I can’t say for sure when the idea of Daiyu being a kind of deity started, but over time, Jonathan and Mazu turned her into one. They called her a prophet and claimed she’d said all these spiritually insightful things, which then became part of church doctrine. Even Daiyu’s death was somehow holy, like she’d been such pure spirit she dissolved from the material world. My sister Becca used to claim Daiyu had had the power of invisibility. I don’t know if Becca actually believed this, or just wanted to curry favour with Jonathan and Mazu, but the idea that Daiyu had been able to dematerialise even before she drowned got added to the myth, too.
There were already two people buried at Chapman Farm when Daiyu died. I never knew the first guy. He was an American called Rusty Andersen, who used to live on a patch of ground on the edge of the Aylmerton Community. He was an army veteran and he sounds like what you’d call a survivalist these days. Mazu and Jonathan claimed Andersen had joined the church before he died, but I don’t know whether that’s true. He was hit and killed by a drunk driver on the road outside the farm one night, and they buried him at the farm.
The other man buried on the land was called Alexander Graves, who died in his twenties. He was definitely part of the church. I vaguely remember him being odd and chanting all the time. Graves’ family kidnapped him when he was out on the street collecting money for the UHC, but soon after they took him back to the family home, he killed himself. He’d left a will saying he wanted to be buried at the farm, so he was.
We all knew Andersen’s and Graves’ stories, because they were used as object lessons by Jonathan and Mazu, illustrations of the danger of leaving the farm/church.
Over time, Andersen and Graves became prophets, too – it was like Daiyu needed company. Andersen became the Wounded Prophet and Graves the Stolen Prophet, and their supposedly holy sayings became part of church doctrine, too.
The fourth prophet was Harold Coates. He was a struck-off doctor who’d been on the land since the Aylmerton Community days, too. Even though the church bans all medicines (along with caffeine, sugar and alcohol), Coates was allowed to grow herbs and treat minor injuries, because he was one of us. They made Coates the Healer Prophet almost as soon as he was buried.
The last prophet was Margaret Cathcart-Bryce, who was the filthy-rich widow of some businessman. She was over 70 when she arrived at the farm, and completely infatuated with Jonathan Wace. Her face had been lifted so many times it was tight and shiny, and she wore this big silver wig. Margaret gave Wace enough money to start doing a massive renovation of Chapman Farm, which was really run down. Margaret must have lived at the farm for 7 or 8 years before she died and left everything she had to the Council of Principals. She then became the Golden Prophet.
Once they got their hands on all of Margaret’s money, they built a pool with a statue of Daiyu in the middle of it, in the new courtyard. Then they dug up the four bodies that were already buried there, and reburied them in tombs around the pool. The new graves didn’t have their real names, only their prophet names. There was no tomb for Daiyu, because they never recovered her body. The inquest found she hit a rip tide near the shore and just got sucked straight out to sea. So the statue in the pool is her memorial.
All five of the prophets were incorporated into the religion, but Daiyu/The Drowned Prophet was always the most important one. She was the one who could bless you, but she’d curse you if you strayed.
This next bit is difficult for people who haven’t seen the proof to understand.
Spirits are real. There is an otherworld. I know that for a fact. The UHC is evil and corrupt, but that doesn’t mean some of what they believe isn’t true. I’ve seen supernatural happenings that have no ‘rational’ explanation. Jonathan and Mazu are bad people and I still question whether what they were summoning were spirits or demons, but I saw them do it. Glasses shattering that nobody had touched. Objects levitating. I saw Jonathan chant, then lift a truck unaided, right off the ground. They warned us wrongdoing would result in the Adversary sending demons to the farm, and I think I saw them, once: human forms with heads of pigs.
The day of each prophet’s death is marked by their Manifestation. You’re not allowed to attend a Manifestation until you’ve turned 13, and talking about it to outsiders is absolutely forbidden. I’m not comfortable writing down details of the Manifestations. I can only tell you that I’ve seen absolute proof that the dead can come back. That doesn’t mean I think the prophets themselves were truly holy. I only know they come back on the anniversaries of their deaths. The Manifestation of the Stolen Prophet is always pretty frightening but the Manifestation of the Drowned Prophet is the worst by far. Even knowing it’s coming up changes the atmosphere at Chapman Farm.
