Table of Contents

- Dedication

- Foreword

- 1. The morning after the night before

- 2. The third eye

- 3. Gods bearing gifts

- 4. As one door opens ...

- 5. ... Another slams shut

- 6. Is there anybody there?

- 7. The reply

- 8. Homeward bound

- 9. Leave it with me

- 10. Artistic impression

- 11. While you were away

- 12. Southbound

- 13. Maintaining a presence

- 14. Communication breakdown

- 15. Down, like a lead balloon

- 16. Weiqi

- 17. It never rains ...

- 18. On the way back up

- 19. At a loose end

- 20. The curb crawler

- 21. The escape plan

- 22. Reunion

- 23. Aftershock

Thank You, I Understand

By Etienne de L'Amour

A standalone novel, circa 80,000 words.

Copyright © 2007, 2008, 2012 by Etienne de L'Amour

The right of Etienne de L'Amour as the owner of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. Copyright throughout the world.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or photographic, by recording or any information storage or retrieval system or method now known or to be invented or adapted, without prior permission obtained in writing from the publishers, except by a reviewer quoting brief passages in a review written for inclusion in a journal, magazine, newspaper or broadcast.

First edition: February 2008

First edition for Kindle: 2 October 2012

Sher Point Publications, UK

Front cover photograph: Understanding, a mural by Robert Lewis Reid, 1896. A caption beneath reads "Wisdom is the principal thing, therefore get wisdom and with all thy getting get understanding."Source: Wikimedia Commons.

Dedication

Dedicated to the custodians of the tradition.

~~~O~~~

Why did you stop calling out? Because I got no answer.

This longing you express is the return message.

Listen to the moan of a dog for its master:

that whining is the connection.

~ Rumi, adapted from Coleman Barks' Love Dogs.

Foreword

This book, which has been quietly brewing over the last thirty years, is not meant to be merely read, but to sensitize, provoke insight and lead on, sooner or later, to a deep and lasting change in you. It is neither wholly fact nor is it fiction, but a blend and extrapolation of the two which some call faction, offering glimpses into another realm – beyond our sleepy, everyday, conditioned norm – which the Sufis call the Real World.

Don't get buried in the fine detail at the expense of a more intuitive feel for the underlying patterns woven into the work: above all else, don't analyze it, use it. And enjoy yourself in the process.

Etienne de L'Amour

Kent, England, June 25th, 2007.

1. The morning after the night before

It was quite late in the morning by the time Rocky Rhodes finally made it into town, little knowing that he had a first appointment with destiny that day, and as yet still blissfully ignorant of the fact that his every move was being watched, recorded and later scrutinized, as it had been for quite some time.

Mother had insisted that he get some food in his churning stomach before he left and, bless her cotton socks, she had put on her pinny and busied herself in the kitchen to make him a bulging bacon and egg sandwich. He probably looked as bad as he felt, and she was no fool.

Looking up from the sports page of his daily snoozepaper, his father had quickly taken in and summed up the situation with a stereotypically grumpy “You look like warmed up bowel movements,” by way of greeting when Rocky had finally clambered out of the pit and made his way downstairs. Well, his words were a little more choice than that, but you get the picture.

“They're playing your song on the radio, I see ...” Rather too appropriate and timely for comfort, it was a twelve bar blues number about some drunken low-life ending up flat out on the tiles again. That kind of thing happened a lot in Rocky's life. He'd read somewhere, in one of the underground student magazines that it was called synchronicity.

Or wishful thinking, a wise voice inside his head corrected him, both denying and confirming his beliefs at one and the same time. That also happened a lot in his life.

“And a very good morning to you, too, Dad,” he'd lilted in return.

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” his father had retorted. And he, of all people, should know that.

Rocky had been at work collecting glasses in the Kabin night club and hadn't got to bed until almost three in the morning. It had been a busy night and the staff had been constantly crying out for fresh glasses at the bar. Thank heaven for small mercies: at least school was out for the next two weeks – as, yet again, he'd had far too much beer to drink and still felt quite nauseous and hungover, despite having thrown up most of the drink and a chicken vindaloo in a dark alleyway cum festering urinal between two terraced houses on the way home. Feeling nervous and rather awkward at the best of times, the bright, sweltering sun and the hustling, bustling crowds of holidaymakers, or grockles as his fellow freaks called them, didn't help one bit. Still, it beat Grimeley, where he'd grown up and which had perpetually been shrouded in a stinking haze from the factories and the local brewery.

He'd been hoping to get hold of the Black Sabbath album, Master of Reality, the lyrics of the track Into the Void still ringing in his ears from the club. The track was about valiant freedom fighters escaping from brainwashing and pollution to a better world.

As it happened, however, helpful and anxious to please as the staff in the local record shop were, they didn't have the album in stock, nor any others that particularly took his fancy so Rocky decided, a little dejectedly, to leave town and see if any of the Kabin Krew were round at his friend Harry's place.

“Damn.” He spun on his heel and strode back to the high street to have a look in Boots, the chemist. As Rocky turned, he didn't notice the figure who'd been following him through town abruptly duck into the doorway of a nearby hardware store. His mind was otherwise engaged.

It was all rather embarrassing, really. Just as they were about to break up for the holidays, the Headmaster had sent word that he wanted to see Rocky. He hadn't a clue why, though, as it was some time since he'd last broken any college rules, well with the exception of wandering off down the lane on a lunchtime to have a sly cigarette or cannabis spliff. Yes, they lived dangerously in those days.

“Rhodes, I don't know how to tell you this,” Mr. Scott had begun, pacing up and down the office with his hands clasped behind his back.

Rocky gulped and Mr Scott stood still for a moment and peered into Rocky's eyes whilst his words sank in. He suddenly had a vision of a sergeant major bearing down on him as he stood at attention on the parade ground. “Am I 'urting you, lad?” “No, sergeant major.” “Well, I should be, laddie boy – because I'm standin' on your 'air!”

“But you see, Rhodes – and this is no laughing matter, let me tell you – I have had complaints about your ... um ... personal hygiene.”

All the colour drained from Rocky's face as he heard those words and a wave of adrenalin and fear coursed through his veins.

“Now, without mentioning any names and to be frank with you, one of the staff tells me that she is nauseated by the stench of body odour and stale tobacco and has to give you a wide berth. This is thus preventing any one-to-one contact in her lessons, you understand.”

That would be Ms. Pratt, of course. Pratt by name and Pratt by nature, as she was less than affectionately known. Coming from a far more stiff and starchy generation, they never had hit it off together. By this time, Rocky was wishing that he could crawl away like some slug and hide in a crevice under a nearby rock.

“I trust that you will do something to remedy this intolerable situation, Rhodes.”

Jeez, this came as quite a shock, right out of the blue.

“Well, er ... thank you for telling me, Mr. Scott. I really didn't appreciate that I had this ... er ... problem. I'm sorry, I had no idea. I'll see to it right away.”

“And remember: cleanliness is next to godliness, young man,” the Head added solemnly, and he waved Rocky out of his office. Now that was a short, sharp shock of a lesson which he would not forget until his dying day.

Once he was out of the headmaster's office, Rocky grabbed his satchel and hoofed it down the lane, too embarrassed and ashamed to go back to Ms. Pratt's class. As soon as he got in, he ran a hot bath and tossed his dirty clothes in the laundry basket. Of course his mother wanted to know what that was all about, so he lied to her, telling her that he'd got muddy on a cross-country run.

Anyhow, today he'd decided to have a look in Boots to see if he could find a deodorant spray as, now somewhat more sensitive to such matters, he'd noticed that his armpits smelt a bit iffy. Deodorants were rather newfangled at that time, and he hoped that Boots would have something in stock at a price he could afford. It certainly wasn't something his parents' generation would have used: they grew up in an age in which they'd have a cat lick on a morning and after work and a bath maybe once a week. Well, so had he, for that matter. As for Mother, when she saw the spray she told him she thought that folk were becoming far too obsessed with cleanliness these days. And this from a woman who didn't bother to wash her hands after she'd visited the loo and liked to lick her fingers as she baked her cakes.

Quite by chance on the way home, as he cut through the back streets of town to avoid the Spring tourists, Rocky noticed a faded sign above a doorway at the end of a terrace. The yellowing paint was beginning to peel off, but he could still make out the words: Rumple's Secondhand Book Emporium. There was no shop window or goods on display, only this old and rather battered wooden door which stood slightly and temptingly ajar.

On a whim, partly out of curiosity and perhaps also out of some vestigial knowledge that there was no such thing as mere chance or coincidence, Rocky pushed the squeaky door open and clunked his way up a steep flight of rickety bare wooden steps leading up inside to the floor above. There were dusty old tomes everywhere, many of them stacked at an angle on a sloping ledge that followed the steps up; countless more upstairs on plain wooden shelving units and disorganized heaps at the foot of the shelves and atop the units which filled the labyrinthine rooms. It was like a cemetery of forgotten books.

The other thing that couldn't escape his notice was that despite the fact that there was at least one old sash window flung wide open, it was like an oppressive bakehouse in that bookshop, as the weather was unusually warm for that time of year. A mini heat wave, according to the radio.

The figure who had been following Rocky watched as he entered the bookshop and was about to follow him in, but changed his mind, deciding that this might be a little indiscreet.

“Just browsing,” Rocky offered, spying an old lady in a tweed two-piece suit sitting behind a book-strewn desk near the stairs. She merely smiled in acknowledgement and continued with her knitting. Little booties for a baby girl, by the look of it.

For some strange reason, Rocky felt that there was a definite reason for his being there that day and – irrational as it might seem – he was convinced that somewhere in this disorganized warehouse was his book, a book that he was destined to read – though exactly what that book might be he had no idea. However, when fifteen minutes later he still hadn't found a single work that even vaguely interested him (other than a magnificent and expensive volume of erotica into which he sneaked furtive glances), Rocky did begin to wonder whether this destiny thing might actually have more to do with the leftover effects of the spliff he'd smoked round at Harry's the previous night. Maybe even the LSD they'd all dropped at the weekend. Even spotting something as banal as a screwed up foil sweet wrapper in the gutter could be misinterpreted as a deep and meaningful mystical experience when you were high on acid, and at a recent rock festival they'd attended, when Ray saw a wagon with bright flashing orange lights going round the site sucking up the debris, he honestly believed that the aliens had landed and, in a panic, he had leapt fully clothed into the nearby river to escape. He could easily have drowned, but fortunately the shock of the cold water woke him up and brought him to his senses. Anything could happen when you were high on acid. For example, one of the guys they knew had become convinced he was some kind of superman and, with gay abandon, he'd leapt from the top of a multi-storey car park. The word was, they had to scrape the poor guy's brains off the pavement below. There was also the danger of having a bad trip on acid that had been cut with some noxious substance in order to make a bigger profit at others' expense. So, the number one rule was: don't ever take acid when you're on your own. Number two was: try just half a tab first to make sure the stuff is okay.

Rather dejectedly, having again decided to give up the foraging as a bad job, he turned back toward the door and was on the point of leaving when – lo! and behold! – something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. There on a shelf beside the door stood two paperbacks, the only two books in fact that were turned with their front covers facing outward. Walking over to inspect the well-thumbed books, his eyes lit up as he read the title of the first: With Mystics and Magicians in Tibet by some explorer and theosophist by the name of Alexandra David-Neel. Now that was more like it. And when he saw the second title: Shambhala: Oasis of Light by Andrew Tomas, which was described as “evidence of a mysterious hidden kingdom of advanced knowledge,” he could feel his scalp tingle in an unexpected momentary rapture. He'd first become aware of such rapturous, if fleeting, moments whilst watching a particularly moving scene in the film of Joan of Arc. Anyhow, it looked like his hunch had been right after all.

He eagerly read the blurb on the back of the book:

Legends of a mysterious kingdom beyond the Himalayas, hidden deep within the mountains, have persisted for generations.

Roerich spoke of a hidden land in central Asia which is inaccessible to all except initiates. Prester John spoke of a fantastic realm very similar to Hiarchas as referred to by Philostratus a thousand years previously ...

Some believe that this legendary kingdom may be a special brotherhood from which Guatama, Jesus Christ and others have been sent forth in order to bring Mankind to a higher state of consciousness.

Andrew Tomas presents compelling evidence that this kingdom – Shambhala – does indeed exist.

Chortling to himself on his doubly good fortune, Rocky immediately took the two paperbacks to the desk and dug in his pocket for some change. “I'll have these, please,” he greeted the bookseller.

The old lady took the books, made a painstaking note of the titles in a handwritten ledger and popped them into a brown paper bag for him. “Thank you, that'll be fifty pence in new money, please, young man,” she smiled. “I'm sure you'll enjoy the books: they're both a jolly read if you're just setting out on a lifetime's spiritual quest.”

At that moment, the import of the bookseller's words completely passed Rocky by, and it was only much later in life that he realized what she meant when she referred to “just setting out on a lifetime's spiritual quest.” Back then, he hadn't appreciated that what he mistakenly took to be spirituality was more the “way of the wizard” and that spirituality was actually something altogether different.

“By the way, I'm Mrs. Rumple. But you can call me Edna. And you are ...”

“Richard Rhodes,” he returned. “My friends call me Rocky.”

“Good to meet you, Rocky,” she beamed. Then: “Oh, I see! Rocky roads. Quite.”

Sheesh, if he had a pound for every time he'd heard that one, by now he'd be some rich kid.

“Do call again, young man,” the old lady smiled benignly. “And take care.”

Thanking her, and conscious that time was pressing on, Rocky clattered down the stairs and headed out of the town centre. He'd arrived back at the door of his parents' house before he realized that, in his eagerness, he'd completely forgotten about his intention to call on Harry. Oh, what the heck, he reflected: might as well get stuck into the books.

As it turned out, Rocky spent most of the next three days and well into the nights in his bedroom with his head buried in those books, avidly reading until his head was swimming.

“Richard David!” his father bellowed up the stairs, as he turned the last beguiling page.

Hmm. When Dad called him by his full Sunday name, it usually spelt trouble with a capital T. He could already feel his cheeks flush guiltily.

“How long are you going to spend up there in your bedroom, treating this place like a ruddy hotel?” Father wanted to know.

Oh, bollocks.

“Sorry, Dad: just coming,” he called back, jumping to his feet, rushing to finish off the last page and hurrying to the door with his tail between his legs like one of Pavlov's salivating dogs.

“Aye and so's blessèd Christmas,” his father retorted.

“Right then, what have you been up to these last few days?” Dad demanded to know as they sat down for dinner. It was always a rather formal occasion. As head of the table, Dad carved and served the meat and passed the plates around, then Mum followed up by serving the potatoes and veg from tureens. That stage complete, it was Dad's turn to go first with the gravy boat. He was strictly a meat, two veg and gravy man: his service in the second world war had put him off “foreign muck” as they always used curry to disguise the taste of the rancid meat.

“Well, I ...”

“Hmm, this veg could have done with a bit more salt, Mary.” Nothing to do with his own jaded palette, of course.

“I bought a couple of books from a secondhand shop on the corner of Argyll Street ...”

“Anything interesting?”

“Oh, so so.”

“You're always so damn secretive, Richard. I asked you a simple enough question and I expect an answer.”

Why so secretive? Well, for starters, if his father didn't know what he was up to, he couldn't criticize it, could he? That was possibly why he kept starting things but not finishing them: if he finished something, then his father would expect to see it, and then again his work would be found deficient in some way and criticized.

“Oh, um, exploring, mysticism. That sort of thing.”

“Hear that, Mary? Mysticism. Always got his head in the ruddy clouds, that one.”

“Ay?”

“'Ay is what you feed 'orses, Richard,” his father corrected.

“And what's mysticism when it's at home?” his mother asked in a condescending tone.

“Airy fairy nonsense, Mary, that's what mysticism is and that's all you need to know,” Dad retorted. “Not a lot of call for mystical masters these days down at the Labour Exchange.”

Rocky couldn't help but be reminded of the actor Alf Garnett in Till Death Us Do Part.

“Now, my lad, on a more mundane subject, you've got your exams coming up soon, and I haven't seen you doing any revising. So I'd suggest that you pull your socks up and get stuck in. Unless you want to end up sweeping the streets.”

Oh, Lord. Here we go again.

“And while we're about it, I've taken the liberty of seeing the manager, Mr. Reid, at the Kabin. I told him that you won't be working any more weekends until the summer due to your school commitments. He was very understanding.”

~~~O~~~

Suitably chastened, Rocky spent the rest of the week revising for his mock exams. The real “A” Level exams weren't until next year, but the mocks were used to predict grades and played a part in the university selection process, so it was important to do as well as possible in them. His elder brother Ronald had gone to university and even gained a Doctorate and there was a lot of pressure on to achieve, so flunking out was seriously not an option. To be fair (or perhaps the operative word was “charitable”?), though Dad was a stickler and a half, having left school at the age of fourteen himself and ending up in all manner of abysmally paid, menial jobs, he wanted his children to have a better start in life and not make the same mistakes he had.

If the truth be told, by the end of the week Rocky was beginning to get really worried: because try as he might, and though he went over his notes time and time again, the information simply wasn't sinking in, or if it was, then it wasn't staying put. Some things he put his heart into and was really quite good at, but others simply didn't turn him on. There was of course another possibility: that all the drugs he'd been taking had somehow addled his brain and also contributed to, if not exacerbated, feelings of alienation from mainstream society. Yes, that was really quite a worrying revelation. And with only one week before the mocks, it looked like it was way too late to do anything about it.

~~~O~~~

“Oh, screw it!” Rocky declared emphatically, gathering up his ring binders and textbooks from the bed and dropping them on his old chest of drawers. He looked at his watch. It was still only 8 P.M. and the night was still young.

Sniffing his armpits, he pulled off his t-shirt, rooted in his drawers for another, sprayed on some deodorant and dashed downstairs, pulling on his faded denim jacket as he went.

“Hi,” he called popping his head around the living room door.

His father looked up from the sports page and raised his eyebrows. “Going somewhere, sunshine?”

“I'm short of a few maths notes, so I'm just popping round to Harry's to see if he has them. Be back in an hour or so,” he fibbed. Well, it was less of a fib and more of an out and out lie, to be honest.

“And mind you do,” his father added, giving each word due measure. “Mind you do, or you'll feel the back of my hand.”

On the way to Harry's, realizing that he was running low on tobacco, Rocky scoured the pavements and gutters, looking for discarded dog ends that he could tear apart later and roll up. Of course, pub ashtrays held the richest pickings, but beggars could not be choosers. He knew how disgusting and base this was, to do something that only a desperate vagrant might have reason to, and yet he really couldn't help himself. Nicotine withdrawal symptoms always got the better of common sense and of his fear of contracting some dreadful communicable disease. His habit did not work at a rational level, but rather at a deep, perhaps wounded psychological level, and it was not susceptible to reason, however kindly, eloquently or directly phrased.

When he arrived, Rocky rang the ornate doorbell and waited. Harry's mum came to the door. “Oh, hi there Richard. You'll want Harry?”

“Hi, Mrs Davies. Yes, please.” Harry's mum was a real smasher. She never had a bad word to say about anybody. “I must say, your hair looks nice.”

“Thank you, yes I just went to the hairdresser's today for a wash and perm. I'll just let him know you're here. Harry? Richard's here to see you,” she called up the stairs.

“Come on up, Rocky,” Harry called back down.

“Right, I'll leave you to it, then. You know the way,” she smiled.

“Thanks a lot, Mrs Davies,” he said, climbing the stairs. Had he been at home, he'd have taken them two at a time, but he thought it best to show a little decorum. Besides, that stair carpet must have cost them an arm and a leg by the look of it.

By the time Rocky got to the top of the stairs, Harry had a spliff rolled up and waiting for him. They didn't call him the Four-skin Wonder for nothing. Indeed, he could even make a six-skin using the raffia rolling mat he kept in his guitar case.

“Yo! Rocky, man!” lilted Ray Skinner as he entered Harry's den and they all exchanged Kabin Krew greetings and high fives. Ray had come on his new motorbike (well, the bike was just a step up from a moped, really, but it was still cool) and he had his shiny leather jacket and boots on.

“Gently, bro',” he advised Harry as they shook hands. Harry was a shade taller and a lot beefier than Rocky and his hands were like spades. They sometimes called him the Gentle Giant. Ray was a skinny little rake, like him. Maybe it was the nervous energy burning off the calories? How did the saying go? Good things come in small packages, though in Rocky's case they'd perhaps made an exception, he mused.

“We'd given you up for lost,” prompted Harry.

Rocky sighed deeply. “Don't ask.”

“Exam revision?”

“Read my lips,” he joked, through gritted teeth.

“Never mind, this'll blow away your blues,” Harry smiled, handing him the spliff and the honour of lighting up.

Five minutes later and they were sitting around in a circle, cross-legged on the floor and any semblance of intelligent conversation had given way to incoherent mystical ramblings and fits of hysterics.

Ten minutes later and the doorbell rang. Quick as a flash, Ray gathered up the dog ends and was already out of the door to flush them away, wrapped in a bundle of loo paper; Rocky hastily lit a couple of smelly joss sticks and Harry was at the window, trying to ease it open quietly to let in some air and see who was at the door. If it was the Drug Squad (DS), they could be in deep shit.

“Panic over,” Harry whistled.

“Who is it?”

“Donna.”

Donna was Ray's old girlfriend.

“You okay with that, Ray?” asked Harry. “I mean if you're not happy, I can always tell her ...”

“Yes, that's a-okay. We're still good friends.”

“G'day, dudes!” Donna greeted them as she entered the den. “Group hug, group hug!”

“Hi.”

“Certainly am!” she laughed, giving Rocky a hug and squeezing her ample bosom up against him. “As high as a kite, mate.”

“Now what on earth is that exotic aroma?” she asked, feigning innocence.

Harry shrugged his shoulders apologetically. “Heck, I'm sorry but we just finished off the last of it, Donna.”

She pouted, then unexpectedly broke into a cheesy grin and tossed a little plastic bag full of grass into Harry's lap. “Da-da! Will you do the honours, Harry? I'm all fingers and thumbs. Half wrecked already.”

“Donna, you're an angel,” Rocky beamed.

“That's what they all say,” she joked.

The very first time Rocky had seen Donna, he'd fallen madly in love with the raven-haired angel. She was not only a stunner in the looks department, she was so wonderfully bubbly and a pretty bright spark, to boot. Donna was wearing an embroidered cheesecloth top and, being without a bra, it joggled temptingly up and down as she laughed. She slipped her boots off to reveal little pink woolly socks and as she sat down cross-legged to join their circle and smoothed down her long, flowing hippie skirt, Rocky got a tantalizing glimpse of silk-smooth thigh. What he wouldn't have given to take a dive head first under those sexy covers or to be up to the buffers in her gorgeous muff. Alas, the chances were, however, that this fair maiden wouldn't give Rocky a second glance – well, not unless she was really stoned.

2. The third eye

Soon enough the weekend arrived and Rocky again took some time out from revision for a wander down town. In those days, he lived for the weekend and the weeks in between were a drudge that you had to go through to get there. In his childhood, he couldn't wait until Saturday arrived and his favourite comic The Eagle came out. How he'd dreamed of becoming an astronaut like Dan Dare.

What a waste, a voice sighed inside his head.

His appetite for the exotic suitably whetted by reading the two paperbacks, which seemed to open up a new vista in his small town life, Rocky made a beeline for the secondhand book shop.

There were two of them watching that day, and they pulled up in a grey Mini van a short way down the street. They'd have liked to have seen what it was that the lad was up to in that seedy little shop, but they didn't want to risk blowing their cover.

As Rocky entered the shop, still sitting at the mahogany desk as if she were part of the fixtures and fittings, Edna Rumple looked up and put down her knitting. It looked like she was onto a pair of woolly mittens now. Like his mother, she appeared to be a patient woman.

Outside in the van, the woman noticed an elderly couple enter the bookshop after the lad and suggested that she might follow them in and casually browse around.

All right, but be careful, her colleague advised. Softly, softly catchee monkey.

“Hello again,” the old lady beamed. “I was hoping you'd come back.”

“Hi, Mrs. Rumple,” Rocky replied. “You were right, the books were a good read. I spent three days solidly poring over them,” he laughed.

“Edna,” she gently chided him.

“Hi, Edna.”

“A jolly read, yes. A jolly read. I'm glad you found what you were looking for.”

Rocky spent some time searching around, exploring the full extent of the bookshop, which meandered this way and that across squeaky wooden floorboards, amidst the shelving units and into other rooms in the building. But at length, he returned to the desk empty-handed.

“No luck this time?” Edna Rumple enquired.

“I'm afraid not,” he sighed.

“Perhaps I can be of assistance to you? Were you looking for anything in particular?”

“More books like the two I picked up last time, I guess,” he told her.

“Hmm, now let me see. I'm sure I saw a book that might interest you at a recent house clearance. I haven't got round to sorting them out as yet.”

The old lady scratched her chin thoughtfully, got slightly shakily to her feet and went over to rummage about in some boxes behind the old mahogany desk. “Ah yes. You may like this,” she said, tossing a paperback in his direction. It was The Third Eye by T. Lobsang Rampa.

Rocky read the publisher's blurb in the inside flap of the book:

T. Lobsang Rampa was preordained to be a Tibetan priest, a sign from the stars that could not be ignored. When he left his wealthy home to enter the monastery, his heart was filled with trepidation, with only a slight knowledge of the rigorous spiritual training and physical ordeal that awaited him ...

This is his story, a hauntingly beautiful and deeply inspiring journey of awakening within Chakpori Lamasery, the temple of Tibetan medicine. It is a moving tale of passage through the mystic arts of astral projection, crystal gazing, aura deciphering, meditation, and more, a spiritual guide of enlightenment and discovery through the opening of the all-powerful, the all-knowing ... Third Eye.

“Mmm, that looks right up my street,” he told her. “Yes, I'll take that. Thank you, Edna.”

“I thought you'd be interested,” Edna Rumple agreed. “Now off you go: best not detain you from your more pressing business,” she added in a matter of fact kind of way. As he heard her, Rocky was instantly reminded of the words his father had had with him earlier in the week, yet the tone was far less severe.

“Be seeing you. And do take care,” the lady called after him.

It had not escaped Edna Rumple's eagle eye that the young lady, who had entered the shop after Rocky Rhodes, left empty-handed with barely a nod and a smile, shortly afterwards. She watched as Rocky hoofed it home and the woman went off down the street and got into the passenger seat of a parked car. The question was, were they already watching Rocky or had the powers of darkness finally rumbled her?

~~~O~~~

When Rocky got back home and was about to toss his faded denim jacket over a peg in the passage, he saw an unfamiliar red quilted jacket hanging there. It wasn't the sort of thing that Mum or his Aunt Hilda would wear – they were far too straight laced.

He could hear conversation coming from the front room which, when there were no paying holidaymakers, was reserved for receiving guests. It always seemed such an empty and solemn room, devoid of music and laughter and dominated by the constant tick tock, tick tock of the antique marble clock on the mantelpiece.

“Hi, I'm back,” he called, poking his head around the door.

“Hello, Richard. I just popped by to see you,” the girl called back in those familiar dulcet tones. Much to his surprise, it was Donna, and by the looks of it she was being entertained to tea, home-made scones and conversation and giving her best in return. Donna came from quite a well-to-do middle class family and (unlike him) she could hold a good conversation with folk from all walks of life.

“Good Lord,” he called back, at a momentary loss for words. This was quite unexpected, to say the least. “It's great to see you, Donna.”

There was a slightly awkward moment, but this was quickly alleviated when his mother rather thoughtfully asked whether they'd like another cup of tea and suggested that father might also like to have a look at the washing machine which had sprung a leak and half-flooded the kitchen earlier that day. To give him due credit, Dad could turn his hand to most repairs. He was a regular Jack of all trades and master of one or two, too.

Once the tea was brewed and poured out with all due ceremony, with his tea in one hand, Donna in the other, scone in his mouth and thanks in order, he quickly guided Donna upstairs to his pad where they could share a little privacy.

“Sorry about that, Donna. They tend to make a big fuss around visitors. If I'd known you were coming ...”

“Oh, that's quite all right, Rocky. I thought they were rather sweet, actually. Your dad was telling me all about how he met your mum during the war,” she smiled quite genuinely. “Seems there were quite a few times when one of them would ask a question and their letters would cross, and the other one would answer that question. Spookeee or what?”

His father did indeed mention from time to time, his belief in such a sixth sense.

“I hope they didn't start talking about me when I was younger,” he gasped.

“Oh, you mean the time you ... Hah, fooled you! No, silly.”

“So, this is a most pleasant surprise, Donna. What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

“Oh, I just thought it was about time I came to see you and got to know you a little better, Rocky.”

“Mmm, Melanie!” she whooped as she surveyed his bedroom, spotting Garden in the City. “I just adore that album. Well, most of her albums. The only exceptions are the commercial tracks like Brand New Key.”

“Me too and me neither, respectively,” he laughed, plugging in the old stereo and firing it up. He had a sip of his tea and a bite of scone and piled a few cushions against the wall so that they could chill out on the three-quarter sized bed.

“Thanks, Rocky,” Donna smiled, kicking off her knee-length boots and shuffling up beside him. As they talked, she'd gently pat him on the shoulder or put her hand on his leg, as if absent-mindedly and in all innocence. With every passing minute she seemed to snuggle ever closer to him, and she very definitely had his attention, if you get my drift.

Rocky had to get up half way through the record to turn it over to play side two, which temporarily broke the spell.

“The other day at Harry's I saw you looking at me with those big brown eyes,” she cooed as he got back on the bed. “I knew then that you were interested in me.”

Well, Donna certainly wasn't backward in coming forward, as his mother would say. “Was I that obvious?”

Donna smiled and ran her hand up his jeans between his thighs, to stop short at the last moment. Oh my God.

“Is that a Mars bar in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?”

“Ah, well. Yes, a bit obvious that one,” he conceded, flushing with embarrassment.

Donna took his hand and guided it inside her cheesecloth top and over the pert orb of her breast. His heart skipped a beat.

“Well, if that's what you want ...” Reaching forward, he pushed her top up and reached round to unfasten the clasp of her lacy bra. Pushing it aside, he began to run his tongue over her breasts and felt her nipples plump up and harden to his tender touch.

Grabbing Rocky by the ears, she pulled his head up until their lips met and she kissed him passionately until he simply had to come up for air. He was breathless by now and his heart was thumping urgently inside his chest. They were both becoming intoxicated by the rush of emotions, raging adolescent hormones and adrenalin.

Donna shuffled round onto her back and pulled him down beside her. As they lay there, his hand touched her thigh and as he tentatively ran his fingers over the thin cheesecloth, he could feel the rub of the cotton against her nylons beneath.

“I put these on especially for you,” she smiled, sensuously licking her tongue around his ear.

Easing the hem of her skirt up to her knees, she took his hand and he stroked it over her sheer black stockinged thigh, then up between her legs, to hover temptingly over the spot where her nylon stocking top and silk suspender met the softness of her thigh.

Pushing her little frilly black knickers aside, he explored the warm, delicate folds of her silky smooth skin.

“Excuse me, just for a moment.” He had to take a few seconds out, counting sheep or anything to take his mind off her, for fear of premature ejaculation. The pace was breathtaking.

Donna pushed him over onto his back and got on top of him. Frantically unbuttoning his jeans, she unzipped them and tugged them and his pants down to his ankles. She ran her tongue up his leg and around his bellybutton and then back down again, to linger until he felt as if he might burst with expectation.

“Oh, God!” he called out, as he crossed the line of inevitability and could no longer contain himself. With a shudder, he came in a furious spurt.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered as he regained his breath. “I couldn't help myself.”

“That's all right, Rocky,” she smiled, licking her lips. “another few minutes and you'll be ready again.”

“You mean there's more?”

“Mmm,” she cooed, holding him close whilst she regained her own breath. “There's much more still to come, poppet.”

Donna rolled over onto her back, whipped her knickers off, and ran his finger over her clitoris. “Rub me there,” she asked him.

With his free hand, Rocky again ran his fingers up and down her inner thighs, coming teasingly closer with each moment. Unable to bear any more, Donna guided his hand still higher.

Within moments, Donna was moaning contentedly and every now and again she would tighten up and gush warm and wet over his fingers as she reached her own orgasm, and she opened up more and more to him.

Then, grabbing him under the arms and dragging him on top of her, by now fuelled by wild passion, she pulled her legs up and hooked them over his back and guided him inside, welcoming him hot and expectantly into her inner sanctum.

“Fuck me, Rocky,” she whispered. “Fuck me hard.”

And then, at length, again unable to contain himself, Rocky exploded inside here and he felt her gush again and again. Exhausted and covered in sweat, they slid back on the bed and lay there panting and clasping each other tight.

“Anyone fancy another cuppa?” came a voice at the door.

Jeez!

“Not just now, Mum. We'll be down in a minute.”

They looked at one-another and Rocky hurriedly pulled his jeans back up. All Donna had to do was stuff her pants in her shoulder bag and smooth herself down.

Fortunately, his mother didn't come in the room. “Right oh,” she called back, heading back downstairs.

“Shit, that was a close call,” he whistled. “I nearly said 'yes' and if I had, she'd have been in to collect our cups.”

“Thank you, Rocky,” Donna smiled, having recovered her composure. “That was wonderful.”

“No, thank you, Donna. That was incredibubble. Unbelievabubble!” Rocky didn't tell her, of course, but the nearest he had come to making love previously was a quickie with Rosie Miller behind the bike sheds after school. Indeed, until this day, he wasn't even aware of the fact that women could have their own orgasms. He was on cloud nine.

Rocky had got up to change the record and they spent a few more minutes chilling out, basking in that wonderful warm afterglow, quietly chatting.

“What's that playing now?” she asked him.

“Uriah Heep,” he told her. “It's a track called Easy Livin'. Do you like it? I can change it if you like. What do you fancy?”

“No, don't. I love it,” she told him, all a-quiver. “It's giving me goose bumps just listening to it.”

3. Gods bearing gifts

The following Friday, and still with something of a spring in his step from the day Donna paid him a visit, Rocky dutifully returned to the bookshop and again Edna Rumple came up trumps, producing a paperback by Erich von Däniken entitled Chariots of the Gods?

He had hoped to see Donna again, but she had exams as well and apparently her parents were insistent that she stay in and revise.

As he was standing by the desk, the old lady chirped up rather unexpectedly: “But you must understand that this is only a start. You'll soon outgrow these works.”

“You mean there's more ...”

“Oh, my word: yes, young man,” she beamed, handing the book back to Rocky, having entered the details in her ledger. “Infinitely more and far better.”

He thanked her and was just about to leave the shop when she seemed to have an afterthought. “If you like, come back next Saturday. There's no obligation whatsoever, but I'm having a clear out at home – half my stock's there, would you credit it. I may have something for you that's altogether more real than these books. Altogether more real.”

Again Rocky thanked her and headed for home. Little did he know just how real things would become – but he was soon to begin to find out.

You bet your life it will, said the voice in his head. Brother, you ain't seen nothing yet.

“Do mind how you go, Rocky,” Edna advised him as he left the shop. She peered down through the sash window as he walked off down the street, and it didn't appear that he was being followed. Perhaps it had all simply been her over-active imagination after all?

She didn't notice the old man watching her from behind the lace curtains in the upstairs room of a house opposite.

~~~O~~~

With his mock exams on Monday looming ever larger and more menacing, Rocky revised through the day and skim read the book in the late evening and into the early hours. It was what the old lady at the shop would have called a “jolly read,” but there seemed to be something not quite right about it, nor for that matter quite right about any of the books that he'd found at Rumple's Secondhand Book Emporium, he'd discovered. And his inner voice appeared to share his doubts. He distinctly heard the words utter bullshit, though he missed some of the remarks when his mother came into the room with a cup of tea.

“Didn't think a cuppa would go amiss.”

“Hey, is that a new dress?” he asked, looking up and noticing that she was looking rather elegant that day in a light, floral creation.

“Yes, do you like it? I made it at my dressing making class,” his mother beamed, giving him a twirl. “Your Dad chose the material and I found the pattern.”

“It's great,” he nodded and gave her a hug, which she half-reciprocated. “Well done. I'm impressed.”

“Yes, I must say I'm pleased, even if do say so myself,” she nodded, taking a step back. Mother and father were not really the touchy-feely type, and so this was about as good as it gets.

“Thanks a lot,” he called as she dutifully took his empty cup away.

“You're welcome.”

~~~O~~~

The week of the mock exams came and went and the further on in the week he got, the more apprehensive Rocky became, hoping and praying each night that the gods would be merciful and offer him a choice of questions that he could answer. And every day was another gut-wrenching, heart-thumping wake up call.

The weekend came as a huge relief, but he was deeply conscious of the fact that all too soon his work would be marked and what was a lull might all too soon become something of a storm. What the fuck would his father say when he found out? And he would find out.

~~~O~~~

On Friday evening, Rocky met up again with Donna at Harry's and for a few seconds Harry was a little taken aback by the sudden intimacy that had sprung up between the two of them, so a little explanation was in order. Aware that Rocky had been through a rather prolonged barren period in the love stakes, Harry was over the moon for him, for them both, and didn't think that it would be a problem for Donna's old flame Ray. To be perfectly frank, Ray was something of a ladies' man and did get around a bit, moving from one conquest to the next in the blink of an eye, so it was probably no big deal to him. Just another notch in the bed post, if the truth be told.

Ray wasn't there: the plan was that they all meet up at Zeno's flat across town about half eight to nine for a party to celebrate Zeno and Mel's engagement. They couldn't afford much more than a good wish card and a cheap bottle of plonk and some cans, but if Ray came up trumps at least they could pass a bit of weed around to brighten folks' spirits. A friend with weed is a friend indeed, as the saying goes.

They had quite a bit of impromptu entertainment that night. Harry borrowed Zeno's twelve string acoustic and ran through a good part of his repertoire from Melanie Safka and Bob Dylan to Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin and their all-time hero Jimi Hendrix, accompanied by their equally impromptu and surprisingly melodic chorus.

Going to great pains and showing panache, friend Colin read everyone's tarot cards, though by now folk were perhaps a little too stoned to do his marvellous readings full justice. Colin had set up stall out in the hallway, to give a little more privacy to the tarot readings and when it was Donna's turn she ushered Rocky to the makeshift table to join her.

“Who's first, then?” asked Colin, getting the deck of cards ready. “Or are you both together?”

“What do you think, Donna?”

“Let's have separate readings, Colin. Then we can decide how the two spreads tie in together at our leisure. Rocky can go first.”

“OK, folks.” Colin got Rocky to shuffle the cards some more and cut them, then proceeded to carefully lay them out.

Rocky was a little too far gone to take in a lot of what Colin told him as he turned the cards over, but he got a bit of a shock when the Death card came up.

“Now, I know what you're thinking, Rocky, but hang in there while I explain. What Death means in this context is that there are going to be some changes in your life beyond your control, leading to a wonderful and major rebirth and transformation. I mean a spiritual transformation, not that you're suddenly going to inherit a fortune or anything like that.”

“As you can see from these other cards,” he continued, tracing his hand over the spread, “you've let things slide somewhat. At times you'd have hit rock bottom, if the powers that be hadn't been quietly looking after you for some reason, without you knowing it. But again, don't worry: that's past and passing and though you should learn from the mistakes of the past, there's no sense whatsoever in making yourself sick brooding over the past. Hell, none of us are perfect by any stretch of the imagination. If we were, then we probably wouldn't be here in this pit.”

At length he turned to Donna and as Colin turned over the cards, he glanced first at Donna and then at Rocky and he sensed instinctively that something was not quite right.

“Donna,” Colin faltered. “You've had a great life thus far. You were fortunate to be born into a well-to-do and loving family and you've made the best of the many opportunities for advancement that have come your way.”

“But?”

His hand came to rest on the Tower. “But I have to tell you that ahead of you I see adversity and ruin. Something you're doing now is leading you down that path toward some kind of catastrophe.”

Donna gulped and clutched Rocky's hand tightly. Her palm was sweating and she was trembling a little.

“Whatever it is, you have to take a step back and choose a different road, Donna.” He pointed to another card. “There is an alternative which leads to worldly success, but you have to step back and make an effort to take that alternative route if you're going to make it through.”

“I'm sorry to have to be this blunt, but I can only work with what I have before me and what I'm told,” he apologized.

“If it's any consolation to you, however, and on a much brighter note, looking further ahead – and I don't mean the near future – I see you finally overcoming many obstacles and really turning your life back around for the better, against great odds. So don't despair.”

And with that, thanking Colin profusely and in something of a daze at the revelations, Rocky and Donna went back to the party and sent Ray off to have his cards read.

Later in the evening, Zeno had them in stitches for a time with some wicked poetry; Ray with the most astounding display of lighting farts he had ever witnessed. Then Donna got the group in a circle and they spent a few minutes chilling out by meditating to the chant of the powerful Tibetan Buddhist mantra Om mani padme hum which, Donna explained, is said to encapsulate the whole of the teachings and to invoke the benevolent attention and blessings of Chenrezig, the embodiment of compassion. Until that moment, Rocky hadn't realized that this brilliant little gem shared his growing interest in spirit. Nor had he fully appreciated what a talented bunch of individuals these folk were, each in their own right.

To be honest, though, the surprise of the evening was finding out that everyone was free to bed down in the flat after the party and the highlight was spending the whole night in Donna's arms. What luxury.

Of course, the high couldn't last. The following morning, just as he was creeping up the stairs to his bedroom, a voice boomed at him from the direction of the living room: “Richard David ...”

A finger beckoned him back.

He spun on his heel and descended the stairs.

“And where the hell have you been all this time?” his father demanded, hands on hips.

“Um ...”

“Well? I'm waiting for an explanation.”

“Erm ...”

“Cat got your tongue? Spit it out, lad.”

“I spent the night at Harry's,” he explained, as if that made everything all right.

“Without letting us know?” Father spluttered. “I'll have you know your poor mother was worried sick.”

“Sorry.”

“I was worried sick. Anything could have happened to you ...”

“I'm sorry,” he repeated, flushing dark crimson.

“Sorry? You don't know the meaning of the word. You shouldn't have to say sorry, my lad. It shouldn't have happened in the first place to make you sorry.”

He nodded. “It won't happen again.”

“You're damn right it won't happen again, Richard David,” his father agreed, wagging his finger menacingly. “And if it does, I promise you now, I'll come down on you like a ton of bricks and you'll be grounded for a month.”

“Now go see your mother and apologize to her like you mean it. She's in the scullery.”

His tail once again between his legs, and quite justifiably on this occasion, Rocky slunk past his father and went through in the kitchen where, as usual, his mother was religiously slaving over a hot stove. It was as if she had to perpetually cook and wash and toil and scrub away her sins, whatever those might be. Or maybe it was duty to her husband?

It was rather steamy in there and as he passed by the door he switched on the electric fan and opened the flap to let the air out.

“Oh, thank heavens,” were his mother's first words when she saw him. “You've had your father and me worried sick.” There was no hug, of course, but at least she saved him a second lecture.

It was a good job that Donna and he had left Zeno's early that morning. As it turned out, the drug squad and a meat wagon of uniformed police raided the flat within minutes of them leaving, searched everyone (though they didn't bring out the rubber gloves, thankfully) and pretty much trashed the flat in their search for concealed drugs. Fortunately, they found nothing and no arrests were made, but it was clear that the DS were on their case, so they'd better watch their step from now on.

4. As one door opens ...

“So, how did you like von Däniken?”

“Well, Edna, to be honest I'm a bit confused. Don't get me wrong, I really enjoyed reading all the books, but though I don't really know what I'm looking for, I get the feeling that this isn't it. Alexandra David-Neel's accounts made for a good read, of course, and yet they left me no closer to my goal, whatever that might be. Andrew Tomas? I'd like to believe so much in Shambhala, yet I see he's also written about things that are patently absurd like UFOs. Lobsang Rampa? I simply don't believe what he or von Däniken write.”

“I guess I don't think this is real.”

The old lady clasped her hands in front of her and beamed. “You're quite right to be suspicious, Rocky, and I agree with your assessments. For the record, Tuesday Lobsang Rampa didn't leave behind his wealthy home as the book states. He was a Briton born Cyril Henry Hoskin, the son of a plumber, though having said that, there are some who say that he was actually the front for a real school, introducing ideas into western culture. Much of his writing shows that he actually knows little about Tibet and next to nothing about its language. Similarly, it is alleged that von Däniken's writing was a fraud ...”

Rocky nodded. “Then might I ask you why you encouraged me to read those books?” he asked.

Edna Rumple grinned from ear to ear. “Patience, Rocky. All will become clear when you read the next gripping instalment.”

She reached under her desk and produced a thick hardback and, anticipating his question said: “This is one of my own books, Rocky. You can borrow the book for as long as you need it, as you may well find that a single reading simply will not do the material justice. I must have read it six or seven times myself and still I feel that I've hardly scratched the elephant's surface.”

The lady carefully put the hardback into a brown paper bag and handed it to Rocky before he'd even had a chance to read the title or ask how much it would cost.

“There's no charge,” Edna Rumple reassured him as he fished in his pockets for change. “Even though the knowledge contained in books such as this has often come at a high price.”

“Oh, by the way, would you let me have your address?” she enquired. “In case I need to get in touch.”

“37 Ashville Avenue,” he told her.

“Thank you.” She made a note in her ledger. “And it's Rocky Rhodes, of course. I shall never forget that. Now off you go and find your friends. They'll be glad to see you now the exams are out of the way.”

“Do watch your back, Rocky,” Edna Rumple added as he left the shop. It didn't sound like mere sage advice, it was a clear warning.

“Why's that?”

“I do believe that you are showing the early signs of awakening, Rocky. And this is a dangerous time for you. You see, there are unsavoury characters, dark and ignorant forces, which abound in this world at work against us and you need to be on your guard. For now, all I can suggest is that you keep your head down and go out of your way not to attract their attention. Just play dumb.”

She might have said more, but just then a customer brought a book to the desk and wanted to pick her brains about Tolkien, so she left the matter there.

