from my forehead I close the door and slump back against the panels.
“Gavin!” calls Elizabeth sharply. “Come here!”
Obediently I scuttle back into the living-room.
Elizabeth pats the empty space on the couch to signal I should sit beside her, but I’m not taken in by this cosy approach. She’s still furious, and in despair I ask myself why I let the idea of Richard leaving a legacy to St. Benet’s drive me into a confession. He might well have left the place nothing—in which case I’d have been off the hook. And even if the legacy had shown up in the will I could always have marvelled at it and claimed total ignorance of Richard’s St. Benet’s connection.
Looking back I can hardly believe I made such a balls-up, but of course it was Asherton who skewered me. I only have to see him and my brain goes on the blink. He treats me as an animal so automatically I act as if I have an animal’s IQ.
I draw breath to embark on a massive apology. “Elizabeth,
bête noire
of the psychic con-trade, managed to close down the healing business which Elizabeth ran under another name out of a house in Fulham.
But before I can ask myself just why Asherton should be so gobsmacked at the thought of Darrow, Elizabeth stands up. Not a muscle of her face moves, but I know that what she minds most at this particular moment is not Richard’s tenuous link with St. Benet’s but the fact that Asherton’s seen she’s not in control of me.
“It’s all right, Ash,” she says quickly. “I’ll deal with this. Gavin just made an honest mistake, that’s all—he saw Slaney’s connection with St. Benet’s as minimal so he didn’t mention it for fear of upsetting me.”
“Yes, my love. But a church connection could have altered Slaney’s religious views. It should have been reported.”
I feel I must try to insist that although Richard had come to respect the St. Benet’s ministry of healing he was still nowhere near being a religious believer. “I think—” I begin, but this is where I get zapped.
“You’re not supposed to bother your pretty little head with thinking, my dear,” says Asherton, his voice now all cyanide and no sugar. “Your job is to fuck and do as you’re told.”
My tongue seems to have been instantly transformed into wood but I manage to say: “Yes, sir. I’m very sorry I messed up. It won’t happen again, sir, I promise.”
There’s a pause. Then Elizabeth relaxes and murmurs hospitably: “Another drink, Ash?”
“No, thank you, my love. I must be on my way.”
“Gavin,” says Elizabeth, “show Mr. Asherton out, would you?”
I turn on my heel, cross the hall and with unsteady fingers open the front door.
“Close that,” says Asherton behind me.
I close it. My scalp crawls.
“Kneel down.”
I kneel immediately, head bent, and wait for the blow. But it never comes. He’s just getting a kick out of making me think I’m about to be walloped.
“That’s a good boy!” he croons approvingly. “I do so like obedience . . . You haven’t forgotten how much I like obedience, have you, my dear?”
I’m now having a hard time breathing. I feel him caress my hair and again I wait for the blow, but in the end he only pats my head as if I’m a dog.
“Open the door.”
I stagger to my feet.
“Good night, Gavin,” he purrs as I somehow get the door open again, and without waiting for a reply he walks to the curb where he signals to his chauffeur. The car’s parked at the top of the nearest side road in order to avoid the bus lane which runs past the house.
The Rolls glides along, pauses to pick up its owner and melts away towards glitzy SW1 on the other side of Lambeth Bridge.
I’m left feeling shit-scared and subhuman, like a circus animal who’s messed up a trick in the ring and can think of nothing but the trainer with the big whip. Wiping the sweat from my forehead I close the door and slump back against the panels.
“Gavin!” calls Elizabeth sharply. “Come here!”
Obediently I scuttle back into the living-room.
Elizabeth pats the empty space on the couch to signal I should sit beside her, but I’m not taken in by this cosy approach. She’s still furious, and in despair I ask myself why I let the idea of Richard leaving a legacy to St. Benet’s drive me into a confession. He might well have left the place nothing—in which case I’d have been off the hook. And even if the legacy had shown up in the will I could always have marvelled at it and claimed total ignorance of Richard’s St. Benet’s connection.
Looking back I can hardly believe I made such a balls-up, but of course it was Asherton who skewered me. I only have to see him and my brain goes on the blink. He treats me as an animal so automatically I act as if I have an animal’s IQ.
I draw breath to embark on a massive apology. “Elizabeth,
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