I don’t know whether the Drowned Prophet can materialise anywhere other than the farm, but I do know she and the others still exist in the otherworld and I’m afraid of calling her forth by breaking confidence around the Manifestations.
Maybe you think I’m crazy, but I’m telling the truth. The UHC is evil and dangerous, but there is another world and they’ve found a way into it.
Kevin
8
Nine in the fifth place means…
It furthers one to make offerings and libations.
The I Ching or Book of Changes
Two days after they’d taken on the Edensor case, and having given a lot of thought to how best to proceed, Strike called Robin from the office. Robin, who was having a day off, had just arrived at the hairdressers. Having apologised to the stylist, who’d only just picked up her scissors, Robin answered.
‘Hi. What’s up?’
‘Have you been through all the Edensor documents I sent you?’
‘Yes,’ said Robin.
‘Well, I’ve been thinking about it and a good first step would be getting hold of census records, to find out who’s been living at Chapman Farm in the last twenty years. If we can track down ex-UHC members, we might be able to confirm some of the claims Pirbright made about what’s going on in there.’
‘You can only access census records up to 1921,’ said Robin.
‘I know,’ said Strike, who’d been perusing the National Archives online, ‘which is why I’m buying Wardle a curry tonight. Want to come? I tipped him off about that tosser who’s paying for everything with fake tenners, and he agreed to try and get hold of the full police report into Pirbright’s shooting in return. I’m buying him curry to soften him up, because I want to persuade him to get us the census records, as well.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t come,’ said Robin, ‘Ryan’s got theatre tickets.’
‘Ah,’ said Strike, reaching for his vape pen. ‘OK, just thought I’d ask.’
‘Sorry,’ said Robin.
‘No problem, it’s your day off,’ said Strike.
‘I’m actually about to have my hair cut,’ said Robin, out of a desire to show that she was still working on the case, even if she couldn’t meet Strike’s police contact that evening.
‘Yeah? What colour have you decided on?’
‘Don’t know,’ said Robin. ‘I’ve only just sat down.’
‘OK, well, I was also going to ask whether you could come over to Prudence’s tomorrow evening. She’s happy to lend you some clothes.’
Unless Murphy’s got tickets for the fucking opera, of course.
‘That’d be great,’ said Robin. ‘Where does she live?’
‘Strawberry Hill. I’ll text you the address. We’ll have to meet there, I’m tailing Bigfoot until five.’
This plan agreed, Strike hung up and sat scowling, while taking deep drags on his vape. The idea of Murphy buying theatre tickets aggravated him; it suggested a dangerous degree of effort. Eight months into the relationship, the policeman should surely have stopped pretending he’d rather watch a play than have a decent meal followed by sex. Pushing himself up from the partners’ desk, Strike moved into the outer room, where the office manager, Pat, was typing away at her desk. Evidently she’d heard part of his conversation with Robin through the open door, because she asked, electronic cigarette clamped, as usual, between her teeth,
‘Why d’you call him Bigfoot?’
‘Because he looks like Bigfoot,’ said Strike, as he filled the kettle.
The man in question was the wealthy owner of a software company, whose wife believed him to be visiting sex workers. Having been forced to share a crowded lift with him during his last bout of surveillance, Strike could testify to the fact that the target was not only extremely tall, hairy and unkempt, but smelled as though his last shower was a distant memory.
‘Funny how beards come and go,’ said Pat, still typing.
‘It’s called shaving,’ said Strike, reaching for mugs.
‘Ha ha,’ said Pat. ‘I mean fashions. Sideburns and that.’
An unwelcome memory of Malcolm Crowther sitting by the campfire at Forgeman Farm surfaced in Strike’s mind: Crowther had a small girl and was encouraging her to stroke his handlebar moustache.
‘Want a cup of tea?’ Strike said, dismissing the mental image.
‘Go on, then,’ Pat replied, in the deep, gravelly voice that often caused callers to mistake her for Strike. ‘That Hargreaves woman still hasn’t paid her invoice, by the way.’
‘Call her,’ said Strike, ‘and tell her we need her to settle up by the end of the month.’
‘That’s Monday.’
‘And she’s got millions.’
‘Richer they are, slower they pay.’
‘Some truth in that,’ admitted Strike, setting down Pat’s mug on her desk before returning to the inner office and closing the door.