~~~O~~~

Rocky met up with Donna at the Full Moon, a café down on the seafront with a wide balcony overlooking the harbour and the sands. It wasn't the summer season yet, so town was relatively quiet and, as it was quite a warm day, they managed to find a table outside on the balcony, to drink-in the salty sea air and look out over the bay. There was still so much they had yet to share with one another from tastes in music and fashion to personal philosophy, so they had no trouble in keeping the conversation and the footsie going while they waited for Ray and Harry to arrive.

When the dynamic duo did appear, it was clear that they'd been smoking and Ray kept bursting into fits of giggling as they watched the grockles walk along the promenade in their kiss me quick hats and paddle about at the edge of the sea with knotted handkerchiefs on their heads, braces and their trouser legs rolled up to their knobbly knees. They both had their dark sunglasses on, hiding their eyes, so that their drug-dilated pupils wouldn't give them away ... as if the cool shades and the hippie hats weren't a little obvious in themselves. As for Harry, he was a little more subdued as, it turned out, his long-distance girlfriend Julie in Leeds had been screwing some straight – a prick by the name of Dennis – behind his back and had just blown Harry away.

“Ah well,” he said philosophically, “c'est la vie mais ce n'est pas la guerre,” meaning: that's life, but it's not the end of the world. You could tell, however, that for all the brave face that Harry was putting on, he had invested a great deal in the relationship and was deeply wounded by this betrayal and loss.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Donna commiserated, rubbing Harry's shoulder. “I am so sorry to hear this.”

“We could go through to Leeds and beat the crap out of the prat,” declared Ray, clearly seething with malice. He tended to be a bit of a hothead and thrived on drama.

Harry shook his head. “No,” he said. “What good would it do if we were banged up over it? That's not the way.”

When Ray and Harry had had a chance to eat their doughnuts and down their tea, they all headed off into the fashionable suburbs toward Donna's house. It was a fair trek across town and off down the road past the old high school, and Rocky's long hair and the back of his t-shirt were drenched in sweat by the time they arrived.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Donna declared at last, with a graceful sweep of her arm.

Humble it was not. It turned out that her parents' abode was a large Georgian detached house set back behind a well-manicured croquet lawn and gravel driveway.

“Holy cow,” Rocky whistled.

“Hello, Mum,” Donna called cheerily as they entered the hallway. “I've just brought some friends ...”

One look at Donna's mother's thunderous features said it all. She stood in the hallway in her finery with her hands on her hips, looking them up and down in disdain, especially Rocky, whose brown hair cascaded down over his shoulders and whose jeans had more patches on them than intact denim.

“I think not, Donna. You know very well that your Aunt Grace and Uncle John are coming through to visit us this afternoon.”

“Oh, Mother ...” she sighed. “Do I have to?”

Donna's mother was not going to back down. “Say goodbye to your friends and go and get changed into something more suitable,” she insisted.

Donna turned back to them and shrugged. “I'm really sorry, guys ...”

“That's okay,” Rocky smiled. “You enjoy yourself with your family. See you tomorrow at my place or in town?”

“Your place. I'll be there at ten,” she agreed, and gave him a peck on the lips and surreptitiously ran her hand over his groin.

As it turned out, however, things were far from okay. The next day, Donna failed to turn up for their rendezvous. Nor did he see her the following day. The day after that, a curt letter arrived on the mat. It was from Donna's mother and it made it quite clear that his amorous attentions were unwelcome and that he and fellow Neanderthal riff-raff were never to see Donna again.

What Rocky and his friends didn't realize at the time was that this latest spate of mishaps and setbacks, including a tip off which had led to the police raid, were no chance happenings but were actually being orchestrated by unseen hands who were coming to see the nonconformist group – and Rocky and Donna in particular – as a threat.

So that was that. True to her mother's word and sadly missed, Donna completely left their lives. And unbeknownst to them her fate, foreshadowed in Colin's tarot reading, was sealed. Her friends might have been scruffy riff-raff, but unlike the smooth customers with whom Donna fell in, who met with her mother's approval, at least they kept away from hard drugs like coke and heroin, which was to prove Donna's undoing.

They didn't know it then, of course, but poor old Donna had already begun scoring heroin on a weekend with her new friends. Within two years she'd be a homeless wreck, fishing in the gutters for dog-ends. And she wasn't the only casualty or 'collateral damage' they suffered: Will drifted from one dead end romance and one dead end job to another. Jojo ended up in the padded cells of a psychiatric hospital. James threw himself over a local bridge to his death. Gripper drove his bike into a brick wall. Nobbie was given a life sentence for murder ... Thankfully, though they made their share of mistakes, the close friends of the Kabin Krew managed to stay out of grievous bother, by and large, and kept away from hard drugs. They were the lucky ones.

Rocky hadn't known Donna for that long but, all the same, having lost a great friend and a lover, he was gutted.

~~~O~~~

Rocky took the book that Edna Rumple had lent him and slipped it out of the brown paper bag. It was a hardback copy of The Sufis by Idries Shah with an introduction by the poet Robert Graves who himself had written The White Goddess.

He flicked through the opening pages and began to read the short scene-setting item entitled:

The Situation

Humanity is asleep, concerned only with what is useless, living in a wrong world. Believing that one can excel this is only habit and usage, not religion. This “religion” is inept. . . .

Do not prattle before the People of the Path, rather consume yourself. You have an inverted knowledge and religion if you are upside down in relation to Reality.

Man is wrapping his net around himself. A lion (the man of the Way) bursts his cage asunder.

(The Sufi master Sanai of Afghanistan, teacher of Rumi, in The Walled Garden of Truth, written in 1131 A.D.)

It took Rocky a full three days to read that one book from cover to cover and he had to make a conscious effort to take in what meaning he could from the work, it was so meaty and densely packed; and besides, he couldn't get the episode with Donna out of his mind.

Yes, he could see now why Edna Rumple had read and re-read it so many times. By the time he finished, his head was reeling and he knew that here he had found something very real and genuine. More than that, he got the distinct impression that here was a book not merely to be read but actually to be utterly life changing. Self changing. Compared to what he had read previously, this work was in a league of its own. Indeed, it was like nothing he had read before and it was to be a lot longer before he was again to read anything by another author of this calibre.

The next day, a large envelope arrived in the post, addressed to Mr. R. Rhodes. His mother brought it up to his room when it arrived and hovered around for a few moments in the hope of finding out what the letter was about, but he thanked her, gently pushed the door-to and slit the envelope open.

Inside were some folded sheets of white paper. It seemed to be a typewritten handout, the sort you'd hand round a group. On the top of the first page were written the words: Declaration of the Custodians of the Tradition.

In itself, that was interesting, but what immediately grabbed his attention was a short note that looked like it had been written with a fountain pen. It read:

Dear Rocky, here's a document sent to me some years ago which may interest you, and a small keepsake. Wear it close to your heart. Take care. With kind regards, Edna.

“By the way,” Edna wrote in an addendum at the bottom of the page. “Shah once presented a marvellous programme called 'One Pair of Eyes: Dreamwalkers' on BBC Television. Did you see it? In it he interviewed William Sergeant, who was head of some hospital's psychological medicine department. He's carried out studies in conditioning and brainwashing. Anyhow, I can't quite remember the exact words, but Sergeant maintained that the people who can be 'got at' are the normal people.

“He said that had Hitler conquered England and run the education sector, as many as 70% of the new generation would have grown up with Hitlerite viewpoints. What you may find interesting is that there is always a group in society who are mad, near-mad or obsessive (like Newton, for example), who can't be 'got at' by these techniques.”

“Well, I shall love you and leave you, Rocky. As I mentioned before do take care. I believe there's a saying amongst you hippie-types: 'Just because you're paranoid, it doesn't mean they're not out to get you.' And do try to blend in. Nobody would give you a second glance on the streets of London, but in Wycliffe-on-Sea, to be frank, you stand out like a sore thumb – and hence you're a prime target to be 'nobbled,' as they say in the trade.”

Sheesh! And Rocky thought he was paranoid. Still, he'd better watch his step. Perhaps it might be prudent to warn the others, too? Not that he wanted to worry them unduly.

Fixed to the note with masking tape was a delicate silver necklace with a kind of star-shaped pendant. How lovely! He unfastened the clasp and put it round his neck.

Then he turned his attention to the typed document:

Among all peoples, and in all countries, there is a tradition about a secret, hidden, special, superior form of knowledge accessible to man after passing through circumstances of difficulty ...

We declare that such knowledge does exist and that, at the present time and for the people to whom this declaration is addressed, there is a possibility of its being transmitted.

Rocky eagerly read through the document, his gaze resting on several particularly choice paragraphs:

In addition to making this announcement, to feeding into certain fields of thought certain ideas, and to pointing out some of the factors operative in this work, the projectors of this declaration have a practical task.

This task is to locate individuals who have capacity for obtaining the special knowledge of man which is available; to group them in a special, not haphazard, manner, so that each such group forms a harmonious organism; to do this in the right place at the right time; to provide an external and interior format with which to work, as well as a formulation of “ideas” suitable to local conditions; in short, to balance theory with practice.

Now that was the kind of thing that turned Rocky on. This was the real deal.

Also in the back of the book, rather conveniently, was a small white sticker which bore a post office address for “BM Sufi Studies.” After some thought, it occurred to Rocky that BM might stand for British Museum. He felt that he should write to find out more about this teacher Idries Shah and the secret society of advanced Sufi mystics he appeared to represent. People had spent lifetimes scouring the most inaccessible reaches of the globe for the likes of the Teacher of the Age and for the Secret Chiefs of Shambhala ... and here Shah was in England. No more than a letter and the cost of a stamp or a four hour train journey away from the sleepy seaside town of Wycliffe-on-Sea.

Rocky spent the rest of the evening frustratedly drafting, scrapping and re-drafting a letter expressing interest in the Sufi way and telling them something about himself. Finally, the bin in his bedroom half full of screwed up balls of notepaper, he took out his best pen and writing pad, nervously copied the text word for word, addressed an envelope, enclosed the letter and another stamped self-addressed envelope out of courtesy, pulled on his boots, dashed down to the post box at the bottom of the road and thrust the letter in the slot before he had time to change his mind and chicken out.

He was oblivious to the presence of the battered old car parked across the road in the shadows all this time. Nor did he see the figure follow him, watch as he deposited the letter, then summon assistance to open the postbox and retrieve the letter. When they read the contents, Rocky's cover – what little of it there was – would be well and truly blown.

At last, with a deep sigh of relief, he took out the spliff he'd prepared earlier, as they say on the TV show Blue Peter, lit it up and took a deep drag. That first drag nearly knocked him off his feet and he felt his knees buckle beneath him with the shock of the nicotine, as he hadn't had a cigarette all day. He had intended walking back up the street, but decided that he'd take the scenic route back round the block while he smoked the spliff and got his head back together, if that wasn't a contradiction in terms.

As he turned back into the top of Ashville Avenue, already feeling rather spaced out, a girl in a short skirt was walking toward him and for a brief moment he thought his luck might be in that night, but as she passed him she looked him up and down with obvious disdain.

“Parasite,” she spat as she walked off.

And with that, Rocky came back down to Earth with a resounding thump. Even many years later that single, cruel – truthful? – remark would haunt him as it surfaced and resurfaced in his memory. On the one hand, it could have been a simple, ignorant, intolerant remark. Or, on the other, it could equally have been that she actually had seen the shocking reality of his state – or, though unconscious herself, she could at least have channelled this knowledge because it was something he needed to hear.

Sheesh, welcome to your first foretaste of the Land of Truth, Rocky Rhodes.

Many a true word is spoken in jest, is it not? reflected the voice within.

What did the Sufis say? Dig in the ruins of your house and reveal the hidden treasure, with which you may build a thousand houses. And right then, he felt pretty derelict. One wave short of a shipwreck, you might say. All the more so for having lost Donna. Oh God, how can you do this to me? Well, best have a bath tomorrow and change into a fresh set of clothes.

Rocky was riddled with guilt about all manner of embarrassing moments and idiotic episodes in his life, going right back to publicly wetting himself in his early childhood. Scarcely a day went by when he wasn't reminded of something or other for which he had regret, even deep remorse. There could be few things more crippling than this in one's life.

5. ... Another slams shut

It had been some time since Rocky had last been to see Edna Rumple at the bookshop. He was in the last year of his “A” Level studies now and making more of an effort, but he was increasingly aware of being a round peg in a square hole and that his heart really wasn't in his studies.

By this time Rocky had discovered that the Sufi Idries Shah had set up his own publishing company, Octagon Press. He had managed to get hold of their glossy catalogue and had read some more of Shah's books in the meantime, which had actually answered a number of the questions he'd asked when he originally contacted the Sufis. He particularly liked the teaching tales in books such as Thinkers of the East and Tales of the Dervishes and also the psychology and social insights revealed in the latest books off the press: Learning How to Learn and A Perfumed Scorpion. The stories weren't mere children's fables with a moral but, like onions, they had successive layers of deep meaning which would be revealed as the student grew ready to receive their nutrition.

As a result, Rocky had had less cause to visit the bookshop, for his interests now lay elsewhere. And something always seemed to intervene to distract him and keep him away. He had taken on board what Edna had advised him, however, and had been to the barber's to have his long, frizzy brown locks shorn and consigned his trusty old patched denims to the bin. If nothing else, this had pleased his mother and father immensely.

Reading the Sufi materials had made him increasingly wary of alternative formulations and it wasn't long before, deciding to consolidate his possessions to make moving house easier, he'd also consigned his other esoteric works to the dustbin, feeling that he'd outgrown such things and not wishing to foist them on others. Of course this was presuming that he actually made it to college. He and his pals all dreamed of getting out of the staid confines of Wycliffe-on-Sea and making it big in some way. Wycliffe was full of grockles in summer and like a ghost town full of tumbleweeds in winter, a haven for retirees and those on welfare handouts.

Another thing that he'd noticed increasingly was a need – or was it actually an obsessive desire? – to get things right. As a child, if he was to survive under the same roof with his mother and father, he had to be doubly sure that he was doing the right thing and also seen to be doing the right thing, and this developed into something of a perfectionist strand to his personality. He guessed that the drugs he took in his teenage rebellion was a way of breaking free of these constraints, the downside being that he'd ended up being far from perfect and had lost some of his drive to achieve.

This Sufi lark, this seeking after truth with a flashing-neon capital T, had rekindled Rocky's desire to succeed and seemed to have re-triggered the perfectionism. In the case of his attempts at creative writing, he could see now that much of what he'd written earlier in his teens was unrealistic escapism and seemed to have been written in an emotional meltdown and a mental stupor. Quite clearly, what he had written was not the truth, and that mattered a great deal to him now. Writing was becoming harder and harder for him, perhaps through fear of failure or rejection or not saying the right thing. Indeed, by now his creative writing had all but dried up and, though he didn't realize it at the time, he grieved at this loss of an artistic outlet. So, he compensated for this by turning his hand to all sorts of practical and technical pursuits where he could actually see and comprehend and appreciate each minor success. Like his father, he made efforts to become a jack of all trades. Well, at least some.

Rocky had been meaning to see Edna again for some time. After all, it was she who had introduced him to the Sufis and he had a sneaking suspicion that there was more to this lady than met the casual eye. But for one reason or another, he hadn't got round to it.

It came as something of a shock and a disappointment, therefore, to find the shop closed when he arrived. A rain-splattered paper note pinned to the door read:

Shut until further notice due to family bereavement. With thanks for your valued custom and apologies for the inconvenience.

Oh, he did hope that Edna was okay. She was a lovely lady. He pulled out his pen and pad, scribbled a concerned note and pushed it through the letter box.

Rocky called there two or three more times, hoping to pick the old lady's brains and ask her advice about contacting the Sufis, as he hadn't as yet received a reply to his letter – but still the bookshop was locked shut. And the last time he called, he found a big battered skip outside, no sign of the books (which had lined the staircase on the way in), scaffolding around the building and workmen clattering around inside.

Could this be what she had meant when she'd written: “Well, I shall love you and leave you, Rocky.” Had she known then that she'd have to shut up shop and move on?

So that was that and he was left all alone in his noble quest.

Or so he thought. As Rocky approached a house on his way home and passed by, he could hear a familiar voice singing those old-fashioned and treasured words made popular by Vera Lynn:

We'll meet again ...

As he heard those words, as if on cue, there was a break in the dark cloud cover and the sun came out to say hello and to bathe the street in its warm, healing, golden rays.

~~~O~~~

Early the next morning, as a special treat, Rocky's father took him down to the harbour where they found two places on one of the tiny cobles. Dad hadn't booked seats as he couldn't be certain of the weather. The boatload set out from the harbour and chugged out some way into the bay. Then the helmsman let down an anchor and passed out the hand reels and their bait, a few shelled mussels in small plastic beakers. It wasn't until they had left the harbour that Rocky realized that they'd be spending the next hour bobbing up and down in the water and he was a bit worried that he might become seasick, but the water was pretty calm that day and he soon got used to the gentle swaying motion and needn't have worried. One of the others was less fortunate, however, and the poor guy spent half the trip hanging over the side of the boat heaving his guts up. Even the fish turned up their noses at this noxious offering.

Father, of course, was in his element. Not being the athletic type, he could succeed at pastimes like fishing – which was still considered a sport in those days – or share a vicarious, illusory kind of success and expertise by betting on the football teams or race horses. In this way, the man could make an otherwise intolerable and miserable, post-war life worth living – if not in real substance, then at least in his imagination. The fact that his father wanted to succeed and to better himself was perfectly laudable. What rankled Rocky was the fact that the man took himself altogether too seriously and fervently believed that he was better and knew better than so many others, especially when it came to celebrity or authority. This, too, was Father's sport, and yet to Rocky, it did not seem at all sporting but something rather petty, narrow-minded and at times snide. Perhaps the single thing that pushed Rocky and his father apart was that the man seemed to see everything in black and white and in terms of winners and losers and even dog eat dog, whilst Rocky, at his own admission, had his head in the clouds and saw things in psychedelic hues?

Of course, this was a time long before the author J.K. Rowling introduced the world to the wizardry of Harry Potter, and long before the dawning of his own sentient self-consciousness; but looking back, Rocky could see that like the Dursleys, the whole family had been Muggle blood through and through, and that he had been just as wrong in thinking that he was better than his father, as his father had been in thinking that he was better than others. It has indeed been truly written that negativity breeds negativity and that two wrongs don't make a right.

As it turned out, neither of them caught any fish that morning, which seemed to slightly displease Dad, but Rocky was quite content to sit there with his finger on the line, waiting to sense the fish take his bait and for him to strike, to ensure that the fish was well caught on the hook.

Later that morning, they met up with Mum by the entrance to the harbour and spent a couple of hours relaxing on the sun-kissed beach. Mum had brought some sandwiches with her, a bottle of lemonade and a flask of tea, so they had a picnic. Then they packed away their things and took a gentle stroll along the seafront, making a point of passing by the brightly lit and noisy amusement arcades. They stopped for a moment to pick up an obligatory ice-cream, and then walked up through the spectacular gardens and into town. Mum had one or two things to buy in at the supermarket, so they called in as they made their way home.

“Thanks,” Rocky told them as they finally sat down to put their feet up for a few minutes. It had been good to spend some quality time together, without the worry of having to achieve anything in the process. “Yes, I really enjoyed that.”

“You're welcome, sunshine,” his father smiled. It looked like the horse racing was coming on the television and with his newspaper in one hand, turned to the sports pages, and a cup of tea in the other, he was set for the afternoon.

“Shame we didn't land a fish or two, though,” his father added. “You know when I was a youngster, the sea was swimming with fish.”

“Well, it would be, Dad,” he laughed.

“In those days, decent meat was a luxury and, being more or less free, fish was a staple part of our diet. Your grandfather was a champion angler, you know.”

“Mmm, so I gather.” Even in those days, it looked like fish stocks were on the decline; though boy, did they catch some mackerel on their spinning lures when these predators swarmed inshore after the herring sile. They had some good times together over the years and his father, a self-taught man, by and large, had in turn taught him a lot.

“No worries, Dad. It was great all the same.”

“Good film on later,” his father remarked. “James Bond, if anyone fancies watching it. And for once, it's not a repeat. The only other thing on is a ruddy Carry On comedy and I'm not watching that drivel. If you get the dinner on, Mary, you'll be able to sit down and watch it with us. Well, most of it, at any rate.”

“To be honest, I'm not that thrilled by James Bond,” she replied. “That type of film gives me a headache. But don't let me spoil your enjoyment.”

“Oh, go on. I'll help peel some spuds and veg, if you like,” Rocky offered. “It has to be better than slaving away over a hot stove, Mum.”

“Well, yes, I'll give it that,” she said, putting down her darning wool and heading for the kitchen.

6. Is there anybody there?

Harry popped round late one afternoon to see Rocky. Mum and Dad didn't have a phone in those days, and this was long before the age of the personal computer and the internet, so everything was done by letter or by visiting in person. It didn't seem to matter then, as things were so much less frantic than they are now.

“Ray's fiancée, Shirley is training to be a clairvoyant at the Spiritualist Meeting House on Nelson Street and she's giving her first public performance this evening at their open circle. I thought you might like to go along, old chap. What do you think?”

“Well, I haven't had my dinner yet ...”

“Oh, there's no rush. The circle doesn't open until 8:00, though I did think that perhaps we might have a spliff before we set out. Best have that around 7:00 and then things will have settled down nicely by the time of the meeting, after the initial rush.”

“Sure, that sounds great, Harry. And thanks a lot for coming down all this way to let me know. That's very kind of you.”

“You're welcome.”

“Any idea what I should wear?”

“I think they're pretty informal there. I'm just going to wear my tidy jeans with a jacket and an open-necked shirt.”

“Right you are, Harry. I'll see you at 7:00, then. And thanks again.”

Still a little squiffy when they arrived at the address, Harry led the way up a steep flight of rickety, bare wooden stairs and onto a short landing. To one side was a room with a table against the wall set out with cups and saucers which was clearly for refreshments, whilst ahead of him a group of folk were gradually assembling and were taking their places in a double row of hard backed wooden chairs arranged in a wide circle toward the centre of the large room. There were vases of colourful fresh flowers here and there around the room and appropriately spiritual-looking paintings on the walls, and for a moment as he entered, Rocky had a strange feeling of déjà vu.

Harry spotted Ray waving to him from one of the seats and they skirted round the circle to join him. He spotted immediately that they'd been smoking and Rocky earnestly hoped that none of the others would notice. Shirley came over and spent a few moments greeting them, but she was preoccupied by preparing herself for the session, so she begged leave of them to answer a last minute call of nature. Shirley wasn't entirely Rocky's cup of tea, but he had to admit that she and Ray seemed a pretty good match for one-another and it was good to see that she was having a healthy, stabilizing – dare he say normalizing? – influence on the errant youth.

Ray nudged Rocky just before the proceedings were about to begin: “Don't cross your legs,” he advised, “or else Spirit can't enter.”

He nearly enquired about whether or not he was permitted to clench his anal sphincter, but thought better of it. Dope had a way of bringing out such wry humour on the most banal subject.

The introduction over, they all sang a suitably uplifting hymn from the books provided and Shirley began, first of all giving voice to an inspiration that had come into her head. For a beginner, she sounded remarkably self-assured and reminded him a little of the smooth-talking salesmen at the mock auctions down on the sea front. Soon enough one of the ladies in the front row opposite recognized the object that Shirley was describing.

“Oh, yes, when I was a child, I had a Teddy bear just like that,” she said and Shirley began to describe an older gentleman whom she could hear whispering in her ear.

“You weren't very fond of his tobacco smoke,” Shirley suggested.

Well, that was a risky move, but given the lady's age, it was a pretty safe bet that she'd have known a good few people who smoked.

“Oh, yes, that would be my Uncle James. He smoked a pipe.”

“Just a moment, my dear, your Uncle James is saying something to me. Oh yes, I see,” whereupon Shirley trotted out some equally generic message that this old uncle wanted to pass on to her, which the lady accepted gladly.

This went on for some time as Shirley went from one member of the circle to another at random, sometimes fishing around by suggesting a string of common enough Christian names until one of them was picked up on.

Then finally she turned to Rocky. Now this should be interesting.

“Mmm, someone's whispering in my ear that you're sceptical about spiritualism,” she told him. “I'm to tell you that you're writing a book at the moment but that you'll tear it up in a paddy and throw it in the bin.”

She paused, as if waiting for him to signal his recognition or else whilst she received further input.

“You'll feel very sad about abandoning your cherished project, but you shouldn't worry, as by then you will have become aware of Spirit guiding you in your life and as one door – that of intellectual study – closes, another – that of real work and opportunity – will have opened in its place. So as well as sadness, you will also experience great joy; the answer to all your hopes and dreams. Does this make sense to you?”

He nodded with a smile etched across his face, genuinely surprised by this revelation. “Yes, thank you. I'll admit that when I came into this circle I was sceptical ...”

“But you're not now.”

“No,” he admitted, “I'm not.”

Well, he wasn't totally convinced, but he was less sceptical about her performance.

“Just a moment, I'm getting a message.” She cocked her head to one side. “Okay, thank you. That's very kind. Yes, I'll let him know.”

She peered into Rocky's eyes. “I'm told that one day, after your studies at college, you will receive an invitation and travel across the sea, into a mountainous district.”

“Okay.”

“I'm told you'll go to a place called Abzar.”

Holey moley! “That would be Abshar,” he grinned at her. But how could Shirley have known such a thing? He hadn't mentioned Abshar or the Sarmouni to even his close friends and they hadn't read any of the Sufi books as far as he knew.

“Yes, that's right,” she nodded. “Abshar. I'm sorry, there's a lot crackling on the line at the moment. My mistake. I'm sorry what was that you said? A waterfall? Ah yes. I'm told that Abshar is to be found behind a waterfall and that you will find healing there in the air and in the waters.”

“Oh and one last thing. I have to tell you that Edna is quite safe and well and sends you her best wishes.”

Well, well, well. Wonders will never cease, he enthused.

“Thank you so much,” he nodded fervently.

“Oh, don't thank me,” she told him. “I'm just the messenger. Thank Spirit.”

“Thank you, friends. I appreciate your help.”

Half an hour later, one of the other ladies thanked Shirley for her sterling work and led them all in a prayer before rounding off the evening with tea and biscuits through in the other room. They seemed a sweet and well-meaning bunch of folk, really.

“Time for one last spliff,” Harry smiled as they wandered off home that night. “Not bad for a beginner, eh? Certainly got the gift of the gab.”

“Quite, she certainly surprised me. I had her down as a fake until it was my turn.”

“She and Harry are getting married at the other place, the Spiritualist Church, on Wrea Lane. The group we were with tonight split off for some kind of political reasons, but fortunately Shirley's still friends with their powers that be.”

“Yes, I heard. And you're going to be their best man, Harry.”

“That's right. Scares the shit out of me, getting up in front of all those folk. You don't know any decent jokes, do you, Rocky?”

“Sorry, no. It's not my forte, Harry ... Mind you, have you heard the one about the nun and the bishop in the bath?”

“I mean clean ones,” Harry laughed.

“The bishop turns to the nun and asks: 'Have you seen the soap?' and the nun smiles and replies: 'It does, doesn't it?'”

“Sheesh, you call that a joke, Rocky? Better light up another spliff. That'll get your chuckle muscles moving.”

“I thought we just smoked the last?”

“Special reserve,” Harry informed him, feeling around in his jacket pocket. “For purely medicinal and therapeutic use only, you understand?”

“That goes without saying, Harry. Only a little for me, though. I haven't smoked in a while and I don't want to be overwhelmed.”

~~~O~~~

Rocky went to sleep that night with a warm afterglow from the effects of the dope, the sort you usually get after making love.

Aware that he must be dreaming, yet strangely lucid, he found himself in Shah's study. The man of the moment, Shah, came in through a door with a plastic raincoat on, acting the fool, as if he were Baghwan (a rather wacky guru with a wicked sense of humour). Then he took the plastic Mackintosh off to reveal a sober grey suit and tie.

Rocky, his friends Harry and Ray and two or three others whom he didn't recognize were all lined up and Shah spoke to each of the others in turn. Then Shah turned to Rocky and, without speaking verbally, he told him that we all get the same time, whatever that might mean. And Shah also said, “This may not mean anything to you as yet, but remember these words concerning sustenance, Richard: 'Don't give them water, so much as help them dig a well. Don't give them food, so much as provide them with a means of growing their own. Create a longing for these things and necessity will find a means by which they may be accomplished.'”

Then a remarkable thing happened. Without touching him physically, Shah bounced Rocky across the room – boing! boing! boing! – as if he were on a pogo stick, to stand beside Donna. He hadn't noticed until that moment that Donna was in the study with them, and this revelation thrilled him. Oh God, it was so very good to see her again after all this time. Indeed, perhaps absence actually had made his heart grow fonder? He knew then that it hadn't been mere infatuation, but rather that he was still as madly in love with Donna as he'd ever been.

Finally, the group formed a circle at one end of the study, with Shah in the middle. The circle was rather misshapen, though. Anyhow, Shah had them dance around the circle holding hands which straightened up the shape of the circle.

Rocky asked Shah what he was doing at one point and Shah told him that he was “doing some fine-tuning”. What was most noticeable, however, was a most peculiar feeling in Rocky's spine, as if he'd just re-entered his body, shortly before waking abruptly from the dream.

He had another dream about Shah that night. A shiny black limousine pulled up near the bottom of Rocky's street in Wycliffe-on-Sea and inside was Edna Rumple, who had introduced him to the Sufi materials. Shah was also there in the back of the car. They asked Rocky if he wanted a lift to such-and-such a place, but more fool him he declined as he said that he had to go home to his parents. It was only as the car drew away and he began to walk off up the street to his family that Rocky realized he should perhaps have accepted their invitation and gone with them. I mean, it was his dream, after all. But, more fool him, it was now too late to change his mind.

In a third dream that particularly stood out in his mind during that crazy night, Rocky was with someone else whom he couldn't identify, walking through some kind of foundry. He picked up a sand mould and broke it apart and inside was a gleaming green jewel. The foreman smiled at him and said “Yes, that's precisely what we're looking for.”

Over the next few weeks, Rocky had several such dreams, including two or three where there was mention of some “night school” and it did occur to Rocky more than once that – bizarre as it might sound – this was actually one of the means by which he was being remotely taught.

~~~O~~~

Unlike alcohol, dope didn't leave Rocky with a hangover the next morning, in fact he was still pleasantly floating along, and mid-morning he went up to Harry's. It was Harry's day off and they both took a trip up the coast in Harry's van to have a stroll along the sands and a look around the town.

On their way back from the sands, Harry led Rocky off the beaten track down a narrow gravel and dirt path. After crossing a gently sloping meadow, the path continued along the side of a long brick wall and, perhaps halfway down, Harry stopped beside a plain wooden gate in the wall, opened the latch and beckoned Rocky through. A decorative sign beside the gate read merely “The Rose Garden” and had he been on his own, even assuming that he'd left the beaten track, Rocky would probably have passed by this gate without giving it a second glance.

Once inside, Rocky could see that the gate opened up onto a spacious and delicately scented, walled rose garden, as the sign had indicated, with a paved area toward the centre where a few tables and chairs had been set out. Harry led them along the path to the right, until they came to some kind of open-fronted summerhouse which, it turned out, had been converted into a small café.

Harry led the way and was immediately greeted by the rosy-featured lady behind the counter. “Well, hello there Harry, it's good to see you again. And what can I do for you, my love?” You could tell that she was the kind of person who made people welcome and had a gift for putting them at ease. And what also surprised Rocky was a poster on the wall behind the counter of a climber scaling a sheer rock face. It was entitled Comes the Dervish, a dervish indeed being a student of the Sufi Way.

Greetings and friendly introductions over, they ordered some sandwiches, something for dessert and a pot of Earl Grey – tea scented with bergamot, a fragrant citrus fruit – before wandering down the garden to find a free table.

“This is wonderful, I really wouldn't have expected this café to be here, so far off the beaten track, Harry.”

“Great isn't it? Donna first brought us here one day, when she was going out with Ray.”

“So how do the tourists find their way here?” Rocky asked. “I didn't see any signposts, other than the one by the side of the gate – and that gave no indication of the café.”

“Oh, by and large they don't, Rocky. That's the point. Not the standard grockles at any rate, though I believe that the garden is featured in one or two of the walking guides sold in the shops and on display in guest houses, which attracts some of the right sort of clientèle. They largely seem to rely on personal recommendations. It's a deliberate policy. And as you can see, they do a fair trade here.”

“Bloody good sandwiches,” Rocky said, before taking another big bite. “I love it here.”

“Yes, this place, the atmosphere, their work here: it's very much a labour of love.”

“Anyway, Rocky. Sit back and relax and drink-in the experience. You can think too much about these things. See that magpie on the branch over there? Now he knows how to boogie.”

One for sorrow, Harry recited, two for joy,

three for a girl and four for a boy,

five for silver, six for gold,

seven for a secret, never to be told,

eight for a wish and nine for a kiss,

ten for a time of joyous bliss.

Rocky turned to look, following Harry's pointing finger. True enough, the bird was hopping around as if performing some elaborate mating ritual, or dancing to the sound of some unheard music, and for a time they watched in silence, as if mesmerized.

As he sat there, the melody and words of an old courting song by Tony Bennett came to Rocky:

I'm putting on my top hat ...

Maybe the bird was out looking for a little romance that day?

At this point, Harry suddenly let out a long and resounding fart, which broke Rocky's reverie and had them both sniggering. “More tea, vicar?”

~~~O~~~

“Have you thought about going into Freemasonry?” Harry had asked out of the blue one day. It turned out that Shirley's father was in a local lodge and had invited Ray, and he in turn had asked whether Harry might be interested, giving him the loan of a book that Shirley's father had recommended. “I'm sure it would help straighten you out.”

Rocky had a vision of himself wearing nothing but a bowler hat, socks with braces on them, shoes and a leather apron, carrying out a ritual in which he had to bend over and kiss the arse-end of a plucked turkey, inspired by a satirical cartoon he'd recently seen in Omni magazine. He had politely declined, saying that, alas, this wasn't his cup of tea. “But keep me posted as to your progress,” he'd added, not wishing to deter Ray and Harry.

Early on, about the same time that he'd first written to the Sufis, Rocky had written off to a contact address for Wicca and had received in return a whole list of contact addresses. He'd quickly been put off, however, by the many references to dark arts such as Chaos Magick and in the end he chickened out from pursuing that avenue further. At one point, sometime later, he did find an interest in Buddhism and Zen and sent off to their London centres for a number of their publications. The idea of the Bodhisattva particularly interested him and he did write a letter to the society's secretary in which asked whether it would be better to be an Arhat who had entered nirvana, or a Bodhisattva who was worthy of nirvana but postponed entry to be of help to others. He rather favoured the latter and especially the idea of the Bodhisattva of the Household, who might be likened to the Sufi working in the marketplace, rather than sitting in some hermitage on a Himalayan mountain top.

Needless to say, he received a polite letter in reply, suggesting to him that perhaps he was putting the cart before the horse. Looking back, this should have been obvious to him at the time, but alas this had quite passed him by. In many respects, he was a slow learner, or else a late developer.

No, no, insisted a quiet inner voice. We are always here for you when you need us, but you're just not a very good listener.

What finally decided Rocky against following up further with this interest, however, was an article about Shah in Human Behavior magazine.

“That gray area of mumbo jumbo and gurus and mantras,” he [Shah] says, bitingly. “It has little connection with any tradition except the circus. In Eastern countries like India that is fairly well understood. Only the 'new boys' profess to see anything significant in the phenomenon. But here the carnival has taken over. We have a grotesque of the true Indian guru.”

He also has a few disparaging words for Zen. “No Sufi would ever think it important to think of a phrase like, 'What is the sound of one hand clapping?' He would regard it as training for automatism. You could obsess people with one hand.”

The Sufi has nothing in common, either, with groups that seek to withdraw from the world. “Be in the world, but not of it,” is the Sufi watchword.

Shah had a great many disparaging words to say about all manner of spiritual formulations and secret societies other than that of his particular brand of Sufism, and at the time Rocky seriously took this on board and made a point of quickly dumping his interest in all such frivolity. As ever, it was only later, when he came to re-examine some of the things that he'd left behind along the way, that he did wonder if he had perhaps also thrown out the baby in his naïve and ignorant haste to be done with the bath water? And then again, perhaps this was a preparatory phase that he necessarily had to go through in order to clear away the undergrowth and accumulated dead wood before embarking afresh upon the Way?

First you clear and thoroughly work the ground, a voice seemed to confirm. And then you can begin again with the planting.

~~~O~~~

They had a bit of a reunion the following weekend and each of them dropped half a tab of acid. Shirley didn't come with Ray, she was away visiting an elderly aunt who was in hospital after a fall. This was just as well as Shirley didn't smoke, let alone know about the acid.

It had been over a year since Rocky's last tab and he was rather wary, as the last time he'd taken the stuff, he'd had a bad trip. The acid must have been cut with strychnine as he had severe stomach cramps and when it got really bad and he farted, he thought his guts had exploded. And of course, John, a friend of a friend from their old Kabin Krew days had once thrown himself off a high wall, foolishly thinking that he could fly and had managed to break his arm and collar bone when he came back down to Earth with sickening inevitability. This in mind, they were all briefed on the need to look after and keep one-another safe should anything untoward happen.

They spent the first few minutes sitting in the lush, almost dayglow green grass in a quiet area of the nearby park, having a chat and a giggle amongst themselves as they watched the odd grockle pass by along the path by the lake and stand there surrounding by ducks and gaggling geese. Geese can be quite aggressive, of course, as the grockles soon found out. By this time, Rocky had begun to hallucinate, and was quite amused by all the grasshoppers that were crawling and hopping through the long grass. A little later, having decided that all was well and settled into the trip, they wandered off through the park and headed toward the sands. At this point, Ray being convinced that walking on water was actually a case of mind over matter, he did attempt to skip across the sea along the water margin, only to succeed in drenching his shoes and socks.

Zeno and his beloved Mel were with them that day and he regaled them with some astonishing couplets of poetry that he composed on the spot.

For Rocky, the visual hallucinations and the mind-opening effect of the acid were of course enjoyable and welcome. The highlight for him, however, came later that evening as he drifted off to sleep with a rather pleasant afterglow and, still wide open to suggestion, had the most amazing, bizarre psychedelic dreams. Rather than try to explain them, it was perhaps more fitting to liken them to the surrealist Spanish painter Salvador Dali's works, with the addition of breathtaking energy, motion and constant change.

Then as the visual effects began to settle down, Rocky felt himself lift off the ground. He'd had many such flying dreams as a child, but he had always found it difficult to initially get off the ground, flapping around like some overly-plump or fattened turkey. And yes, you probably could read something psychological into that. He also used to have a recurring dream in which he'd crawl through the secret entrance to another world. He'd sometimes find himself in some kind of country house on a treasure hunt and followed the clues up secret passageways, say inside the chimney or through the door of a cuckoo clock.

Tonight he was flying again and it was a wonderful experience, this being free from mundane restrictions, as he soared up the street and over the rooftops. In his childhood it had definitely been a means of escape, but now it seemed more of a victory. Perhaps even the memory of another, hidden life or state of being?

Ahead of him Rocky saw a ruined and abandoned house and he came to land close in the long grass of a natural meadow. It reminded him of the story he'd once written as a child about finding a ruined house and digging in the ruins to find a buried treasure. He tended to copy the work of others in those days and it's quite possible that he'd already heard that story somewhere or other. Only now did he recognize that familiar Sufi motif. So perhaps, like others, he was being taught something even in those early days?

As he was standing there, he could hear music emerging from the ruins and he recognized the voice of Mary Hopkins singing the song Those Were the Days, My Friend:

Through the door, there came familiar laughter ...

A figure was coming toward him now, dressed in long, flowing bright green robe. Could this be the Hidden Guide, Khidr? he wondered as the man approached. Rocky felt he recognized those rugged features and yet he couldn't quite place them.

“We meet again,” the man greeted him. “Where have you been all this time?”

“Hi there.”

Khidr looked him slowly up and down. “No, don't tell me: I think I'd rather not know. Looks like you've been in the wars, young man.”

“The wars?”

“A mere figure of speech. I meant that you appear to have succumbed to the degeneration that they call Earth Sickness.”

Rocky gulped hard on hearing these strangely familiar and ominous words.

“Tell me, what do you call yourself these days?”

“Richard,” he told Khidr. “My friends call me Rocky. And it's an honour to meet you, sir.”

“I'm not here to be honoured, much as I appreciate the sentiment,” Khidr informed him. “I am here to help a friend in need. As for the acid, well it certainly helped get you here, but might I suggest that you leave it with your donkey at the door?”

Again Rocky felt a lump in his throat. “Sorry,” he said, casting his eyes down.

“It's all right, I can live with this indiscretion, if you can, Rocky. Don't be too hard on yourself. A guilt trip merely serves to further and unnecessarily complicate matters.”

“Why am I here? That's what you're asking yourself, aren't you, Rocky?”

He nodded and raised his eyes again.

“Well, to be honest, I don't know as yet. We will have to see what emerges and act accordingly. It's a bit like surfing the crest of a wave, if you see what I mean, rather than the kind of planned strategy you might use in a game such as chess. That's why they sometimes call the friend, 'the man of the moment' or, indeed, 'the spy of the heart'.”

“One thing that is quite clear to me already is that you have had your share of worries, Rocky. But you see, the man in the street has his own problems, too, you know.”

Rocky instinctively looked around to see the man to whom Khidr was referring.

Khidr laughed. “I was speaking figuratively, Rocky. I wasn't being literal.”

A little embarrassed, Rocky smiled back.

“You see that businessman?”

Rocky followed Khidr's gaze and watched as a bowler hatted business type passed them by, adjusting his tie as he went, apparently oblivious to their presence.

“You probably think you have nothing in common with that man. But you do. That man in the smart suit takes great pride in his appearance. And that ignorant man might look at you in your patched jeans and your long, straggly hair and be offended that you should take so little pride in your appearance. But you do. The common denominator in both of you being the appearance of pride.”

Rocky nodded solemnly but said nothing for a time as he mulled over what Khidr had told him. Then another thought occurred to him.

“This riding the quest ... did I say quest? I meant crest ... This riding the crest of the wave sounds a bit like therapy,” Rocky noted. “And yet Shah said that Sufism isn't therapy.”

Khidr laughed. “Don't quote me on this, but between you, me and the lamppost, that Shah fellow sometimes gets on my wick. If therapy is required along the Way, Rocky, then therapy it shall be. It's at times as valuable – or as useless – a tool as any other to have in one's tool kit.”

A thought struck Rocky at that moment.

“Penny for them?”

Rocky smiled: “That's what my mother would say: 'A penny for your thoughts.'”

“Go on.”

“The phrase 'physician, heal thyself' just sprang to mind.”

“Are you familiar with the Bible, Rocky?”

“Sorry, no I'm not.”

“Well, the quote comes from Luke 4:23, which in the King James Version is rendered: And he said unto them, Ye will surely say unto me this proverb, Physician, heal thyself: whatsoever we have heard done in Capernaum, do also here in thy country.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning on the one hand that one should attend to one's own faults, in preference to pointing out the faults of others.”

“Sorry.”

“That's all right. And please stop being so apologetic all the time.”

“And on the other?”

“That deep down there is a wise part of us that knows what ails us and may be summoned to assist us in our own recovery. Now that might seem very paranormal or airy-fairy to you, but the truth of the matter is that this is how things should normally be all the time. Alas, the fact that this is patently not so and no longer common knowledge just goes to show how far we have fallen out of synchronization with the Source.”

“I see. Thanks, Khidr.”

“Perhaps in place of recovery, I might have chosen to say instead: 'to assist us in our process of self-discovery.'”

Rocky was again reminded of the treasure hunts he'd taken part in in that country house. “Do you think it could be a re-discovery?” he asked.

Khidr smiled. “Yes, I would say so, Rocky. Something tells me that you are a past master of the art. Don't ask me what that means exactly, at this moment in time, because I'm just responding on-the-fly to my own inner promptings. Do you see?”

“Yes, I see,” Rocky agreed.

Khidr took Rocky by shoulder and steered him toward the bank of a stream near the ruined house and they sat down on the slope.

“Tell me, Rocky, what do you hope for in this life?”

“To achieve something worthwhile.”

“What about yourself, rather than your ambitions, Rocky?”

“To become a better person.”

“Then become one.”

“There are snags. That's what springs to mind, anyway.”

“Snags,” Khidr mused for some time. “Obstacles in your path, things holding you back, is that what you mean? As Shah once rightly said: 'Nobody can stand between you and knowledge if you are fit for it. Anybody or anything may stand between you and knowledge if you are unfit for it.'”

Rocky nodded. “I want to change and I know I need to change, but I can't seem to actually accomplish the necessary change,” he told Khidr. “I can't seem to marshal my resources sufficiently well. I'm scattered.”

“Like unpanned gold dust? I see. And what is your heart's desire?”

Rocky knew in an instant. “I went out with a girl for a while. A girl called Donna.”

“And you split up?”

“No, her mother split us up.”

“Why was that?”

“Because she saw us – my friends and me – as an undesirable influence on her.”

“Which you were.” It was a statement, not a question.

Rocky thought for a moment. “Yes, in her eyes, I guess we were.”

“Place yourself in her shoes, Rocky.”

“Well, if I were her and Donna was my daughter, I wouldn't want her hanging out with a bunch of drugged-up hippies. But I'm not like that any more ... OK, I still have my moments, but I've made an effort to smarten myself up ...”

“And Donna still means a lot to you?”

Rocky nodded. “I don't know why. I think I fell in love with her the first time I saw her. And I still miss her.”

“Where does she live now?”

“As far as I know, she's still in Wycliffe-on-Sea. I'm away at college, but I do get home some weekends and in the holidays.”

“Then perhaps you might pay her a call sometime when you're back home and have a friendly chat with her? Find out if she's still interested in you?”

Rocky nodded. “Okay, I'll do that. Yes, that makes sense.”

“But be prepared for the worst, Rocky. She may have moved on and found another love in her life.”

“Yes, that's a possibility.”

“And how would that make you feel?”

“Sad,” he told Khidr.

“Well,” Khidr said at length as they sat there in silence. “I'll see you again, Rocky. There's still the thorny issue of these snags you mentioned.”

Rocky nodded. “Thanks.”

“Oh, and by the way Rocky, as a friend I think I should tell you that you smell like a used ashtray. You really should make an effort to kick that disgusting habit before it kills you.”

“Yes, I know,” Rocky nodded. “It's a bind.”

“You know what they say about smoking?”

“Enlighten me, Khidr.”

“They say it's suicide by instalments. Give that some thought.”

Khidr stood there for a moment with the knuckles of his hand pressed against his forehead as if lost in thought.

“Rocky,” he spoke again at length. “It occurs to me that in your case, words will only further bind you. You've become altogether too fond of words for your own good. Therefore, what I propose is that you set aside half an hour each day, without fail until further advised, to clear your mind and to meditate. Sit in a chair if you like, or cross-legged on a cushion.” And Khidr went on to describe the procedure and to suggest a mantra which he could mentally intone to assist the process.

“What does that mean?” Rocky enquired.

“It's better that you don't know. Consider it a meaningless phrase – no, better still, as simple and heartfelt words of gratitude,” Khidr told him. “Now, from time to time you may experience all manner of thoughts and emotions. Issues will well up inside you of their own accord. They are nothing to be concerned about, nor should you attempt to analyze what is happening to you. Just let these things bubble up, surface and dissipate of their own volition. Don't burden the spirit with the concerns of the flesh. Don't try to explain, simply let go of these things. Do you understand that?”

Rocky nodded. Then: “When I wake up, what if I forget this advice?”

“Trust me, Rocky, when you awaken, you will remember.”

And with that, Khidr looked toward the rising sun. “Well, time you were returning from the Land of Nod, friend. And I must be off anyway: trouble in the Hindu Kush. Be seeing you.”

With no further ado Khidr vanished and, disturbed by the sound of the Hoover outside his bedroom door, Rocky rubbed his sleepy eyes and sat up in bed. Boy, that had been some dream.

Given the opportunity he'd have got a wash, pulled on some smart clothes and dashed straight up to Donna's parents' house that morning, but alas he realized, looking at his watch, it would have to wait, because in just under two hours he was due to catch the train back. Damn it, damn it, damn it! If only he'd had that dream one day sooner. Still, the prospect of seeing Donna again was something he'd be able to look forward to ... though admittedly with a potent mix of both excitement and trepidation.

By the time he'd got back to his damp flat and bought in some provisions from the corner shop to replenish his rusty old fridge, Rocky had talked himself into writing a letter to Donna c/o her parents' address.

Days passed, however, and alas there was no reply. Not even another stroppy letter from her mother. Of course, one possibility that occurred to Rocky was that her parents had intercepted his mail on the doormat and had consigned it to the bin.

It's useless to speculate on the basis of inadequate information, Rocky, said that familiar voice in his head.

True enough. Thank you for your words of wisdom.

7. The reply

It was nearly two years before the reply came to his letter to BM Sufi Studies and he'd long since given up all hope of receiving one. The plain letterhead read Society for Sufi Studies with a slightly different Post Office box number but the same London post code.

By that time, he'd finished his “A” Levels and performed abysmally in the exams, but fortunately, though he'd lost the chance of going to university, at least Rocky had managed to get into polytechnic.

When he'd gone along to the interview at the college, with his hair freshly cut, clean-shaven and suitably camouflaged in black corduroy trousers, jacket and tie, he'd fully expected to either end up being turned down or else getting onto a science and technology course that followed on logically from his physics, maths and chemistry “A” Levels. There seemed to be an unwritten agreement that he'd be following in his elder brother's footsteps, even if it were at a somewhat more mundane level.

“Come in and take a seat,” the interviewer had greeted him. “Just give me a moment to re-familiarize myself with your application.” The irony didn't pass by Harry that whilst he himself was dressed up to the nines, the interviewer was sporting a crew neck pullover and jeans. Hippies in high places.

A few moments had passed. “Right then, Mr Rhodes, and why do you want to pursue studies in science and technology?”

Rocky had begun to explain how interested he was, especially in the new technologies, but the interviewer had cut him short when he happened to mention his elder brother.

“So, you're hoping to follow in your brother's footsteps, are you?”

“I guess so, you see ...”

“But what do you want, Rocky? Not what your parents want or what would please your elder brother, but what do you want?”

Rocky had tried to make the appropriate sounding noises.

“The reason I ask is that something tells me that in your heart, you're not really interested in science or in technology – at least not in studying these fields. And looking through your exam results and your leisure interests, I note that whilst you made an absolute dog's dinner of most of your exams, you did rather well at your Ordinary Level English language and English literature. Not only that but you list creative writing amongst your favoured leisure pursuits. I also notice how well written your application is. And, by the way, I must say, I'm rather intrigued by your interest in spiritual traditions. I'm sorry we're so pressed for time, or I'd ask you to tell me more. Do you see what I'm saying?”

“I think so.”

“OK, given a level playing field, Richard, and assuming that this is entirely your own decision, which course would you rather be on? A science course, a technology course or English literature? Don't think about it, tell me what your gut reaction is.”

“English.”

“Are you sure?”

“Without a shadow of a doubt.”

The interviewer had nodded. “And if you were offered a place on an English literature course, would you accept it?”

“Definitely.”

“Yes, I thought so. Round pegs and square holes and all that. Okay, give me a minute and I'll see if I can fix you up with an interview in the English department.” The man had picked up the phone. “Hello, this is Rodney Backersgill here. Sci-Tech. I have a wayward soul here who'd be spot on in your lit. department. Right up your street. Bit rough around the edges, but I'm sure you could soon lick him into shape. Any chance of an interview at short notice? Yes, I have his application right here. Fifteen minutes? Okay, that's grand. You're a treasure. Yes, I'll square it with admin. Thank you very much. I'll send him across campus straight away.”

He'd turned back to Rocky. “You got the gist? What time is it now? Right. Three o'clock in the English department across in the Garfield building. Ask at reception for Doctor Fry. Oh, and take this application with you.”

“Thank you very much,” Rocky had beamed. He was as happy as Larry with the surprise arrangement.

“You're very welcome, friend,” said the man, giving him a funny knuckle-pressing handshake. “On your way out, send the next fellow in, would you? Lovely to have met you.”

Rocky could hear his father even now: You did what? English ruddy literature? Well that won't put meat on the table. And his mother shaking her head and echoing Oh, my Sainted Aunts ...

Rocky had also expected the second interviewer to send him away that day saying that he'd hear in the post whether he'd been accepted for a place on the course or declined. But no, after that brief phone call, which seemed to oil the works, within minutes after an informal chat and nothing remotely like the grilling he'd been expecting, Rocky had been offered a place there and then, that same day.

What he didn't know at the time, but would later come to suspect, was this arrangement had not been arrived at by mere chance. He'd actually been deliberately picked up out of the gutter and offered a new start in life, if not by the Friends, then certainly by friends of theirs. Nor was he the only one.

To cut a long story short, he was now on the English Literature course at the poly and was in his first year. To be honest, he was far, far happier following his own interest in literature, rather than blindly and dutifully following his elder brother's footsteps in applied science.

~~~O~~~

Rocky pulled himself out of his reverie and turned his attention to the letter.

It had been forwarded to his digs by his parents, thanked him for his interest, and it also made a shrewd and special point of mentioning his “somewhat chequered past” – even though he thought he'd presented himself in a reasonably good light and not given too much away. Maybe they really were mind readers or had done a bit of checking up? Pulled in a few favours on the old boy's network, as it were? The writer, someone by the name of G.M. Adamson, asked him to forward a brief summary of his previous interests. Now that was a tough one: he could hardly put down “sex and drugs and rock 'n' roll”, now could he? Well, he could, but it wouldn't get him very far. By now, other than sharing the occasional spliff for old time's sake, he'd left the drugs behind and was a lot more clear thinking and level-headed for it, but he still drank too much and this was a habit that he had yet to vanquish.

Anyhow, he settled instead for window dressing along the lines of “reading, creative writing, interpersonal and social psychology, spirituality, the environment” and suchlike. That was true, in its own way, because he had had many interests, part of his problem being perhaps that he often spread himself too thin.

The word “previous” in “previous interests” caused him some pause for thought, as the more he got into what Shah had to say about the Sufi studies, the less he felt inclined to pursue these other interests and give the Sufi studies his all. Maybe that was obsessive, but the curriculum did seem pretty demanding. Like boot camp for the ego or rather the near-total identification with the ego. Had he been recruited, without having realized?

This was perhaps best summed up in the Sufi teaching tale featuring the joker Nasrudin:

Nasrudin was going into a large inn to sleep for the night. There were many beds all in one room. The thought occurred to Nasrudin that in the dark he would not know who he was, so he tied a balloon to his ankle. While Nasrudin was sleeping, the man in the next bed decided to play a joke. He untied Nasrudin's balloon and tied it on his own ankle.

When Nasrudin woke up, he looked at the man next to him. Then he reached out to shake hands and said: “Ah, I know who you are, you are Mullah Nasrudin. But please tell me, who on Earth am I?”

More than a learning process, it seemed to be an unlearning process and a shedding of much baggage accumulated over the years. And boy, he had a warehouse full of the stuff. For a time, it felt as if a great dark void had opened up around him. He wasn't sure what – if anything – he believed any more, or even who he really was. Like wild yeast – or was it a virus? – this bitter-sweet bloody quest was taking over his life. Like a magnifying glass, it accentuated his faults until he could bear himself no more.

Was this the infamous “long, dark night of the soul” of which he'd heard mention in esoteric tomes? Was it simply as a result of his attempting to square the circle (an impossible task)? Was he crazy? Or was the Sufi quest for truth and perfection itself flawed in some way? Or even a Trojan horse for something else?

Rocky had so many questions and he just wasn't getting any answers, and that was confusing and deeply frustrating. He'd written to a lady who knew Shah and she wrote back to say that Shah had told her that the answers to all people's questions were contained in his books; to keep reading until otherwise directed.

That reminded him of another Sufi story, as was so often the case. These mystics, and especially Shah, seemed to have an answer for everything. And sometimes they had more than one, which appeared to contradict another. Friend Ray wasn't a man to mince his words: and having heard what Rocky had told him one evening, Ray suggested that perhaps the Sufis were playing Mind Fuck games.

Anyhow, as he recalled (or failed to recall):

Three seekers presented themselves to a Sufi. The Sufi asked the first to get a camel over a high wall in front of them. Out of hearing of the others, he declined, complaining that the task was absurd and that he'd come to the Sufi to learn about Truth, not camels.

The Sufi turned to the second seeker and asked him to get the camel over the wall. Again, out of hearing of the others, this seeker also declined, saying that it was a test to see if he could think for himself and he realized that such a task was impossible.

Then the Sufi asked the third to get the camel over the wall. Even though he knew that the task was apparently impossible, he went over to the wall and made all manner of attempts to push, pull, jump and otherwise cajole the camel over the wall, until the Sufi finally instructed him to stop his endeavours.

Both the first and second seekers were dismissed, much to their bemusement. Only the third was accepted by the Sufi.

The letter also referred to a list of suggested reading, but alas the reading list had not been enclosed. Of course, however, he'd already found Shah's publisher and read a good few of the books.

As it happens, Rocky never did receive a written reply to that second letter. From this, he could have concluded that the matter had fizzled out like a damp squib and that a chapter in his life was closed. But far from it: like their Beloved, the Sufis, too, worked in mysterious ways which they termed “interventions”, most of which were not called Sufi nor even remotely spiritual or mystical at all. Like religion, such things were merely containers and vehicles, not the content, nor the goal itself. Far from it. What they all had in common (though often this was deeply hidden) was awakening to Reality and transformation; working for that Work, and various “good works” dictated by the necessities of time, place and people.

Looking back at what Shah had written in the Sufis about the seven nafs, a progression from a state of base animality toward perfection, made a lot more sense now. I mean real sense, not simply something understood in an intellectual manner:

(1) The commanding self. This is the lowest level of the self, made up of impulses or drives to satisfy desires, dominating reason and judgement.

(2) The blaming or contrite self. The activation of conscience.

(3) The inspired self. Inspiration and intuition kick in, but the ego is still at work in the form of self-satisfaction.

(4) The tranquil self.

(5) The satisfied self.

(6) The satisfying self.

(7) The purified or complete self.

It was only much later in middle age that Rocky suddenly realized that in his youth he had been so thoroughly – and almost totally unwittingly – in the grip of his Commanding Self. His blaming self became more active later, in early adulthood – excessively so – but it was only later still that it became effective in dealing with his impulses and desires, rather than merely chastising himself about them. The way wasn't about travelling to some exotic, forgotten realm, it was a strenuous and sustained inner journey of discovery, work, awakening and transformation.

Or maybe strenuous was the wrong way to put it? A lot of the time it simply involved soldiering on, and on, and on; and required not just patience, let alone waiting a long time impatiently, but actually having patience with patience.

8. Homeward bound

On the back of the forwarded letter, his father had scribbled a short note: “Missing you. Visits always welcome,” and partly out of guilt for not having been in touch for a while, and partly on a spur of the moment impulse, Rocky stuffed a few things in his trusty old haversack, dashed down to let his landlady know that he wouldn't be back until late on Sunday and ran to catch a bus heading for the city train station.

It was a pretty quiet journey up to York, in an old train with compartmentalized carriages, that seemed to stop at every station on the way. From there he changed trains for Wycliffe-on-Sea, and ended up jammed against the carriage wall by a somewhat rotund lady accompanied by a gaggle of rather excitable children. That said, he generally enjoyed travelling by train, especially the second leg which passed through some lovely, relaxing rolling scenery. He was definitely a man of the hills and valleys, streams and lakes, not of the flatlands.

Things weren't too bad between him and Dad now that he was grown up and at college. His father seemed to have mellowed and he was treating Rocky as an adult now, rather than the wayward animal that he was. That reminded him of something he'd once read. Had Swift written it? Something about noticing the change in his father and then realizing that the change had been in himself.

Of course, he'd been somewhat put out by the “A” Level flop and he couldn't understand why Rocky had plumped for English literature of all things, rather than following his elder brother Ronald into a real career in science, but what the heck?

The front door was locked when he arrived and there was a thick chain on the door, so he had to ring the bell following his father's secret code which was two bursts of two rings to let the occupants know that it was family at the door.

Mum answered the door, a wide beam of joy crossing her face as she saw who it was through the decorative lace curtains. Recognizing the ring, Dad was up out of his chair in the living room and hovering in the background to catch a glimpse.

“Hello,” his mother smiled. “This is a nice surprise. Look who it is, George.”

“Another nice dress,” he remarked. “You're becoming rather adept at the craft.”

He gave her a sloppy kiss on the cheek and followed her down the passageway to give his old dad a hug. He was only a little man, but he had an iron grip from years of manual graft.

“Lovely to see you, son,” his father greeted him. “I had a feeling you might be over to see us. Did you get the letter I forwarded?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Your mum's already made the bed in your old room, just in case. It should be nice and aired by now.”

“Thanks. I'll just take my things upstairs, then I'll be back down.”

“Right you are.” His father licked his lips, dropping a hint to Mum that he was about ready for another cuppa.

“Could you go a cup of char?” his mother asked him. “Or would you prefer coffee?”

“An instant coffee would go down a treat, thanks, Mum. Back in a minute.”

“Take your time. No rush, son. I'll just put the kettle on. And we've got some Eccles cakes ...?”

“Sounds good, thanks.”

Rocky grabbed his haversack and loped up the stairs. They'd finally ditched the threadbare carpet and had a new one put in, and with a decent underlay by the feel of it. He was further surprised when he went into his room because the old floral, nicotine-stained wallpaper that he'd once strewn with heavy metal posters had vanished, to be replaced by a delicately painted woodchip wallpaper which, to be honest, was a vast improvement. And so, too, was the continental quilt which had by now replaced the tickly old woollen, post-war army surplus blankets.

“Wow! You've made a good job of decorating the bedroom,” he enthused when he emerged into the living room.

“Glad you like it,” his father nodded. “Of course, it was more than ready for redecoration.”

“By the way, what was the name of that girl you brought round a few years back? Dorothy?”

Rocky shook his head.

“Long skirt and knee-length boots. Cheesecloth blouse. Jet black hair.”

“No dear, you mean Donna,” his wife corrected, but he didn't hear her.

“Good Lord, Donna ...”

“Donna? Yes, that's it. Sweet thing and bright as a button. Rather well-to-do by the sound of her. Whatever happened to her? Did you have a falling out? She'd have made someone a damn good wife, you know.”

“Alas, her dear mother took one look at Harry, Ray and me and told us to hop it. She sent a rather snotty letter telling us to stay away from her daughter, or else ...”

“Oh, that's a shame. I didn't know that. You didn't say anything.”

“Sorry, Dad. I wasn't the most communicative of people. I was gutted at the time.”

“I bet you were, son.”

“Anyway, what about her?”

“Well, strangely enough, only last week your mum and I were in town. We were just coming out of Woolworth's and who should we bump into but Dorothy.”

“Donna,” Mum corrected him.

“Sorry, Donna. We didn't recognize her at first. She seemed to have aged, you see.”

“She looked rather the worse for wear,” Mum added. “Like she'd fallen on hard times.”

“Oh, dear,” Rocky echoed, his heart lurching. “I'll have to ask Harry if he knows what's become of Donna when I meet up with him tonight.”

“Yes, you do that, son. And give Harry our best wishes, too.”

“Will do.”

“You'll have some dinner before you go? We saw some lovely salmon steaks when we popped down the fishmongers. And we've got some nice Jersey new potatoes ...”

“Sounds great, yes thanks. I won't be going out until about eight o'clock or so.”

His father ushered him out into the hallway and proudly pointed to a shelf he'd put up. “You can phone him from here, if you like.”

“Good grief, you've got a phone. I thought you said you'd never have one of those newfangled gizmos. Too expensive, you said.” His parents were still in the psychological grip of post-war “mend and make do.”

“Had it put in a couple of weeks ago. I meant to let you have the number, but forgot when I sent you the letter. I'm thrilled to bits with it. It would be a Godsend if we were ever ill and couldn't get out of the house.” His father looked around furtively and lowered his voice. “Of course, your mother hasn't got used to it yet, bless her, as she's not very technically minded. She can answer it, but dialling out is still a problem for her. Tends to get all flustered, you see.”

His parents had always been somewhat behind the times. It wasn't until 1963 or 1964 that they'd even had a television in the house. Not having sufficient money to buy one, and also not quite sure how they'd get on with the contraption, they took one on weekly rental from a local store. Rocky could remember how “out of it” he'd felt at the time. His school chums were always talking about their favourite programmes and he hadn't a clue what they were on about. In those days, at least the town could still support three cinemas, and he often went to the Saturday morning matinees and of course there'd been the wireless, so he was able to keep abreast with some current events.

Looking back still further, he could remember the period after the war when food was still scarce and largely rationed. His diet had been so poor that they used to give him vitamins each day and he had to keep going up to the local hospital for sun lamp treatment, because he developed boils on his skin. Eee bah gum, life were reet 'ard in them days, he smiled to himself. You young'uns don't know you're born.

Rocky fished in his pocket for his well-chewed biro and dog-eared notepad and they exchanged numbers, then he hunted through the phone book for Harry's, while he remembered. It looked like Ray's parents were ex-directory, unless they'd moved out of the area. He also made a note of Donna's parents' number, just on the off chance.

“Feel free to use the phone any time you like,” his father offered, going back into the living room to catch the big horse race of the day on the goggle box. He liked his weekly flutter on the gee-gees.

“Thanks a lot. I'll just phone Harry, if that's okay.”

Fortunately Harry was still in Wycliffe-on-Sea, having gone into work at an electrical store after completing his “A” Levels. He came rushing downstairs when his mum told him who was on the phone and they eagerly set up a meeting for 8:15 at the Red Lion, a quiet pub just round the corner from Harry's place.

On the spur of the moment and trembling with trepidation, Rocky dialled Donna's parents. There was no answer and he was on the point of replacing the receiver when a lady's voice came on the phone: “Hello? The Fooquay residence. Who's calling?” Judging by the affected tones, that had to be Mrs. Fouqet, Donna's mother.

“Hello, Mrs. Fouquette.”

“Fooquay.”

“Mrs Fouquet. It's Richard Rhodes, I'm an old friend of your daughter. May I speak to Donna, please?”

“I'm sorry Mr. Rhodes, but Donna doesn't live here any more, but thank you for calling.” She seemed on the point of hanging up.

“Hang on! Before you go: do you have a forwarding address, please?”

“I'm sorry, no.”

“It's very important.”

“Mr. Rhodes, neither I nor her father have seen Donna in the last two years and we have absolutely no idea of her whereabouts. I'm sorry, I can't help you. Good day to you.”

And with that, the phone call was abruptly terminated.

~~~O~~~

“Hey hey! How the devil are you, sir?” Harry playfully greeted him as he walked up to the table in the Red Lion. Rocky liked the traditional pubs with low-level lighting and couldn't abide brightly lit barns. “Long time, no see. What can I get you?”

“The round's on me, Harry.”

“No, I insist, What's your poison?”

Rocky shook his head, realizing that there was no point in arguing with the lad. “Thanks, I'll have a pint of lager.”

“I thought you were a beer man?”

“I discovered a while back that beer gets me too frisky and gives me a hangover, Harry.”

“Right you are.” Then to the gorgeous lass behind the bar: “Two pints of lager, please. And a couple of packets of nuts.”

“Here to see your folks?” Harry asked as he returned to the table.

“And catch up with you.”

“So, how's college?”

“Pretty good, thanks, although we're reading Shakespeare's Richard III at the moment. I much prefer more modern works.”

“I heard you made a dog's ear of your exams,” came a voice to his left, catching him by surprise. “You know, you're really going to have to knuckle down, Rocky.”

Ouch! That hurt, but he let it pass. “Ray! Good to see you.”

Then: “Yes, I failed abysmally. But I think it did me a favour, otherwise I'd be on some poxy science course at university by now.”

“That's a rationalization,” Ray informed him.

Ray was in his leathers still, having come into town on his motorbike, and they were as much an anti-fashion statement as utilitarian. Harry and Rocky had been hippie-freaks through, whilst Ray had been more of a yippie biker, a yippie being a revolutionary hippie into the likes of Che Guevara, Mao Zedong and Baader-Meinhof. It turned out later that the government had been extremely worried about folk like Ray – and unions and socialists in general, fearing popular civil uprisings. The security services had a great many such sympathizers under surveillance, compiling thick dossiers on both them and their known associates – yes, on people like Rocky. Indeed, the army had also drawn up contingency plans whereby they would seize control of key installations and impose martial law in an emergency, amply confirming that saying about justified paranoia.

“Where did you spring from?” asked Harry.

“I've been through in the lounge waiting like a silly sausage,” Ray explained, sipping his drink. “It was only by chance that I popped my head round the door of the public bar and happened to see you.”

“What we could do with are phones we can carry around with us, like on Star Trek,” Harry piped up, rather prophetically.

“Now there's an idea,” Ray agreed. “And I'm sure we'll have them before the century's out.”

“Speaking of phones, I called Donna's parents today,” he told them.

“How is she? I haven't seen her since that day when her mother told us to sling our hooks,” said Harry.

“You'd hardly recognize her now,” Ray informed them. “I saw her in town a while back, but apparently she's now down in London.”

“Really?”

“And when I say 'down', I mean down with a capital D.”

“How come?”

“Well, from what Rachel told me she began hanging out with Fred and Mark and their group.”

“The smoothies.”

“Exactly,” Ray nodded. Donna's mother didn't mind her hanging out with them as they're always so well dressed. Talk about judging a book by its cover.

“But ...?”

“But Donna started smoking H on a weekend.”

“Shit.”

“... and according to her best mate Rachel, she started mainlining. You know, injecting the stuff.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Fuck, indeed. Before she knew it she was hooked. To make matters worse, once she was hooked, her dealer abruptly stopped all the little freebies and she ended up with one mother of an expensive habit. And, alas, from there it was only a matter of time before she had to start stealing to finance her habit. Her boyfriend, Dodger, had been beating her up on a pretty regular basis, so she decided to skip town and head for London while she still could.”

“That's bad,” Harry sighed.

“There but for the grace of God go I ...” Rocky added.

“Amen to that, bro'.”

At which point, Harry abruptly changed the subject and the conversation turned to Ray's recent engagement – his first marriage unfortunately and perhaps inevitably having hit the rocks – and his forthcoming marriage to a girl he'd met working in a local café. Harry was to be the best man, though a date had yet to be arranged. Congratulations and another round of beers were both welcome and in order.

9. Leave it with me

Rocky's latest order of books from Shah's publisher Octagon Press arrived early that morning. The package was too deep and wouldn't fit through the old-fashioned letter box, so the postman rang the bell and got him out of bed.

He opened one of the books, Documents on Contemporary Dervish Communities, and flicked through the stapled pages. Three chapters in particular caught his eye: Abshar Monastery, which was supposedly a secret dervish community hidden behind a waterfall high in the Hindu Kush in Afghanistan, home of the Sarmouni, which was Persian for bees. He'd come across other references to the sarmouni or sarmoung in books by and about the mystic Georges Ivanovich Gurdjieff. Another chapter was actually devoted to the Sarmoun brotherhood whose motto was “Work produces a sweet essence.” It said that they collect a subtle substance, baraka, which might be likened to honey and preserve it, dispensing it in times of need.

But what really caught his eye and immediately made him think of Donna's plight, was a chapter entitled “Study of Specialised Techniques in Central Asia,” which described a Sufi clinic where they used psychotherapeutic and hypnotherapeutic means to cure all manner of ailments, including cases that had not responded to conventional Western treatments.

As he read the article, he felt the hairs on his arms and his scalp stand on end in one of those infrequent, rapturous moments. Rushing across the room, he crawled under his desk to plug in his IBM-PC, fired it up, inserted a floppy disk and typed away at the DOS command prompt to load the word processor. It was a letter to the author of the chapter, Ja'far Hallaji, c/o the publisher in London, outlining Donna's plight and begging for any assistance the author or his associates could provide. He made a point of including the last known address in London that Donna's friend Rachel had passed onto him via Harry.

As he put his whole heart into the contents of the letter, Rocky knew – he just knew – that this was the right thing to do. What made it all the more apropos was the possibility that the heroin to which Donna had become addicted might well have come from Shah's beloved Afghanistan.

~~~O~~~

Rocky's elder brother Ronald came through to see his parents the next weekend, bringing with him his new wife, Leslie, and sporting a rather distinguished looking growth above his top lip. The two of them had been shacked up together since University, but had only recently decided to tie the knot.

Much of the Friday evening was taken up talking about their work and their plans and generally getting to know Leslie better. Right from the start, judging by the twinkle in his mother and father's eye, you could tell that they were quite taken by Leslie and had given her their official seal of approval, even though she was a little more outspoken than most women that Dad had encountered. As for Rocky, he really had little news to tell them and to offer in return, and he mostly just sat there and listened as their epic sagas unfolded.

The next day, shortly after Rocky emerged from the bathroom and went downstairs, Ronald and Leslie returned from a brisk walk along the foreshore and a brief shopping expedition. They'd brought his parents a good-sized dressed crab with them as a present and also really kindly brought Rocky back a pair of black corduroy trousers and a faintly-striped shirt that must have cost them a small fortune. It was a lovely thought, even if it was designed to smarten him up, and he went upstairs to try on his new clothes.

“Oh, that's much better,” his father enthused as he went back downstairs for the obligatory fashion parade. “Don't you think so, Mary?”

“Do you like them?” his brother asked. “They really suit you.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “And thanks very much.”

“You're welcome,” Ronald smiled. Then he clapped his hands together. “Right then, how do you folks fancy a ride out in the car?”

“That sounds fine by me,” his father nodded cheerfully. “That all right with you, Mary?”

“You've no plans have you, Richard? You're welcome to come along, too. We'll have a ride out in the country and have some lunch in a pub. Sound good?”

“Thanks,” he nodded.

“Just give us a minute upstairs, would you?” his father requested. “Lady Mary can powder her nose while I take my daily constitutional.” This was perhaps a polite, euphemistic way of saying that he hadn't as yet been for a shit that day.

“OK, there's no rush, we'll be waiting in the car,” replied Ronald, as if that in itself wouldn't cause his folk to panic.

Ronald and Leslie sat in the front whilst he sat crammed between his mother and father in the back and when his mother had finished struggling with her seat belt, they were on their way.

“All right in the back, you three?” Ronald asked, peering at them through the rear view mirror.

“I'm all right, Ronald,” nodded his mother. “What about you, George?”

“Oh, I'm fine. What about Richard, though?”

“You got enough leg room, Richard?” Ronald asked and he pulled his seat forward a notch. “That better?”

“Yes thanks,” Rocky nodded. To be honest, it wasn't the leg room: it was the width of his parents' backsides that was the more pressing issue. And there was also the small matter of his mother's body odour, but it seemed that Ronald was already on the case and had wound his window down some way.

“Not too draughty in the back for you, is it?”

“Just a little,” his mother replied. “I get a bad head if I sit in a draught for too long.”

So Ronald wound the window up some way and had Leslie wind open hers a little.

Thankfully, that was the end of all the tedious fussing about that so often consumed the first few minutes of their family outings, mused Rocky.

An hour or so later, after a whistle-stop tour of the neighbouring hills and valleys, Ronald pulled the car off the road by the Golden Goose and parked round the back in the pub car park. Rocky had already begun to stiffen up and it was quite a relief to be moving about again. And again, after a bit of fussing around, Ronald managed to get everyone out of the car, inside the pub and settled at a table whilst he did the honours and bought a round of drinks. The Golden Goose was a charming olde-worlde country pub with whitewashed walls, black oak beams, polished horse brasses and other nicknacks and it suited them all to a tee.

Leslie had seen Mum hobbling a little, having seized up herself, and with consideration, she suggested that Mum take her seat on the way back, as it would be more comfortable for her.

“Oh, don't worry about me,” his mother replied. “I'll survive.”

“It's not a matter of soldiering on and surviving, Mum,” Ronald told her: “It's a matter of being comfortable and enjoying yourself.”

They were just finishing off their bar lunch and Ronald was back at the bar getting a second round in for him and Rocky, the others having politely declined a top up. Rocky had gone off down the corridor looking for the gents and had inadvertently entered the Ladies before realizing his mistake. Anyway, he was just coming out of the loo and was looking around for the bar when a guy passed him on the corridor.

“Lost your way?” the man enquired as he turned off toward the gents.

Usually such subtle communications would pass Rocky by before their deeper meaning dawned on him, but not this time: he was right on the ball that day. “Yes, actually, I have,” he told the man as he headed back into the bar.

It had been Shah who'd alerted Rocky to what he'd termed “parallel conversations”. Apparently, there'd been a meeting and two guys took to the stage and started to converse about anything and everything that popped into their heads. Afterwards, the members of the audience were asked about their experiences of this experiment and they found that strangely enough, each one of them had found a different personal meaning to the conversations behind or beyond the surface meaning.

Rocky had come across this before, but he hadn't had a tag to pin on it. For example, someone had been talking about their weekend and had said something about there being no point in mending fences whilst the wind was up and about deciding to spend their time tidying up the attic, and there had seemed to be a deeper psychological element to that surface conversation. Rocky found this happening more and more. Sometimes he'd catch the drift immediately, but other times it would only be a short while or some time afterwards that he'd realize what had been said.

And he'd also noticed how many people would use stock phrases, proverbs and clichés when they were talking. They could carry out all manner of conversations using these prefabricated building blocks:

“And what do you think?”

“Well there's nowt the likes of us can do about it.”

“Leave that to the Powers That Be, that's what our Nobby says.”

“Aye, ours not to reason why.”

“Personally, I blame the parents.”

“They haven't got the sense they were born with.”

“I mean, what a carry on. And a man of his age.”

“And as for Robin. Well, there's nowt as queer as folk.”

“Dirty goings on, Nora.”

“He didn't, did he? Well, I never did. The cheek of it.”

“And after all we've done for them.”

“Scandalous, if you ask me.”

“It shouldn't be allowed.”

“What they need is a right good thrashing. Bring back the birch.”

“Birch? National Service more like.”

“There should be a law against that sort of hanky-panky.”

“I mean, whatever next?”

“I don't know what the world's coming to, Gertie, I really don't.”

“I tell you, I was absolutely mortified.”

“Saints preserve us.”

“Thank the Good Lord we'll be dead and buried before things get much worse, that's all I can say.”

“Aye, and God help them as follows on ...”

~~~O~~~

Some twelve weeks later, by which time Rocky had again conceded that there would be no reply, he received a small slip in the post from the Octagon Press bearing the preprinted words: “With compliments.” Beneath that was an unsigned handwritten note which read simply “Thank you, I understand.”

In itself, the statement “I understand” would have meant little and indicated a mere brush off, but somewhere in one of Shah's books Rocky had read that a question might be answered simply “I understand” while, though it wasn't spelt out, the matter was actually looked into. The answer might then appear in an apparently unrelated or unexpected manner. Another way of saying “Leave it with me,” perhaps?

The Sufis couldn't always act on the spot, sometimes they had to await the right circumstances and sometimes it took time to actually engineer those circumstances. And apart from anything, they might have to mark time for years until a would-be student had reached a level from which he might begin to learn. Time spent carrying out preliminary “learning how to learn”, as they called it.

Dear God, he hoped and prayed that this is what the note really meant. Maybe it was just his wishful thinking?

10. Artistic impression

Rocky popped back to his old home town, Wycliffe-on-Sea, in late April. Typical for the seaside resort, it rained most of the day, but thankfully the dark, despondent clouds cleared away and the weather faired up in the late afternoon.

Harry had told him excitedly that his new band were playing support to Dr. Strangelove at the Kabin Klub that Friday night and the old crew were having a reunion to mark the event. This was an opportunity too good to miss. Maybe a chance for another much-earned smoke? It had been a while since he'd last been squiffy.

The band would be coming on at ten o'clock for a half hour set, with the main act playing at eleven and then again at one. Harry and Co. had to set up their gear and carry out a sound check through Dr. Strangelove's mixer and PA system in the early evening, so Rocky plucked up the courage to go up town on his own to grab a drink and see if any friends were around.

The tiny bars in the Wayfarer were packed to the gunnels and he couldn't see anyone he knew there, other than a bunch of bikers in the back room. Anyhow, he grabbed a swift half of lager and a vodka and coke chaser and took them outside to sit at one of the trestle tables on the patio and have a quiet smoke. It wasn't that he was unsociable, but he always felt a bit self-conscious and nervous amongst crowds of strangers. Still, a couple of pints down him and he'd have enough Dutch courage to see him through.

As he left the bar, a stranger entered and for a brief moment, their eyes met as they squeezed past one-another. Grey, pinprick eyes always did make him queasy for some unknown reason. Maybe because they lacked warmth? Lacked humanity?

Once inside, the man looked around, located the phone by the bar and dialled a number to leave a brief, clipped message for an associate. They'd page Hamilton and no doubt the man would be joining him soon.

Rocky wasn't privy to this of course, but in his gut he knew that he'd been rumbled, and that he'd best move on.

It was still only 7.45 and the club wouldn't be open for another hour and a quarter, so he decided he might as well take a swift walk further up town to Blakey's. Spit and sawdust it might be, but they served damn good beer. None of his friends were there, but he did bump into his old chemistry tutor and his mate from biology who were out on the pull and they spent a good half hour catching up on news.

Every now and again Rocky would have a furtive look round for the grey-eyed stranger, but thankfully there were no signs of him.

It seemed the school had just taken on a new headmaster and he was making their working lives a misery, as the teachers went on to explain at great length. At this point, a couple of girls who turned out to be sixth form pupils made a beeline for the table to chat up the guys, which was more than a little risqué, sailing very close to the wind, indeed, so Rocky took his cue and left them to it.

Well, that was a pint and a half and a vodka under his belt and by now Rocky was beginning to loosen up. It was nearly 9.00 and it would take him maybe ten to fifteen minutes to reach the club, so he set off back down town at a good pace. The club could be pretty packed that night, so it was better to beat the crowds to the bar and get a decent table from which they could see the bands.

“Hello there,” the lady greeted him at the ticket office as he finally made the head of the queue, which by now slinked its way half way down the street outside. “Long time no see.”

“Hi Jo,” he returned. “Yes, I'm away at college now.”

“Oh, I am pleased. Good for you, love. Enjoy your evening.”

“Thanks, Jo.”

The staff remembered him from his glass collecting days, of course, but gone were the days when he could get in to see bands for free. Unless his friend Bryan was on the desk at the door, that was. He was nearly always good for a freebie if you were on your own. Letting in a whole herd of the Kabin Krew at the same time would have caused a stir, though.

When he got to the bar, Harry was just coming away. “Hi, Rocky. We're through in the rehearsal room by the side of the stage. See you in there in a minute?”

“Better make it five,” he advised, judging by the crowd milling around the bar.

Grabbing his lager at long last, he headed off to join the band. As he'd been half-expecting, they were having a quiet smoke before their set, and he took a couple of deep drags when the spliff passed his way. “Cheers, mate.”

The band were a little preoccupied with the technicalities of their set, so once the initial rush of the dope had worn off, Rocky made his excuses and went back into the club. He felt a little floaty still – maybe the stuff was laced? – and decided he'd better ease off on the alcohol and wash it down with a coke instead, then find himself a seat and chill out. Gone were his binge drinking days. He always found the smoke better for being sober, but he did find it difficult to keep off the juice.

As he crossed the empty dance floor in front of the enormous bass cabs of the PA, he caught sight of a girl with long wavy blond hair frantically waving at him from a table by the side of the bar. It was Rachel, Donna's best friend.

He waved back and went over to join her. “Well, hi there,” he chirped, going to sit beside her. “How's things?”

“Pretty good, thanks Rocky. I hear you're at college now. What are you studying?”

“English lit. And you?”

“Oh, I went to work for my pa when I left school and I'm still there. In a fish restaurant. I tell you, I've seen so many plates of fish and chips that the sight of them makes me want to throw up.”

“That I can imagine.”

“Did you get Donna's address? I passed it on to Harry to give to you.”

“Yes, thanks. I wrote to her, but I didn't get a reply.”

“I'm not surprised. I was her best friend and she hardly ever writes back to me. To be honest, Rocky, I think she's too far gone already. She can't see further than her next fix. What a horrible mess and an utter waste. Donna was such a bright girl, with everything going for her.”

“Yes, it's a helluva waste. She was one smart cookie,” he nodded.

“Not smart enough to stay off H ...”

“True, Rachel, but who are we to say? Actually I was thinking of going down to see her.”

“I wouldn't advise it. Well, it's your call, of course, but you might get a shock.”

“I'd like to help her.”

“You're still hung-up on her, aren't you?”

He didn't have to say anything: it was written all over him.

“Take my advice, Rocky,” she smiled, running her hand over his knee. “Maybe it's time to move on? She'd drag you down with her, you know. Believe me. She would. Remember Gollum in Lord of the Rings? Well, H is her precious. Just trust me, all right? You're better off steering well clear of Donna.”

“I know, but I feel I should at least see her. Is there something that you know and you're not telling me, Rachel?”

“Okay, I'll level with you,” she replied at length. “I promised Donna that I wouldn't say, but maybe you need to know? It gets worse, believe me. The good news is, the thieving's stopped.”

“And the bad?”

“She's resorted to selling her body to all manner of pond life on the streets to bring in some bread.”

Rocky was stunned.

“Still want to see her? I thought not. But at least she now has a roof over her head,” she added.

“That's cold comfort.”

Rachel nodded and abruptly changed the subject.

“Can I get you a drink?” she asked, polishing off her short.

“No, allow me,” he said getting to his feet. “What's your poison?”

“Better make it half a bitter,” she told him. “I must have drunk half a bottle of rum and black by now.”

“Okay, be right back.”

By the time he returned to the table, Rocky found his seat occupied by another fat butt, deep in conversation with Rachel, noting his own negative response to this intrusion. He passed Rachel's drink across the table and drew up another chair.

“Thanks, Rocky,” she smiled.

The Hulk appeared oblivious to his presence, or if he did notice then he chose to ignore him and continued to go on and on about the wrongs of the world and his wife in a long, dull, boring monologue. Well, at least that's the way it seemed to him, even allowing for a degree of prejudice, Rocky chortled to himself. Ah, what the hell: less talk, more smoking and drinking time.

At length, the Hulk downed the cloudy remnants of his snakebite, staggered to his feet and headed off. He was about to push his way through the crowd at the bar when a familiar figure diverted him and drew him away into a corner of the room. It was the guy with the spooky grey eyes.

Well, there was nothing that Rocky could do about it. Best not let this spoil the evening.

“Thank Christ for that,” Rachel sighed, sinking back into her chair and patting the seat beside her. “You can come back now. I'm really sorry about that. I thought he was here for the bloody duration. What a creep.”

Give Rachel her due, Rocky reflected: whilst the guy had her attention, she hadn't allowed her disliking to show. He'd actually thought she liked the guy, which he found a little perturbing. Which meant in turn, reading between the lines, that he might actually quite fancy Rachel ...

Rocky took her lead and went to sit beside her then noticed that her drink was due for a top up. “Same again?”

It reminded him of the Sufi story of the guy who ordered a curry. The preparation was taking some time, and he was impatient, so he called the waiter over and the waiter told him that the curry wasn't quite cooked, so he asked to be given the rice. By the time he'd eaten most of that the curry arrived, which left too much curry, so he ordered more rice. And by the time the rice arrived, he'd almost finished the curry. Things were hopelessly out of sync. All he ended up with, eating the curry and the rice sequentially, was indigestion.

“Hello, Rocky? Is there anybody in there?”

“Oh, sorry! I was miles away.”

Rachel got to her feet. “My turn, Rocky. And please keep my seat for me. I promise I'll be back after I've powdered my face and been to the bar. So don't you dare go away.”

Not long after, as Rachel came hurrying back, the lights over the stage dimmed and the members of Harry's band filtered out of the rehearsal room and onto the stage, taking up their allotted stations as the DJ psyched the crowd up ready for the set.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome warmly, live on stage, Wycliffe-on-Sea's very own rock legends-in-the-making, the one and only Harry Davies and his new band the Flowerpot Men ... Yeeeeah!”

In the blink of an eye, the stage lighting kicked in and the band hit the first chord of their opening number: a slick cover of Steppenwolf's Born to be Wild.

“Jeez, that guitar solo's hot,” Rocky bellowed in Rachel's ear. Harry could sometimes out-Jimi Hendrix himself on his Fender Stratocaster.

Rachel looked at him and shrugged. The music, which would still be ringing in his ears on the way home, was just too loud for conversation.

The crowd had started out sitting down obediently in rows on the dance floor in front of the stage, but half way into the thirty minute set, more and more of them were on their feet dancing and wildly applauding their local group.

“Come on,” called Rachel, grabbing him by the arm and dragging him non-too-reluctantly into their midst. At which point, Ray appeared on the scene. They couldn't hear a word that he was saying but judging by the mime, his bike had broken down and he'd had to wheel it back home, which had set him back over an hour.

Just before building up to their finale the band slowed the beat and played a ballad by Janis Joplin, bringing Claire onto the stage. She'd fronted a couple of folk groups in Wycliffe and York. A superb bluesy singer, she already commanded a large and loyal following and her performance went down an absolute treat.

This was where most of the guys stopped dancing and the lovers flocked toward the stage for a smooch. Ray went off to the bar, since the queues seemed to have thinned out somewhat. Rocky was also about to slink away from the bright lights of the stage, but Rachel put her arms around him and started to dance up close – and I mean close, rubbing her slender body up against his.

Holy smoke.

He knew. And she knew he knew. And he knew she knew he knew ... It reminded him of something he'd once read about watching the watcher watching the watcher.

Rocky had to pull away a little before it all got too much for him and Rachel just smiled her innocent smile.

Then, as the group skilfully bridged into a medley of high tempo numbers, the crowd went wild. He could feel the bass hitting his chest and bouncing the dance floor up and down beneath their feet.

Their set over, Harry and the group appeared and organized drinks all round, now that they could sit back and relax after their efforts. It was relatively quiet before Dr. Strangelove came on and they took the opportunity to exchange news. Ray had recently bought a book on astral projection with lots of practical exercises he'd been trying out and he was eager to pass on his experiences.

Rocky noticed that the guy with the grey eyes was not far away propping up the bar and looking straight at them. He leant over toward Ray and whispered in his ear. “Don't look now, Ray, but we're being watched. The guy with the open-necked blue shirt propping up the end of the bar.”

“DS?”

“No, I don't think so. He's not one of the local squad, anyhow.”

Ray took a casual look around. “Yes, I see him. Do you think we should move?”

“Are you still carrying any gear? Now might be an idea to dump it.”

“No, I only brought some pre-rolled joints out with me, and we've smoked them.”

“Okay, so let's just play it cool.”

It was difficult to follow all the competing conversations, though, and Rocky and Rachel wandered off to have some quiet time together. Rachel was something of a horticulturist and apparently she had a couple of marijuana plants growing near the skylight in the attic round at her flat. She'd got hold of some hemp seeds at a local fishing tackle shop, abraded the seeds with some fine sandpaper and started them off against some blotting paper in a jam jar with a bit of water in it. She reckoned they must do something to the seeds to prevent them from germinating and had found that only one in a hundred of the things would sprout.

“So what's your favourite hobby?” Rocky asked her.

“Oh, it has to be painting,” she told him. “I've tried watercolour and gouache ...”

“What's that?”

“It's opaque watercolours mixed with gum,” she explained. “I'm not to bad with that, but recently I had a go at oil painting and I much prefer the techniques. I feel I can really let myself go with oils. I'm also into scraperboard.”

“Any etchings?”

She laughed. “What, as in the old chat up line: 'You'll have to come up and see my etchings sometime'?”

“Something like that, yes,” he admitted.

“Well, you'd be very welcome, Rocky.”

It was gone 2:00 by the time they left the club. Dr. Strangelove had been very polished and their material was good, but to them, Harry and his supporting act had stolen the show that night.

Saying goodbye to Harry and Ray and arranging to meet them the next day, Rocky followed Rachel through to the cloakroom to retrieve her jacket, then he offered to walk her home.

“Town can be a bit rough in the summer,” he advised.

“Actually, I figure women are statistically less likely to be accosted than men,” she told him, which made some sense, except for those women who actually were accosted by creeps. “Are you sure?”

“Sure, if you're sure,” he nodded.

She hooked her arm under his as they headed across town.

“I'm sure, too,” she smiled. “So, tell me all about this novel you're writing. And you've got one of those new IBM-PCs? That's amazing. I'd love to see that. All I've got is a battered old manual typewriter that used to belong to my grandfather.”

“You've got to really 'thunk!' the keys,” she laughed. “Mind you, I've yet to see the day when that trusty old machine crashes.”

“DOS is pretty stable,” he told her. “It occasionally hangs if the mains electricity fluctuates and crashes if I forget to put a coin in the meter. I'm quite paranoid about losing my work, so I back it up to floppy disk every few minutes and take my floppies with me whenever I'm away from the flat. I also print the work out so that I can always type it in again, if necessary. One of the guys on the course has a machine and he keeps forgetting to take the disk out when he switches off. When that happens, the recording head drops onto his disk and scrunches it. He lost a whole lot of work the other week and he was livid.”

“I bet,” she laughed. “But you still haven't told me about your novel itself, only the technical props.”

“True enough. It's a science fantasy.”

“Why a science fantasy?”

“Well, because I can easily enough make up some likely sounding science and the fantasy element means that I don't have to keep going all the way down to the college or city library to carry out research. I guess one of these days, all our computers will be hooked up and we'll be able to dial-into some kind of library database from the comfort of our own homes,” he suggested.

“Mmm. That would make a good story.”

“Ah ... chances are some hot cookie like Heinlein or Asimov will already have thought of that.”

“And your own story?” she reminded him.

“It's called The Dream Machine,” he told her. “The world as we know it is really a dream world, controlled by a machine. It was supposed to just be a caretaker system to get us through a spell when we'd be out of contact with the Source which should really sustain us, but gremlins have got into the system and started to use it to control our minds ...”

“Mmm. Sounds good. Keep up the good work. And get it written before some other dude steals your idea.”

“Well, here we are at last,” Rachel smiled. “Fancy a cuppa? And you can come up and see my paintings if you like.”

“I could go a coffee, yes thanks. And I'd love to see your work. Lead on, fair maid, lead on.”

She smiled mischievously. “You understand this is just a fiendish plan so that I can have my wicked way with you?”

That thought had indeed occurred to him. “I would never dream of entertaining such a ridiculous notion,” he fibbed.

“Liar, liar; your pants on fire!” she scoffed.

Whilst Rachel went to the breakfast bar to fix a coffee and a tea for herself, she left Rocky to peruse her artwork at his leisure.

“Wow!” he called across the room. “I'm no art expert, but I do know a good picture when I see it.”

“You like it?”

“I'm most impressed. Especially this girl sitting in a bay window. The light, her features, the fabric of her dress. It's so realistic.”

“Thanks, yes that's my favourite, too.”

“I had no idea you were so talented.”

She dipped her head in embarrassment and went back to pour out her tea and bring the tray through to the coffee table by the settee.

“Here, sit yourself down, Rocky. There are some suggestive biscuits if the dope's given you the munchies.” She laid out a couple of coasters and passed him his coffee. “Hope you don't mind instant: I've run out of ground.”

“Instant is fine by me, thanks. As long as it's warm and wet and sweet.”

“Oh, the sugar. I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking. That's what happens when you live on your own and don't take sugar. Oh, heck, I hope I've got some.” She dashed across the room to retrieve the sugar basin and a dry spoon.

“It's okay if you're out of sugar,” he fibbed. “I really don't mind, Rachel.”

“No, here it is. Panic over.”

She had a sip of her tea and sank back on the settee beside him. “Are your ears still ringing?” she asked.

“Pardon?” he asked, playfully cupping his hand to his ear, then he nodded.

Rachel pulled herself up and tucked her legs beneath her and reached forward to have another sip of her tea. She was wearing a pretty short skirt and as it rode up, it didn't leave an awful lot to the imagination.

“You know, I've had a lovely evening,” she told him, patting her hand on his knee.

Oops, was that a cue that he'd outstayed his welcome? “Oh, I'm sorry, it's late and I'm keeping you up ...” he apologized.

“Heck no,” she laughed. “Oh, I am sorry. I didn't mean it was time for you to go.”

Rachel clasped his hand in hers and looked into his eyes. “In fact, if the truth be told, and if you'd like to, I was hoping that you'd stay the night, Rocky.”

She grimaced. “Or am I making another fool of myself?”

Rocky carefully put his mug of coffee down as a wave of excitement coursed through his system. He turned to Rachel and stroked her long blond hair, toying with the curls and ringlets and ran his fingers gently over the side of her face. “No, you're not a fool, Rachel. And, yes, I'd love to stay. Thank you, sweet.”

Rachel cupped Rocky's head in her hands and gave him a long, lingering kiss as his hand almost absent-mindedly wandered around her back, tentatively checking for a bra strap. There was none.

She pulled away.

“Sorry,” he gulped.

“No problem,” she smiled, kissing her finger tips and pressing them to his lips. “I just need to sort myself out. I'll be back in a minute.”

When she returned, Rachel had changed out of her smoky club gear and into a short, blue, silky baby doll nightdress. Her legs seemed to go on forever and her long, shiny blond hair cascaded down over her shoulders.

She took Rocky by the hand and he got to his feet and followed her through the flat and into her very feminine boudoir.

“Mmm, I like it,” he said in appreciation. The room was very tastefully decorated, as if it had come straight out of a fancy catalogue.

Rachel pulled back the quilt, shuffled into bed and gently tugged Rocky after her.

Things were just getting interesting when Rocky became aware that he wouldn't be able to perform that night.

“I seem to have lost my magic touch,” she smiled.

“Oh, I am so sorry, Rachel. I just can't ... um ... I believe it's known in the trade as Brewer's Droop.”

She laughed. “It's not a problem, Rocky, sweetie. Really it isn't. We've both had a little too much to drink, I think. You'll be as right as rain tomorrow, so don't fret, my love.”

“Thank you for being so understanding,” he said kissing her affectionately on the cheek.

“My pleasure. Now come here and give me a nice warm cuddle.”

Six hours later, Rocky was slowly roused from his slumber. It took him some time to work out what was going on, as the reality got mixed up with a dream he was having. However, he eventually came around to find Rachel gently rubbing her hand over his groin.

“Mmm,” she smiled. “Now that's what I call a morn' horn. First things first, though. There's a coffee for you on the bedside cabinet.”

“Thank you, you're a treasure,” he smiled, pulling himself up in bed and reaching for the drink.

“Are you still hungover?” she asked.

“No, actually, I feel quite good. I was fairly restrained last night.”

“Good.”

Rachel popped back in bed and finished off her own drink before turning her attention back to Rocky, teasing him by slowly running her hand up the inside of his thighs and over his hips and stomach. Anywhere and everywhere other than his groin, until finally he put down his mug, shuffled down in bed and turned back to her. By now the adrenalin had begun to kick in and flushed away all trace of sleep.

For a while they just hugged one-another and kissed and he slowly began to explore her body, letting one of the straps of her nightdress slip off her shoulder and running his fingers over her ample bosom. Then he slid down under the covers and licked his tongue up her inner thighs until he could feel her begin to squirm. He gently pushed her thong aside and licked his tongue around her lips and fleetingly over her clitoris and when she wrapped her legs around his head, he lapped her up.

“For goodness' sake, don't cross your legs,” he mumbled, but his voice was somewhat muffled.

“What did you say?” Rachel asked, playfully squeezing her thighs together. “Oh, sorry.”

He pulled his head free, tugged her thong off over her feet and tossed it across the room. She pushed him off her and turned around on her hands and knees to face away from him and he mounted her from behind, thrusting deep inside her and rubbing her clitoris until they both climaxed and almost immediately collapsed in an excited panting heap on the bed, still entwined.

“Come here and give me a kiss, you lovely man,” Rachel grinned at length, shuffling round to face him.

“Thank you, sweet. I really enjoyed that.”

An hour later and Rocky was on his way home to his parents, hoping that his father wouldn't go ballistic – after all, he was by now a grown man, not a kid any more – and Rachel was off to work waiting on tables in her father's fish restaurant. Truth be told, her art was more than good enough to hang in a London gallery and she should have been at home doing what she did best: painting. Not scraping up other people's leftovers.

It was teeming down with rain again and by the time he turned into Ashville avenue, Rocky was soaked to the skin. He fished in his pocket for a quick fag before he arrived at his parents' door, but all he brought out was a soggy mass. Thank heavens he had an emergency supply in his haversack. Still, at least the weather had stayed warm, great shafts of light occasionally breaking through the thick cloud cover, which took the edge off his discomfort.

11. While you were away

Rocky saw Rachel two or three times again before the Summer, but he had a lot of work on at college, so he hadn't been able to see her more frequently, much as he would have liked to. Who knows, though, if they continued to get on well together, perhaps he could hunt around the city for a flat, leave the digs and maybe even ask Rachel if she'd like to move in with him? It was quite a cosmopolitan and cultured city and she could maybe get her artwork on display in the local public gallery or in a commercial art gallery? A budding writer and an accomplished artist ought to make a pretty cool combination. Of course they'd have to have money coming in whilst they became established, but no doubt he could find work. Maybe working behind a bar? Heck, he'd sweep the streets or muck out public lavatories in his spare time, if needs be. Anything to help them get by.

He'd intended to go straight round to Rachel's as soon as he'd unpacked, and possibly take her out for a meal at the Indian restaurant near her flat, but the plan changed.

“Harry phoned a short while ago,” his mother told him almost before he'd set foot in the door.

“Whoa Neddy! Hold your horses, Mary,” chided father, poking his head around the living room door. “Give the poor lad a chance to get inside first.”

“Fancy a cuppa?”

Rocky saw a hastily scribbled note by the phone in the hallway as he slung off his haversack. “Harry needs see Rocky urgent soon as gets in.”

For a moment he wasn't sure whether to have cuppa first or go round to see Harry straight away.

“Sorry, mum,” he apologized. “This looks urgent. If it's all right with you I'll see you later. The arrangement about dinner still stands, though. I'll eat out. That's not putting you out, is it? If it, just say so and I can adjust my plans.”

“Not at all. We were only going to have some beans on toast, anyway: we had dinner at lunchtime. And I'm sure you want to spend some time with Rachel, not your old mum and dad,” Dad smiled. “You're only young once, so make the most of it, son.”

He gave his old man a hug, pecked Mum on the cheek and dashed up the road toward Harry's. Best not waste too much time there, or he'd miss Rachel's shift change.

When he got to the house, Harry was waiting for him and he asked Rocky to make himself comfortable in the front lounge whilst he made a brew, apologizing for the lack of ashtrays. Apparently Harry's dad's asthma was getting worse and they'd decided it would be best if they didn't smoke in the house. No problem.

“Well ...” his friend began when they were finally settled.

Rocky instinctively knew from the slight hesitation in Harry's voice that something was amiss.

“I've got some bad news for you, old chum.”

“Ah.”

“I don't know quite how to say this, but Rachel's been seeing another bloke behind your back.”

“Oh, no ...” The world nearly fell out of Rocky's bottom at that moment, as a sudden wave of adrenaline surged through his body. “No, no, no.”

“Oh yes, I'm afraid to say.

“Who is he, this new bloke?” he asked. Surely it couldn't be The Hulk who'd given her an ear-bashing that night in the club?

“No one we know. Rachel left town a couple of days ago to shack up with him in York.”

“Jeez, that's a bit sudden ...”

“They've been seeing each other for a while now, on a professional basis: he runs an art gallery in York and he showed a great deal of interest in exhibiting her work.”

“Ah, it's beginning to make sense now. There are a lot of affluent American and Japanese tourists in York, eager to buy themselves a bit of culture ...”

“I'm sorry I had to tell you this, Rocky. It's a bitter pill to have to swallow.”

Tell me about it.

“No, it's probably a smart move on her part, Harry. It's no contest, really, when I come to think of it. I hope she'll be happy. If you see Rachel, tell her that from me.” Then: “Thanks, Harry. You did the right thing and saved me from making a fool of myself again, most likely.”

“Well, I guess that's what chums are for, Rocky: through thick and thin and all that.”

“Yes, friend. Thank you.”

“So, what are your plans for the weekend now?”

Rocky shrugged and had to fight back the tears.

“Have you eaten yet?”

Rocky shook his head.

“We could go to the Hole in the Wall for a drink and a burger and chips, if that's any consolation.”

Rocky sprang to his feet, putting on a brave face. “Sounds like a great idea, Harry.”

“Right then, I'll just go and get my coat ... oh, and an umbrella. Looks like rain again. Welcome to sunny Wycliffe-on-Sea, jewel of the East coast.”

~~~O~~~

“You're back early,” his father said when he answered the door. Rocky had a key, but his father always chained the door when it got dark. “I didn't expect you back until the morning.”

His old man was in his threadbare dressing gown already, having just had a bath.

“Mmm.”

“Something wrong, son? You look like a wet weekend.”

“Do I? Sorry.”

“Everything right between you and Rachel, I hope?”

“'Fraid not, Dad, we split up.”

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Your mum and I thought you were getting on so well together.”

They were probably hearing wedding bells. He shrugged. “So did I.”

“You hear that, Mary?” his father asked her as they went through to the living room. “Your son and Rachel have just split up.”

His father headed for the drinks cabinet and proceeded to pour out three extra large brandies, adding a dash of ginger ale to his own and Mum's. “Here, get this down you: it'll warm the cockles of your heart.”

It would take more than a brandy to warm him, thought Rocky, but he accepted the gift generously.

“To new beginnings and better times,” his father solemnly toasted.

“Aye: to better times.”

What was it the Sufis said? “This, too, shall pass”, meaning don't be too cock-a-hoop at transient success, nor disheartened by temporary setbacks, though at that moment in time, he wasn't sure he agreed wholeheartedly about that.

It suddenly hit Rocky what an utter shambles his life had become. Well, not become so much as been since he could first remember. He was a walking disaster area. Some people couldn't put a foot wrong and here he was with two left feet, pointing in opposite directions. One wave short of a bloody shipwreck.

“Don't be too hard on yourself,” his father advised his sagely, as if he had read Rocky's innermost thoughts and feelings. “You've come a long way in this last year or two. Hasn't he, Mum?”

“Aye, worse things happen at sea, so they say,” his mother chirped up.

Aye, so they say.

“It'll all come out in the wash,” she added.

“Anyhow,” his father prompted. “On a lighter note, how's that book of yours coming along?”

“Oh, pretty well, thanks,” he lied. The truth was, since he'd met Rachel, he'd hardly managed another ten pages. He hadn't yet managed to get beyond the stage of having to wait for inspiration to actually being able to marshal his thoughts at will like a professional writer.

“When do you expect to complete it?”

“Oh ... maybe by the end of Summer.”

“So it could be out by Christmas?”

“There's a bit more lead time than that. All the proofreading and copy editing; the typesetting, printing, binding and marketing. And, of course, that presupposes that I can find a publisher ...”

What bullshit is this? asked the voice within. For heaven's sake, climb down from your ivory tower and get real, Rocky.

“Oh, I have every confidence in you, Rocky,” his father chirped. “Once you set your mind to something you give it your all. I'm sure you won't let the family down. Think positive.”

Ooh. Rocky sucked in his breath. He felt the bite in that off-the-cuff remark.

“Everyone's rooting for you. You just need to have confidence in yourself and in your abilities, Rocky. You're a talented fellow. I tell you, I wish I'd had your chances when I was a young whipper-snapper ...”

“Youngster I mean,” he said, catching his slip of the tongue. “I tell you, I wouldn't have ended up a menial labourer, that's for certain.”

A whipper-snapper, indeed. You were right the first time, Dad.

“I mean to say, let's face facts, Rocky. Let's call a spade a spade and not mince our words: a trained monkey could do my job. Now when I was a lad ...”

It's high time you lost that attitude problem, Rocky, the voice reminded him. It does you no justice whatsoever.

Sorry. To be fair, the old man had mellowed somewhat these last few years. So had he. And, yes, clearly much more work still needed to be done.

That was an interesting turn of phrase, he pondered: “It does you no justice whatsoever.” This was the kind of thing that you'd say about a tent-like dress, for example: that it didn't do someone's natural curves justice. Perhaps that was what the muse meant: that he should be able to cast aside these negative emotions with no more ado than you might use in taking off a hat and hanging it on a peg or tossing a tissue in the waste-paper basket. Looking at it in that way, it became clear to him how he'd unnecessarily accumulated so much emotional baggage over the years, without really being aware that this had been happening.

It could equally well be said that you do not do me justice, Rocky.

How do you know these things, he asked. And who are you? In all this time, you haven't once told me.

I wasn't aware that you had asked.

Okay, may I ask now? Who are you? How do you know these things?

I am your Higher Self, Rocky. And hence it my business to know.

Holy cow. Is that right or are you merely a figment of my wayward imagination?

It might be more appropriate and informative to think of it as being the other way around. To put it crudely, my friend, from the perspective of reality, you are arse about face.

That was some revelation. How may I help?

You already are, by becoming more aware of my presence and by taking heed of my promptings. You may liken your situation to being in the elevator of a tall building. The higher you are the more you can see. A lot of the time, you seem to be stuck in the basement, friend, which is not the place to be.

Let me tell you, Rocky, if you continue in your attempts to analyze and explain higher consciousness, you will never arrive at the end of your futile journey. The important thing is, now that you know higher consciousness exists, forget trying to analyze it and simply use it. Ideally, simply let it be. And beyond “let it be”, it is. Beyond “it is”, I am.

“Fancy a goodie?” his mother asked at this point, breaking his reverie as she passed him the bowl of sweets. And for a moment, a little glint in her eye told Rocky that she, too, was aware. “What can I tempt you with?”

“Thank you,” he smiled, taking a sweet and popping it in his mouth.

“George Henry? Go on, be a devil.”

“Don't mind if I do,” he smiled, looking up from his crossword puzzle and licking his lips.

“Anyone go a cup of Rosy Lee?” asked Mum. That was rhyming slang for tea.

“I thought you'd never ask,” his father joked.

She was about to put her knitting down and get out of her chair.

“It's okay, Mum. You've been on your feet most of the day already. Stay where you are and I'll make it.”

As Rocky carried out that simple task, which his mother performed as if it were second nature, he was struck that all this time his parents might have been fully aware of his sloppy ways and yet chosen not to say anything. He had to make a conscious effort not to cut any corners making the tea and not to fluff the presentation, as it felt as if his every move was being scrutinized. Heaven only knows how he'd have fared had been asked to prepare a meal for them.

Fortunately, however, this exaggerated or elevated feeling of self-consciousness didn't last: it dissipated within a few minutes.

12. Southbound

It was the summer holidays and Rocky had paid his landlady a retainer to keep his room until next term, and he'd moved back to Wycliffe-on-Sea to stay at his parents'.

He was due to start work behind the bar at a pub on the sea front in a week, but he'd made his mind up that in the interim he'd take a couple of days out to travel down to London and see if he could find Donna. He'd just have to take a chance on her still being at the address that Rachel had passed onto him. And if all else failed, he'd have to ask around the other girls in that area.

Presumably she'd be working in the evenings, so his best chance of catching her would probably be in the day, and he got the first train out of Wycliffe as far as York and changed there for London Kings Cross. He was due in at around 10:30 A.M., then it would take him maybe another thirty minutes to get to her area by tube, allowing for walking time at both ends. Just in time for pub opening. Maybe he could take her out for a quiet bar snack?

He had a vague idea of what he'd find, but no idea of what to say to her when he got to her place. He mentally rehearsed a few possible scenarios, but other than that, he realized he'd have to play it pretty much by ear. Cross that bridge when he came to it, and all that jazz.

Rocky found the apartment easily enough, following the directions of a bobby pounding the local beat. It was in a beat-up old tenement block down a narrow side street. As he entered the stair well, he had to hold his breath, the stench was that bad. A pungent cocktail of festering garbage, fly-infested puke and stale urine – as bad, if not worse than he had expected.

“You looking for someone, dearie?” called a resident from a nearby window, curlers in her hair and a cigarette dangling from her painted lips.

“I'm looking for a Donna Fouquet,” he called back.

“Thirty six,” she informed him. “Third floor and round to your right.”

“Thanks.”

“Watch yourself, though. If Grainger catches you, like as not he'll give you a good kicking.”

He didn't ask who Grainger was. Maybe her pimp? Whoever, whatever, he'd mind his step. It wasn't a crime to visit an old friend, well leastways not where he came from. Maybe things worked differently in Donna's new world?

He reached number thirty six and looked around for a door bell. The paint was peeling and one of the frosted panes of glass had been put out and boarded up. There was no bell, so he rapped on the door instead.

There was no reply.

He rapped again, louder this time.

“All right, all right, I'm coming!” called a voice from the hallway.

“Yeah, who is it? What do you want? If it's the bailiffs, fuck off!”

It was unmistakably Donna, though she sounded a little slurred.

“It's me: Rocky.”

“Rocky?” There was a jangling of chains and the door opened a crack. “Rocky Rhodes?”

“The one and only.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

She yanked the door open and looked furtively around. “For God's sake, get inside before someone spots you. If Grainger sees you, you'll catch it – you and I both.”

“Who's Grainger?” he asked as she led the way down the short hallway and into a dark and gloomy bed sitting room. “Has he got some hold over you?”

“You really don't want to know, Rocky. Now what the fuck are you doing here?”

“It's good to see you, Donna. It's been a while. I'm here to see you and catch up on news, that's all.”

She gathered up a pile of dirty laundry off the settee to make room for him and stuffed it in a basket by the sink. “I'm sorry. I'm not used to callers any more. Well, friendly callers, that is. Yeah, it's good to see you, too, Rocky.”

“Sit down and I'll put the kettle on. You still on tea?”

“Yes, that would be fine, thanks.”

“I'm out of milk.”

“I'll take it black.”

“Shit! Fact is, I'm out of tea, too. It'll have to be coffee,” she said turning to him and tugging at the hem of her short denim skirt, in an attempt to better cover herself.

“No worries.”

“Two sugars?”

“Yep, if you can spare it.”

She scraped the remainder of the congealed sugar out of the bowl into the mug, topped it up with hot water, stirred it and tossed the spoon in the sink. “There you go,” she said, thrusting the mug into his hand.

“You not joining me, Donna?”

“I had one a while back.”

“Did Rachel send you?” she wanted to know.

“No, I came of my own volition. As I said, I wanted to see you again, because you're a good friend.”

“Have you seen Rachel recently?” she asked.

“Yes, I actually went out with her for a while,” he admitted.

“How's she doing?”

“As far as I know, she's doing very well. Have you seen her artwork? It's amazing.”

“So how come you're not with her now? That'd make more sense.”

“She met someone else – a guy who was taken by her work and runs an art gallery in York. Last I heard, she'd moved in with him.”

“Hah. Always seems to land on her feet, old Rachel.”

“Have you seen her lately, Donna?”

“A few months back she came down to see me. It wasn't the same though.” She cast her arms around the room. “As you can see for yourself, Rocky, I've known better times.”

“It's good to see you,” he lied. The truth was, it was not at all good to see her in this state. She seemed to have grown old and wizened and her eyes were sunken in dark ringed sockets. He was reminded of what Rachel said about Gollum and H being Donna's precious.

“You can't kid me,” she told him, looking him in the eye. “The truth is written all over your face. Go on, tell me how good I'm looking.”

He looked away, pretending to be interested in the faded, nicotine-stained décor.

“You're embarrassed.” Then: “I'm sorry, that was a mean thing for me to say, Rocky. I have my ups and downs these days. I'll level with you, everything revolves around my next next fix and that in turn revolves around my next punter.”

“No, I'm not embarrassed, Donna. I'm pained. It pains me to see you this way. In such dire straits.”

“I'd offer you something to eat, but alas the larder's bare.”

She looked as if she hadn't eaten properly in weeks. Like those old newsreel films of folk in the Nazi and Jap labour camps. “Let me take you out. Are there any decent pubs around here? It'll be my treat.”

“Well, I'm persona non grata at the Freemason's Arms down the road. If you don't mind a five minute walk, there's the Tap and Spile. They serve real ale and pub grub there and there's a lovely beer garden. You'd like it there.”

“Sounds good. Okay, let's go.”

“Give me a minute to tidy up a bit. I've just crawled out of the pit and I've still got sleep in my eyes and yesterday's makeup on.”

One minute became five and five became ten, but finally she emerged, and he had to admit that Donna looked a damn sight better than she did when he'd first walked in. She'd taken off her denims and put on a dress and made a good job of covering up the dark rings under her eyes.

The ale at the Tap and Spile was as good as Donna had said and they settled down in a cosy snug overlooking the beer garden while their snack as being prepared. “I'll bring the food to your table, when it's ready, my dears,” smiled the cheerful, pleasantly rounded landlady.

“Have you thought of giving up working on the streets, Donna?” he asked her, finally deciding to broach the subject. “I'd take you in, you know.”

She laughed and shook her head. “I have to work to get a fix,” she explained. “And you couldn't afford my habit on your grant, even if I was working in a regular job.”

“I could get a job working part time. And I have some savings ...”

“Trust me, Rocky. It might work for a while. But sooner or later, things would go wrong. Believe me, if I needed a fix, I'd rob you blind. And I can't let that happen to you, poppet.”

“Let's look at it from a different angle, then. Have you thought of kicking the habit? No habit, no need for the punters,” he suggested, lighting a cigarette. He smoked like a chimney that day. They both did.

“That sounds great in theory, Rocky. But if you were in my shoes right now, you might see things a little differently.”

“But there must be something you can do? A course of withdrawal on methadone? That's what they call the stuff, isn't it? Or a spell in rehab?”

“Rachel suggested that,” she told him, shaking her head. “I even tried it for a while. But two weeks later I was back on the needle. And Grainger gave me a pasting for not bringing home the bacon. I owe him, you see.”

And with that, she abruptly changed the subject, wanting to know everything that Rocky had been up to since they'd last seen each other on that fateful day that her mother had sent the lads packing.

“If only your mother hadn't told us to stay away from you and you hadn't got mixed up with the smoothies, things might have turned out altogether differently,” he told her.

“I know, poppet, and I'm sorry. I really am. But we can't turn back time. It just didn't work out that way. Period. OK, I was dealt some pretty good cards and I blew it. But now all I have to play with are the cards left in my hand.”

“And the odd joker or two I can spare you,” he added.

“I'm sorry, but there is no Us, Rocky. There can never be.”

“Never say never, as the Sufi mystics say.”

“Rocky, the simple fact is we don't live on the same planet any more. You live in some chivalrous, mystical fantasy world ... And I live between the gutter, the business end of some creep's prick, and a needle. It doesn't get much more real than that, poppet. And ne'er the twain shall meet.”

“So, anyhow, what's this book you're writing?” she asked, intent on changing the subject, apparently uncomfortable talking about her own woes.

Rocky told her all that he could about the fantasy. In view of what she'd just said, however, he wasn't sure how well the theme would go down. A précis didn't really do the intricacies of the plot justice. And yet as he spoke, his thoughts were on other, more important and urgent things. He kept turning instead to the idea of writing her into his story. Or maybe he should rephrase that? Writing him into her story? Into their story, if such a thing were possible?

When the food came, they polished off their juicy cheeseburgers in near silence and, looking at her watch, Donna told him that she had some shopping to do and had to take some things round to the laundry ready for work that evening.

He offered to go shopping with her, which she seemed okay about, and paid the bill for her at the till of her corner shop. It must have been a rough neighbourhood, because there was a stout steel grill running all the way along the counter between them and the cashier. But by the time the laundry had washed, they'd both pretty much exhausted all they felt able to say to one-another.

“I'll come to Kings Cross to see you off,” she told him when they got back to the bedsit. He was shocked in one way that she wanted him to leave – he had intended staying the night at a nearby hotel, if he could find one – and also touched, on the other hand, that she was willing to cross London to wave him off. It was well out of her way.

All too soon they arrived and Donna bought a platform ticket to follow him through the barrier. He went on board and stowed his haversack, then returned to the door.

For a moment or two they clasped hands and she gave him a hug, for old time's sake.

“Listen Donna. Maybe you're not strong enough and ready to make a change right now. I want you to know – I need you to know – that I'm still madly in love with you, Donna, and ...”

“Poppet, I'm flattered, but believe me, love and H don't go together too well. I'd sell my mother if it would get me my next fix. And then hate myself the morning after. It just wouldn't work, Rocky.”

Rocky was undaunted. “... And any time you feel you'd like to get off the H, I'll be waiting for you, Donna.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a card he'd printed off. “I'm just a phone call or letter away. Or a four hour train journey.”

“Thank you,” she smiled, and pecked him on the cheek. “That's a beautiful thought. Thank you, Rocky. But I can't make you any promises.”

“Keep the card safe, Donna. Don't lose it.”

The guard passed by, ushered him inside and closed the door. Rocky pulled the sash window down and blew Donna a kiss.

“OK, I promise you that much,” she said, tucking the card down inside her purse. She brushed aside a tear that welled up in her eye, smudging her mascara.

Then, on the spur of the moment, he frantically fumbled to unfasten the pendant he was wearing around his neck and tossed it into her hands in the nick of time.

With that, the guard blew his whistle and Rocky pushed the window up in the doorway and went to his seat in the smoking compartment. They waved at each through the window and blew kisses, as the train pulled out of the station.

And then she was gone and he was on his way back home, a nervous bundle of earnest hopes, prayers and dark fears; feeling more and more depressed by being so unable to help Donna in her hour of need.

~~~O~~~

Hendrick re-read the memo from the London office and waved it in the air. “So, what do you make of the meeting between Rhodes and Fouquet, chief?” he asked.

“Don't worry about it, Hendrick: she's well screwed. But I think we should have another close look at him. What's he up to these days? Still seeing that commie zealot, Ray Skinner?”

Hendrick tapped away at the terminal and brought up his record. “He's at polytechnic studying English literature, apparently. Still comes home in the holidays. And apparently he's actively contributing articles to the college rag. All sort of metaphysical and mystical topics; exposing the 'Big Lie', as he calls it.”

“I see. By 'Big Lie', I presume he's referring to our operations. Well, have a word with the locals would you and ask them to keep him under close obs. We don't want him stirring up the natives and making them restless. If necessary, we'll have to get onto Area to sanction an intervention.”

13. Maintaining a presence

When Rocky got back home late that night, his father wanted to know how his trip had gone. He could hardly tell Dad that the girl he'd visited was a junkie prostitute living in a rat-infested tenement block in a red-light district, so instead he put on his creative writing hat and made up a story about one of his fellow students, Donald, inviting him down to his parents' place for his twenty first birthday bash.

“Oh, you'll have to ask Donald over here. I'm sure we could put him up for a few days and you can show him around Wycliffe.”

Crikey, this could get complicated. If he did that, he'd need to enlist one of the other students to play the part of the fictitious character Donald. Not on your life, pal. “Sure, I'll give it some thought, Dad. Thanks.”

After a very late supper of egg and chips at his mother's insistence, he escaped upstairs to his old den and sat down to write Donna a letter. Maybe he couldn't go down and see her very often, if at all, but he could at least keep in touch. Maintain a presence, as it were. And maybe one day, she'd manage to break out of the prison she'd made for herself. Well, that was the theory, anyhow.

Hi Donna, he wrote:

It was great to see you earlier today. Thanks for a lovely time.

A while back, I heard Harry strumming away at his guitar. He'd heard a mantra and turned it into a song. I think the guy who originally came up with was Paramahansa Yogananda, but I can't be sure. Anyhow, if I'm ever feeling lonely and a bit down, I chant it in my head. It helps to make me feel more connected spiritually and I thought it might help you. Here's how it goes.

Listen, listen, listen to my heart's song

Listen, listen, listen to my heart's song

I will never forget you. I will never forsake you

I will never forget you. I will never forsake you

Listen, listen, listen to my heart song

Listen, listen, listen to my heart song.

When you chant it, remember I'm always here for you, won't you, and that you have friends who really care about you.

He screwed up the paper, started all over again and wrote “If you chant it” instead of “when,” which was maybe a bit too pushy. He didn't want to ram ideas down Donna's throat, or else he might drive her further away. It was probably important for her to be in control of certain aspects of her life, or – more likely – to at least have the illusion that she was in control.

Please find enclosed a short tape I've put together of some of the songs by Harry's new band The Flowerpot Men. Flob-a-lob. Weeed! Hope you like it (I noticed you have a cassette recorder when I saw you). Sorry, I meant to take the tape with me when I paid a visit but it slipped my mind. Anyway, better late than never.

There's a really good track on there with Claire Dyson singing. It's You've got a Friend, which was written by James Taylor and covered by Carole King on the album Tapestry.

When you're down and troubled, as the song goes, just call out my name, won't you, Donna? And I'll be there for you to lighten even your darkest night. Never forget that.

Anyhow, sorry this letter is so brief, but I want to get it in the post tonight before I go to bed. Looking forward to seeing you again.

I love you,

Rocky.

xxx

Rocky left the room and went downstairs. Dad was still up watching a late night boxing match, but Mum had already gone to bed. Ever since her childhood she'd been early to bed and early to rise and it was a habit that had stayed with her throughout her adult life.

“Hi, sorry to bother you, Dad. Do you have a small padded envelope, by any chance?”

“Just a minute.” His father was going to get up and turn down the volume on the television.

“No, you stay where you are and point me in the right direction. I don't want to disturb your sport.”

“Thank you muchly. Top drawer,” he said, motioning toward the old writing bureau under the window at the back of the living room.

“Thanks.” His father was such a hoarder, he could be relied on to have such handy items as padded bags. He had a whole attic and garage full of junk, too, and disorganized as these stores might be, he could be relied on to know where to find the most obscure item.

“There are some stamps in there, too.”

“Oh, that's okay Dad, I have some upstairs. But thanks all the same.”

Five minutes later and a sprint through the rain, which still hadn't eased off, and the cassette and letter were in the postbox. A couple of days and Donna should receive the small package and hopefully it would brighten up her day.

Needless to say, they intercepted the package in the post and examined it, copying the tape and photocopying the pages before carefully re-sealing it and sending it on its way.

The following day, he sent her another letter, eager to maintain some kind of benign presence in Donna's life. He started off with a story he'd once heard. A seeker once asked a Sufi a question that had been troubling him for some time and when the Sufi told him the answer, he was amazed at the level of insight. “But how did you know?” he asked the Sufi. And in reply the Sufi told him a joke about Mulla Nasrudin:

Wali was worried as winter approached, for last winter he had run out of hay with which to feed his animals.

So he decided to build his hay stack higher this year.

Just to be sure, he sent his farm labourer Ahmed to seek out Nasrudin and to obtain his advice.

Nasrudin looked into the distance and his eyes glazed over, as if lost in deep contemplation.

Emerging from his reverie, he declared at last: “It's going to be a cold winter.”

Ahmed rushed back to his employer to report Nasrudin's prediction and they both set-to to build the haystack yet higher, in preparation for the cold winter.

Just to be sure, however, he again sent his farm labourer Ahmed to seek out Nasrudin and to obtain his advice.

Nasrudin looked into the distance and his eyes glazed over, as if lost in deep contemplation.

Emerging from his reverie, he declared at last: “It's going to be a long, cold winter.”

Ahmed rushed back to his employer to report Nasrudin's prediction and they both re-doubled their efforts to build the haystack yet higher, in preparation for the long, cold winter.

Just to be sure, however, he again sent his farm labourer Ahmed to seek out Nasrudin and to obtain his advice.

A third time, Nasrudin looked into the distance and his eyes glazed over, as if lost in deep contemplation.

Emerging from his reverie, he declared at last: “It's going to be a long, bitterly cold winter, with much snow.”

“But how do you know these things, Mulla?” asked Ahmed.

Nasrudin pointed into the distance: “Do you see that farm?”

“Yes, but I still don't see your point.”

“You see how high the farmer yonder has built his haystack?” asked Nasrudin:

“That is how I know.”

Two days later, a letter arrived on the doormat. He recognized Donna's rushed and spidery handwriting immediately. Opening the envelope, he could tell by the brief note that this was not good and as he read the contents, he felt a lump suddenly well up in his throat.

Just got your long and rambling essay, Rocky.

For fuck's sake man, you're obsessed. Must you ram this shit down people's throats with such missionary zeal? Get a life.

Rocky scrunched the letter up into a ball and tossed it onto the growing pile of paper in the waste basket by his IBM-PC. He tore the envelope to shreds and cast it in after, then stormed through into the kitchen to break open a can of lager and light up another fag.

He sat on the hard-backed chair by the kitchen table, overcome with a feeling of nausea. Part of him wanted to scream and rage, though with himself, not so much with Donna, and the other half simply wanted to cry. Taking a last drag on his cigarette, he tossed it in the kitchen sink, put his can down and sat there with his head buried in his hands, the tears streaming down his face; cursing himself for his gross stupidity.

Grabbing a tea towel to dry his eyes, he retrieved the still-smouldering cigarette from the sink, had a last drag on the stub, rinsed it under the tap, thrust it into the garbage and slunk back into the living room.

Curiously enough, he'd heard mention of this very same missionary zeal in one of Shah's books only the other day, but hadn't for one minute considered that the passage might actually apply to him and not some other jerk.

Even more to the point, he was just finishing off Neglected Aspects of Sufi Study, which was based on a series of lectures Shah had given in America, and had just come across a passage that was perhaps even more apropos:

Because the foregoing is generally not properly understood, there are three, not one, usual reactions to Sufi offered experience to be found:

1. The individual becomes a wiseacre. Instead of profiting from the Sufi impact, he learns how to “deal with it”, answering back, as it were, to frustrate the impact.

2. He becomes hopelessly indoctrinated, obsessional, a “believer” in Sufism who is nothing other than a sensationalist.

3. He (or she) is able to observe and to feel the special function of the Sufi impact, on himself, on his fellows, in literature and in other areas. He can detect, and profit from, this activity in many different ways, without being imprisoned by method or associations.

Well, he could certainly see himself in two of those three. And he sure as hell didn't fit the bill for the third.

But there was more, he discovered, as he read on and finished the book:

Long studies are sometimes needed before the seeker becomes a Sufi. But if Sufi teaching systems are generous in supplying materials, they are parsimonious in one sense. At the end of the day the development of Sufic understanding makes real the effect of all that has gone before. Sufis do not supply, for the learner, materials, experiences even, which will be wasted. So, at the end of the day, everything fits into place. So finely is the economy of this teaching balanced that people are sure to benefit from what efforts have been expended. But if these efforts are not properly carried out, others, not the person who makes them, will be the beneficiaries.

Just then, he could hear a voice in his head, telling him: Look, it's all very well you spotting these things, Rocky. That shows insight. But more importantly, you need to actually make a conscious and sustained effort to do something about it. What use is all this obsessive self-observation if there is no real change? As if to say: “Oh, look, there's a lump of dog shit on the floor” and “Oh, dear, I seem to have put my foot in it again” – instead of clearing up the fucking mess once and for all, for your benefit and the sake of others.

So, that was him well and truly told.

You're missing the point, the voice told him. I'm not telling you these things to make you feel even worse about yourself. I'm telling you to provoke a real and lasting change and growth in you. It is vital to pull yourself up out of the gutter. I really can't stress enough just how vital it is for you to take this lesson on board. And for Christ's sake, watch your back: you're making waves, and this has not gone unnoticed in certain nefarious circles.

~~~O~~~

“Have you read this, chief?” asked Hendrick.

“Read what?” asked the chief, looking up from the glare of his monitor screen.

“The latest article Rhodes has written in the college rag.”

“No. Pass it over.”

Hendrick tossed the glossy magazine across the desk and the chief caught it in mid-flight.

“Page eleven.”

The chief was silent for a time as found the page and scan read the article.

“Hmm,” he said at last, tossing the magazine back.

“So, what do you recommend?” Hendrick asked him.

The chief scratched his chin for a time. “Well, there was a time when I thought we could simply dismiss his work as New Age mumbo-jumbo. Rhodes was doing us a favour, though he didn't know it. But you're right: this is altogether different. This work is getting uncomfortably close to the truth.”

“And you suggest?”

“I'll get onto Area and suggest that the local boys intervene. Time to pump up the pressure and bring this Rhodes fellow down to Earth with an almighty bump. Give his friends in Wycliffe a good shake, too. It's time that circle was broken up.”

“And what about this Shah fellow? Do you think he's the source?”

“It's possible. Chances are he's just a front man, though. Clever people, these Chinese.”

Hendrick frowned. “What Chinese?”

“Oh, really, Hendrick, don't you read the memos? You really must make more of an effort to keep up. 'China' is one of these people's code words for knowledge.”

“Ah.”

“Anyhow, root out his file and we'll get Southern Area to see what dirt they can dig up on him.”

14. Communication breakdown

Rocky had the old stereo turned up loud. He hadn't changed the needle on the turntable for a while and the records were consequently a little fuzzy, but he was past caring. He was having a private party, to which only he was invited, and was already three cans short of a six pack, both literally and metaphorically.

Led Zeppelin I, the first album he'd bought and his all-time favourite, was playing on the turntable and, with a can in his hand serving as a makeshift microphone, he was singing away and dancing wildly to the strains of Communication Breakdown, telling a girl to stop what she was doing before she drove him to ruin.

Quick pit stop to grab a fourth can from the fridge. He'd stowed it in the tiny freezer compartment and by now it was ice-chilled. Chilled he was not. He was on heat.

The chorus kicked in as he returned to the living room, about being driven to insanity. The lyrics were so apt, it was almost as if the guys had written this song just for him.

He'd been working himself silly recently: at college all day; working in a local bar in the evening and not getting back home until nearly midnight after shooing away the drinkers, clearing the tables and washing the glasses. The shit in the bogs could wait until bottling up time in the morning. Then he'd be up until gone two or sometimes three, writing away, and up by seven the next day. Rocky had put aside his novel for now and he was sending off a flurry of short stories to magazines. Women's magazines like People's Friend provided a decent market, strangely enough, not that they'd accepted any of his work as yet. One or two of the rejection skips which now papered his walls were quite hopeful, though. It was reassuring when editors went out of their way to offer a little constructive advice instead of just doling out the usual, pre-printed shit.

It couldn't go on like this, of course, Rocky knew that, but he was desperately in need of some bread to help pay the bills. He'd gone a bit overboard with his credit card recently and had just received a stroppy letter from the company telling him to cut his card in half, send it back to them and pay off the whole of his debit balance forthwith. For crying out loud, he'd only gone five pounds over the £100 limit. All for the sake of a late night takeaway at the local Indian restaurant: blood sucking bastards. And it wasn't as if he'd got his money's worth, having vomited up the curry ten minutes later. Well, he wouldn't bank with those creeps again. Okay, so the feeling probably was mutual.

This has to stop, called a stern voice inside him, and it has to stop now.

You think I don't know that? And yeah: it wasn't the girl who was to blame; he was the one driving himself to ruin. Okay, God? You happy with that? Lighten up on me a little, huh? Take this shit out on someone who really deserves it, God.

Get some sleep, the voice directed him.

“I've been asleep for most of my life,” he countered. “Now is the time to wake up.”

He rummaged around in the books on the shelf until he found the passage he was looking for. It was in Sanai's Walled Garden of Truth:

Mankind is asleep – men of this world have gone to sleep concerned with what is useless, living in a disordered sphere. And religion itself does not rise above this, it is mere habit and usage, not devotion. Such “faith” is in fact inept. Do not prattle to the People of the Way. Rather consume yourself with shame, like rue, which is burned to avert evil. You are yourself upside down to Reality, and thus have only an inverted “wisdom” and “faith”.

Man should not weave a net round himself. A lion bursts his cage of self asunder.

Amen to that, brother! Rocky closed the book and thrust it back on the shelf. And then he was struck by the memory of one of his lecturers. He'd taken a copy of The Way of the Sufi with him that day, with the intention of reading it at break, and having seen the book, the lecturer had snatched it up in passing and was waving it around in the air to emphasize his point, as a devout and pious clergyman might wield the Bible. Was that what had become of him: nothing more than a bible basher?

Turn your computer off and get some sleep, the voice strongly advised. He complied without reluctance: the fact was, he'd been burning the candle at both ends and even when he did go to bed, his mind was still racing and he couldn't get to sleep.

And don't forget, you need to eat. You've got to look after your donkey.

Hah! That sounded like Shah himself. Or was it God? Or just him thinking aloud? The voice of reason in a mad, mad world. His inner-tuition, maybe?

There was a Sufi story about a man being warned that there would be a catastrophe and the water would be changed. Anyone drinking it would be driven mad. He stored up water before the event, but in the end he couldn't bear his isolation any more. He drank the water and became mad like the rest of them.

99% of the population had sold out and drunk that water.

It was the last day of term tomorrow, with the Christmas holidays just around the corner. His father had taken it for granted that he'd be returning home to spend the time with them, especially as his elder brother Ronald was coming through with Leslie, his wife.

Ronald was father's blue eyed boy. He always had been and probably always would be. Ronald couldn't put a foot wrong, at least not in father's eyes, and his high flying exploits had become legendary. And so had his reputation for being arrogant and hotheaded.

As for Rocky, well, he'd been a mistake from the start. When he'd been born, and the nurse had announced his sex, mother had blurted out “Oh, no: not another boy.” Every now and again, with no sense of propriety, his mother would trot out this story to relatives and friends, much to his chagrin. Alas, the finer points of the social graces were lost on his mother. As for her, she and father had grown hopelessly confluent and co-dependent. Over the years, he gradually eroded mother's self-confidence and ground her down, and she had become little more than a shadow puppet. It had never been Mrs. Mary Rhodes and Mr. George Henry Rhodes in their own right, let alone Ms.: they'd grown up in an age where she was considered to be Mrs. George Henry Rhodes, as if she were worth no more than his other goods and chattels. Sometimes Rocky would hear her chuntering away to herself in the privacy of the kitchen, out of father's earshot. “My sainted aunts,” she'd say and “Lord, give me patience” and whisper things about George Henry.

Anyhow, Rocky finally got to bed, but he tossed and turned for ages, his mind frantically going over all manner of strange subjects, before he finally fell asleep. He'd been so over-tired that every time he nodded off, he'd jerk awake again with a start. Like his soul was attached to a long, thin yet apparently strong rubber band.

In the morning, the strange thoughts had not abated. It was as if someone had presented him with a little silver key to his head – or was it to his heart? To a treasury. A vast underground chamber filled to the brim with the secrets of the Universal One, which explained so much about how life on Earth had turned out. And, more to the point, how this tied in with his own individual destiny. Well, maybe not individual, because he could see now how he was much more than a few brain cells and a beating heart locked inside a body of flesh and bone on this mortal coil. He'd been given wings and he could look down on Toy Town and see it for what it really was. And he'd expose their Big Lie once and for all, so that even the blind might see.

In his dreams, Rocky flew higher and higher until he could look out upon the whole starscape of heaven. More than look out at it, he was a part of it. And so was the Goddess. After all this time apart since the Fall, they were back together again. They made love, just as they had done in the beginning and as they came together they were one. And he was star-spangled-splattered, all-knowing across the universe. Talk about blowing your mind on God. All was forgiven. All was love. All was One.

When he awoke early the next morning, in a hot sweat, these thoughts had not abated and Rocky phoned his parents to tell them the Good News and that he would be home for Christmas. His mother answered and there was a bit of fumbling about and crackling on the line as his father came to the phone and held it between them so that they could both hear and talk at the same time.

After listening in silence to Rocky's excited tale for a few minutes, he could hear his parents whispering to each other and then his father came back on the phone.

“I'm sorry, Richard, but I have to say that you're not making much sense, son.”

“I'll be seeing you at the weekend,” he told them eagerly. “We can talk about it then.”

“Listen, son, I'll be frank with you. These last few weeks your mother and I have been worried about you, you know. And so has your brother. Do you think you'll be up to taking a train home?”

“No problem.”

“You're sure?”

“Sure I'm sure.”

“All right then, son. Do me a favour would you? I don't think you should leave it until the weekend. Your mother and I think you should come here as soon as possible. Today, if you can make it.”

“Well, it's the last day at college, but I guess they wouldn't be too fussed if I skip a day. Okay, I'll get a taxi straight to the station and catch the first train.”

“Oh, that's great, Richard. That's such a relief. We'll air your bed and look out for you. Your mother and I have to slip into town to pick up a few things at the butcher's and the fishmonger's, but we'll be back long before you arrive. I look forward to seeing you. Then we can have a proper natter.”

“Bye son,” chipped in his mother.

“Great. See you soon,” he told them, then the phone went dead.

Rocky was just locking the front door and about to set off when he saw Shelley, his next door neighbour picking up the milk bottles from her doorstep.

“Oh, Shelley. I'm going away for a few days. Listen, would you do me a favour? I'll be eternally grateful.”

“Sure, how can I help?” she asked without hesitation. Good job she wasn't committing herself to a quick shag. Chances would be a fine thing.

He went back inside and took the spare key off a hook in the passage.

“Here's a key to the flat. Would you mind popping in every now and again and watering the plants on the windowsill?”

“Sure, Richard.”

He felt around in his jacket and produced a card with his address on. “And if any letters come for me, would you mind sending them on to me?” The postbox was only a few doors away.

“No problem.”

“Thanks.” He leant against the wall and hastily scribbled his parents' address on the back. “That's great. Sorry, I must dash: destiny awaits. Have a lovely Christmas.”

“And you, Rocky. Merry Christmas.”

And, as the taxi pulled up at the door, he set off for the city station to catch a train to York, then on to Wycliffe-on-Sea. Still his mind was racing as he journeyed home, but he must have fallen asleep on the final leg – and thankfully not on the first – and he was woken by the guard.

“Yes?”

“End of the line, mate. All change.”

It most certainly is, called the voice within, but he chose to ignore it.

“Oh, thanks. Must have dozed off.” He hurriedly grabbed his trusty old haversack and headed for the door.

Rocky stepped out on the platform and looked towards what should have been the way out into the town centre. And only then did he realize that this was not Wycliffe-on-Sea. Catching sight of a sign further along the platform, he realized he'd missed his stop at York after all and had ended up in Leeds.

Don't you dare say it, he muttered to himself.

Say what? enquired the voice.

You know damn well: that pride comes before a fall.

My lips are sealed, came the reply. My lips are sealed.

He wandered down to the barrier at the end of the platform and caught the attention of a porter, explaining his predicament.

“Don't worry, you're not the first and you certainly won't be the last,” the man laughed. “There's a train going to Wycliffe in about ten minutes, from platform 13. You should easily make it if you don't hang about.”

“Will there be an additional charge?” He had very little money left in his wallet.

“No. Just tell the conductor about the mistake and it'll be okay.”

He thanked the man and headed for the train. Two hours later and he was home. They had a good laugh when he told his parents what had happened.

“Same thing happened to me, during the war,” his father reminisced. “Only in my case, I caught a train from Edinburgh thinking that it stopped at York. There I was, waiting by the door with my suitcase, ready to get off when it went chugging straight through the station without stopping. I'd caught the ruddy Flying Scotsman by mistake. So I ended up at London Kings Cross. Worried your mother sick, I did, since she was expecting me several hours earlier. Of course we didn't have a phone in those days. Nearest thing we had to phones were telegrams delivered by a lad on a bicycle or a moped. And you only got one of those if there was bad news. Well, you're here and with friends now, and that's all that matters.”

“Anyhow, how are you doing?” mother asked. She looked concerned.

“Let's leave it until your brother Ronald gets in, shall we? Then we can have a proper natter. Could you go a cuppa, Mary? I'm sure our Richard could. You must be gagging after your journey.”

At this point, after the obligatory tinkle of the doorbell, the front door opened and closed again. Then a face appeared at the living room door.

It was Ronald.

“Richard, you made it. Good to see you,” the man smiled, shaking his hand in an iron grip and patting him heavily on the shoulder.

“Hi,” he returned. “Good to see you, too. Where ...”

“Leslie? Oh, she's just popped up the road,” Ronald told him. He had an annoying habit of interrupting people in mid-flow and completing their sentences for them. “To the ...”

“Undertakers?”

“No, the ...”

“Hardware shop?”

“You cheeky imp: she'd gone to the newsagents.”

“Sorry, just playing you at your own game, bro': finishing off each other's ...”

“Sentences?” his brother laughed. “Sorry, Richard, I wasn't aware of myself doing it.”

Well, he was now.

“So, what have you been up to?” Ronald wanted to know as Mother passed him his tea. “I gather you haven't been very well.”

Rocky did his best to provide a concise précis of his cluttered thoughts. It was a bit like trying to knit a mass of writhing spaghetti. E = mc^2 and all that jazz. But his brother kept interrupting.

“Jeez, will you chill out and let me tell you without your constant interruptions, Ronald?”

“Just trying to be helpful,” his brother said firmly. “No need to get narky with me. I've come a long way to see you, you know. And we only have your best interests at heart.”

Just like Father, Ronald automatically assumed that his time was more precious than anybody else's. Well, Ronald was on a thousand a day as a consultant, whilst all he earned was maybe ten, so I guess he was right if you insisted on using this as the primary measure of a man's importance or worth.

Ronald drew back his shoulders and fixed him with an altogether too direct stare.

“Sorry.” Rocky hung his head.

“So, I gather you're a very important person,” his brother said, out of the blue. “How many followers do you have?”

That was a bit cutting.

“Well, I don't think the sun shines out of my arse, like some people I know,” he retorted. “What gives you that idea?”

“No need to get bolshie with me, Richard. I was only going by what Dad told me earlier.”

“And one of your tutors phoned us today, too,” his father added. “They've been worried about you for some time, son. There are dark rings under your eyes. Are you having problems sleeping?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “But I've come to the conclusion that we don't actually need as much sleep as we think.” Ideally, we wouldn't have to sleep at all.

“That's bollocks! We've all got to sleep and eat. To be straight with you: you look like shit warmed up,” his brother added. “Let's call a spade a spade. How much are you drinking these days? And how often? And what about drugs?”

“I haven't touched drugs in years.”

“You sure you haven't been spiked? Maybe we should get the doctor to carry out a full blood biochemistry?”

It was like a verbal assault. And on and on it went.

Finally, it was Mum who headed for the cupboard to help herself to some aspirin.

“Have you got a headache, Lady Mary?” Father asked.

“Yes, I have,” she nodded, knocking the tablets back. “And is there any wonder?”

“Sorry, Mum,” his brother said.

“Nearly done, Mary,” Father told her. “The question remains: what are we to do to help you, Richard?”

“Judging by what I've heard, I think perhaps we should call the doctor,” Ronald advised. “In all seriousness, I think this is going to get worse before it gets better.”

“You think I'm mad, don't you?” Rocky spluttered.

“No, Richard, I don't. But I do think that you've been under a great deal of strain.”

“It won't hurt to call the doctor in, to give you the once over.”

The doctor came and looked and listened and then he went. On the way out, he had words with Father and Ronald out in the passageway, but Rocky couldn't quite catch what was said.

In the late afternoon, the door bell went again. Another doctor. It turned out he was a ruddy psychiatrist from the local hospital.

“I think we should take him in,” the man said to Father and Ronald who'd been hovering in the wings. “May I use your phone?”

Father directed him to the phone in the passage and when he returned, he told them that he'd arranged to have Rocky admitted for observation. He suggested ordering a taxi straight away and asked if one of them would accompany Rocky.

Rocky wasn't quite following what was being said, his head reeling by this time, and when he saw the decorations in the corridors at the hospital he thought they must have organized some kind of celebration in his honour. And then there was the matter of the Bomb. Dear Lord, he hoped he'd be safe here if the thing should explode.

“So, why do you think you're here?” asked a pretty looking young doctor, as she examined him. Ronald had gone with him to the hospital and she'd asked him to wait outside for a few minutes.

“I have the answer,” he told her.

“The answer to what?”

“To the Bomb.”

“I see.”

“Trust me,” he told her. “I'm perfectly lucid,” and went on to tell her about the box of Black Magic chocolates he'd recently bought that had somehow poisoned his mind.

“I've been nobbled,” he told her. “Two angels saved me, you know. I was sitting on top of a mountain peak freezing to death and these two angels saved me. One of them was black and the other was white.”

“Interesting.”

“By the way, do the names Boaz and Jachin mean anything to you?”

The lady doctor merely smiled and shook her head. She took out a torch-like object from her pocket and went to shine it in his eyes. He flinched, fearing that the laser beam might blind him.

“It's all right,” she smiled. “I just want to look in your eyes.”

She ran the beam of white light over the back of her own hand without ill effect. That was thoughtful. “You see, it's quite safe.”

The doctor issued instructions and two of the white-clad nurses escorted him to a room and gave him a jab of something in his arm. Then they took him to one of the communal rooms and left him with his brother for a while. Shortly after, he began to have the most awful sensation in his neck. It felt as if his head was being wrenched off his shoulders.

“Don't indulge in it,” his brother advised, not really understanding the nature of the problem. It sounded more like something out of Carlos Castaneda's peyote-fuelled trips with Don Juan.

He felt helpless and could hardly speak. “I'm not indulging. It's the muscles in my...”

“Neck?”

“Yeah.”

Ronald called urgently for a nurse. Thankfully, it turned out to be a simple case of muscle spasms, a reaction to the sedative drug they'd administered, and after a second jab of muscle relaxant in his arm, the head-wrenching subsided.

His brother hung around for a few minutes longer and then he left, promising that he'd call to see him the next day.

That night was awful. Previously he'd been to spiritual heights that he'd never dreamed of. But now, it was like he'd flown too high, too fast, too soon and, like Icarus, had scorched his wings and fallen. Down, down, down from Godhead through the tarot spread to land back down on Earth with a resounding thump.

The realization suddenly struck him with enormous force that all this time he'd been blaming others for what were his own woes. Where the hell did that thought suddenly spring up from?

You only have yourself to blame, that inner voice insisted. Or, to use one of his father's pet phrases: You made your bed, and now you have to lie in it.

Rocky was utterly shell-shocked and acutely aware of his sinful state. He should have found his way to the Spiritual Heart, not allowed himself to be carried up to the Godhead. Leave the Godhead for his father and for Ronald. It was their realm, not his. He was too weak. For some obscure reason, he was reminded of the time he'd visited the wife of a friend of his, an old friend. She'd smiled at him and said: “Rocky, you're a woman at heart.”

God, he hated it there in the psychiatric ward. Most of the time he couldn't bear to keep still. He had to go walking around the corridors or sneaking off to the smoking common room for yet another hasty cigarette. He didn't like it in there, he much preferred the non-smoking room, which had an almost heavenly atmosphere to it and no TV. Rocky was quite pleased about that as everything on the television deluged him with suggestions and bizarre hidden meanings. It was like he'd plugged into God's mainframe computer system, belting out some subtle wake up call, but to which he'd become hypersensitive. He was inundated and overwhelmed with sensory input and his own consequent machinations, as he tried to make sense of it all. The fact is, he didn't have to try: everything was so pregnant with meaning. It was like a gusher at an oil well. A bonanza. He'd hit the mother lode. Christ, he nearly said he'd “hit the fucking mother lode” just then. Now that was a Freudian slip, if ever there was.

Sometimes Rocky went back to the beds to sit there on the floor, cross-legged, trying to meditate to still his mind. But one of the nurses asked him if he'd stay in the communal areas so that they could more easily observe him.

He had a carrier bag with him which had two woollen jumpers in it, one his mother had knitted for him, the other he'd bought in a shop. The first was blue with a wonderful decorative rope design to it. The other was a red and white design that made him look like an eagle or a king. Maybe that was rather presumptuous? He couldn't decide which one to wear and kept switching back and forth. You see everything in the world was filled brim-full of meaning. Every big thing and even every little thing. It was vitally important to get it right according to that meaning. So easy to make a mistake and bring the whole grand design tumbling down like a house of playing cards. This was a Changing Time. The time when people woke up – all sorts of ordinary, everyday, common or garden people. A time when these people realized what a mess they were in, set about making amends and put their house in order before they fell asleep again. A time when everything made sense – if you could handle the truth without it being corrupted and twisted inside your head. They were all conditioned. Brainwashed, to one extent or another.

Everything was so connected. The whole living, breathing universe at one end of the scale and a tiny insect at the other. And inside each atom was a universe. It was a time when answers came like magic, if you watched and listened and didn't let yourself get in the way. Time and time again. He'd been ill-prepared and had fallen again before his mission was complete. But he was still awake and knew that he was awake. There was still hope.

The longer they could keep doing the right thing and staying awake the better. Some day everyone would get it right, be perfectly in tune with the flow, and there'd be a new Golden age. A heaven on Earth. Every now and again, someone would wake up and they could be used like a bridge to escape the Sleep. A bridgehead could be established to help others escape while the window of opportunity remained open. Maybe Shah was one of those people and yet maybe he himself might have fallen asleep again by the time that Rocky got to meet him, if ever? And there were others, too, with evil intent, who would go out of their way to make sure the operation failed.

~~~O~~~

After a week and a few nights of decent sleep, things began to calm down in Rocky's head and, knowing that he was ever-eager to get away from the ward, the staff allowed his parents to take him down home and have tea with them. Christmas Day had been and gone, but they laid a special spread on for him, which was really sweet of them. He told them how he'd found the record collection on the ward all jumbled up and he'd sorted it out. And he'd sorted out all the packets of leftover bread crusts in the kitchen.

A letter had come for him. “I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of opening it,” his brother told him.

“We had to be sure that it was safe to let you see it,” Father explained.

As soon as he saw the spidery writing on the envelope, Rocky realized that the letter was from Donna, and he took the pages out very gingerly and with trepidation. It couldn't be that bad, after all, or his folks wouldn't have passed the letter on to him, would they? They'd have destroyed it or saved it until he was well. And there were a lot more pages to this letter, unlike the terse note he'd received earlier.

“Don't worry, it's not bad news,” his brother spoke up, noticing his hesitation.

“Isn't that the Donna you went out with before?” Father enquired.

“Yes,” he nodded and he began to read the letter:

Dear Rocky,

I'm really sorry for flying off the handle with you the other day. I want you to know that I really, really, appreciate your company and your efforts to help me ...

“Is that what started this whole thing off?” his father wanted to know. “Have you been worried about Donna?”

“Let the poor lad read the letter in peace first, Father,” Mum interceded.

Rocky thrust the papers back in the envelope and pocketed it. “I'll read it later,” he smiled.

“Good news?” his father enquired, as if he hadn't read the letter and didn't know already. He just hoped to God that Donna hadn't talked about her pimp, Grainger, or mentioned her work on the streets.

“So, what's become of Donna? Down in London, I gather. What's she doing down there? Studying?” Father asked.

Was this a time to lie or time to tell the truth, he pondered?

“Donna's fallen on hard times,” he told them. “And I've been trying to help her.”

“The way I figure it, Richard, you seriously need to put your own house in order before you can even think of investing effort to help other pe...”

“Might I butt-in?” asked Leslie, Ronald's wife. “I think it's wonderful that you should go out of your way to help someone close to you, Rocky. Can I call you Rocky?”

“Thank you,” he smiled. “And yes, I much prefer to be called Rocky. Thanks, Leslie.”

“You were christened Richard David and you'll always be Richard David to your mother and me,” his father said, spending his pennyworth. “So, what's Donna doing in London? You still haven't answered that question.”

“Give the poor lad a chance,” retorted his mother. If ever she climbed out of her shell, and came into her own it was when she was in good company. And the odd sherry which she permitted herself helped considerably. Speaking of which ... “Another sherry anyone? Go on, be a devil. A little of what you fancy does you good, so they say.”

Dad held out his glass.

“I didn't think you'd say no, George.”

“Not if I know what's good for me,” he joked. “Slave driver.”

“I'm a slave driver? Hark at that! That'll be the day.”

“On a more mundane level ...” Dad hinted, eager to get back to the subject of Donna. “Has she played a part in the ... um ... nervous breakdown you've just had, Richard?”

“She's not at all to blame, if that's what you mean, Dad. Far from it. If anything, she's what keeps me going.”

“Help me out here, Richard. Who's Donna? What is she to you?” Ronald wanted to know.

“A friend. I went out with her for a while. Then she got in with a bad crowd and started taking heroin on a weekend. She was a casual, recreational user. But before she knew it she was hooked on the stuff.”

For a moment, they were all gob-smacked.

Then Dad found his voice. “And ...”

“And to finance her habit, rather than have to resort to thievery, she had to ...”

For once, even Ronald was at a loss for words, thankfully.

“She had to ... um ... sell her services.”

“My sainted aunts,” gasped his mother.

“Sell her services? You mean she's a trollop. A fallen woman?”

“Yes, an erring sister. A scarlet woman ...”

“Oh, for the love of God, what on Earth possessed you to continue a relationship with such a ... a ...?”

Ronald didn't complete his father's sentence, so Rocky thought offer his assistance. “Here, I'll help you out, Dad: A strumpet. A harlot. A prostitute. A whore,” he yelled. “A working girl. Now, have I made myself clear?”

“Even supposing you could get a whore out of the streets ...” began his father.

“Go on, don't tell me: you can never get the streets out of a whore. Is that right? Dad, a self-proclaimed expert you may be about most things under the sun, but an expert on working girls, most likely, you are not.”

“I would certainly hope not!” spoke up his mother.

“And what do you know of the years I spent in the Army?” his father began, but noting the thunderous look his wife was giving him, and realizing his blooper, he thought better of continuing.

“And besides, who said anything about a relationship,” he lied. “Donna is a friend in need. I mean, what does it cost me to send her letters and gifts in the post to brighten up her God-awful day? I've been trying to get her to go into some kind of programme that would get her off H. And once she's off H, then she can leave the streets. Maybe move back home until she's back on her own two feet? Go on, tell me: what's so God-awful about wanting that for a good friend?”

With that, he snatched up his cigarettes and lighter and was about to storm out of the house, maybe go for a long bracing walk around the seafront, when he suddenly realized that, after all, he'd only been let out for the afternoon.

Fortunately the conversation turned to other matters as they ate their tea and finally Ronald reached for his own jacket and patted him gently on the shoulder. “Come on, I'll take you back,” he smiled.

Leslie was already out of her seat. “I'll go with you,” she said.

“That was a wonderful meal: you really are a great cook, Mum. And I've enjoyed your company.”

“Thank you,” his father smiled. “Let's not leave on a sour note, eh? I'm sure you have Donna's best interests at heart. And, if the truth be told, I'm rather proud of you. Most blokes would have run a mile.”

“Thanks, Dad. Love you lots. Hopefully, they shouldn't keep me in much longer, now that I'm pretty much back to normal again.”

“I'll put in a good word for you,” Ronald told him. “You sure are a helluva lot better than you were the other night.”

“As far as I'm concerned, you're welcome to come back as soon as you like, son. Isn't that right, Mother?”

She nodded eagerly. “Yes, your bed will soon air and there's plenty of food in the larder.”

“Great.”

Their farewells over, they left the house and walked slowly up the road. “Under normal circumstances, I'd suggest we adjourn to the nearest hostelry,” Ronald told him. “But drink might react with the sedative you're on. And it's probably better if you cut down on your drinking ...”

“Thanks for the offer, bro'. It's still early, though, and I could do with chilling out before I go back to the ward. I'll settle for a pint of lager shandy.”

Ronald thought for a moment and looked at Leslie. She smiled and nodded. “OK, you've twisted my arm,” he smiled.

“And your mind is set upon helping your friend Donna?” his brother asked him as the three of them sat together in the beer garden, sipping their drinks. “I can't talk you out of it, in view of your ... um ... mental dysfunction?”

Ouch! That hurt, but he let it pass. Ronald had a somewhat limited emotional vocabulary.

Rocky shook his head. “I feel her pain, you know.”

Ronald looked a little less than convinced. “Now that's bullshit and you know it. We all get these teenage crushes.”

“For heaven's sake, don't insult my intelligence, Ronald.”

“Sorry. It's only your pride that's hurt.”

“Does it make you feel good, making me feel bad? All this 'I'm OK, you're not OK' crap? Subtlety isn't one of your strong points, is it?”

“Hey, steady on. We've come a long way to see you, you know.”

“So you keep saying. And I'm grateful. Thank you.”

“No, Richard, I much prefer to be direct. You don't have to be so defensive.”

Well, at least you knew where you stood with him. Or at least where you bowed and curtsied.

“Ronald, when you watch someone being touched, it triggers the same area of the mind that is triggered when you actually are touched. So it's true: you can feel another's pain and empathize with them.”

“That's a new one on me.”

How did the rhyme go? I am a master of Baliol College and what I don't know can't be knowledge.

If Ronald had read some of the ancient Sufi tales and the poetry, he might begin to think otherwise. But he didn't have any time for mystic mumbo-jumbo. If anything, he'd see it as part of the dis-ease, rather than part of the cure. There were so many things that the Sufis had discovered centuries ago that were only now becoming known to Western science, and psychology in particular, who claimed these insights as their own.

All the psychiatrists had to offer him was a chemical cosh. And apart from offering advice about practical matters such as job seeking and rehabilitation, that was the extent of their counselling services. In those days, a war was being waged in the trenches, with so-called “toxic psychiatry” on the one side and the likes of Fritz Perls' gestalt therapists on the other. And the National Health Service almost exclusively favoured the former.

Perls was the one who'd coined that infamous motto: Lose your mind and come to your senses. Every now and again as a child, his mother would say to him in exasperation: “You haven't got the sense you were born with.” And, he had to admit, what she said had a certain ring of truth about it, albeit for reasons other than she might imagine. The unregenerate mind doesn't see things the way they really are. Losing our simple awareness, we construct models of reality. Limited models that are filtered and censored and distorted in the unregenerate mind through all manner of psychic defence mechanisms such as denial and things like conditioning; intolerance; corruption; anger; pride; vanity; heedlessness; hypocrisy; spurious imagination (aka delusion); left brain logic; a lack of intuitive faculties, and plain pig ignorance. These weren't cardinal sins so much as obstacles in one's path, in an objective, operative, technical sense. He wasn't fond of the notion of sin and much preferred to think of it along the lines of “to miss the mark.” And in place of heaven, he used the term “inner circle of humanity.”

By and large that's what we see: this flawed, artificial, concrete construct. This we believe and claim to be the real world. And what the Sufis call the Real World, we claim to be some delusional fantasy. Which it certainly can be for the unready. Yes, that has to be said. The whole world is littered not only with remnants of former schools in which the dynamic is no longer operative. It is also littered with all manner of institutions, bizarre cults, travesties and imitations of the real thing.

~~~O~~~

“Any news about Rhodes?” the chief asked as he passed Hendrick, who was typing away feverishly at his terminal.

A broad grin crossed Hendrick's face and he put a finger to his temple and made a circling motion. “Totally gaga,” he laughed. “I think we can safely cross him off our list.”

“Excellent.”

Then: “Of course, he might bounce back,” the chief advised. “I want you to keep him under obs.”

Hendrick wiped the mischievous grin off his face and sighed. “Right you are, chief.”

15. Down, like a lead balloon

Rocky wrote to Donna and told her about the psychotic episode he'd had and that he had been diagnosed as suffering from atypical schizophrenia. Lord, how he hated that awful-sounding label. It conjured up visions of some deranged maniac escaped from a secure mental hospital.

One thing that was quite clear, once he'd returned to the mortal coil was just how ill-prepared he was and how little he actually knew. He was strongly reminded of an old chestnut from the corpus of Nasrudin tales:

In order to teach this truth to a would-be student, who was “full of himself”, Nasrudin got a pitcher and took the young man to a well in the village.

The Mulla drew a bucket of water up from the well and poured it in the pitcher. Then he drew up another and another until the young man could contain himself no longer:

“Mulla, mulla!” he cried out. “There is no bottom in the pitcher and the water is pouring out.”

“Nonsense!” Nasrudin retorted. “I am trying to fill the pitcher and my eyes are fixed upon the neck. When the water reaches the neck of the pitcher, it will be full. What on earth has the bottom of the pitcher got to do with it?”

This incident perplexed the would-be student and he pondered the Nasrudin's insane actions for several days, until the truth suddenly dawned on him. So he went back to see the Mulla and, cap in hand, he said: “Mulla. Please teach me about the pitcher. I am now ready to learn.”

To say Rocky was worried by how the news of his psychosis might go down was an understatement. The phrase “like a lead balloon” did spring to mind.

But he needn't have worried. Though obviously concerned for his well-being, she accepted his explanation graciously and asked what kind of a creature she would be if she broke off their friendship because he was in difficulties, given her own sorry state. She told him that having schizophrenia should bear no more stigma than might be occasioned by breaking one's leg or having caught the measles. That was so reassuring.

Of course, his trusty IBM-PC was back in his flat, but feeling his creative juices flowing and eager to break out of a long period of writer's block, he pulled out his note pad and pen and began to scribble away, trying to encapsulate one of the less bizarre revelations that he'd had when he was blowing his mind on God. He called the piece How the Design Works.

A seeker called Robin approached a Sufi and asked him to teach him.

“Very well,” the Sufi agreed. “But on one condition. You are to first procure for me a finely woven rug so that I may give it to a friend who is in need.”

So Robin set out to find such a rug. He visited the town's bazaar and indeed he found a most exquisite piece.

“Kind sir,” said the lad to the rug merchant. “I am a poor seeker with no more than a few coppers to my name, and in order that a Sufi should teach me, I agreed to obtain a finely-woven rug so that he could give it to a friend in need.”

The merchant stood there, with his hands on his hips and looked askance.

“Seeker? Teacher? Friend in need? What do you think this is – a charity shop? I have a growing family to feed, so – much that it grieves me, I cannot give away these exquisite rugs.”

The seeker looked downcast and he was about to walk away dejected when the merchant spoke up:

“... However, since we are both in need, perhaps we can come to some mutually acceptable arrangement?”

Robin's eyes lit up: “Indeed I hope so, sir – what are your terms?”

“I myself am in need of rugs to sell. If you can obtain for me a fine goat's wool rug from the old weaver who lives in the next village, then I shall see what I can do to help you.”

So, collecting together a few provisions for the journey, the seeker set out to find the weaver. When he arrived in the village, he asked around and soon enough he found himself outside the weaver's cottage.

“Yes lad, can I help you?” asked the weaver when she answered the door.

The old lady looked so sour-faced that Robin wasn't quite sure what to say to her.

“Er, um ...I'm a poor seeker with no more than a few coppers to my name, and in order that a Sufi should teach me, I agreed to obtain a finely-woven goat's hair rug so that he could give it to a friend in need.”

The old lady shook her head in disbelief. “Seeker? Sufi? Teaching? What interest are these things to me?”

“Ah, well ....”

“And you have no money, you say?”

Again, the lad cast his eyes down and shook his head.

A faint smile creased the old woman's face: “Well, perhaps we can come to some kind of arrangement. You need a rug and I need fine goat's hair with which to weave. Get me some spun goat's wool and I will see what I can do.”

“Now off you go – I haven't got all day to hang around, you know. I have work to do.” And with that, she shut the door in the lad's face.

So Robin asked around the village and arrived at the house of the local wool spinner.

“And what can I do for you?” asked the woman, whose name happened to be Jenny.

“Dear madam, I'm a poor seeker with no more than a few coppers to my name, and in order that a Sufi should teach me, I agreed to obtain a finely-woven goat's hair rug so that he could give it to a friend in need.”

“This means nothing to me,” the woman replied. “But I have a need for dyed wool and you have a need for spun wool. So get me some dyed wool and I'll see what I can do to help.”

And with no further ado, she ushered Robin out of the house.

Again, Robin enquired in the village and he was directed to the house of the wool dyer, a grizzly old man called Hubert.

“And what it is you want, lad?” the man asked gruffly.

“Sir, I'm a poor seeker with no more than a few coppers to my name, and in order that a Sufi should teach me, I agreed to obtain a finely-woven goat's hair rug so that he could give it to a friend in need.”

“That means little to me, lad, but you have your needs and I have mine. I suppose you want me to give you the dyed wool, out of the goodness of my heart, do you? Well, I've a better idea: you get me some raw goat's wool and I'll see what I can do.”

Again, Robin was shown the door and sent on his way.

And again Robin asked around the village and eventually found out that up in the hills to the east of the village there lived a goat herd who might have just the thing that the lad was looking for.

When after a bite to eat sitting in the sun beside the village green, the lad set off along the steep dirt path that led up into the hills. He found the goatherd sitting outside his ramshackle hut smoking a large brier pipe.

“Yes, lad. And what can I do for you?” the man asked.

“Kind sir, I'm a poor seeker with no more than a few coppers to my name, and in order that a Sufi should teach me, I agreed to obtain a finely-woven goat's hair rug so that he could give it to a friend in need.”

The goatherd looked at Robin quizzically. “And just what in tarnation has seeking and teaching and rugs got to do with me?”

“The weaver told me that if I could get her some goats wool, then she would help me.”

“Ah, so it's goat's wool you're after. Now that I can understand. Why didn't you just come out and say it and save everyone a good deal of time and grief, lad?”

“Well ...”

“As it happens, lad, and as you could see if you only opened your eyes, at the moment, I have no goats. The blessed wolves got every last one of them. Drove them right off the cliff, yonder.”

Robin sighed and he was about to walk away and make his slow, painful way home, when the goatherd spoke up again:

“But I'll tell you what, lad. Maybe we can make a deal?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Very well. If you can get me half a dozen goats, then I'll see what I can do. Now I can't say fairer than that.”

So, with renewed gusto, Robin made his way down to the hill and back to town. Tomorrow was the cattle market, so after getting himself some supper he went to bed early so that he could be up in good time the next day.

When he arrived at the market, he looked and he looked, but he could find no goats for sale. However, when he asked around, his search led him to the local tavern where a wizened old goat dealer was sitting disconsolately. He looked so dejected that Robin bought a drink for him and sat down at the table beside him.

“And what do you want, lad?” the goat dealer asked rather gruffly.

“Kind sir, I'm a poor seeker with no more than a few coppers to my name, and in order that a Sufi should teach me, I agreed to obtain a finely-woven goat's hair rug so that he could give it to a friend in need.”

“Seeker? Sufi? Teaching? Rugs? What have these things to do with me?” the man retorted, taking a large gulp of his ale.

So Robin explained that he needed half a dozen goats for the goatherd.

“Now you're talking,” the man nodded. “Of course, it'll cost you, like. I have a wife and my dear old mother to look after, you know.”

“Ah ...” the lad sighed.

“But happen we can come to an arrangement? All my fences are in a shocking, dilapidated condition and the goats keep getting out. Driving me round the bend it is. Can't sleep a wink for worrying about the poor critters. Anyhow, you fix the fences and I'll see what I can do.”

So Robin left the inn and went in search of materials with which to rebuild the goat dealer's fences. Eventually he came to the house of a carpenter whose name was Morris. But when he saw the man, he appeared even more dejected than the goat dealer had been.

“What is it you're after?” the man asked.

“Kind sir, I'm a poor seeker with no more than a few coppers to my name, and in order that a Sufi should teach me, I agreed to obtain a finely-woven goat's hair rug so that he could give it to a friend in need.”

The carpenter sighed deeply. “And what have these things to do with me?”

So Robin explained to the man about the goat dealer's dilapidated fences.

“Ah, now that I can understand,” the carpenter nodded. “Why didn't you say that in the first place instead of going all the way round the island?”

“So you'll help me, then?” Robin chirped up. “Though I have no money, perhaps we could arrive at a mutually acceptable arrangement?”

“Under normal circumstances, lad, I'm sure we could. But these days, I am so utterly despondent that it's all I can do to drag myself out of bed on a morning or eat, let alone work.”

“Why's that, if I might ask?” said Robin.

“Well, if the truth be known, lad, some time back I saw the most beautiful woman on God's Earth, and I fell madly and immediately in love with her. And now I simply can't live without her.”

“Who's that?” asked Robin.

“Alas, it's Princess Tamara,” the carpenter sighed. “And the sad truth is that though I'm so madly in love with her, she probably doesn't even remember me fixing the wheel on her carriage when it passed through.”

“Ah ...” replied Robin. He would have dearly loved to have been able to offer words of comfort to the man or to help make this most cherished wish of his come true, but he knew then that he could not help in any way. And if he could not help the carpenter, then his quest for the finely woven goat's wool rug had come to an abrupt and sad end. So, bidding the carpenter farewell, Robin set off back home.

And then, quite by chance, as he was crossing the market square, Robin caught sight of a notice pinned to a post. Seeing half a dozen other people standing there reading the notice, he went over to read what it said. The king himself was offering a reward of 1001 gold pieces to anyone who could cure his daughter, Princess Tamara, who had fallen ill some time ago. And when Robin quizzed the folk about the matter, it turned out that all the greatest doctors in the land had been consulted about the matter and they had all been to examine the Princess, but not one of them had been able to offer a cure.

All night long, Robin tossed and turned in his bed, unable to sleep. And in the end, he got up even before the sun had risen, made himself some breakfast and decided there and then that he simply had to see the Princess. Lord knows what he could do, but he could not deny that quiet yet strangely insistent voice inside him that said “You must go and see Princess Tamara!”

So, again collecting a few provisions for the long journey, Robin set out for the capital city. Fortunately for him, one or two folk were kind enough to let him hitch a lift on their carts at least part of the way, though by the time Robin arrived, his feet were still badly blistered and he was hobbling.

Despite worrying rumours to the effect that the King was becoming more and more impatient and vexed with the many would-be healers and gold diggers seeking to gain admittance to examine the Princess, Robin found himself at the very back of a long queue snaking around the palace. But eventually, just as the sun was setting, his turn came and, after being frisked for concealed weapons, he was escorted inside the palace, up a flight of gracefully sweeping marble stairs and along a long corridor lined with portraits of the royal family.

“Wait here,” the guard commanded, and the man knocked, stepped inside the room and announced his presence.

Moments later he re-appeared and ushered Robin inside.

Across the delicately decorated room stood a large four poster bed. The Princess lay there, whilst at her side sat the Queen. Across the room, half a dozen attendants waited impassively at a discrete distance.

Robin looked around the dimly-lit room, found a chair and took it over to the bedside and sat there for some time whilst he stilled his own rapidly beating heart and thought of what to do next.

He spoke to the Princess to introduce himself, but though her eyes were open, she continued to stare blankly up at the canopy above her bed and made no response.

“Well?” asked the Queen imperiously. “And what is your diagnosis, pray tell?”

Robin's heart skipped a beat. Saying nothing, he instinctively took hold of the princess's hand and held it, gently stroking it. He could feel a faint heartbeat, but by the look of the princess's ashen features and sunken, bloodshot eyes, she looked as if she was gradually fading away.

Not really knowing what he was doing, Robin made polite conversation with the Princess, hoping to elicit some response from her. And quite by chance, when he mentioned in passing the name of his home town, he distinctly felt the princess's pulse beat slightly faster than it had.

He remembered what the carpenter had said about fixing the wheel of her wagon when it had passed through the town and he mentioned the broken wagon wheel. Again, the princess's pulse beat changed and it became noticeably stronger.

And then, throwing caution to the wind, Robin told the Princess that he had just met the carpenter who had fixed the wagon wheel and that his name was Morris.

At the mention of the carpenter's name, the princess's pulse began to race and she stirred in her bed.

“Well?” demanded the Queen. “We haven't got all night, you know!”

“Your Majesty,” replied Robin, his own heart beating heavily inside his chest. “I do believe that the princess's illness is not of the body but of the heart.”

He turned back to Princess Tamara and, taking a deep breath, he told her all about the carpenter and of the man's great love for her.

At that that moment, tears of joy welled up in the princess's eyes and began to stream down her face, and – miracle of miracles – the illness was ended.

And so it was that a messenger was sent through the night with instructions to bring the carpenter back to the palace without delay.

Within days Morris and Princess Tamara were married, and went on to live a wonderful life together and to eventually succeed to the throne of the kingdom.

Such was Morris' gratitude to Robin that one of the very first things he did was to tear down the goat dealer's fences and rebuild new, strong ones.

And in turn, the goat dealer was more than happy to let Robin have six of his finest goats. Robin drove the goats up into the hills and gave them to the goatherd and he in turn gave the lad two bales of the finest goat's wool. So Robin took the wool to the wool dyer and she gave him some small bales of wool that she'd already dyed. He took the dyed wool to the spinner and she gave him some bobbins of the most delicate spun wool. Then he took the wool to the weaver and she gave him the finest goat's wool rug he had ever seen.

Robin did think that it made more sense to simply give the rug to the Sufi, but remembering his bargain with the carpet dealer at the local bazaar, he took it to him instead.

And when the carpet dealer saw the finely-woven rug that Robin had brought him, he smiled broadly – and in that instant, Robin saw that the carpet dealer was none other than the Sufi who had originally sent him off on his long quest.

~~~O~~~

Rocky had been out of hospital for three or four weeks when his father decided to broach the subject over a drink.

“By the way, I had a change of heart about your liaison with Donna. I didn't like to say anything before and worry you. Anyhow, I've come to the conclusion that the relationship is unhealthy for you.”

“You what?”

“I've taken the liberty of writing to Donna. I made a note of the address. And I've told her that in view of your condition, you will be having nothing more to do with her.”

“You didn't! Why you fucking ...”

“Richard David. Language!” his mother gasped.

“... Why you idiot. That's precisely what Donna's mother did when I was going out with her. And that's precisely the reason she ended up getting involved with a bad bunch of smoothies and ended up on H. If she hadn't we might still be together now. And both be in better health.”

“And who's going to help get her off the heroin and away from the streets if not me, her friend?” he demanded.

There was an embarrassed silence.

“Dad, if you got hooked on drugs, you might end up finding all sorts of unsavoury ways of funding your habit.”

“Now listen, I wouldn't get hooked in the first place, mate, now let's make one thing clear.”

Rocky reached behind him to the stack of cigarette packets on the mantelpiece. He picked them up and dumped them in front of his father. “What is it: forty a day?”

“Sixty more like,” his mother corrected.

“Jeez.”

“Oh, come on: that's altogether different. What harm is there in having a fag and the odd short?”

“And that's your third drink of the evening.”

“Well, yes, I've cut down considerably since ...”

Rocky shook his head sadly.

“What would you do to get by in London?”

“Well, first off I'd get myself a decent job.”

“Oh, like menial labour, you mean? And when you'd spent your wages on heroin, what would you eat, what would you wear, where would you sleep, eh? You have no fucking idea, have you, Dad? Not a fucking clue.”

A sudden realization seemed to dawn on his father. Then finally he spoke up. “I'm sorry. You're right. I've done the wrong thing, haven't I? And there's no way of undoing it. Your mother posted the letter this morning on her way to the grocer's.”

Rocky nodded solemnly.

“You see?” his mother suddenly spoke up. “I tried to tell you, but you just weren't listening, were you, George Henry? You never do listen to me.”

Father didn't know which way to look.

His mother fished in her purse.

“So, you'll both be happy to know that I didn't post the letter as you requested.”

She tossed the stamped envelope back to father.

“Oh, thank the good Lord.”

“No, on this occasion you can thank me, George Henry. I had a feeling that you might regret sending that letter, and again my hunch was correct.”

“Problem solved. Thank you, pet. Sorry, son,” he said, breathing a sigh of relief and giving Mum a peck on the cheek. And with no further ado, he consigned the letter to the coal fire burning in the hearth. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

Then: “Don't worry: I shan't make the same mistake twice.”

“Don't fret about it, Dad,” Rocky replied, making an effort to calm himself. “I've made more than my fair share of mistakes over the years.”

“You will be careful, though, won't you? Promise your old dad?”

“Yes, I promise. If by chance I tell a lie, cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Ooh, don't say that,” his mother shuddered. “Gives me the willies, that saying.”

“Why?”

“Well, it's tempting fate.”

“Why? I mean, why does it give you the willies, Mum?”

“Oh, it goes a long way back, I suppose. One of my little school friends said that one day and it turned out she had been lying. The very next day she fell ill and spent three months in hospital. That kind of thing you don't easily forget, nor brush off lightly.”

16. Weiqi

Rocky sat at his IBM-PC, busily typing away. Having read the latest Sufi offering from Idries Shah, a stupendous realization had struck him in a dream in the depths of the night, and he was eager to pass on the gist of it to Donna, whilst it still remained fresh in his psyche. She was the only friend in the world whom he knew personally who had shared his interest in things mystical, short of Shah and Lessing whom he'd not as yet met.

Don't worry, this is just a theme I'm working on for a work of pure fiction. No need to call in the men in white coats ...

He added that caveat just in case she might think he was off his rocker. There was a gossamer-thin divide – a bit like walking a tightrope – between genius and insanity. And he tended to err on the side of insanity. A joker short of a full deck, some might say.

Alas Donna, as you already know, you won't find out the true essence of the Sufi Way in an Encyclopaedia Britannica article. These supposed experts still seem to be labouring under the misapprehension that a Sufi is a pantheistic Moslem mystic. A case of the blind men feeling the elephant in the dark, as it were.

Have you heard that old story?

Six men hear about an outlandish creature called an elephant that has come to a nearby town with a travelling circus. Eager to find out more, in the dead of night they sneak into the large tent where the animal has been chained. It's pitch dark in the tent and all they cannot see the elephant, all they can do is use their touch.

“It's a long, flexible hose,” the first declares, feeling its trunk.

“No, it's a tall pillar,” said the second, touching a stout leg.

“A barrel,” declared a third, having felt its round belly.

“A serpent!” said a fourth, jumping back as he touched its tail.

“Nonsense, it's a fan,” declared the fifth, feeling the breeze from one of the elephant's large ears.

“You're all wrong, it's a spear,” said the sixth, touching the sharp end of a tusk.

When they got back to the village, word got round about their expedition and they were accosted by their friends and neighbours. But when the men told them what they'd found, the crowd fell into a fierce quarrel about which of the men had been right.

You're more likely to stumble across the Way in the pages of a science fiction novel or perhaps, if you're in a position to sort out the meagre wheat from the voluminous chaff, you might read about the vicissitudes of awakening to the truth in the annals of some journal on psychiatry. Or perhaps you might find something of the nature of this lark codified in the likes of the Chinese board game Weiqi, which we call Go.

However, you may come across hints of what it's really all about in such an article and if you follow up on the lead and read some of the materials, the teaching tales in particular, one day the penny may drop (and not in an intellectual or emotional or obvious fashion) – not least that the sufis known as Sufis and in their capacity as custodians of the tradition, represent only one tiny (though vitally important) fraction of what is a timeless and global effort.

The fact is, we are at war and you can perhaps liken our dire situation to being in Nazi-occupied France. Of the few who are really in the know, there can never be enough, and even those on the periphery who are interested in the work are surrounded by and large by collaborators, grossly outnumbered, greatly hampered by restrictions and adverse environmental factors, and more importantly, contaminated to a greater or lesser degree. Untouchable, if you like.

Our friends the Sufis might refer to the waters having been changed, but it's actually nothing new.

But what to do about it? In order to find new aspirants, you have several options (other than opt out, which actually isn't really an option).

You can keep your head down and carry out your work secretly and alone, revealing to nobody else what you're really about. Perhaps adopting the disguise of a vagrant, a madman, a simple country bumpkin, so that they might be just sidelined or considered irrelevant. Or even someone whom most people would think had been well nobbled and hence largely left alone, like a politician or a lawyer.

Or, like the public Sufi teachers, knowing that you run the risk of being “nobbled” sooner or later, but also appreciating the need to keep the traditions alive and the need to bring in fresh blood with each new generation, you can either present the work to the public actually as the work (as an obvious religious or spiritual path, for example). Or else in a more disguised form, the truth of which may only become apparent much later, when that phase of the work is complete and the workshop can be or already has been dismantled. Shah was accused by some of spilling the beans, of revealing secrets, but you can be sure that he only did this in cases where the dynamic had already safely moved on.

Or you can even sit back and wait for folk to awaken with a little prompting and find their own way to you, when they've reached the stage when they can intuitively recognize one-another's inner being and know who is a friend and who is not.

You can set up or maintain some secretive organization which closely vets potential members and goes through a very lengthy induction and development process, reserving its deeper secrets until the administration is as certain as can be that the prospect has been decontaminated or reconditioned and has not been “got at” and hence presents no danger to the group or to the dynamic. Such groups may actually meet in a relatively open way, perhaps with grades of inner circles, presenting an altogether different face to the public that appears to bear no resemblance at all to the actual avowed aims. In other words, adopting an elaborate and unexpected camouflage.

Others may work in specially isolated cells, never meeting as a group, and be on the look out for signs of potential and signs of awakening amongst the masses. It may be their task to attempt to stimulate individuals or to do what they can to help those who have potential but who have been “got at” and will often pass the prospects on to other specialist bodies set up to help induct such prospects or to help alleviate their problems. Intervening, perhaps, by guiding them to some educational institution, workplace or rehabilitation facility where the friends maintain a discreet presence.

But like their fellows they have to go to inordinate lengths to ensure that anyone brought into the work is thoroughly processed before being let anywhere near sensitive areas of the work or near key individuals. One year, ten years, twenty? Never perhaps: many are called but few are chosen, as the saying goes. This process will take however long it takes and the results cannot be guaranteed. These workers and their groups ever run the risk of being infiltrated or contaminated in some way and, in such cases, from time to time individuals have to be isolated and groups wound-up and the dynamic moves ever on. Like a yeast in society. A lot of the work is unconsciously channelled, too.

It's easy to become blinded by the sight of a lighthouse and miss those who come bearing tiny candles. Or solar powered torches. Or even a ripe banana. What the Sufis might call mistaking the container for the content.

Fancy a game of Weiqi or a cup of tea, anyone?

With all my love and a little tongue in cheek,

Rocky.

xxx

p.s. This email will self-destruct in thirty seconds.

After making a few editorial changes, Rocky printed out the document on his dot matrix printer. He noticed a glaring spelling mistake half way through the printout, which seemed to be the Sod's Law of the word processing world, and had to reprint a page, then he neatly folded it and stuffed it in an envelope. He was on the point of dashing up the road to the postbox when it suddenly occurred to him that perhaps now was the time that he wrote again to the Sufis. This realization he'd had might be an important development and perhaps it would be best to keep them posted and let them know. It might mean something to them, too. So he turned his PC on again and cobbled together a second letter which incorporated most of the material he'd just written to Donna. This done, and a few more screwed up balls of paper later, he set off to post the letters, giving them both a kiss for good luck as he pushed them through the slot, and wishing them Godspeed.

It was only then that Rocky felt a wave of embarrassment waft over him as it occurred to him that from what he'd written to the Sufis, Shah might be led to conclude that he actually was off his rocker. Oh well, if that's the way it was, then that's the way it was. He had been burning the candle at both ends of late, after all. Better ease up a bit. Best to find out the truth, however painful, than to labour under his own misapprehensions.

When he got back home, Rocky fished one of the screwed up balls of paper out of the waste-paper bin and re-read the first few opening paragraphs. Now there's a thought! If nothing else, he now had some ideas that might bring fresh spice to that old novel he'd been struggling with all this time. Three birds with one stone. Thank you Shah, you're a ruddy marvel.

You're welcome, came a voice.

And then another thought struck him as he sat there reviewing the ups and downs of his life. It was so clear now all of a sudden, he thought, as tears welled up in his eyes, just how seriously screwed up he'd been and how far he'd strayed from the path. How many people he had hurt in one way or another. How many crossed words, like kisses of betrayal, that he could not take back. Stabbed in the heart by the double-edged sword of Truth, he was mortified. Mineral, vegetable, animal ... He didn't really warrant the label human, let alone dervish. So this is what had been secretly consuming his energy and his being all the time.

He could see it now: pissing himself in the church. The one night stand with some ugly chick from Hastings and the shame he felt the following day. The lies he repeatedly told his parents, blaming others instead of having the courage to take responsibility himself and own up to his impropriety. Screwing around in class. Spraying his inartistic tag “Mutant 666” on the walls in town and chalking it on the walls at school. The many times later that he'd reeled home, blind drunk, pissing in alleyways, puking his guts up in the loo and taking out his frustration on the dog. Not to mention a hundred and one other moments guaranteed to make one squirm in embarrassment. He could have told J.D. Salinger, who'd written The Catcher in the Rye, something about adolescent angst.

Dear Jesus: there, in spite of the grace of God, went he.

Fortunately the depression that followed this revelation passed away over the next few days and when he turned his hand to the book, seeing it with fresh eyes, the work began to take on a whole new dimension. One thing he noticed was that whilst he'd grown up laboriously working things out and thinking them through in a very logical and clinical manner like his father, which took away any truly creative spark, now he seemed to be acting and writing more spontaneously. I mean, how could you ride a bike if you had to think about each action. How could you play beautiful music in such a mechanical manner?

It was as if some hidden hand were guiding his fingers as they typed away, like a muse. He'd discovered, perhaps, that thinking could take care of itself without his having to intervene. He didn't have to verbalize everything and first run it past the committee and its censors for approval before committing himself. Sure, he'd still go back over the work afterwards, but not in a way that would interfere with the primary creative flow. Very often even his agile typing fingers couldn't keep up with the thoughts and he'd resort instead to his own brand of pidgin shorthand, skipping most vowels and scrawling only the consonants.

~~~O~~~

Despite still writing to Donna, he'd met a girl on the course. It was Jade's home city and she showed him round all the best pubs and cultural sights. At first they met up during free periods and lunch breaks and later on an evening and weekend. What had begun as an acquaintance became a firm friendship and, before he knew what was happening, he was in the grip of a whirlwind romance.

He was reminded of the old joke in which when God had created man, in his wisdom he'd provided him with a wonderful appendage between his legs. That was the good news. The bad news was that the organ had to share its blood supply with the brain and there wasn't enough blood to go around. So when the blood went to the brain, the organ shrank. And when the appendage grew, it deprived the rational faculties of their supply. It wasn't a perfect analogy, of course, but as with many good jokes, there was a certain degree of truth, perhaps irony in those words.

They were married on a Saturday, just the two of them plus a couple of witnesses drummed up from the class, and only told his parents the next time he took her down to Wycliffe-on-Sea. When he suddenly announced to his parents that they'd been married, there was a stony silence. A pregnant pause, you might call it. Then later, when his father accosted him outside in the back yard, it turned out this was precisely what his parents were thinking: that he must have got Jade pregnant. Of course, he explained that this was not the case, which was something of a relief to his father, but you could tell that neither his father nor his mother at all approved of their union. Let alone the fact that they hadn't been invited to the makeshift wedding. To them, that was perhaps the most unforgivable act.

“You mark my words, George Henry,” he overheard his mother chuntering to herself in the kitchen. “That woman is trouble.”

And, true to form, what was Rocky's crowning glory and was to have been something to make his parents proud, was ended abruptly a mere six months later. They had a raging argument one morning and for the rest of the day, during which they skipped all classes, Jade launched into one attack after another, having clearly been saving up her anger like a person might save up books of Green Shield savings stamps to cash them all in at once to purchase a new toaster. And, boy, was he toasted.

The next day and despite the fact that their shared flat was actually in his name, he gathered up his things from the hallway where Jade had tossed them, packed them away in his haversack, and left the city for good. He quit the English literature course without warning and caught the first train home. Then a couple of weeks later, he drove over in Harry's van to pick up his IBM-PC and a few other possessions that he hadn't been able to take with him. Unable to look Jade in the face any more, he stayed outside in the van while Harry negotiated with her.

It was his mother's reaction that troubled him the most. His father was quite pragmatic and philosophical about the whole affair (not having been told as yet that Rocky had quit the course), but his mother could not contain herself and blurted out something along the lines of “Well, I won't say that I told you so,” whilst telling him all the same.

Anyhow, at the cost of an arm and a leg (as the finances had been in joint names, Jade was being particularly awkward and the education board also demanded a partial refund of his grant), the divorce finally went through without having to resort to solicitors and another sordid chapter in Rocky's life was ended. And bloody good riddance too. Well, when he said ended, he meant ended in a practical way. As for the emotional fallout, that was to haunt him for some time, mostly because of his feelings of having let the family down. One way or another, he'd nobbled himself good and proper and again he'd become what that interviewer at the poly had rather shrewdly termed “a wayward soul”, with another checker or two to add to his decidedly unimpressive curriculum vitae.

“Employment Exchange for you on Monday,” his father had told him when he found out about the course. “If you're going to stay here, you're going to have to pay your way, young man. You can't expect your mother and me to support you.”

Back in the bad books, eh?

Well, at least he could show off his skill on the IBM-PC, printing out his résumé. As it turned out, when he showed his CV to the people at the job centre, they noted his interest in computers and, having decided that secretarial work was more of a woman's job than a man's, they tried to fix him up with interviews for several data entry posts. That's another way of saying punching in numbers on a keypad, for which he was eminently not qualified. Alas, they had no openings for budding authors, let alone wannabe mystics.

Still, a few games of Rummy or Canasta on an evening in front of the coal fire with his folks and the atmosphere became tolerable again. Like most parents, they only wanted the best for him, really. It's just that they sometimes had a funny way of showing it. But then, who was he to talk?

A few weeks later, after being sent on a course that seemed to be designed for juvenile delinquents and lapsed alcoholics, Rocky at last found himself a job pumping petrol at a local garage. He had moved out of his parents into a small flat in the next street. By now, the traditional seaside holiday was going out of favour, especially with new resorts opening up in Spain, and a lot of the smaller private guest houses which had offered bed and breakfast were being converted into blocks of flats. Some of the flats were for sale, but by and large they were rented out and just about affordable on his wage, providing that he avoided temptation and stuck to his budget.

~~~O~~~

When Hendrick received the news of Rhodes' return to Wycliffe-on-Sea and his meteoric fall from grace, he was jubilant. “I must pay the poor sod a visit at the garage and see for myself,” he laughed.

17. It never rains ...

Rocky had turned up to work as usual at the local garage, pumping petrol. As the forecourt of the premises were partly under cover, the local fire and health and safety authorities were adamant that they couldn't convert the garage to self-service and so an attendant had to be on duty to look after the customers as they queued up. Not only did they want fuel, many of them expected their oil and water to be checked, their windscreen wiped, even their tyres blown up. Still, Rodney, the foreman, said that the regulars were always good to them at Christmas. A little cheekily, perhaps, he'd decorate an old biscuit tin and place it on top of one of the pumps for tips.

As with other jobs, there were perks. At the garage this involved pouring people's oil in for them and putting the empty bottle in the bin before all the oil had left the sides and bottom of the bottle. Then, when nobody was looking, they'd take the can round the back and place it upside down in a large plastic funnel and leave it to drain away into a bucket. And every now and again, they'd collect enough to refill one of the oil bottles, carefully replacing the foil cap so that customers wouldn't realize that it had been opened. When it sold, they pocketed the money.

At the bar where he'd worked on the sea front, they also ran a few scams. One was to empty the drip trays and even, on occasion, leftovers from the bar and tables into a bucket, then carefully depressurize and unscrew the top of a keg and pour the slops back in. Sometimes the slops went into the shandy machine and if it came out looking dark, they'd say it was bitter or mild shandy; if it came out looking light, they'd say it was lager. The second scam was to maintain a large bottle of brandy with a quality label on it in the bar and secretly top it up with a cheaper brand. Your best bet, and the recommended action, was to drink whatever beer the manager was drinking at the time. Nobody messed with his tipple. He was a bit of a bruiser and one night whilst throwing out a stroppy punter, the fellow “accidentally” fell down a flight of stairs in a drunken stupor, scraping his face on the pebble-dashed walls on the way down, and ended up at the local Accident and Emergency department.

Almost as soon as Rocky got into work that day, the manager of the garage came out and took him aside. Apparently his takings had been down again over the weekend and as a result, all three of the workers would have money docked from their meagre wages. This happened with annoying regularity and was a bit of a swindle as this would mean that yet again they'd be going away with less than the minimum permitted wage.

The way it worked at the garage, the three of them did overlapping shifts, opening at seven in the morning and closing up at ten at night. That meant that one could man the pumps whilst another carried out other tasks, such as cleaning the showroom windows. It was rather strange that the foreman's takings were always either spot on or up and so many of the others who took the job found that their own takings were so often down. It wasn't as if he was innumerate, after all. He'd taken “A” Level maths. Okay, admittedly he didn't find it easy stopping short of the mark on the meter and rounding up costs so that they earned odd pence throughout the day, but his arithmetic was pretty good.

First thing tomorrow, Rocky decided on the spot, he'd go down the Job Centre and see if he could find anything more suitable, and he'd have a look in the Evening Herald, the local newspaper, too. He wasn't going to put up with this shit.

Mr. Frobisher, the manager, pipped him to the post. 'I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to let you go, Richard,' he told him. “You can either work a week's notice and be paid for it, or you can leave mid-week unpaid. It's no problem, as I have a young lad lined up and he can start first thing on Wednesday. It's your call.”

Well, that was a bit of a blow.

“Either way, I'll give you a decent enough reference, Richard. I wouldn't want to blemish your record unnecessarily.”

“Well, that's magnanimous of you, thanks Mr. Frobisher. But when I go back to the job centre, I'll still have to tell them I've been fired.”

“How long have you been here? Twelve weeks? Let's tell them that you were on a three month trial and that, alas, there's no job at the end of it, eh?”

“Thanks, that would help. I'll work up to Tuesday evening, then I'll be out of your hair.”

When he told Rodney, the foreman, he shook his head. “Well, I'm sorry to hear that you're leaving, Rocky. As far as I'm concerned, it's been good having you working here; but I can't say I'm surprised. Don't quote me on this, but I gather that when they take someone on from the Job Centre, they get some kind of financial benefit. That's why they keep taking so many people on and then letting them go. They'd probably get paid if they took you on full time, but that would only be a one-off. If you like, I could have a word with old Frosty Face and see if I can get him to change his mind ...”

“That's kind of you, Rodney, but no thanks. This place has given me a bad taste in my mouth.”

Fuck it all. As Harry would say: “It never rains but what it pisses down.”

As he said those words, a song sprang instantly to mind, from Monty Python's Life of Brian: about always looking on the bright side of life. Yes, looking on the bright side, he was grateful for the work while it had lasted.

~~~O~~~

Rocky's day was somewhat brightened later on by a surprise invitation out to the club from his father. They usually met on a Wednesday evening to play pool, but on this occasion they were meeting on Monday night instead, as the club would be shut mid-week whilst a new bar was installed and other changes made to the seating arrangement.

There wasn't a league match on that week, so they were just having an informal get-together to shoot a few games of pool, have a drink and a natter, which sounded pretty enjoyable. Rocky never had been able to judge the angles when attempting to pot a ball, not that he'd put much effort into practising the art, but he could think of worse ways of filling an evening. Mum would be going along, too, of course, so he could help to keep her company whilst his father was elsewhere performing feats on the green cloth. Chances were that one or two other women would be there, too, so she shouldn't feel too much of a wallflower. If the truth were told, he could do with her company, too, as they were both shrinking violets in the company of strangers. Anyhow, the important thing was that these days, the three of them were getting along with one-another so much better. After his period of teenage rebellion, it was good to get to know them properly, adult to adult, and he had some ground to make up for that misspent youth. Yes, those memories were tinged with sadness and remorse. Looking back he could see now how patient and caring and his parents had been to him. Even though they had so little themselves, they'd never let him go short. And Ronald always had time for him, so often going out of his way to be there when he was needed. Sure, they weren't perfect, but then who was? He could hardly talk.

Some days, when he was in a blue mood and overcome with tears, Rocky wondered if he'd ever be able to make it up to them.

The evening had started off well enough, his dad insisting on paying for the round of drinks.

“No, it's my treat,” he'd told Rocky. “We don't have so many outgoings these days and it's a pleasure to help out. After all, you can't take it with you when you go.”

Rocky sometimes wondered what you did take with you when you left this mortal coil. Love, lessons well learnt and wisdom accumulated, hopefully. Certainly, it would be less wasteful if there was another life after this, though at times he did wonder if the only sane way out would be to meet with oblivion rather than eternal life. Was it necessary to forget with each rebirth? Was that the only way folk could handle the endless round?

His father had added Rocky's name to the hat at the start of the evening, when most of the team were assembled, and by chance he was drawn to partner his father against two of the others in a game of doubles. With classic beginners luck, Rocky started off my sinking three of the striped balls with one cannon, which fair tickled his old man, I can tell you. Though a below-average novice, this had been one of those moments when he'd stood aside and allowed “something else” or someone else with altogether greater finesse and skill to take the shot for him, and he knew that it was going to be a good shot before his cue even struck the ball.

Now that's what I call team work, that by now familiar voice whispered in his ear. This truly was a magic moment.

Then: Magic moment, young man? This is how it should be, and could be, every single moment of your waking life, if you just let it be.

And then – right out of the blue – the game and the whole evening suddenly took on an altogether different complexion. One of the team members had arrived late as he had been working overtime in his office prior to a stocktaking and when he saw the man, Rocky instantly recognized him. It was Michael Henderson, and he'd been in Rocky's year at school.

“Hey, Michael, how are you doing?” he smiled and went up to have a quick word after taking his turn.

“What are you doing here?” Michael asked. “Oh I see, you must be George's Rhodes' son. Richard isn't it?”

“That's right.”

“As I recall, you were an absolute ape at school.”

The way Henderson said that, Rocky could feel the contempt and the enmity behind the words. A wave of fear and embarrassment surged through his body and the colour drained from his face.

“And you were high on drugs most of the time.”

“Yes, I'm sorry,” he stammered. “I was a mess in those days.”

“So what are you doing now?” the man asked.

“I'm between jobs at the moment. Pumping petrol on a garage forecourt.”

“Well, I can't say I'm surprised. I hear you made a total mess of your exams.”

Boy, this guy was direct. He sure didn't pull his punches. Did things really boil down to a simple, direct, essential matter of black and white when all else was said and done?

“Again, that was a while back. I've been to college studying English literature and straightened my life out since then. So, what are you doing now, Michael?”

The man puffed out his chest. “Oh, I'm the general manager of a printing works. And there's talk about taking me onto the Board of Directors.”

“Hey, that's great. I'm pleased for you,” Rocky smiled.

“Your go, sunshine,” his father called from the table.

“Anyhow, got to dash. It's been nice talking to you, Michael.”

As Rocky walked back toward the table, he could feel his legs wobbling beneath him and as he lined up his cue and managed a foul shot, he wished that a hole would open up beneath his feet and swallow him up. He felt utterly shell-shocked.

It struck him then, as he played one poor shot after another, that there was a definite and unwritten link between one's ability to excel in a competitive game or sport and the work one had carried out on oneself. Clearly, he had a lot more work to do to do to straighten himself out. Maybe the pool team was the working man's Masonic Lodge and the game a training course in its own right? Maybe the whole world was a part of the training? Just then it seemed to Rocky as if the world operated an alternative, clandestine system of justice. There seemed to be some kind of unseen hierarchy at work, with its own pecking order. And boy, had he been pecked that night. It was as if he'd overstepped the mark and had to be brought down a peg or two.

That awful, gut-wrenching feeling accompanied him and gnawed at him all that evening and well into the night until he finally fell asleep, while Michael Henderson probably hadn't given the matter another thought. And the occasional memory of that fateful encounter would plague his conscience for many years to come. Henderson and his kind simply had no idea.

Welcome to the school of hard knocks, kid, said that all-too-familiar voice in his head.

Okay, okay, he told himself. Please don't beat up on me, I'm already feeling rather fragile.

You know, Richard, you've done an astonishing job of making all these connections and describing the intricacies of the system. You could call this the context and the container. But you still have yet to fully get to grips with the actual content and to grips with the process.

Isn't there prana, as well? Rocky asked.

Yes, that's a good point, Rocky, There is also the life force or breath. It's all-pervading, though it can be concentrated in certain places, people and even inanimate objects – or equally lacking. So perhaps we could take it as read that this life force is inherent in the content and process.

But remember, these are just descriptive words. The map is not the territory, merely a representation of it.

Can I quote you on that? he enquired, reaching for his notepad and pen to add it to the “cool ideas” section at the back.

As you're already aware, the voice continued, masturbation – be it intellectual, emotional or otherwise – is a rather poor substitute for the experience of real love.

He scribbled away on his pad whilst the memory of this encounter was still fresh in his mind.

With apologies for the repetition, what I have to say to you, Rocky, and is not for your gratification – be it intellectual, emotional or otherwise – it is partly for your self-edification. But more than anything, it is designed to provide you with a catalyst for self-change.

Yes, I see what you mean.

Knowing the value of pi or chanting it in one's head is not the same as the art of drawing a circle.

True enough.

And equally, as beautiful and useful as the numerical representation of pi may be, this is still far, far removed from actually working in a circle. You're bound by all these words and ideas, Rocky. At best they may well serve as a salutary warning to others. But as for you, you need to leave these things at the door and step into the light. Then you may reach a stage at which you can look back at all these words and ideas and decide which, if any of these things would help others reach that light. Until then, my friend, your formulations – however appealing and however well thought out they undoubtedly are – are neither use nor ornament, as your dear father would say. Of use to neither man nor beast.

The only thing that really counts right now is work on your own self – and this appears to be the last thing that you are prepared to fully engage in. You'd rather spend your whole pitiful existence going all round the island, time and time again, until you are thoroughly sick and nauseous, killing yourself to live, rather than that one simple, essential task.

So, you're a rocket scientist, as one of your contemporary songwriters has written. Well, you know, that don't impress me much, neither, if you'll forgive the vernacular.

The only thing that I can say in your favour is that, – boy! – do you have stamina and staying power. True enough, that is one sign of a thoroughbred, but then the self-same thing might equally be said of a donkey or a mule.

And, the voice added, it's the same thing with all that tobacco you're smoking, or devil's weed as it might be more appropriately termed. So think on that, young man. Think on that.

Later that day, with those fateful words still smouldering in his ear, Rocky commandeered a large black sack from the cupboard under the kitchen sink and, tearing each sheet in half as he went through his bulging ring binder to ensure that he couldn't change his mind and retrieve the papers later, he consigned his beloved novel and the backup copy on his computer diskettes to the bin. Only then did Rocky cast his mind back to the tarot reading that Colin had given him at the party and recall that at the spiritualist meeting, Shirley had predicted that this very thing would happen. Yet Shah had advised leaving such things behind. Colin's words had been so full of hope at the time, but now they did indeed seem such a distant possibility.

It was a solemn occasion and he was sad at the loss, of course, realizing that he'd suffered yet another defeat. Perhaps you might call it self-defeating?

You know, we worry about the Bomb, a thought interceded, and yet just look around: there are millions of people out there, just like you and me, with their thumb on the self-destruct button.

Who wouldn't be angry, given the effort that had been put into the work. But the effort had been misguided. Deep down he knew that the novel hadn't been progressing the way he would have liked. It was as if the characters and their plots had a will of their own and belligerently refused to follow any kind of sensible, organized, saleable plot line. You could say that what he'd written thus far was an utter shambles, which spoke volumes for the sorry state of his own inner being.

Don't torture yourself, the voice advised. If you fall down seven times, just be sure to pick yourself up eight times. Pick yourself up, brush yourself down and, since the Foe is behind you, again move on. Don't give him the satisfaction of ever again catching up. Eventually, there will come a time when you have risen sufficiently high that the Foe can no longer reach you, so take heart in that bright prospect.

Just then, as he turned on his transistor radio, he felt that so-familiar yet almost forgotten tingle. It was Bob Marley, right on cue, singing the lilting reggae number Three Little Birds: telling him not to worry, as everything was going to be all right.

God, how he loved that synchronicity, ever-patiently and non-judgementally restoring his wavering faith in destiny and the divine. And straight after that came another soulful favourite of his: Van Morrison singing Warm Love. That was Donna's favourite track of all time. He couldn't listen to that song now without making the connection and tears welling up in his eyes.

18. On the way back up

It was Tuesday and Rocky was only a couple of hours away from finishing his last shift at the garage. Rodney had just arrived and had set him about sweeping up the forecourt. There was a lot of sand about, mopping up spilt oil. Meanwhile, making the most of a lull in the traffic, the foreman had gone off to fill up the kettle for a welcome brew. He was a strange old fellow, a bit of a stickler, yet kind at heart. As for politics, however, best steer clear: Rodney didn't care for the post-war world and he was convinced that they'd have been a lot better off had Hitler invaded and won the war. According to Rodney, we shouldn't be sending famine relief to the likes of Africa. To him, the Africans were little more than over-breeding cattle and we should let nature take its course.

For his part, though Rocky had supported the Conservatives in his childhood because that was his parents' politics, he'd developed more Liberal leanings. Unlike Ray, however, who even had his own copy of Chairman Mao's Little Red Book and a Che Guevara t-shirt, he'd never been taken by the desire to become a yippie (a politically active hippie), nor much fancied the idea of starting a communist or socialist revolution. I mean, for crying out loud: what would happen to their luxury hippie lifestyle under the likes of Joe Stalin or Mao Tsetung or Fidel Castro? Of course, that was before the Iron Lady, Margaret Thatcher, came to power in the wake of national disaster, and before the punk band the Sex Pistols emerged to yell “God save the Queen and the fascist regime.” That angry backlash drove another nail into the coffin of the Kabin Klub and marked the end of the noble dreams of world peace and love of his hippie freak generation. Well, at least that aspiration would live on in the otherwise superficial lives of the pageant beauty queens, he mused.

Rocky was awoken from his reverie by a discreet cough behind him. “I thought you were a study in stiff life for the moment,” a voice told him.

Bugger me, it was Mr. Scott, his old headmaster, wearing a straw hat, sports jacket, grey flannel slacks and his old school tie. He looked as if he were about to umpire a cricket match.

“Sorry, I was miles away,” Rocky apologized, leaning his broom against the wall. “Hi Mr. Scott, long time no see.”

“Well, I needn't ask what you're up to these days, need I?” the man noted.

“It keeps me off the streets and out of the dole queue,” Rocky apologized. “And what brings you here? Are you still at the school?”

“No, I'm out of it now, thank God. Retired early. My good lady is still working, though.”

“Ah yes, I remember having that conversation with one of my old teachers one night at Blakey's, a pub up town. I gather they've brought in a hatchet man to replace you and made lots of sweeping changes.”

“Yes, indeed. And, as they say, the natives are restless. Change for the sake of change. Not my cup of tea at all, I can tell you. We built up a fine tradition at that school, and it's all being torn down willy-nilly.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” he commiserated. Then: “What do you mean by saying that the natives are restless?”

Mr. Scott smiled and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Well, Rhodes, it's an old Hollywood cliché which used to appear when the hero suddenly notices all those people he's been taking for granted all this time are very unhappy and there's trouble brewing. But he doesn't know when, where or how. By the time he figures it out, it's too late. Usually, the subscript is: if his head hadn't been so far up his anal orifice, he'd have seen it coming, if you'll forgive my use of the vernacular.”

There seemed to be a strange urgency in what the headmaster had just told him.

“Sounds like that would make a good title for a book about the ruddy English,” Rocky mused.

“Good gracious, you stole the thoughts out of my own head,” the man gasped. “Strangely enough, there's a writer friend of mine who's recently had that self-same idea. Fellow by the name of Shah. Bit of a guru type, only he doesn't like being seen as a guru, if you catch my meaning.”

It was Rocky's turn to smile. “Now that's a strange coincidence, Mr. Scott. You see I came across Idries Shah's seminal work The Sufis a few years back in a secondhand bookshop, quite by chance. Well, quite by design, if the truth be told. And I've been studying his works ever since.”

“You surprise me, Rhodes. You'll forgive me, but I didn't have you down as the studious, mystical type. I thought you'd be into motorcycle mechanics or running some hippie commune. That's one thing I did note about you, and wrote in your last report, as I recall: will excel in a field in which he is wholeheartedly devoted, the corollary being that if your heart wasn't in something, then your work would be abysmal. Now was I right?”

Rocky nodded. “Yes, that pretty much sums me up,” he admitted. And then he recalled the reply that the Sufis had sent him: I don't think I need to tell you that half-hearted study does nobody any good. Tell me about it. That was the reason he had pumped so much effort into his work, perhaps obsessively so.

“Tell me, how's that brother of yours? Ronald, wasn't it? Taught him a few years before you. Off to University to study physics as I recall.”

“He went on to do his doctorate,” Rocky told the man. “And now he works for some atomic energy agency.”

“My word, always was a high-flyer that one. Bright as a polished brass button. Be sure to give him my regards when you next see him, won't you?”

“Sure,” he lied. There was no point in telling Ronald, as he was firmly of the opinion that “those who can, do, and those who can't teach” and he had similar arrogant and sadly misguided things to say about those who worked in the National Health Service.

“And what are you doing these days, Rhodes? I can't imagine this menial toil holding your attention and interest beyond the first day.”

“Well, I was studying English literature,” he sighed. “And I've been writing a novel.”

“Splendid. Good to see you're keeping your mind active. You know, despite the jeans and the long hair and all that other camouflage, you always struck me as a sentient human being, Rhodes. Never judge a book by its cover, that's my motto.”

Then: “I guess we all have to conform in one way or another – or at least be seen to be conforming – if we are to survive in this world, Rhodes. Winners and losers. Dog eat dog. Black and white. Just like in the Stone Age, hey what?”

“Anyway, lovely to see you again. Must dash: got to meet the good lady after work. Be seeing you again, I hope. Best of luck and don't let the bastards grind you down, old chap.”

“And you,” Rocky smiled and went back to sweeping up the forecourt.

Strangely enough, as he went back into the office to return his mug, Rodney had the radio on and he distinctly heard the words Oh, we don't do that. It tends to make the natives restless, you know what I mean? Life was full of these surprising little coincidences. Almost as if folk were being shown subtle signs that they were either going astray on else on track, in sync with some hidden design; but blissfully unaware of this design for the most part.

An hour later, just as he was helping Rodney deal with an unexpected rush of traffic before putting on his jacket to leave, a lady stepped out of an MG sports car.

“Fill me up, please,” came a familiar voice.

Trust me: it'll never happen, lady!

“Ms. Pratt! Good to see you,” he lied, suddenly recognizing the old battle-axe.

“Actually, it's Mrs. Scott now,” she smiled as he undid her petrol cap.

Heck, he sincerely hoped that she wasn't the new broom allegedly sweeping the school clean. Or was that a guy? That would have been a bit of a gaff on his part.

It was only then that he noticed his old headmaster in the passenger seat, waving at him.

Then, completely out of the blue: “My husband tells me you studied English literature at college and that you're looking for work more suited to your interests,” she told him.

“Word travels fast,” he grinned. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Well, it just so happens that the school is looking for a paid librarian. We thought the job might be up your street, as they say. You'd have volunteers to help you, of course.”

“Sounds good.”

“You're interested, then?”

“I most certainly am, yes. How do I go about applying?”

“If you phone the office, they'll send you an application in the post. Then, if they like what they read, I'd expect they'll call you in for a formal interview.”

And so they did. Within two weeks – apparently with Mr and Mrs. Scott's personal recommendations and despite his lack of formal qualifications – Rocky was out of the dole queue and working full-time at the school.

Admittedly, it was often not a matter of what you knew, so much as who you knew. And, of course, to be successful he had to continue to develop his technical know-how, which was a transferable skill. If not the only key, as he'd discovered it was certainly an important skill, another tool to add to his kit. It reminded him of the time he'd learnt how to read. Once he'd passed a certain point, he could tackle not only the books the school gave him, which were designed to teach reading for its own sake, but all sorts of other material, such as encyclopaedias, which would themselves then teach him about all manner of other subjects. This was perhaps related to what the Sufis termed learning how to learn.

One thing he was noticing more and more was that after he'd read a book, he'd retain all sorts of incidental information. For example, he'd be looking for a particular phrase he seemed to recall and he'd remember that it was maybe around page 150 of a particular book, in the middle of a left hand page. Rocky was reminded of what Shah had said about weeding a path by plucking out odd strands each time he walked down the path, so that it was always tidy and never became overgrown. So each time he came to put an unfamiliar book back on the shelves, he'd have a quick look at the contents and the publisher's blurb, maybe even sign the book out himself, so that little by little he became more knowledgeable about the stock and more able to assist readers with their requests. It was important to Rocky to learn and be widely read, and also to be of useful service to others. The truth be told, he guessed that he had a desire to be acknowledged and respected for his achievements. That, after all, was the yardstick that his father used. And Rocky also wanted to be liked for who he was, which was a little more problematic, as he'd always been a bit of an eccentric or an odd ball and rather shy and nervous to-boot. Misunderstood, too. A bit of a round peg in a square hole. He tried to make up for these deficiencies by being friendly and easy-going, but met with mixed success.

Looking back, Rocky could see how there had been so many subtle signs that something was afoot, but at the time there was nothing concrete enough to get hold of. It was almost as if life were being choreographed, if you know what I mean. Staged like a theatre production. There was the time when he was round the back of the college having a cigarette break and Beverly Scott, the biology technician had passed him by and stopped for a moment.

“I bet you're wishing that we could help you stop smoking, aren't you, Richard?”

Slightly taken aback, he'd nodded and smiled back: “Yes, I am, actually.” He'd been thinking for some time that he wished the Sufis could help him. A week previously, he'd actually mailed a partly-empty pack of cigarettes to them. What he didn't know at that time was that Shah was himself a chain smoker and, given an underlying heart condition, his smoking helped send him to an early grave.

Then there was George, the audio-visual technician. He'd been a sergeant in the Army but had been pensioned off early due to ill health. He came into the library one day and noticed Rocky reading a copy of The Sufis. Rocky was called away and left George to it. When Rocky returned sometime later, George was still sitting at the desk, his head buried in the book. As he passed by to collect a pile of returned books, Rocky noticed that George was reading the chapter on the Coalmen. A short while later, the man came up to him as he re-stocked the shelves and said, all of a sudden:

“I wonder why I'm so interested in that book?”

“Sorry?” Rocky hadn't quite caught what George had said.

“I wonder why I'm so interested in that book?” the man repeated.

Rocky shook his head. “I don't know.”

“You haven't twigged yet?”

“No, sorry.”

“Not to worry, there's no rush,” George smiled and, spinning on his heel, he left the library.

To be honest, his first reaction on being asked that question was that George had been sent by the Sufis. But that seemed such a crazy notion, even judging by his standards. As it happens, George later confided that he'd been the Grandmaster of a Masonic lodge whilst based overseas. Apparently, when he returned to England George had quite willingly started all over again, right from the bottom, and worked his way back up to the top again. Of course, his interest in things Masonic might explain his interest in that chapter of The Sufis. There were so many other subtle hints that perhaps George really was a Sufi – and in equal measure, there were so many other more mundane ways that events might have been explained. Almost as if a smoke screen had been quite deliberately erected. As if events were designed to keep him on his toes, ever striving.

Right first time, spoke a quiet voice in his head. Keep the aspirant in a state of dynamic tension, so that he is stretched, though hopefully not strained.

Then there was Robert, a self-confessed joker in the pack, who'd worked in East Berlin, known Doris Lessing and was familiar with Shah's early works. Like a few other sentient beings Rocky could mention, not least himself, Robert was having a hard time of it fitting in and life had dealt him a few hard knocks. One day he was going into a staff meeting when he caught sight of Rocky and piped up: “I'll be as good as gold,” he promised. “I'll be as good as gold.”

Only later did Rocky ponder whether this had been a promise or an observation. You see, when a Sufi said “I”, he might actually be referring to the person he was talking to, or even to different “I”s in the same person. Just like George, Robert could so often come out with something – sneak it past the guards, as it were – before Rocky twigged the importance of what had been said. But increasingly he was becoming able to catch these coded phrases and events actually as they happened, and react accordingly.

More than once, Rocky had concluded that it was a set-up. Even, perhaps, that the whole school itself was part of a Sufi operation.

As he pondered these memories, Rocky felt a tingling wave shimmer though his body and the hairs on his scalp stand on end.

Now you've twigged, the still small voice inside his head insisted. Give that man a Smartie.

No, the likelihood was so remote.

Oh, ye of little faith.

Who in their right minds would credit such a thing?

Who in their left brains, more like. What better cover than remote probability? Than deniable plausibility? The mere ramblings of a madman. Trust me, the Sufis have this down to a fine art. Some would say, a science.

And yet just when he thought he was at long last making progress, perhaps even having made a breakthrough, his hopes were dashed. He'd written another letter to a certain lady who knew Shah and she wrote back a terse missive:

You say you “have it cracked.” Have what cracked exactly?

I'm reminded of Shah's warning that he who gives advice to a heedless man is himself in need of advice. And also of a Nasrudin tale:

Nasrudin woke in the middle of the night with a temperature. He dashed to the phone to call the doctor. “Doctor, doctor!” he cried. “Come immediately, I have a temperature.” “How high is your temperature?” asked the doctor. “It must be 110,” said Nasrudin. “Nasrudin, you don't need me – you need a fire brigade.”

Well, that was him told.

Rocky, Rocky, said the voice. It was an observation and a necessary and salutary lesson, not a telling off. The lady has done you a big favour, pal.

He searched around for the letters and postcards that the lady had sent him over the years. He'd kept them in a manilla folder. Once she had very kindly written back to him to say:

An extraordinary thing had just happened to me. I picked up Seeker After Truth and the first story I came to answered all the questions I'd been asking. Which is not to say that it would mean the same thing to you. It lit up like a Christmas tree. At least, I'd have found this experience extraordinary if this kind of thing hadn't happened so many times before.

She advised him to read the books passively and just to put things on the back-burner, to simmer away in the subconscious. And – God bless her – she also said that, looking back over what had been what had been a long haul, she could see that patience had been an important key.

~~~O~~~

A strange thing happened at work that week. Rocky was sitting in the library checking through the catalogue that a publishing company had sent to the school when he was hit by a sudden urgency. Something was amiss, but he didn't know what. He dropped the catalogue, picked up a book that someone had marked for photocopying and headed toward the photocopier which at that time resided in the school's main office. That was in the main block and he was in the new annex.

He'd just finished collating the photocopies when again this sense of urgency hit him. Scooping up the photocopies, he left the building and hurried back through the main block. Ahead of him lay a short flight of stairs and as he looked he saw Beverly Scott, the biology technician who was coming in the opposite direction take the first step and miss her footing. She was falling toward him. Immediately letting the book and photocopies fall from his grasp, he reached out to her. He caught Beverly in mid-flight as she tumbled headlong.

“Oh! Thank you,” she panted once she'd recovered her composure. Though she thankfully hadn't hurt herself, the incident had clearly shaken her up a bit. “I must say that was good timing, Richard. Thank you so much.”

“You're welcome,” Rocky replied as he picked up his scattered belongings and headed off back to the library. There had been no conscious decision – beyond the sensation that something was amiss and the urge to go to the office. There hadn't been time to think and his reaching out had been a purely instinctual thing.

The gods had smiled on Rocky and Beverly that day.

Now, what was that you were saying about content and process? he asked his muse. There was no reply.

Then a voice piped up which seemed to carry with it a touch of good humour. Okay, that was a neat move. But don't push your luck, mate.

Actually, I wouldn't call it a neat move, he said to himself. It was something altogether more spontaneous. As if I was on rails and some hidden hand guided me. Does that make sense to you?

And this wasn't the only occasion on which he'd had this feeling that destiny was at work in his life. He was walking through town one day and suddenly felt as if his yin had gone yang. Instead of being inside his head, it felt like his consciousness was spread out around him, at the interface between his body and the surrounding air.

Something guided his feet and he followed the subtle feeling, turning off the high street and down a side road. Then again, quite out of the blue, a lady stumbled on the kerb and took a dive. This time, he hadn't been able to catch the woman, but thankfully unhurt, he helped her back to her house opposite and sat her down, leaving a neighbour to take over. What touched him at that time was the portrait of Jesus on the wall, smiling down on them.

Was this what it was like to surrender oneself? Was this the completion of which the Sufis spoke? To be like a hollow reed playing God's perfect tune?

It was a foretaste, the voice told him. Somewhat less than perfect in its execution, but a foretaste nonetheless. Let it be a reminder to you of just how much time you spend in life when you are not in this state of surrender.

Now that was food for thought.

It occurred to Rocky just then that this was also a clear measure of how far humankind had fallen from grace. More to the point, how far he had fallen and kept falling. The Fall wasn't something that had allegedly happened in some holy book. It was something that kept happening as folk – as he – wandered from the path and fell into an ignorant and heedless sleep. And every now and again an opportunity would keep coming around and maybe he'd wake up a little once more. It reminded Rocky of children's pastimes like snakes and ladders or the card game patience, which was perhaps not as strange as it might sound. It was as if a little truth had actually been designed into such things that they might serve as reminders, or be read in an altogether “otherworldly” way, and even prompt a reawakening.

19. At a loose end

It had been another awful morning for Rocky. Still following Khidr's instructions and not having as yet heard to the contrary, he'd been setting his alarm clock and getting up early to meditate. Sometimes sleep got the better of him and he'd switch the alarm off and drift back to sleep, in which case he'd postpone the exercise until the evening when he'd arrived back from work and made himself some dinner.

This morning, for the third day on the trot, he'd had to break off his meditation to dash to the bathroom, overwhelmed by an urge to throw up his guts as he was inundated with issues welling up inside him. There weren't just thoughts and feelings as Khidr had advised, but also physical sensations and this latest batch made him retch. Thankfully, the feeling only lasted for a minute or two before it departed and after a cup of tea he soon began to feel better again and ready to face the world anew.

Rocky had just switched off the kettle and filled the teapot. Sonny and Cher were on the radio, singing I Got You Babe and he went through into the living room to turn the volume up a notch. This had to be one of his all time favourites.

I got flowers in the spring ...

Hah, chance would be a fine thing, Rocky sighed to himself with a shake of his head. He'd more or less resigned himself to the scrapheap since his marital breakup. As his ever-burdened mother would say from time to time: “Well, there's nothing I can do about the situation, so I shall just have to grin and bear it, that's all.”

Hey, lighten up would you? We all have our cross to bear, said the voice in his head.

At that moment the doorbell rang and Rocky clicked off the radio and went through the flat to answer the door.

“Oh my God? Oh my God!” he whooped as he saw Donna standing before him, suitcase in hand, with her old red quilted jacket on and a knee-length cheesecloth skirt. At one time she'd cut her jet-black hair shorter, but she'd clearly grown it back again. “This is so unexpected. Oh – my – God!”

Donna dropped the case and stepped inside to embrace him, tears of joy flowing freely down her face and making her mascara run.

“Rocky, Rocky, Rocky!” she yelped. “Give me a hug.”

“Come in, come in,” he beckoned. He stepped outside, picked up the case and tugged her toward the lounge. “You must have smelt the tea. Cuppa?”

“Yes, please,” she nodded, following him through into the kitchen. “I thought you were a coffee mug?”

“I was,” he agreed. “But I used to get so wound-up and stressed out. Then I discovered the wonderful calming properties of the amino acid in tea: theanine.”

“Ah, they say it produces the sort of alpha brain waves found in Zen and meditation,” she agreed.

“My God, you are looking so good,” Rocky whistled, giving Donna the once over as he brought the tea set through into the lounge. Then: “If you don't mind me saying so, it strikes me that you can't possibly still be on H and look so good.”

“I'm not,” she told him. “I haven't touched anything stronger than a gin and tonic these last five months.”

“Brilliant! Rehab? Methadone?” he asked.

“Hell no,” she said shaking her head. “Let's just say that Mister Shah sends you his regards.”

He laughed. Calling someone Mister Shah is like addressing Elizabeth II as Mrs Queen. Shah is a title more than a surname, or at least so Shah and his acolytes maintained. Some folk had written of him as the Grand-Sheikh of the Sufis and the Teacher of the Age, and so might anyone be according to his or her own students. But there were some other doubtful notions floating around: for example that he was descended from the male lineage of Mohammed, when all three sons of the Prophet were said to have died in infancy.

“He also advised that you should stop your exercise now.”

“Really?” But how could Shah know?

“He said that you'd understand, whatever that's supposed to mean, Rocky. How do you know him? Is he one of the Sufis you've been writing about? I believe you mentioned someone by the name of Shah.”

“Idries Shah? I've read some of his books on the Sufi mystical way,” he told her and pointed to several volumes that stood in pride of place on his bookshelves. “Some say that he's the Teacher of the Age.”

“If you're a student of his, I guess he would be,” Donna replied rather shrewdly, echoing his own early thoughts, as if she'd read his mind. “But that still doesn't explain the link.”

“First you tell me how you managed to get off the heroin,” he suggested.

“Well, it all began about seven months ago,” Donna began to explain. “At that time, as you know and I'm ashamed to say, I was working the streets ...”

20. The curb crawler

As Donna stood on the corner of the street beneath a flickering street lamp, showing off her wares, a black limousine crawled past then reversed and stopped beside her. The driver leant over and wound the window down.

“Yes, can I help you? Are you lost?” she asked innocently enough. You could never be sure who it was behind the wheel. A punter, a concerned resident, a passer-by who'd lost his way, an undercover pig, a nutter or a frigging psycho.

“How much?” the man asked. He seemed to be of Asian origin. Probably cheating on his dutiful little wife.

“How much for what, mate?”

“Oh, an hour or so of your time to get to know you better.”

“Get to know me better?” she scoffed. “Are you for real?”

“Assuredly so. I just want to talk, that's all.”

Oh, what the hell: “Well, in an hour I could shag you senseless for twenty five, mate. Or I could talk you senseless for the same amount. Don't make any difference to me what you do, fellah. It's a free country and it's your choice.”

Then: “Call me stupid, but before we get started, I do not do kinky, okay? No frigging way.”

“OK, let's make it an hour's deep and meaningful conversation, then,” the man decided. Then he changed his mind. “No, let's make it three. That will give us time to take a trip up town.”

“Seventy five, then.”

“OK. Hop in and I'll take you.”

“Like I said, it's a free country,” she said. “I'll just be a minute. I have to check out with my friend first.” The working girls always looked after one-another and she went over to her friend Shelley to make sure she'd made a note of the car's registration plate before she left. No problem.

“OK, drive on,” she told the man, getting into the car and closing the door gently behind her. It was an expensive car and the doors weren't meant to be slammed shut. “And that's seventy five quid up front, by the way.”

He pointed to the bundle of notes above the dashboard.

“Ta,” she said, stuffing the cash in her back pocket.

The man drove for perhaps ten minutes, leaving behind the red light district and heading into a far more affluent area, pulling up outside the Parkland Hotel and reaching over onto the back seat to pick up a carrier bag. The label looked expensive. As he got out of the car, a concierge in a top hat and tails went round to the passenger side and opened the door for her. For fuck's sake, this was a new one on her.

“Good evening, Hakim. Good evening, madam.” Closing the car door behind him, the concierge went to open the hotel door for them.

The punter pressed a coin into the man's hand. “Park the car round the back, would you, please, Mike?”

“Certainly sir.”

“You have to be kidding, right? Jeez, fellah, what are you doing taking me to a place where you're so well known? Your reputation's gonna be shot before this evening's through.”

The punter merely smiled and handed her the carrier bag. “You'll find the ladies powder room second on the left as you cross the foyer,” he told her. “I'll wait outside for you.”

“I take it you weren't acting on impulse, fellah?” she deduced shrewdly. “Have you been following me?”

“Yes, you're quite right, my dear. I have had my eye on you for some time now. But I can assure you, my intentions are honourable.”

Oh come on! He must think she'd been born under a gooseberry bush. I mean, how on Earth could you equate shagging a hooker with honourable intentions? Still she let it go and wandered off into the loo. After all, he was the punter and he was paying good money. Her usual rate was £20 for an hour.

“Seems like the guy's thought this through,” she whistled as she rummaged through the bag. It contained a gorgeous dress and assorted accessories. All it lacked was a pair of shoes, but to be fair on the man he had no way of judging her size at such short notice. Still, her high heels and stockings wouldn't look out of place beneath such finery.

As she emerged, somewhat transformed, she complimented the man on his good taste. “These things must have cost you a fortune. Or did you hire them?”

“They're a gift,” he told her.

“Come again?”

“They're yours to keep. On condition ...”

“Wow, thanks.” Then again: “On what condition?”

“That you don't sell them to feed your drug habit. Is that understood? If you need money, you have but to ask.”

“Right, OK.” Heck, this was some smart cookie. But there had to be a catch. What's the betting he turns out kinky?

“Do you promise me?” he asked. “This is important.”

“Sure. Yes, if that's what you want, yes, I promise.”

“Good. Then shall we go through to the dining room?”

“Lead the way, fellah. Lead the way.”

The punter took her arm and escorted her inside.

“Good evening, Hakim; madam,” said the maitre d', coming up to them.

“A table for two, please Gaston. Perhaps one of the quiet nooks?”

“Certainly, Hakim. Please follow me.”

As they got seated in the snug, she couldn't help but ask: “Aren't these folk a bit too familiar with you, calling you by your first name?”

The man laughed. “Hakim isn't my first name, my dear. It's a title and it means 'Doctor'.”

“Oh, sorry. So what do I call you?”

“You may call me Faisal, my dear, and you? You must forgive me but we weren't properly introduced.”

“Donna Fouquet,” she smiled. “You can call me Donna.”

“That's Italian for 'Lady', I gather. Quite appropriate, young lady. I'm pleased to meet your acquaintance, Donna.”

“Likewise, I'm sure,” she smiled.

He passed her one of the menus. With a maitre d' by the name of Gaston, she'd been expecting an indecipherable French menu which would throw her into a panic, but as it happened there were a number of traditional English dishes and she quickly decided to opt for one of those.

“I'll have the plaice with new potatoes and Spring vegetables, if that's all right with you, Faisal.”

“A good choice,” he nodded. “I'll have the same as you.”

He picked up the wine list and scanned it: “Then might I suggest a bottle of French muscadet?”

She nodded her approval and he signalled to the waiter and placed their order.

“You say you're a doctor, Faisal? Where did you study?”

“In Afghanistan,” he told her, then judging by her puzzled expression added. “It's not all mad mullahs and peasants, you know. But when I say Hakim I'm not talking about modern Western medicine, I'm talking about tradition remedies reaching back over the centuries. Over here you might liken it to psychotherapy or hypnotherapy.”

“Ah, I see. I have a friend who often talks of Afghanistan,” she confided. “He sends me letters with poetry and Sufi stories in them.”

“Interesting,” he nodded. “You'll have to tell me more, but save it for later.”

“So how long did it take you to learn?”

“Oh, formally it took sixteen years, but every day I learn something new or unlearn something old.”

“Good grief, that must take some dedication.”

He nodded. “Yes, I guess it does. You see, in this tradition the teacher or the doctor must first of all sort out his own self and give himself wholeheartedly to the work if he is to be of any real use to his students and patients. There's no place for armchair experts. Otherwise the shit would rub off, if you'll pardon the expression.”

“You think sixteen years is a long time. I'm just a Hakim, a doctor. Then there is the Pir-Hakim, the elder doctor who is far more experienced than me.”

“Gracious.”

“But enough about me and my work. Tell me something about yourself, Donna. Let me get to know what makes you tick and turns you on in this life.”

So that's what they did that evening whilst eating their meal, they talked about her, about her childhood upbringing, her dashed hopes and dreams, her darkest fears and her life on the streets. Then Faisal took her back to her patch by the flickering street lamp and told her they'd see each other again quite soon. Well, it made one helluva change from the usual pump, thrust and squirt. And it got her to thinking that perhaps she could get off the seedy streets and into some more high class work as an executive escort. Maybe that's what he was really: an executive pimp?

~~~O~~~

The second time they met, Faisal took her for a drive across London and up to an office in a tall glass block. The plaque on the door read “Abshar Associates” and it appeared to be his own office. She couldn't help but notice the gold-framed photo on the rosewood desk which held a photo of him and his family.

“Faisal,” she asked. “Why am I here? It's not for your gratification, is it? This is about me. I wasn't ...”

“... born under a gooseberry bush?” he interrupted.

She gulped. “You just read my mind.”

He merely smiled and motioned to a settee along one wall of the office, taking a seat diagonally opposite her. She'd read somewhere that that was less confrontational. The man nodded. “Yes, Donna. You're not here for me, however much I enjoy your company – you're a smart, well-bred young lady, if you don't mind me saying. A little rough around the edges, perhaps, but that is only to be expected. A gem all the same. If I tell you that you are beset by problems from which you feel unable to extricate yourself, I don't think it will come as any great surprise to you, will it?”

“You mean you can help me?” she asked, a lump growing in her throat as she spoke.

He smiled. “Yes, I believe I can. Providing, that is, that you are ready to accept help.”

“I've tried methadone, you know. That was a dismal failure. And if I'm not on the streets hustling, then I'd be out thieving every day to pay for my habit.”

He nodded. “Yes, I understand.”

“And I have no spare money to pay for private treatment sessions. So if you're thinking that I'll charge twenty five an hour, you charge fifty and we split the difference, then I'm sorry but you're going to have to think again.”

“Did I say there was a cost?”

She looked at the man askance. “No, I guess not.”

“I could pay you in kind,” she offered. “Oh, I'm sorry that must have sounded so insulting to you. I hope I haven't offended you.”

He laughed. “No offence taken, Donna. And no, I don't expect to be paid in money or in kind, though thank you for the offer. But it will require a high degree of resolve and commitment on your part.”

“Okay. So what can you offer me?” she asked.

“As I mentioned the first time we met, a course of traditional hypnotherapeutic treatment. First of all, it may require not one but many weekly sessions. And it's not just a matter of waving a gold pocket watch in front of you and sending you into a trance.”

“Imagine that you are a beautiful princess locked away in the dark dungeon of a castle by a wicked stepfather and guarded by all manner of fearsome creatures and magical devices. I am here to smuggle messages in to you to aid your escape, with the unwitting assistance of your guards. And you are to smuggle messages out, so that I can discover the true nature of your plight and formulate a plan of escape. Whilst I am digging in, you too will have to dig your way out. That will require real effort on your part.”

Then: “But I am not your Prince Charming. I am just a messenger, a servant, a skilled helper, sent by another.”

“Who sent you, Faisal?”

He shrugged. “I could say I was sent by Necessity. Or by God ...”

“Hey, let's make one thing clear, fellah: I draw the line at religious conversion.”

He smiled. “That's not a problem. But tell me, have you had difficulties with religious authorities in the past? In your childhood, for example?”

“Yeah, you could say.”

“Good. Perhaps we can talk about that later?”

“Okay.”

“But back to the procedure. You see that star-like design over there?” He pointed to a star-shaped pattern on the wall. “You'd be laying down on a flat couch on your back in the centre of the room, concentrating your attention on that diagram on the ceiling above your head.”

Now that was bizarre. It was the same nine-pointed design as on the pendant that Rocky had given her at Kings Cross as his train left.

“Basically, around you a group of my associates would be chanting the words 'Ya Hoo! Ya Hukk!' Meanwhile, I pass my hands over your body from head to toe, palms downward and hands held together in a rhythmical fashion. As my hands pass over your face, your view of the diagram, which we call the No-Koonja, will be periodically obscured.”

“We call this procedure 'Chuff' which means breathing, and it's designed to take you into a relaxed, hypnogenic state. It'll maybe take the first ten minutes to induce this state in you and we'll maintain this state for another few minutes. Then when that phase of the session's complete, you can relax and slowly bring yourself back over a cup of tea containing Chungari, which means herb of enlightenment. Don't worry, it's not a narcotic, nor habit forming. And we'll maybe chat a little.”

“Wouldn't I be vulnerable in such a suggestible state?” she wanted to know.

“The truth is, you would be far less vulnerable than you are in your present sleepy state as a penniless, junkie hooker,” he stated quite baldly.

“Hmm, well if you put it that way ...”

“I do,” he nodded. “Trust me, the only suggestion – well far more than a mere suggestion – will be to invoke deep and lasting healing, Donna.”

“And you know in your heart that that is what you truly need.”

She didn't really need convincing in her head. She could feel her heart crying out – and not because she was vulnerable or suggestible. “So when do we start?”

“You need to be free from six o'clock on a Thursday evening for the next few weeks, starting tomorrow. In our tradition, Thursday night is the eve of Mushkil Gusha, remover of all difficulties. Anyhow, the timing will vary, so I'd say set aside an hour each session plus time for travelling. We'll get together next door in the group meeting room. And before you protest, I'll pay you for lost earnings. Is it a deal?”

“Yes, it's a deal,” she beamed. “On one condition – that if the therapy works, Faisal, I want to pay you back.”

“We'll see,” he nodded. “We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Let's take one step at a time, my dear.”

“Might I ask why you're doing this for me? You must have a motive, Faisal.”

“All I can say is that part of my tradition's mandate, its modus vivendi as it were, is to carry out charitable and cultural and other essential works wherever there is need. And Donna, you clearly have a great need. It would be an honour, a privilege and I dare say, a delight, to be able to work with you and help you.”

21. The escape plan

Donna had been staring up at the design on the ceiling for some time, listening to the group chant “Ya Hoo! Ya Hukk!” and feeling the gentle breeze as Faisal ran his hands up and down her body and over her face.

Gradually, everything became more and more distant and at some point, she must have dozed off for a time. When she opened her eyes, she wasn't in her apartment, nor the group meeting room, she was in a meadow. The weather was glorious and the sun was beating down fiercely. Her immediate thought was that she'd have to be careful not to get sunstroke and, almost before the thoughts were formed in her mind, a cooling breeze sprang up and she noticed that she had a wide-brimmed straw hat on which shielded her face and eyes from the sun. Now how crazy was that?

“Hello there,” called a familiar voice and she recognized instantly that it was Faisal. But for some reason, though she looked around in all directions, she could not see him.

“Faisal? Where are you?” she called out.

“I'm here, don't worry.”

“Can you see me?”

“I'm sorry, no I can't as yet, Donna, but I can hear you. You'll have to help me out here and describe to me as best you can where you find yourself and what you're doing there. What you're thinking and feeling. Anything that might be of interest, no matter how foolish you might think it to be.”

“OK, I'll try. I'm in a meadow right now, on a bright summer's day.”

“How old are you?”

She was going to say “twenty-something” but when she looked down at her body and held out her hands, she realized she must be much younger.

“This is bizarre. I can't be more that seven or eight years of age,” she told him. “What's happening to me?”

“There's no cause for alarm, Donna. This is all perfectly normal. You're just wandering around quite merrily in your dreams and memories, that's all. Journeying in the homeland. And you're feeling quite relaxed and happy about it.”

“Tell me more about the meadow, Donna. Feel free to explore your surroundings and describe them to me. Trust me, you're perfectly safe. You are protected and no harm can come to you.”

Donna waded through the luxuriant grass of the meadow toward some trees in full foliage, gently swaying in the breeze. Someone had strung a rope from a nearby branch and she spent a few moments swinging on it. In the distance she could hear the sound of water and noticed a dirt footpath meandering through the trees. Taking the path, she followed it as it wove its way this way and that, until she arrived by the bank of a shallow stream. The water was crystal clear and Donna could see the tiny minnows hiding amongst the gravel. She sat down on the bank, took off her shoes and socks and dipped her toes in the cool water.

Just then she heard a rustling in the bushes behind her and turned around, but could see no-one there, and so she turned back to watch the water gently swirling and bubbling down the stream.

Again she heard a noise behind her and swung sharply around. She caught sight of a dark figure lurking in the bushes, watching her and a wave of primeval fear engulfed her. She recalled experiencing that awful sensation in her early childhood. As the figure emerged from the bushes, she recognized from those twisted features, to her horror, that it was Father O'Connor. And in an instant she knew that he was after only one thing.

“You lied to me, Faisal!” she screamed. “You said I was safe. But you lied to me!”

The man was coming toward her, with that sickly sweet smile on his face.

“You are safe, Donna.”

“Hello little girl, would you like a sweetie?” the man asked her, pulling a paper bag from his pocket and offering it to her.

Her nostrils were filled with a strangely familiar fearful, acrid smell of vinegar or sulphur.

“He cannot touch you. Call out the names 'Al-Azim! Al-Waliyy!' which means 'the incomparably great, the protector', and banish him from your life.”

“I can't. He won't listen.”

“Do it now. You are not a helpless child any more, Donna. You are much stronger now and your protector is almighty.”

As soon as the words were spoken, Father O'Connor came to an abrupt halt. For a moment he stood there transfixed, a frightened look etched across his face. Then he turned and fled back into the trees, terrified and stumbling as he ran. He was gone.

“Will Father O'Connor come for me again?” she called out to Faisal.

“No, my dear. I promise you: he's gone from your life for good. And he'll never harm another poor soul – I'll see to that.”

“So rest easy, my friend. It's time for you to begin your return journey to a waking state. I'll count backwards from five and you'll slowly wake up. Five ... you are beginning to awaken ... Four ...”

And, before she knew it, Donna was back in the meeting room, recognizing the pouffes dotted around the room and the intricate woven fabrics on the walls. Faisal was watching her attentively and smiling as she came round. The rest of the group seemed to have left and they were alone.

“Look into the four corners of the room,” he advised her, “and remind yourself of where you are. Tell yourself: 'I am Donna Fouquet' and that you live at a certain house and work in a certain occupation. Bring your self back to the real world.”

When Faisal was certain that Donna was fully awake and aware, he ushered her through to his office where the rest of his group had been waiting patiently and offered her a tea. Meanwhile, the group went back into the meeting room, took away the couch and chair and sat down in a circle to carry out their own exercises. Faisal closed the door behind the group, to afford the two of them some privacy.

“You did remarkably well,” he smiled. “I hadn't expected you to make so much progress in such a short space of time. Well done. Or more appropriately, perhaps: well undone.”

“How do you mean?” she asked as he handed her a glass of what looked like herbal tea. She took a sip. It was hot and sweet and it had a remarkable taste.

“Mmm, this is rather good. What is it?”

“We call it Chungari,” he told her, “which means 'Herb of Enlightenment.' Remind me to give you a packet to take with you. Have one cup on a morning when you wake up and one before you retire for the night, until further instructioned.”

“Right. Thanks.”

“Where was I? Ah yes: "well undone". Well, you re-lived a traumatic experience from your childhood, Donna. And in so doing, not only did you re-model that experience to provide a better outcome, so you have begun to undo the harm this has caused you over the years.”

“You mean, I've not only banished the actual event, I've begun to banish the consequences?” she asked.

“Yes, I couldn't have put it better myself. You've unwritten a little of your history. Let's say you've begun to dissolve the hurt, perhaps? And we've begun to make a connection between us. As I said, Donna, you've made a remarkably good start.”

“And what about Father O'Connor? He may still be alive and ...”

“Trust me, all will be taken care of, my dear. I'm not privy to the details, but I would imagine that he will have to face the music. That's the way the Design works, you see.”

Actually, she didn't fully see, but she did trust Faisal.

“Was that an exorcism?” she asked.

“Well, I suppose you might call it that, yes. It was an intervention, of which there are six possibilities according to the formulation of a contemporary co-worker by the name of Heron.”

“These are: prescriptive, which is to do with planning; informative, to do with meaning; confronting, which is just what it says; cathartic, which involves feeling; catalytic, to do with structuring; and supportive, which involves valuing. Each of these six also has a further transpersonal dimension which is actually quite mystical, my dear.”

“At one end of the scale, then, we have the supportive healer. And at the other, yes, you could say we have the exorcist. But we'll leave such notions as sin, brimstone and treacle to the religious clergy.”

“I thought you were a religious man?” she noted.

“Not really. Religion is a vehicle and it has its uses. Anyhow, alas the time has come when I must bid you farewell until the next session, Donna, and soon I must turn my attentions to the group. Allow me to drive you home.”

“I can always get the tube. I mean, if you need to get back to the others ...”

“No, I insist. My deputy is more than capable of taking care of the preliminary work.”

So, Faisal generously chauffeured her back to the street corner where he'd picked her up, bid her a fond farewell and was again on his way.

~~~O~~~

“Where are you now?” Faisal asked as the second session began.

“I don't like this place,” Donna cried out. “It's cold and musty. There's a window set high up in the mouldy stone wall, letting in a shaft of light, but it's too high to reach up to and I can see that there are rusty bars set into the frame. Oh my God, and I can see things crawling about on the stone floor. They give me the creeps.”

“And how do you feel?”

“Cold and damp and so very lonely. I'm scared and I'm pining.”

“Pining for what? For home?”

“No, I'm pining for my beloved.”

“Does your beloved have a name?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“And will you tell me his name. It is a he, isn't it?”

“I wish I could tell you, but I can't for some reason.”

“Can't or won't?”

“The name eludes me. I can hear my mother now and she's insisting that I have nothing more to do with this person. And she won't even let me speak his name.”

“That's interesting, Donna. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

“How old are you, by the way?”

“Twenty-something, I think. Or maybe in my teens. It's hard to tell. I seem to have been here for an eternity. I've lost track of the days and nights. As Janis Joplin once said: 'It's all the same fucking day, man.'”

“Good. Now, tell me, Donna: do you know why you're in this prison? It is a prison, isn't it?”

“Yes, it's like a cold, dark dungeon,” she told him.

“And do you know why you are here?”

“I was hoping you might tell me that, Faisal. And I don't understand why you can't be here with me.”

“I have yet to find a way in, Donna. And it's partly a matter of me acting my way into the part and homing in on you, if you understand me?”

She giggled.

“What's that about?” he asked her.

“Oh, I just heard the song Radar Love playing in the background.”

“Can you sing it to me, Donna?”

“I'll try:”

When she's lonely and the longing gets too much ...

“Yes, I can see that's rather appropriate. Thank you. Trust yourself, Donna. You know deep down in your innermost being the answer to all your questions. You just need to be able to gain access, that's all. And to grant me access. So, I'll ask again: do you know why you're here? What is the first thing that springs into your mind?”

“Apart from sex, you mean?” she laughed. “That I've been a naughty girl.”

“Well done. Tell me more, if you will.'

“I got stoned one night on some cannabis laced with God-knows what and ...”

“Go on, Donna.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Why's that?”

“I committed a sin. An abomination. I can't tell anyone.”

“Why not?”

“I swore on my Mother's life.”

“You can tell me, Donna. I understand.”

“You don't. I promised.”

“Promised what? Promised whom?”

“I promised Rachel that I would never tell. It was to be our secret.”

“And who's Rachel?”

“My best friend. Well, she was my best friend. I hardly ever see her any more.”

“So, you got stoned. What happened next, Donna?”

“Are you thick or something? I've already told you: I can't say. My lips are sealed. Period. Finito. Comprenez?”

Donna was becoming quite agitated and Faisal did wonder about changing the subject or bringing her back out of her reverie, but decided to pursue the matter further, if she would permit him. “Okay, calm down, Donna. Nice and relaxed again. You're sitting in the cell in the warmth of that shaft of light from the window, and you're feeling calm and relaxed ...”

“I'm not here to judge you, Donna. I'm very understanding you know and I'd like to think I'm broad-minded and hard to shock. We all have to shit in the pot, you know. After all this time, you'll be able to take this great burden from your shoulders. And when you tell me about what happened that night, it will come as a wonderful relief to you. A blessèd release. Instead of having this thing gnaw away at you incessantly, you'll be able to rest easy once more.”

“After all,” he added: “God knows what happened. So where's the harm in telling me? I'm not going to bark at you, let alone bite.”

“Have I let you down thus far, Donna?”

“No,” she admitted.

“So, how's about you share this with me and let me take some of the burden from your shoulders? You'll feel so much better with it out in the open, rather than being locked away in here, and I have broad shoulders.”

“That makes sense.”

“So? Will you tell me?”

“Okay.”

“That's the ticket. Just relax and take your time.”

“Rachel and I got stoned one night.”

“Yes, that's fine. Got that.”

“We were so wrecked that I didn't dare go home, so Rachel suggested I stay the night until I'd come down. I phoned my mother and told her I'd be spending the night at Rachel's and she was okay about it, which surprised me. Then I collapsed in a heap on the floor and Rachel helped me through into the bedroom and put me to bed. After that, I'm not quite sure what happened, I must have flaked out as soon as my head hit the pillow.”

“Thanks for sharing this, Donna. It's a great help. Carry on.”

“In the middle of the night, we both woke up and Rachel went through to the kitchen to get us a glass of water, as we were pretty parched. Then when we'd slaked our thirst, we lay back down again. Rachel snuggled right up to me and started stroking my hair. And then she kissed me. I mean, she kissed me on my lips.”

“How did you feel about that?”

“Well, for a moment, I thought 'hey, this is pretty weird' but I didn't stop her. I enjoyed it and I kissed her back.”

“I still had my long skirt on and I could feel her unbuttoning it. She slid her hand down inside and ran her fingers around the hem of my pants and down inside. I mean, inside me. Hey, this is embarrassing you know.”

“Yes, I can see that. If you want to carry on, do so, or if you'd rather skip over the details, that would be fine.”

“Thanks, if you don't mind, I'd rather cut a long story short. I'm sure by now you've got the picture. We undressed one-another and, yes, we made love. It went on half the night.”

“And you enjoyed the experience you had with Rachel.” It was a statement more than a question.

“Yes, I can honestly say that I did. I'd describe it as a gorgeous experience – at the time. Rachel was so tender and affectionate, and a lot more considerate than your average man.”

“Wham, bang, thank you ma'am?”

“Exactly! Three pumps and a squirt, that's what we call them. And they pay good money for that? I ask you! To be fair, I'd put it down to mixture of inadequate education and plain ignorance. But I digress ...”

“Anyhow, it wasn't until the morning after that the reality set in and we both realized what we'd done and that it must never happen again. I mean, I am not a lesbian. Never was and never will be. Perish the thought. I was disgusted. So we made a pact, never to reveal what had happened. We both swore on our own Mother's lives.”

“Ah, I see now. And since that time, your conditioned conscience has been gnawing away at you?”

“That's right, without let up.”

“Well, Donna, if you don't mind me saying, I really don't see the sin in you and Rachel making love. We all experiment in one way or another as we grow up. You must have become very close to one-another and it's a perfectly natural outcome. Certainly nothing to beat yourself up over.”

“But it was perverted,” she blurted. Then: “No, scrub that last remark. And thanks, I'm glad you were so understanding.”

“That's why I'm here, Donna,” he smiled. “And rest assured that what we've shared together today will remain in this room.”

“That's appreciated.”

“Okay, Donna. Well, yet again you've excelled yourself. I'm impressed. Let's call it a day and we'll meet again next week.”

~~~O~~~

“So, tell me,” Faisal asked as they began their third session. “Look around you, Donna. Has anything changed? Where are you now?”

“I'm still in the cell, sitting under the shaft of light.”

“Still pining for your beloved?”

“Yes.”

“And is Rachel your beloved?”

“Good grief, no. Didn't I tell you already?”

“My mistake. Is it a he?”

“Yes.”

“And can you tell me his name now?”

There was silence.

“Okay, there's no rush, Donna. Do you know why you're in this prison cell?”

“I can guess.”

“How's about giving it your best guess, then? As I said last time, just come out with the first thing that pops into your head, if you like. Deep down inside us, we know the answers to many of our questions. Some might call it intuition, inner-tuition, if you like; others call it the still-small voice ...”

“That's weird.”

“What is?”

“That's what Rocky calls it: inner-tuition.”

“And who's Rocky?”

“Shit! I shouldn't have said that, should I? No, don't do that ...”

“Don't do what, Donna? What's happening?”

Suddenly a shutter slammed over the barred window in her cell, cutting off the shaft of light and plunging her into darkness. She relayed what was happening to Faisal.

“Did you get that, Faisal? Can you still hear me? I'm so scared of the dark.”

“Yes, I'm hearing you loud and clear. Haven't you a candle or anything that you can use?”

“No. They've stripped the cell bare. There isn't even a bed in here any more. And they've stripped me naked, too. It is so cold in here.”

“Can you leave the cell?”

“No, I've tried that and the door is locked. Probably rusted shut by now.”

“Donna, this is your world, not theirs, and it's yours to command. Try to imagine that on the floor in front of you is a lighted candle.”

She tried, then gave up. “It's no use, Faisal.”

“Concentrate. Can you do that? In front of you is a lighted candle. It's about six inches tall and a couple of inches wide and a lovely bright green colour. And as you gaze at it, you see the flame spring into life, bathing the cell with a warm, relaxing glow ...”

“Amazing!” Almost before the words had left Faisal's tongue, there was the lighted candle on the ground before her.

“You have it with you now?”

“Yes. That's absolutely amazing. One minute the cell was dark and next, a green candle sprang out of thin air.”

“Who shut out the light, Donna?” he asked.

The candle flickered. “Someone doesn't like you asking that question, Faisal. The candle nearly blew out.” She shielded the naked flame with her hands.

“Was it your mother?”

Suddenly the woman was standing in front of her, hands on hips and giving her the most thunderous look. “I simply won't have that man poking his nose into things that don't concern him!” she shouted.

“Mother! You've come to see me. After all this time!”

“This has to stop, child!” came the reply and the figure standing before her grew ever more dark and menacing.

“Do you remember those words, Donna?” asked Faisal, realizing what was happening. “'Al-Azim! Al-Waliyy!', the incomparably great, the protector.”

“But I don't want to banish her like I did the priest,” cried Donna.

“Why not?”

“Because I don't want to hurt her,” she explained. “She may not love me, and she may want nothing to do with me, any more – but I still love her.”

“Say the words, Donna. This isn't really your mother you see before you.”

“Why, you miserable piece of fly-infested shit!” the woman yelled at her. “I'll make you pay for your disobedience!”

“Say the words.”

“Al-Azim! Al-Waliyy!” she screamed out at the top of her voice. And instantly the cell was engulfed in a great ball of acrid, blue-grey smoke and the spectre was gone.

“Tell me about Rocky,” Faisal smiled with relief as he gently mopped her brow, once her fear and panic had begun to subside.

“I'm not allowed,” she repeated.

“The spectre of your mother has gone, Donna. You can tell me now.”

“Then why am I still locked inside this cell? Why can't you come and get me out?”

“You don't mean why can I, do you, Donna? You mean: 'Why can't Rocky come and get me out?'”

“He did come down to see me once.”

“Only once?”

“It's a long way and he hasn't got much money. He sends me letters, though, every other day; tapes and things.”

“And how did you receive Rocky when he called on you?”

“Not very well. He so wanted me to come off the heroin and leave the streets, but ...”

“But?”

“Well, you know what it's like. You know how hard it is. And even if my mother hadn't forbidden me to see him, I didn't want him to see me the way I am. I told him there could never be an Us again between us. Not that he listens. Well, he does listen, but he still keeps trying. Even though I'd given up on myself, he told me that he would never give up on me.”

“That's good.”

“No, Faisal, that is not good. As I told Rocky, it might work for a little while if we got together, but sooner or later I'd need a fix and I'd betray him and rob him blind. And I can't let that happen. I can't allow Rocky to get hurt because of me. I couldn't live with myself if something happened to him.”

“So, is it a self-imposed exile, Donna?”

“I don't know.”

“It sounds to me as if you care a great deal about Rocky,” Faisal noted. “He is the beloved you talk about, isn't he?”

There were tears welling up in her eyes now. “Yes.”

“You're pining for his company.”

“Yes,” she sobbed.

“And you want his help to get you out of this mess, don't you?”

“Yes, yes! How many more fucking times? Yes!”

“And your mother forbade you to see him, is that right?”

“She turned Rocky and my other friends away at the door. Then she sent a stroppy letter to him, warning him off.”

“And what happened then?”

“I bided my time, hoping against hope that things would blow over, but Mother still watched me like a hawk. I'd already had a couple of smokes of heroin at the weekend and I drifted more and more into another bunch of friends. They dressed in smart trousers and jackets and soon gained my mother's approval, silly cow. Kool Dudes, they called themselves. They were the ones who got me hooked on fucking heroin, for crying out loud. How cool is that? I started going out with one of them, a guy called Dodger. He'd beat me silly if he couldn't get a fix. So, again to cut a long story short, I skipped town and ended up homeless on the streets of London, desperate to score. I started thieving at every opportunity to scrape some money together for a fix. Then Grainger found me whilst out talent-scouting and set me up in my bedsit. Of course, he wanted something in return, volunteered his services as a pimp, introduced me around the girls and plonked me on a street corner to drum up the punters. God, I wanted to puke the first time I pulled a punter. Worthless piece of shit, he was. But I had a roof over my head and money to buy H, so ... You know: beggars can't be choosers, and all that shit.”

“So that's where I find myself today, Faisal,” she concluded. “And you're sure, after telling you all this, that you still want to help me?”

“Yes,” Faisal smiled. “If anything, I'm more sure now that I want to help out than before. Thank you again for sharing this with me, Donna. Now, I'm going to bring you back to a waking state, then we'll chill out for a while over a nice warm cup of Chungari, and I'll see you again next week.”

“You've worked really hard this evening, Donna. I'm really proud of you. And maybe next week, just to get your juices flowing, we'll maybe talk some more about this friend of yours, Rocky. He's one of the keys that will unlock the doors of that fortress of yours, if I'm not badly mistaken.”

“Okay,” she nodded, wiping away a stray tear, as she sipped her herbal tea. “And thanks for your help.”

“You're welcome, Donna. That's what real friends are for. That's what real friends are for. And I hope that this friendship and the sanctuary that you are offered will give you something to look forward to each week.”

~~~O~~~

“So,” Faisal began. “Welcome to the fourth gripping instalment in the long running saga of 'Donna's Rise from a Life of Wrack and Ruin.'”

“Funny you should say that,” said Donna as she slipped under Faisal's hypnotic spell.

“How so?”

“You mentioning a rise. Or rather the prior fall. It reminds me of the party that Rocky and I went to. A friend of ours read our tarot cards and when it came to my turn he turned over the Tower. Forks of lightning hitting the building and folk falling out of the windows to the ground below.”

“Yes, I'm familiar with the card. And the subsequent rise?”

“A bit like a phoenix rising from its own ashes.”

“Is that how you feel?”

“That's how I'd like to think of my my life progressing, yes. In the tarot spread, further off into the future, there were signs of redemption and the chance to once again find worldly success.”

“That's good. Hang onto that hope: it might very well turn out to be true.”

He changed the subject: “So, do you want to tell me where you are right now?”

“I'm not in the dungeon right now. I'm in a cloistered garden, which I figure is deep inside my fortress, as you call it. I tried to leave the garden, but the guards wouldn't let me pass. And they keep shouting at me to keep off the grass. Anyhow, I'm happy enough where I am just at this moment.”

“Okay. So tell me about Rocky. It doesn't sound like a given name. Is it a nickname?”

“Yes. His surname is Rhodes.”

Faisal scribbled something down on his pad and ran a ring around it with his pen. “I'm sorry, I don't quite follow.”

“His name is Rhodes: R.H.O.D.E.S. But it sounds like roads, the kind you drive cars on. So Harry, I think it was, nicknamed him Rocky, on account of all the crises he seems to go through in this life. His real name is Richard, by the way.”

“Ah! Rocky roads, indeed. Does he still live in your old home town? Remind me where that is, by the way.”

“We both come from Wycliffe-on-Sea, a resort on the East coast.”

“Ah, yes. My wife and I have visited it two or three times. Quaint little place. And where is he now?”

“As far as I know, he has a small flat in town.”

“In Wycliffe?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks.” He made a note of the town beside Rocky's name. “Okay, explain to me what you mean by the crises that he's been through.”

“Well – and this will answer a couple of your questions – the last I heard, he'd got married in altogether too much of a rush to a girl on his course. He was away studying English literature. Then within six months everything went pear-shaped and she booted him out of his own flat and took him for what he'd got. She ran up a hefty overdraft in the joint account before he managed to get it frozen. Anyhow he left the city and went back home to his parents'.”

“So he left the course?”

“Yes, just like that. The same day they split up. So, that would be a perfect example of the kind of crisis in Rocky's life.”

“I see. An impulsive type?”

She thought for a moment. “Yes, you could say that, thinking about it. Spontaneous? He doesn't so much cause trouble as stumble into it and run and hide from it.”

“And what's Rocky doing now?”

“As far as I know, he's pumping petrol at a garage in town.”

“A garage forecourt attendant?”

“Yes, I guess that's what you'd call it.”

“Hmm. A bit of a come down from studying English literature. And how's he taking it?”

“Well, he hasn't said much, to be honest. But you know what they say about silence speaking volumes. I don't think his parents are too chuffed, and judging by what I know of Rocky, he won't be at all happy working in such a dull job. He's always had one exciting project or another on the go for as long as I've known him.”

“He needs to be stimulated, you mean?”

“Yes, he thrives on a good challenge. And he can do really well if he puts his mind to it. Well, his heart and soul. So yes, ending up back in Wycliffe-on-Sea will have been a bit of a body blow for him, I'd imagine.”

“And is he successful in what he does? I mean, forgetting this latest setback.”

“Not really, no.”

“And why is that do you think?”

“I'm not sure. The work I've seen him do is pretty darn good, I'd say. But – and don't quote me on this, for heaven's sake, Faisal – he is a bit eccentric. He tells me he often talks to his computer as he works.”

“Probably just talking to himself with living alone.”

“Did I say Rocky lived alone?” she queried.

“Sorry, I thought you did. But no matter. A bit of a loose cannon, do you mean?”

“Yes, I s'pose so,” she pondered. “A dark horse.”

“An unknown quantity.”

“Yes. I don't think he ticks all the boxes that people are looking for, even though he probably ticks a good few that they're not looking for,” she laughed. “Maybe you could say that he has difficulties fitting in?”

“A square peg in a round hole?” he reflected.

She thought for a moment: “No, more a round peg in a square hole.”

“There's a difference?” he asked.

“Oh yes, indeed,” she laughed. “If you think of a square as being everything prim and proper and traditional. And un-hip.”

“Ah, yes I can see that now. Thank you, Donna.”

“What about homosexual tendencies?”

“Shit, no.”

“Is he a bit of a loner, do you think?”

“Well, he likes to spend time on his own working on projects,” she told him. “But he's always been very much a part of the circle of friends. And he was sociable enough at college, as far as I know and from what I can gather. I get the feeling he's keeping himself more to himself now, though. Maybe he's depressed? I don't rightly know, Faisal.”

She had a thought. “I do know that he's stopped doing drugs now, but he still drinks too much. He doesn't seem to know when to stop. And he's been trying desperately and unsuccessfully to stop smoking cigarettes for as long as I can remember.”

“Do his parents smoke?”

“Not his mother, and she limits herself to a single sherry on an occasional basis. His Dad likes his whisky, though, and I'm sure Rocky said he smoked around sixty a day.”

“Rocky or his father?”

“His father. Rocky's not that bad.”

“That's a lot. And have drugs played a part in this ongoing crisis?” he asked her. “In the case of Rocky, I mean.”

“You mean, have there been any lasting effects?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“Well, every now and again he comes out with some remark that makes me wonder what planet he's on. Sometimes the projects he sets himself seem unrealistic. Idealistic? Yet quite often he'll put in the work and prove folk wrong. It's hard to tell, really, as he spends so much of his time with his head buried in a Sufi book. He keeps mentioning someone by the name of Shah. I think he's a teacher or something. I mean a Sufi teacher.”

“I see. That's interesting. And the lasting effects? Can you say more?”

“Well, he did tell me he had flashbacks every now and again. It happened in a maths lesson once and freaked him out so much he had to go straight home. But he hasn't mentioned anything of late. Except ...”

“Except?”

“This is strictly confidential, you understand?”

“It goes without saying, Donna. But yes, carry on.”

“One Christmas when he was still at college, he'd been working at college in the day, then changing and going off to work in a bar. Maybe drinking too much, as well. Then he'd come home and work into the early hours of the morning writing a book. I don't think he was eating very well, as he had a lot of bills to pay. And he couldn't get to sleep because his mind was racing ...”

“That sounds like a recipe for disaster,” Faisal reflected.

“It was. I remember him saying that he started hallucinating during the day. The cars on the road would look two dimensional to him. People's faces, too. And he got this notion in his head about some all-seeing eye. People he knew would look like one of their eyes was more prominent than the other, and he was worried that they could read his mind. He didn't at all like the look of folk with grey or blue eyes like his father.”

“So what happened?”

“From what he said, he caught a train back to Wycliffe-on-Sea and went to his parents' place. His brother and sister-in-law were there, too. They sent for the doctor and he was admitted to the local hospital.”

“A psychiatric ward?”

“Yes.”

“And what did they diagnose?”

“They put it down as a psychotic episode, and ...”

Faisal noted her hesitation.

“And diagnosed him as a schizophrenic.”

“Ah. Now that would be a blow. Was this before or after the marriage? Oh, no of course, it must have been before. Sorry, I'm feeling a little drained by all this. So he suffered this great blow to his ego. Then he married. Then he suffered another series of blows. And here he is.”

“Yeah.”

“And he's coping all right now?”

“As far as I can tell from his letters, yes. Remarkably well, I'd say.”

“Is he on medication?”

“I think so.”

“An anti-psychotic?”

“Yes, that's it, but I forget the name.”

“I see. Well, it looks like we've run into overtime this evening. Thank you, Donna. That's fascinating. Now, I'm going to bring you safely back to reality, we'll have a quick brew and then I'll take you back. And we'll meet again for your fifth session next week. Okay?”

~~~O~~~

It was their fifth session and again Faisal immediately turned to the subject of Rocky. He must have thought it an important influence in her life.

“Tell me, Donna. Over the years that you've known Rocky, have you felt him sucking you into his highs and lows? Getting you overly-involved in them, do you feel?”

“Not really, no. He occasionally likes to get a matter off his chest, of course, but only in the same way any friend might like to share a problem. Most of the time, he's more concerned about me, to be honest.”

“And you don't find yourself being dragged into his plans?”

“No, he's a pretty self-sufficient guy, really, Faisal. Sure, he'd like us to share good times together, but he's interested in me for my own sake and in what I'm involved in.”

“Good. And does he thrive on drama?”

“A bit maybe. He likes a challenge and he prefers variety. It being the spice of life. Routine bores him but he can switch off, he tells me. He sort of goes on auto-pilot whilst he's at work. In fact, he sometimes wonders whether the real, inner bit of us has to actually be here. He reckons we could pretty much leave the donkey doing its work whilst we're somewhere else entirely, making the most of life.”

“And this Sufi business. Does he see himself as a teacher in his own right?”

“As a student. It's hard to say how well he's doing, of course, because I'm not really sure what the Sufi thing is all about. It's not like he can show me a diploma or anything. And the reality maybe also gets mixed up in the negative feelings he often has about himself and his achievements, as well as with modesty.”

Then she added: “Trying to look at this objectively, it has to be said that Rocky has made more than a few mistakes over the years. But he's always willing to learn.”

“Is he valued for who he is, do you think? Or for what he's achieved?”

“Well, I'd like to think that for my part I value him for himself as a friend. And I guess he must feel the same way about me. I mean, I hardly have a list of wonderful accomplishments for him to be taken by, now do I?” she laughed.

“What about his parents? Do they value him for who he is? For what he achieves?”

“From what Rocky has written, I get the impression that he doesn't know what his mother thinks about him or feels about him, because she's what he calls his father's glove puppet.”

“That's quite strong language. You mean his father's shadow.”

“Ah, that was it: shadow puppet.”

“They're confluent?”

“I'm not sure what you mean by confluent, Faisal.”

“I mean they're no longer individuals in their own right, they're a couple, an item. They share the same tastes. Do everything together. Think the same thoughts ...”

“Yes, that sounds about right. His father does all the thinking and his mother goes along with it to maintain the awful status quo. So, what I'm saying is, it's hard to know how his mother actually thinks and feels for herself.”

“I see.”

“And Rocky tells me that they're not the touchy-feely type.”

“And his father, Donna? What about his father?”

“Well, he rules the roost. What he says goes. He left school at fourteen, apparently. Same with his mother. Rocky said his favourite saying was 'Think logic'. And that everything was black and white to him, not even shades of grey, let alone Technicolor.”

“Mmm. So we have a square peg in his father and a round peg in Rocky. Did they fight?”

“Yes, he was often in bother with his father. His elder brother would fight back though. He always was the blue-eyed boy and rarely put a foot wrong.”

“And what about Rocky's elder brother?”

“Rocky couldn't compete. So he tried to find a niche for himself. But his father had difficulties loving him for who he was, rather than his achievements (or lack of them).”

“Was he under pressure to achieve and to succeed, then, Donna?”

“Oh hell yes, Faisal. Inordinate subtle and not-so-subtle pressure.”

“And maybe one day, the pressure built up and Rocky blew a few fuses in his head?”

“You could be right there, yes.”

“So, Rocky's projects. His English literature studies. His writing ... was he using these as an escape for himself? Or to try to curry favour with his father and brother? I'm sorry, you don't have to answer that, Donna. I was just thinking aloud.”

“They wanted him to follow in his brother's footsteps. He was supposed to be applying for a science and technology course, apparently, but the interviewer took one look at his exam results and his interests and got him fixed up with an English literature course instead. Rocky was well-chuffed.”

“And, presumably, his father was not?”

“No, not one bit.”

“And yet it was Rocky's own life. It was his choice to make. It had nothing to do with his father or his brother what Rocky wanted from life – within the bounds of reason and safety.”

“True. But it's not an ideal world. And now, of course, his father can crow about how right he'd been all along and how jobs are so few and far-between for budding authors and wannabe mystics.”

“I see. Well, yet again, it's time for a brew, Donna.”

“Might I ask you a question, Faisal? When we set out on this quest ... Why did I say that? I meant these sessions. When we set out on these sessions, you said you were here to help me. And yet more and more, indeed almost exclusively, we've been talking about Rocky. To be honest, I don't at all mind, as I'm discovering just how close he is to my heart and how well I actually know him, yet I can't help wondering why this should be.”

Faisal smiled. “My dear, you may not realize it yet, but you have just answered your own question. So trust me and bear with me for a while longer: this really is all part of the miracle cure. We'll be back on track with your own issues soon enough.”

~~~O~~~

“So what's this? Our sixth session, I believe.”

“Is it that many already?” Donna asked. Then: “How long will this take?”

“How long is a piece of string?”

“Twice as long as half of it,” she quipped.

“It's by the by,” he mentioned, “but I was just reading a piece in the paper about a length of string. In a psychology study, people were taken into a room and asked to estimate the length of a piece of string. There were perhaps ten people in the room, but unbeknown to the participants, nine of them were stooges who would all give the same incorrect answer. And you know what happened, Donna?”

“No, tell me.”

“Believe it or believe it not, it was found that almost without exception people would give the 'false' answer, even though the evidence of their eyes was plain to see.”

“Now that's weird,” she echoed.

“Anyhow, where were we? Ah yes, my provisional estimate still stands. I would say twenty six. About six months' worth.”

“That many?”

“Are you raring to be off?”

“Well, yes. I am, Faisal. But ...”

“And?” Faisal wasn't much taken by the but word.

“Yes, I know: 'Change your buts to ands', as you say. And I'm also aware that I'm still mainlining heroin and still walking the streets.”

“How's that make you feel?”

“Pretty angry, then depressed, then resigned – in that order.”

“Angry, eh? Well, maybe we'll get a chance to explore that anger sometime. It's a lot more healthy than being depressed or resigned. You could say that depression is anger turned back in on yourself. It should be targeted at the culprit, not the poor victim.”

“Sounds about right,” she admitted.

“Tell me, do you tend to kick yourself? If you're into technical terms, that's called retroflection.”

“I get pissed off with myself for getting into this mess, sure. Pissed off at having to shoot up. Pissed off at spreading my pussy for the punters. Jeez: will it ever come clean, I wonder to myself. Pissed off with my pimp for living off my immoral earnings when I have so little to get by myself.”

“Rocky's always kicking himself over the slightest mistake, if that's what you're talking about.”

“Yes, that's what I meant.”

“And is he as hard on you as he is on himself?”

“Not really, no. Setting aside his nervous energy, he's pretty laid back with me and with his friends. He'd rather shy away from trouble.”

“Okay, enough about Rocky. Let's get back to you, Donna.”

“Hey, you started it, buster,” she laughed.

“Sorry, so I did.”

“Okay, last quick one while it's fresh in my mind, one of Rocky's favourite words used to be 'sorry'. He seems to be growing out of it now, though.”

“So, where are we now?” Faisal asked, echoing his own uncertainty at where the session was heading.

“Well, I guess you're still in the meeting room. As for me, I'm back in the cloistered garden again.”

“Doing what?”

“Why, talking to you, of course, Faisal. The guards keep looking at me and nudging their mates as if they think I'm crazy.”

“And do you think you're crazy, Donna?”

“Hell no, Faisal. A junkie I may be, a hooker I may be, but I've still got all my marbles, thank God.”

“Tell me about your God, Donna.”

“Well, there's not much to tell, really. He and I aren't on speaking terms these days. What can I tell you? I grew up a Catholic and went to Mass and confession. Hell fire, if I got three Hail Mary's for a cigarette behind the bike sheds, what in heaven's name would they give me for scoring H and spreading my legs?”

“That's an interesting point. I take it you're no longer a regular churchgoer?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“You're afraid not?”

“It's just a turn of phrase, Faisal: don't go reading too much into it. No, as soon as I turned sixteen I became a conscientious objector.”

“And how did your parents take that?”

“Oh, never mind a lead balloon. That went down like a lead zeppelin, I can assure you. According to mother, I'm destined for the fiery pits of hell for all eternity. And that was before she discovered about the H and the punters celebrating holey communion with me.”

“Sorry, I have to smile at your wicked sense of humour. Do you feel you're a hapless sinner?”

“Hopeless, more like. Why, should I?”

“Why should I?” he reflected.

“No, no. Faisal. I said: 'Why? Should I?'”

“My mistake, my dear.”

“Well, should I?”

“I was asking you, Donna.”

“And I'm asking you, Faisal.”

“No, sin isn't one of the words I use in my tradition. Of course, I make exceptions in the case of child molesters and terrorists.”

“One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter,” she replied.

“Okay, I don't think we want to go down that road. At least not today. You know what I mean, Donna.”

“Well, I guess I shouldn't feel like a sinner, Faisal. The heroin abuse is one matter. I mean, it is a seriously stupid thing to do. The work? Well, I actually earn an honest living. Maybe it's stretching it a bit to say that I'm offering a public service, but I guess I do. Admittedly, it makes me feel dirty. I want to scrub myself out to take away that dirty feeling.”

“You don't self harm?”

“Well, apart from the H, no. I don't eat very well, but that's only because I don't have much spare money.”

“I'm glad about that, Donna. But tell me: do you feel a hapless sinner?”

She thought long and hard about that one.

“What's your gut say?”

“Part of me says yes and part of me says no, Faisal. I'm really not quite sure. But I'll tell you: I'm left with an awful feeling. It could be shame.”

“Well, you know, it's said that guilt heals, but shame is like a wound that keeps getting opened up again so that it doesn't heal.”

“Oh.” She was downcast. “That sounds bad. Maybe hopeless was the operative word, after all?”

He smiled: “However, you'll be glad to know that shame does respond when its secrets are shared with others and we find that we're really all in the same boat.”

“Okay, we'll call that a wrap and have ourselves a nice relaxing cup of Chungari. Thanks for your efforts, friend.”

~~~O~~~

Well, it was session seven and Donna was still a bit preoccupied with feelings of shame after the last session.

“And how are you today, Donna?” Faisal asked and she expressed her concerns.

“Remember, we're all in the same boat, Donna.”

“We're not all up shit creek without a paddle,” she laughed.

“You might be surprised,” he told her. Then: “Well, one way of looking at it is to imagine that time goes round and round and that we play many different parts not only in our one life but over the course of countless lives. So we've all played the junkie and the hooker, the Hitler and the Mahatma Gandhi and all manner of bit parts to-boot. So don't fret unnecessarily, Donna. Who knows what wonderful parts Destiny still has in store for you? And remember, you have good friends.”

“I feel alone,” she told him.

“Oh, I don't think we're ever alone, Donna. The Friend is always by our side in our hour of need.”

“I'd like to think so.”

“Better to know so,” he replied.

“I'd like to believe it, Faisal. That all this mystical stuff is real. It's not for lack of interest on my part. But life's bowled me such a googly that I don't know what, if anything, I believe in any more.”

“Except what you're doing for me, of course,” she hastily added. “And I'm trying to believe in Rocky.”

“Better to know so than to believe so,” he told her.

“But how will I know?”

“Believe me, Donna. When your time is right, you'll know. And you will know that you know. But anyway. Where are you now?”

“Still in the walled garden. And I really don't know why I'm here, except that I seem to still be under close house arrest.”

“Were you placed under house arrest as a child?” he asked her.

“Oh yes, that was one of my parents' favoured sanctions. Mostly when I'd transgressed some house rule or got into trouble at school, but also when it came to revision time.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

“Stifled is the first word that springs to mind.”

“And?”

“Held back, I'd say. At times suffocated. I was altogether too much of a tomboy for my parents' liking as a child. They wanted me to be much more ladylike.”

Then: “I'm not sure why I said that, or whether it's at all related.”

“That's fine,” he smiled. “Go on. This is your time. So speak freely about anything that pops into your mind, even at random. It doesn't have to be organized or regimented in any way.”

“Actually, the word regimented rang a bell when you said it, Faisal. Everything had to have its spit and polish. And even shopping expeditions were more like a military exercise or a matter of logistics.”

“Was that your mother's influence or your father's?”

“Oh, my mother's. She wore the trousers in that house. Which is not to say that my father didn't have his moments. He could be quite vocal, too.”

“You say 'that house'. Do you mean your house?”

“I mean my mother's house. I might as well have been one of her tidy ornaments. Tidy, tidy, tidy. Out from under my feet. So I did: I spent as much time as possible out and about, out from under her feet. Except when I was grounded and confined to my room.”

“I note this recurring theme of confinement, Donna. To confine is to keep something within specified bounds, by force if necessary.”

“Yes, you may have hit on something there, Faisal. Well done, that man.”

Then a terrible thought struck her and she gasped.

“What's happening now, Donna? Can you describe it to me?”

“There's something I haven't as yet told you,” she blurted out. “I have to tell you that before I chicken out. Before I'm silenced again.”

“You can tell me, Donna. I'm listening.”

“Shut the fuck up!” a voice boomed out across the garden from under the cloisters.

“Confinement is also the latter stage of pregnancy,” she yelled out.

“Are you able to go on?”

All four guards were yelling at her now and advancing towards her. “Shut the fuck up, you screwed up tart!”

“Who are these guards?” Faisal wanted to know.

“Blackening the family name. That's enough, I tell you!”

“The voices. The faces. It's my father.”

“And what's he saying?”

“He says I'm blackening the family name.”

“That's enough, I tell you,” demanded one of the guards, waving the cutting edge of his lance in Donna's face. “I shan't be responsible for my actions if you continue with this preposterous charade.”

“You know the words by now, Donna. And it's your world to command. Don't listen to the voices. Banish them.”

She stepped out into the centre of the garden and faced them down. “In the name of the incomparably great, the protector, I banish you from my inner life!” she yelled at the top of her voice. “Al-Azim! Al-Waliyy!”

As she spoke the powerful names, the lances fell to the ground and the uniforms slumped limply to the ground, their contents empty.

“They're gone,” she told Faisal.

“Excellent. So, what is it that your father didn't want us to know, Donna. Can you tell me now?”

“Oh Lord, how could I let this happen?” Tears suddenly erupted and began streaming down her face and she shook her head back and forth, gripped by remorse. “I am so, so sorry.”

Faisal waited patiently, saying nothing. She eventually pulled herself together and drew in a deep breath. “What the fuck: in for a penny, in for a pound. When I was sixteen, I got myself pregnant,” she told him. “It wasn't to any of Rocky's friends, just a boy I knew who lived up the road. My father made me have an abortion and I had to pay half of the cost whilst he made sure the boy paid the other half. Of course, I was still only a few weeks pregnant, I certainly didn't go into confinement in a medical sense; but yet again, I was confined to my room for three months, by way of punishment.”

“Three months? Why, people convicted of crimes are often given less time inside than that. I presume you were allowed to go to school?”

“Yes, but I was kept in all over the summer holidays and grounded when I got back from school.”

“Well, if you ask me, that's what's criminal, not what you did yourself, though clearly a mistake was made.”

“A big mistake,” Donna nodded sheepishly.

“But tell me, I thought that you said that you came from a devout Catholic family? How did they square the abortion with the Church?”

“By keeping it under wraps,” was her initial response. “It never happened.”

“And hence under an inordinate amount of psychic pressure,” he noted. “Then one day 'Pop!'”

“I don't know exactly, I just know that it was not something that was talked about, on pain of death or a fate much worse. Eternal damnation. I can only imagine that they chose the lesser of two evils, given the choice between the unbearable shame attached to me, their own flesh and blood, giving birth to a bastard child, on the one hand, and brushing the matter under the carpet as quickly and quietly as possible on the other. That's why they took me to a private clinic, not the National Health Service. A third option which they hung over my head was the idea of sending me away to a facility in Ireland run by some sisters of mercy.”

“Heaven forbid.”

“Actually, that's one of the reasons I stopped going to church. I was forbidden to talk about the matter, not even to confess my sins to the priest and receive absolution.”

“Yikes,” Faisal echoed, drawing in his breath. “Damned if you do and damned if you don't, eh? Something of a Catch 22. A double bind, as it's known in the trade. That must have felt awful.”

“I just couldn't face going into church bearing such shame and not being able to relieve myself of the burden. It was a dreadful feeling.”

“Yes, full of dread,” he echoed. “I bet it put the Fear of God in you.”

“I'll say,” she nodded. “Father O'Connor had already put the Fear of God in me. Are you shocked?”

“It was very wrong of them to put you through that horrendous ordeal for the sake of their own shame,” he told her. “Or at least, ignorant and unfeeling and short-sighted. Am I shocked? No. Am I surprised? Yes, I'm surprised. But again, this is not something to go ruining your life over.”

“You know what you're doing, don't you, Donna? You're punishing yourself on your parents' behalf. Maybe on God's behalf. You've internalized their shame and wrath and – worse that that – this wrath is not mellowing and dissipating. It's frozen. Even if your parents have forgiven you over this matter, as I rather think they might, you have not forgiven yourself.”

There was truth in what he had to say.

“You know the saying? 'For the single egg that the king requested, a thousand hens were slaughtered.'”

“And on that note, since you've clearly worked so hard, Donna, I think it's high time I bring you back and wrap up this session until next week. Thank you. I'm grateful for your honesty and your efforts, my dear. Now, I'll count backwards from five and you will slowly awaken feeling delightfully relaxed and refreshed. Five ...”

~~~O~~~

It was their eighth session and by now Donna was away with the fairies almost as soon as the group chanting of “Ya Hoo! Ya Hukk!” began.

“Where are you now?” Faisal wanted to know.

“I'm in the cloistered garden. Something tells me that I've been here before, and I don't mean recently. It seems to be an old memory.”

“Still there, eh? And what do you call this place?”

“Eden,” she told him. “That's the first word that springs to mind. For some reason, I'm quite scared of the garden. The guards wouldn't let me walk on the grass and around the trees and flower beds. They made me stay in the cloisters.”

“Oh, God.”

“What's wrong, Donna?”

“I feel like I want to vomit.”

“Why's that?”

“I have to leave this place,” she told him.

“Okay, where are the guards now?”

“They've gone.”

“That's good. Now, look around you. Have a walk through the cloisters. Can you see a way out?”

“I don't think so.”

“But there must be,” he insisted.

“Yes, yes. There's a door. Two doors. One at each end of one of the sides of the garden.”

“Then leave the garden through one of the doors.”

“Which one, Faisal? They both look the same to me.”

“Take either. It doesn't really matter which, Donna. You can always retrace your steps if needs be. No, hang on a minute ...”

She laughed. “Do these doors have names? That's what you were going to ask me, isn't it?”

“Well I never,” he grinned. “How did you do that? You stole the words from off of my tongue, Donna.”

“I don't know. It just popped into my head.”

“So, do they have names? Quick as you can.”

“Wrack and ruin,” she told him.

“Wrack and ruin, eh? I see. Well, if I were you, I wouldn't particularly fancy either of those. Is there another way out?”

“No, that's the name of one door,” she corrected him.

“And the other?”

“I'm not being told and nothing springs instantly to mind.”

“Examine the door. Describe it to me.”

“Well, it's a studded wooden door. Looks like dark oak with black iron studs passing through it. And there's a small octagonal shaped window in it, maybe ten inches in diameter. There's also a brass door-handle. The knob is round, but again – I don't know what you call it – the brass plate that fits the door, covering up the hole, that's octagonal, too.”

“And the name, Donna? Imagine that there's a sign on the wall, the type they have in hospitals, and that there's an arrow pointing out through the door with a name on it. Can you read the sign?”

“It says 'The Green Room'”, she told him at length.

“Well, that sounds more promising. How's about you try that door?”

She reached down for the handle, turned it and pulled the door open. It was on a spring mechanism and closed-to behind her.

“What do you see?”

“I see a long, cork-tiled corridor,” she told him.

“Okay, explore the corridor,” he advised her. “And keep a look out for the Green Room. That sounds quite intriguing.”

She followed the signs on the walls of the corridors, turning right, then right again apparently circling the building. There were lots of doors leading off to one side or other of the corridors, and they each had a chiselled wooden plaque on them, but she had yet to find the Green Room.

Aha! There it was, down a short corridor just off what looked like an entrance hall.

“We'll have a look at that entrance later,” Faisal advised, mentally following her as she described her progress. “Now, let's see what lays in store for us in the Green Room, shall we?”

Donna tried the door. It was locked shut. It was a solid wooden door and she couldn't see what was inside. She even tried to magic up a key, but all she could manage was a bouquet of wilting flowers, which was really quite bizarre.

“Isn't there one of those names we could use here, Faisal?” she asked.

“Well, you could try Al-Fattah, which means the Opener, the Reliever or the Judge,” he suggested.

When that didn't appear to work, they were both left at a loss. “Well, there must be a good reason for that door to remain locked,” he told her, and suggested that she leave the room for now and explore the nearby entrance hall.

She left the short, dimly-lit corridor and returned to the hallway. To one side, a wide white marble staircase swept gracefully up to a balcony and rooms on an upper floor. But she ignored the staircase and instead headed toward a pair of huge wooden doors. With an effort, Donna pulled one of the doors open and stepped through onto a short, wide flight of marble steps. She was outside. She'd actually made it outside.

Faisal was greatly pleased by her progress and she stood there for a time, surveying her surroundings. From what she could gather, the building from which she'd emerged was a huge, granite walled, fortified keep, which stood on a mound that was perhaps six feet high. All around her were vast lawns, set out in a quite formal manner and lined with deep flower beds. And ahead of her, down a long, gravel driveway, she could see that these gardens were surrounded by high stone walls topped by ramparts and punctuated every now and again by tall towers. So this was her fortress.

“Where now?” she asked. “There are so many possibilities, I could spend half a lifetime exploring these grounds.”

“Quite. What's your gut feeling?” he asked her.

Donna cast her gaze toward the twin towers in the distance, at the end of the gravel driveway and eagerly set off at a trot. “I want to see what's outside the fortress,” she told him as she jogged along.

As she reached the twin-towered gatehouse, she could see that there was a way through them, across what looked like a drawbridge and presumably a moat, though she couldn't quite see. But as she strode under the towers, she realized that her way was blocked by an enormous, stout portcullis.

“If my memory serves me correctly, there should be a winding mechanism up high in the gatehouse,” he suggested.

“Yes, there probably is, Faisal, but the door into the gatehouse is locked.”

“Drat, that's a bit of a blow, Donna. So close and yet so far.”

Exhausted by her dash to the gateway and feeling rather despondent, Donna sat down on a patch of grass by the side of the path.

Faisal had gone quiet. “Hello? Faisal? Are you still there?”

“Oh, sorry, Donna. I was lost in thought for a minute, trying to figure a way of getting you out of there.”

“Well, don't look at me.”

“Tell me, Donna? Are you still wearing that pendant round your neck?”

She was, but she always kept it tucked away out of sight. “And how come it's the same as the No-Koonja on the ceiling of the meeting room?” she wanted to know.

“Ah, that's another story, my dear. And we'll save that for a rainy day.”

“Can you see the design clearly now?”

“Perfectly.”

“Good. Then I want you to spend the next few moments concentrating on the pendant. Fix it clearly in your mind. Will you do that for me?”

“Sure. I'll just slip it off.”

“No! Whatever you do, don't do that, Donna.”

“Okay.” She held the pendant away from her, so that she could focus on it. “I'm looking.”

“Very well, excuse me for a few moments, won't you, my dear? I need to consult a friend who may be able to assist us. Don't worry, I'll be with you again in a sort while.”

Donna lay back in the grass, staring up at the star-shaped pendant which glinted in the sun. There were only a few wisps of cloud in the azure blue sky, the sun had popped out to say hello, and the castle walls provided ample shelter from the breeze that was blowing up. It was so good to be outside in the fresh air after being confined in that repressive keep for so long.

“Concentrate, Donna.”

“Sorry.”

Silly, she meant oppressive, of course. Or had she been right the first time?

Donna laughed, reminded of the tale Rocky had once told her. Apparently, he'd been telling a friend about a place he'd once read about called Abshar and went on to say that it was a fabulous repository or storehouse of wisdom. Except that he hadn't said repository. He'd actually described it as “a fabulous suppository of wisdom”, would you believe. Yes, the sort you put up your bottom when you're suffering from constipation. He and his friend had been in hysterics. “Rather appropriate, actually,” Rocky had told her. “It certainly cut through my bullshit. Talk about a Freudian slit.”

“Concentrate.”

Damn, she'd been drifting off. She slapped her face to wake herself up.

At that moment, Donna heard footsteps coming up the gravel path from the other side of the portcullis and she jumped to her feet.

“Who's there?” she asked nervously, poking her head around the wall of the gatehouse.

Before her stood a tall, muscular figure dressed in a long, flowing green robe that appeared to shimmer in the sun. He came up to the portcullis and peered through the grill at her. “I see you're in a spot of bother here,” the man observed. “Anything I can do to help?”

She tugged at the portcullis vainly, showing him that it wouldn't budge.

“Hmm, I see what you mean.” He tried, too, meeting with an equal lack of success. “Won't shift this with brute force,” the man observed.

Donna summoned up her psychic energy. “Open up in the name of Al-Fattah!” she commanded. But the portcullis remained very firmly shut.

The man looked up at the stout walls. “Well, we can't climb over it. And we can't crawl under it,” he observed. “There's only one thing for it. I'll have to go through it. Mind if I come in?”

“Be my guest, buddy.”

He took a few steps backward and dashed headlong at the portcullis. Donna grimaced, waiting for that awful “Crunch!” and shudder as he hit the iron grill. She had to avert her eyes.

There was no crunch.

“It's all right, my dear. You can open your eyes now.”

In the blink of an eye, the man clad in green had run straight through the grill and appeared on the other side, not two feet from where she was standing.

“How the fuck did you manage that?” she stammered.

“Oh, just one of the tricks of the trade, you might say,” he replied, tapping the side of his nose. “Easy when you know how. Mind over matter, you could call it.”

“Could you teach me?” she enquired.

He looked her up and down. “Oh, I dare say I could, given time. All in due course, my dear, all in due course. Now, I gather you were having a little difficulty getting into the Green Room, is that right? Allow me.” Taking her arm, he led her slowly back up the gravel path toward the keep.

“How do you know that?” she asked.

“I've been watching you for some time now,” the man told her. “And you can learn a lot from watching people. Besides, my friend Faisal tells me that you've got yourself in a spot of bother recently. Perhaps I may be of help to you?”

They walked up the marble steps of the keep and in through the front door. Then he escorted her down the dim corridor to stand before the door of the Green Room. Fishing in his pocket, he produced a bulky set of keys and tried one or two before he found one that fitted. Turning the key in the lock, he opened the door and ushered her inside.

“Welcome to our humble abode,” he proffered.

“Who are you?” she asked the man.

“Oh, I'm sorry, we haven't been properly introduced.”

“Donna Fouquet,” she smiled, holding out her hand.

He took her hand and kissed it chivalrously. “Al-Khidr at your service.”

“What's that mean?” he asked, anticipating her question. “It means 'the green one'. My friends refer to me as the Hidden Guide.”

She raised her eyebrows, not sure whether she should courtesy. “Really? What do I call you?”

“Really. And you can call me Al. Here, take a seat.” He motioned toward a two seater settee toward the back of the office whilst he went to the windows to open the shutters and let some light into the room.

“As you can see, it's been some time since I was last here,” he apologized, brushing away the cobwebs from the window frame. “Now, what can I get you? You must be feeling peckish.”

Ravishing, more like.

Al-Khidr picked up the phone on his desk and asked for sandwiches and tea to be brought through.

“So, Donna. Perhaps we might begin by having you tell me a little about yourself. Talk to me about anything that springs to mind, I'm just as much interested in getting an overall feel for you, the pattern in the woven fabric, as it were, as I am in hearing the minute details of your life.”

Moments later, there was a knock on the door and a lady came into the room wheeling a silver trolley. “I'm awfully sorry, your Eminence, but that's the best the kitchen could rustle up at short notice. It's been so long since we've had the honour of your company. I trust salmon and watercress meet your approval? And a nice pot of Chungari, too.”

It looked like they'd brought out the best silverware, too. This must be a special occasion.

“Thank you, thank you, Mildred. That sounds splendid,” he smiled as she left the room.

She was trying to place that voice, which sounded rather familiar. Vincent bloody Price! That was it. The similarity was remarkable.

“And might I say how delightful it is to be here and see you once again. My regards to the kitchen staff.”

“Dig in, Donna, dig in. We don't stand on ceremony here.”

She helped herself to a side plate and a couple of the sandwiches whilst Al-Khidr took care of the tea.

“Faisal introduced me to Chungari,” she told him. “It's very moreish.”

“Indeed, now do continue where you left off. You were talking about the issues you have with your mother.”

At length, offering Donna a second cup of Chungari, Al-Khidr spoke up. “Forgive me interrupting you, my dear, but one or two things occur to me and I'd like to give these ideas an airing before they slip my mind. Is that all right with you?”

“Fine,” she nodded, taking a sip of her tea and putting her cup down on the trolley.

“From what Faisal has told me and from what I've been able to garner from our conversation today, you've made astonishing progress. And yet ...”

“... And yet something is still binding you, Donna.”

Again she nodded.

“One of the more obvious candidates is this business with your parents over the abortion. I hope you don't think me too brash or forward in bringing up this issue so directly?”

“Not at all, carry on, Al.”

“Okay, I quite agree that you've been put into an awful catch 22 situation. And as each week passes, the pressure on you is building up and up toward bursting point. To sum up: you made a big mistake. You got pregnant. You were forced by your parents to have an abortion. You believe that in so doing you have committed a cardinal sin for which the punishment is eternal damnation. So you have options, at least potentially. One option is to simply forgive yourself and forget about what God and your parents think.”

He peered into her eyes.

“And I can see by the look on your face that this is not an option.”

She nodded.

“Another option would be to confess your sins to a priest and hence obtain forgiveness and absolution.”

Donna nervously took another sip of her tea. Reading her mind, Al-Khidr reached over his desk and passed her an ashtray. She fumbled in her jacket for a cigarette and lighter, offered him one, which he politely declined, and lit up.

“To do that would be to mention the unmentionable, in your parents' eyes.”

She nodded.

“But you must do something, Donna. You can't go on like this.”

She could feel the pressure building up inside her as he spoke. As if a coiled serpent were pushing its way up through her guts.

“Let's say you do confess your sins. You will have achieved the freedom from this terrible, oppressive burden. Leave your parents out of it entirely. So what if you incur their wrath? Big deal. Of course, none of us want to incur the wrath of our parents. But so what, in the grand scheme of things? It would hurt, sure. But it's something that you would be able to safely handle. The important thing is that you, my dear wayward soul, you will be free. And, if your parents are still suffering from this same shame-filled affliction, then perhaps as their own feelings of shame die down, so they, too, will be freed? It's a bit like the old cliché of the vampire disappearing in a puff of smoke when he's brought out into the light. And who knows? At some point in the future, you might be able to get back together with them. At the moment, that is not a possibility. Does what I've said begin to make sense to you, Donna?”

“Yes, it does,” she croaked.

“Donna, if you can trust me, then I can offer you the absolution for which you so desperately crave. Would you like to go ahead?”

“Yes, Al-Khidr. Yes, I would. But ...”

“And?” Al-Khidr smiled, which raised a little smile in return from Donna.

“My friend Rachel visited them a while back. She asked:”

“Have you seen your daughter, Donna recently?”

“Rachel,” her mother replied tersely: “We don't have a daughter by that name.”

“You've disowned her?”

“We don't have a daughter by that name.”

“Well, that's funny,” retorted Rachel. “Because Donna has a mother called Alicia. Alicia Fouquet. And she really needs to see her mother and father.”

Al-Khidr nodded in appreciation. Then out of the blue he said: “Perhaps we should have your mother and father here to witness this event?”

“Is that possible? Besides, they'd go ballistic.”

“Trust me,” replied Al-Khidr. And with a single click of his fingers, she saw her parents suddenly appear in the room before them. They seemed to be in something of a daze and they were still wearing their matching His and Hers pyjamas.

“Draw up a seat,” Al-Khidr requested in a commanding tone and they complied without question. There was no hint of emotion in their vacuous gaze, though her father was squirming self-consciously.

“Shall we begin?” asked Al-Khidr, gently rubbing Donna's shoulder. “This will be painful, for you as well as for them.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “I'm ready. Let's begin.”

She made a sign of the Cross and signalled that she was ready: “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

Then Al-Khidr greeted her in return and asked her to proceed.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” she began. As she looked into Al-Khidr's eyes, he seemed to grow ever more menacing and she nearly leapt up and left the room, but instead, overcome by a terrible weight on her shoulders, she slid off the couch to kneel before him, her eyes cast down. It was as if his eyes were burrowing into her soul. In those few moments, which seemed to be like an age unto themselves, she realized to her horror that her soul was laid bare and that not one single thing that she had ever done had escaped the notice of spirit.

We only have ourselves to blame, came a voice in her head. Could that be right? That everything was perfectly designed to meet our every need? A child has no need of a molester. A bystander no need of a suicide bomb. And yet here she was, stripped of all her “ifs” and “buts”. Stripped of all excuses. Stark naked before some All-seeing Eye. Her soul being weighed in some unseen balance.

Nappy time, the voice announced.

Come again?

Time to be changed.

She slumped forward with the intense shock and Al-Khidr had to hold her upright.

“You may begin, child,” he prompted, though to be honest the words expressed were insignificant compared to the turmoil within. Her legs had turned to leaden jelly and she felt as if she had been gutted.

“I had illicit sex with a boy who lived up the road and conceived a baby out of holy wedlock. I attempted to conceal this sin from my parents and from the priest. Then, to compound my sin, I had an abortion, which killed the baby in my womb. Full of shame and remorse, I stopped attending church and was too much of a coward to confess these sins as I should have done. I have suffered endless torment since that day. Please find it in your heart to forgive me, Father.”

“For these and all the sins of my past life, I am truly sorry,” Donna concluded, the tears coursing down her face and dripping off her chin.

A violent shudder almost catapulted her across the room, but Al-Khidr held her firmly.

When she looked up, Al-Khidr's expression had lost all of its fearful quality. Al-Khidr was radiant in his shimmering, welcoming green robes, almost luminous, and his lips, even his eyes were smiling benignly and proudly at her.

“God, the Father of mercies,” he said in measured tones, “through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church, may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

“And the penance?” he said, anticipating her question. “That has already been paid in full with compound interest, my friend.” With that, Al-Khidr drew her to her feet and stood beside her. Words could not describe how she felt. It was almost as she were floating on a thin cushion of air.

She laughed.

“What's so funny?” Al-Khidr asked her.

“Oh, I have this song running round in my head. I first heard it round at Rocky's house one day. It's by a band called Uriah Heep.” Then she added: “And you know what? When I first heard the song, I felt a quiver go right through me, Al.”

“Go on.”

“This is a place I've never seen before. And I've been forgiven ...”

He nodded in appreciation and they turned their attention toward her parents, who still sat there, transfixed, a mixture of horror and awe etched across their faces.

“Thank you so much,” she smiled, addressing not only Al-Khidr but also his parents, whom she now seemed to see in a whole new light.

He smiled. “Thank you, my dear Donna.”

“Will they remember this day when they wake up?” asked Donna. “I want to hug them.”

“Oh yes, they most certainly will remember,” Al-Khidr told her. “And the time for hugs and reunions will soon arrive, Donna.”

“Now, come with me. It's time to leave this place. I want to take you across the sea and into the mountains of a distant land, to a place hidden behind a great waterfall that they call Abshar.”

Abshar. There it was again.

“There is still much work that needs to be done and I have some dear friends whom I'd like you to meet. And on the way, you can tell me all about this fellow of yours. I should very much like to meet that young man.”

~~~O~~~

“Well, Donna,” Hakim Faisal Al-Khidr said as he began to bring her out of her reverie. “We're drawing to the close of our twenty sixth session ...”

She frowned. “I may have lost count, but surely this is the eighth session, isn't it, Faisal?”

“It's been six months,” he told her.

“You're kidding me, right?”

“Okay, Donna. Now I'm going to slowly bring you back to a wakeful state. I'll start at five and count backwards and by the time I reach one, you'll be fully awake and aware and back to reality. Five: you're beginning to stir and awaken ... Four ...”

When she'd come round and reorientated herself in the meeting room, he led her through to his office where the other members of the group were patiently waiting, chatting amongst themselves.

“No session tonight, guys and gals. This evening we're all off out to celebrate our friend Donna's emancipation and her coming of age.”

Donna was deeply puzzled. “That thing you said about this being the twenty sixth session, the last session, right ...”

He nodded.

“But I don't remember a thing after the eighth.”

“If you don't believe me, take a look,” he smiled, pointing to the calendar on the office wall.

“But that can't be. Have I been away this long? It doesn't make sense.”

“Give it time, Donna. Everything will become clear in its own good time. Now, let me help you on with your jacket and let's hit the town. It will be my treat.”

22. Reunion

“Every Thursday night for the next twenty six weeks, the Hakim picked me up on the street corner,” Donna recapped. “I went through a session, then quietly chatted for a while, then he'd drive me back. I didn't let onto the girls or the pimp, of course. To them he was just a regular, high class punter. One or two of them tried to take his trade away from me, but he always declined graciously and waited for me.”

“Then one Thursday night, instead of taking his session with the group, he took us all out for a drink and a meal in a pub, and told me that the work was complete. It as only then that I suddenly realized that I'd stopped mainlining and I was clean. It was like the urge, even the memory had been taken away from me without me noticing. Like magic. I don't mean like an illusion, I mean like real magic.”

“Anyhow, Faisal gave me the rail fare and told me to leave London and go back home. 'And tell your beloved that his chief, Mister Shah sends his regards and that he'll understand.'”

“Of course, 'your beloved' meant you. He also said 'Listen to the plaintive call of a dog for its master. That whining is the connection.'”

“Thanks be to Mushkil Gusha, remover of all difficulties!” Rocky cried out. His call had indeed been answered.

“It was you, wasn't it? You told them about my plight. I think I've known this deep down for some time now and that is why I trusted Faisal, but I couldn't be quite sure. It sounds strange, but it's almost as if I wasn't meant to know until the time was right. And I get a feeling that time is now.”

“Yes, it was me,” Rocky nodded. “But that was just an opener. You and the Hakim did all the hard work. For that I'll be eternally grateful.”

He rooted around amongst the manilla folders on his desk and handed her the complimentary slip from Octagon Press.

“I was absolutely gutted when I received the letter from your mother warning me off. And when I heard of your plight much later, I wrote to the Sufis begging them to help you. It is so good to see you again, Donna. You have no idea what this means to me.”

“Oh, I think I do, Rocky. In fact, I know I do,” she cooed, clutching him tightly and kissing him with passion. “I never want to plunge into such a God-forsaken hell hole or leave you again.”

“By the way, I believe congratulations are in order?”

“Qué?”

“The new job at the school.”

“Oh, yes. That chance meeting with Mr. Scott really turned my life around for the better.”

Chance meeting? the voice reflected.

“I'm really chuffed for you,” she smiled, giving a peck on the cheek. “So you'll have met the beloved Ms. Pratt again. Or Mrs. Scott as she is now.”

“I must say she seems to have mellowed. You know her? I thought you went to the Girls' High School?”

“You could say.”

“How so?”

“Well, would it make more sense to you if I told you that my mother, Mrs. Fouquet had the maiden name Pratt? Doesn't have quite the same middle-class ring to it, does it?”

“You don't mean ...”

“That the woman you know as Mrs. Scott is my very own Aunt Florence. She and my mother are sisters.”

Rocky shook his head in disbelief. “Well, what a small world. Wonders will never cease!”

“My mother would have nothing to do with me whilst I was down in London. That's a drawbridge we'll have to cross when we come to it. Other than you, Aunt Florence was the only one who stayed in touch. I hope you don't mind, but when I wrote back to her, I told her all about you.”

“Not bad things, I hope?”

“Not at all. I told her what a dishy guy you are and what a bright spark.”

“Is that all?”

“One good turn deserves another,” she answered cryptically, but would not be drawn further.

Silence speaks a thousand and one words, advised the friend inside his head.

“Cigarette?” Donna offered, flashing a packet under his nose.

“No thanks,” he said, tempted as he was.

“Shock horror! Read all about it. Rocky Rhodes says 'no' to a ciggie,” she gasped. “Belated New Year's resolution?”

“You could say. A lifetime's resolution might be closer to the truth. I once promised that if I ever met Shah, I'd pack in the weed, to prove that I had finally mastered my Commanding Self.”

You've met the friend already, and you're about to meet him again, came the voice.

“Did you just say something?” Donna asked, looking around the room.

“No.”

“I could have sworn I heard a voice.”

“Don't we all? Or is it just me?” he asked. “Anyhow, when that didn't work, I said a little prayer to God about giving up if I ever saw you again off H.”

She raised her eyebrows and pushed her own cigarette back in the packet. “Well, well. Wonders will never cease. Well done, Batman. Bloody well done.”

“Likewise, Donna, with brass knobs on!”

“You've changed, Rocky,” Donna observed after a moment's silence.

“For the better, I would hope.”

“Oh yes, of course. Very much so. I don't mean it in a bad way at all. I mean, you've grown.”

“You mean drunken Neanderthal bum to near-human in a hundred and one fraught lessons? True enough. Phew! Panic over.”

Then: “You know, Donna, that time I went to see you in London, you told me that we no longer live on the same planet any more. You said 'you live in some chivalrous, mystical fantasy world ... And I live between the gutter, the business end of some creep's prick, and a needle.' You said 'it doesn't get much more real than that. And ne'er the twain shall meet.'”

“Do you still think that your world was the more real?”

“No,” she smiled. “I was the one living in the dream world – or rather, living the nightmare. And thank God we did get to meet again. I'm so glad that though I'd given up on myself, that you didn't give up on me.”

Rocky lifted Donna up in his arms and twirled her around the room, offering his thanks. He was elated. It was a somewhat hackneyed phrase, but it really did feel like all his birthday anniversaries and Christmases had come together, all rolled into one.

“Ah,” he said seeing the necklace. “I see you're still wearing the pendant I gave you.”

“Mmm, yes, and it seems to have brought me some luck.” She fished it from her cleavage and spun it round in her hand.

“Do you know what this design is?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I just thought it looked nice.”

“Well, believe it or not, this is the same nine-pointed design as the one above my head on the ceiling during the therapy sessions with Faisal. He called it a No-Koonja.”

“Well, would you believe it,” he marvelled. “I once went to an old secondhand bookshop in town and the lady there lent me a book about the Sufis. She gave the pendant to me. Fancy that.”

It was as if he'd been working unwittingly his whole life for this moment. A moment when all the scattered, disparate pieces of the jigsaw puzzle clicked into place and took on a whole new meaning. A meaning that cast out every last shred of doubt.

“This calls for a major celebration!” he whooped.

“I'll second that. Here's to new beginnings.”

“By the way, Donna, I've been meaning to ask you: where have you been these last few weeks? I kept writing, but I suddenly stopped getting any replies. Why was that?”

“Oh, you could say I've been in rehab, Rocky. I'm sorry that I was unable to let you know.”

“In London?”

“At a place far, far away called Abshar. It means 'waterfall'”, she told him.

“Well, what do you know?”

“Huh?”

“It was turn of phrase expressing pleasant surprise, not a question,” he told her.

Donna fished around in her handbag, pulled out a tape and inserted it into the cassette player. Rocky recognized the song. It was by Roberta Flack.

The first time ever I saw your face ...

And for a time, they clutched each other tight; and smooched around the room until they were fit to drop.

He absent-mindedly took one of Donna's cigarettes, put it to his lips and was on the point of lighting up; then realized what he was doing and replaced it. It was a small, yet necessary sacrifice to make. A sacrifice that he must make. A secret deal he'd made with God.

“Thank you, I understand,” he repeated, looking again at the terse note scribbled on the complimentary slip on the coffee table as he put his drink down. And for once in his life, he actually and finally did understand. He'd taken his first small step in the right direction along the Way.

New Beginnings

~~~O~~~

23. Aftershock

“Any word on Rhodes?” the chief enquired as he poured himself a coffee from the vending machine in the fluorescent glow of the grey-green corridor, outside the office. “Let me know as soon as, if not sooner.”

“I'll have a look at the records sometime this afternoon, chief. Snowed under at the moment, I'm afraid.”

The chief turned to him. “Hendrick, when I tell you to jump, the correct response is 'how high?'”

“Right away, sir.” Hendrick was already heading back to the office.

“Well?” asked the chief a few minutes later. “I have a meeting at 11:00 and I want to be able to give the board answers.”

“Wycliffe have the Rhodes account flagged, chief. And cross-referenced to that woman Fouquet.”

“I thought she'd been disposed of already? Why the link?”

“Seems she's managed to pull herself together,” Hendrick told her. “Last seen leaving Rhodes' flat in Wycliffe arm-in-arm with the guy. Went down to ...”

“Okay, okay. You can spare me the detail, Hendrick. What about Rhodes?”

“Still keeps writing to Shah. Wycliffe voice their concerns.”

“So, he has bounced back. Hendrick, I want to be able to tell the board that we are meeting our targets and that all is in order. So what are we going to do with this pair?”

“Well ...”

“No, don't answer that. We have bigger fish to fry. Let Rhodes and Fouquet think that they're off the hook, Hendrick, and let's sit back and see where they lead us.”

“How do you mean, chief?”

“We've spent years trying to infiltrate Shah's operation – and failing miserably. I thought Lesse had it nailed, but bugger me if he didn't end up going native on us. There we were labouring under the illusion that he was working for them pretending to be working for us when in reality he ended up working for them, pretending to be working for us, working for them.”

You could almost hear the cogs whirring inside Hendrick's skull as he tried to fathom that one out.

“What I mean to say, Hendrick, is that he was a triple agent. Bloody devious bunch these Chinese. You see, you'll never get inside their operations by pretending. The only way to get in is to go along with the training programme. And by the time they let you into their inner circles, it's too fucking late, Hendrick: you've already been converted. Beyond a certain point, the process becomes self-fuelling and is irreversible, as we discovered much to our cost: the Boss went ballistic after the Arkwright Affair and they were small fry compared to Shah. And that's assuming you make it that far. MI6, the NSA, the KGB: they've all tried to infiltrate his networks and to recruit his people, to no avail. They even sent out expeditions to his homeland, Afghanistan, in search of this even more secretive and elusive Sarmoun Brotherhood. Apparently they were all sent packing with a flea in their ear. All we got in return were megabytes of useless disinformation. Lesse was the first and last to infiltrate their ranks and in the end he let the side down badly.”

“Ah, I see, chief,” Hendrick said some time later. “So you want Rhodes and Fouquet to lead us to them, is that right?”

“Holy mother of God,” sighed the chief, stalking back to his desk. “Finally he understands. Give that man a goldfish. Yes, Hendrick, that is precisely what I mean. As the saying has it: we are going to use a sprat to catch a mackerel. And today we set the wheels of Operation Clam Bait in motion.”

~~~O~~~

The End

Books by the same author

published on the Kindle

The Shadowlands series:

1. The Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor (prequel 1).

2. Life on the Flipside (or In Two Minds, prequel 2).

3. Escape from the Shadowlands.

4. In Search of Destiny.

5. The Lucian Uprising.

6. Time and Time Again (not re-published for the Kindle).

7. The Gift (a short novel).

8. The Host and the Guests (a short novel).

9. Whisperings of Love.

10. The Insiders: Exploring the higher realms of possibility (standalone).

Other:

1. Thank You, I Understand.

Writing as H.M. Forester

1. The Dissidents: A novella.

Thank You, I Understand

By Etienne de L'Amour

This factional work takes the reader on an evolutionary journey of self-rediscovery from near Neanderthal to sentient human being in a thousand and one fraught lessons.

A psychological drama, it explores the murky depths of the unregenerate psyche, trials and redemption; passionate romance; the wise voice of inner-tuition, and the heightened awareness of eventual spiritual reawakening. An awakening into a strange world pregnant with deep meaning in which we see revealed an awe-inspiring hidden design at work amidst the everyday life which we mistakenly take to be the real world.

Rocky Rhodes is one wave short of a shipwreck as the story begins, going through a period of teenage rebellion, amidst a subculture of sex, drugs and rock and roll, and later he experiences psychosis and schizophrenia. But his life begins to take on new direction when he is introduced to the way of the Sufi mystics.

Thank You, I Understand is a standalone novel, circa 80,000 words.

Table of Contents

Dedication

Foreword

1. The morning after the night before

2. The third eye

3. Gods bearing gifts

4. As one door opens ...

5. ... Another slams shut

6. Is there anybody there?

7. The reply

8. Homeward bound

9. Leave it with me

10. Artistic impression

11. While you were away

12. Southbound

13. Maintaining a presence

14. Communication breakdown

15. Down, like a lead balloon

16. Weiqi

17. It never rains ...

18. On the way back up

19. At a loose end

20. The curb crawler

21. The escape plan

22. Reunion

23. Aftershock