Kyle stared at Max, searching his eyes for any hint of deceit. He didn’t see any.
After they viewed the pertinent rushes from Holland Park again, and the scenes from the temple building and
fermette
in Normandy, Max’s face was stricken. One hand trembled.
He practically ran from his chair for the lights; which Kyle was pleased to have switched on too. ‘I think a brandy is in order. What do you say?’
‘We’re some way off my cocktail hour, Max, but I think that is a solid idea. I hit the bourbon at my flat last Sunday, right after seeing it.’
‘It’s extraordinary.’
‘Was that a man? Up there with us? And those things on the walls, Max. In the temple. What are they?’
Max rubbed his eyes and then glanced about the ceil
-
ing. When he realized Kyle was watching him, he became 181
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uncomfortable like a physical indignity had been observed.
He turned on his heel and opened the door. ‘Iris! Oh where is she? Iris!’
‘Sir.’
‘The decanter.’
He turned back to Kyle, raised his hands. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it before.’
‘In Clarendon Road. That figure? And the scream, Max.’
The echo of the final squeal outside the penthouse in Claren -
don Road was ingrained into his hearing. ‘Half of me wishes I’d never heard it. But it’s priceless. Have you any idea how this will go down in a trailer?’
Max resumed his seat. ‘Quite.’ He had been unwilling to watch either episode more than once. And his reaction to the temple barn mystified Kyle; the images were not well lit, but were still hideous and begged a close examination that Max refused to give them.
‘Susan White told us about what she called “the presences”. But this? What is it? What’s the connection?’
‘I never anticipated you seeing anything quite so dramatic.
This Finger fellow . . .’
‘Finger Mouse.’
‘He never . . . wouldn’t have tampered with the footage in any way?’
‘God, no. Wouldn’t have had the time. And anyway, we heard them in real time. Me and Dan. Heard everything that you have just heard.’
‘But in Clarendon Road, you never saw anything of that
. . . intruder?’
‘Nothing. We heard feet. Twice. Downstairs and then upstairs later, so someone was inside with us the whole time.
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But we didn’t see anyone. It was dark. Which we wanted to use to our advantage. For effect.’
‘Forget the effects, Kyle. We don’t need such embellish-ments. In future, please light the sets properly, especially at night. Otherwise we have this confusion. It leaves us open to misinterpretation. To accusations of faking unnatural occurrences.’
‘Whoa, Max. Now you hold on—’
‘Nothing touched you?’
Kyle frowned. ‘Touched me? What do you mean?’
Iris opened the door and they both jumped. She came into the room bearing a crystal decanter and two glasses. And departed eyeing Kyle with suspicion. Max nodded at the brandy. ‘Help yourself.’ He checked his watch. Sucked in his breath. ‘Blast. I need to get ready. My suit isn’t packed. The funeral.’
‘What? We need to talk. You can’t just take off.’ Kyle raised both hands and offered them towards the screen. ‘We haven’t even begun to make any sense of this. I had the bloody fright of my life last night. I am struggling to even talk about this, let alone accept it, but it’s all there. Tangible, physical.’
‘I’m sorry, Kyle.’ Max made tracks for the door. ‘There will be ample time to discuss this later. And we need the American footage first before we can draw any conclusions.’
‘Max. There is something else that can’t wait. I need to get it resolved.’
‘Kyle, please.’
‘It can’t wait. I have concerns about this working relationship.’
Max paused before the door, then edged his way closer to 183
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the decanter. Kyle removed the top and poured two glasses.
Max looked into his glass. ‘What are your reservations?’
Kyle filled his mouth with the smoky, velvety spirit.
Gasped. ‘Before we go any further, I need some reassurance.
I promised to make as natural and as honest a film as possible, and our arrangement has to be based on mutual trust.’
He held his hand out to prevent Max from interrupting. ‘But I am beginning to wonder what it is that you are not telling me. You were a part of The Last Gathering. You did two years in that bloody cult. You were one of the originals. But you overlooked mentioning it to me. Did you think I wouldn’t find out from one of the others? So why keep that from me?’
Max sighed with irritation. Checked his watch. ‘The car is coming in twenty minutes, Kyle.’
‘Then we have plenty of time. You look great. You can just throw a jacket over the shirt.’
Exasperated, Max took his chair. Leaned back, his small feet leaving the floor, and blew out all of the air from inside his tiny body. He looked even older to Kyle. He’d had surgery, on his forehead, around his eyes and mouth, lots of it.
Made him appear gaunt and shiny at the best of times, but now his face seemed to have partially collapsed. He concealed the strain by rubbing at his eyes.
I tried that too mate, but what you’ve seen you’ve seen.
Across his hairline, the tiny clusters of implanted hair looked ready to squeeze themselves out of the follicles. When Max took his hands away his eyes glistened. ‘I had my reasons for keeping my involvement quiet.’
‘They need to be real good, Max.’
‘I understand.’
‘You need to. You’re producing this very thoroughly, laying 184
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everything out for us. I didn’t appreciate you blowing up at me for interviewing the tenant from Clarendon Road. And after this –’ Kyle pointed at the television screen ‘– I’m beginning to ask myself what the hell am I getting myself and Dan mixed up in?’
He spoke without looking at Kyle. ‘I’m sorry. But . . . look, even most of my dearest friends don’t know of my past. My colleagues. All those I have met and collected in my career, they know nothing of my time with Katherine. I feel re -
sponsible, Kyle. You see, I am to blame for everything that happened to that organization and to all who were ever a part of it. Until its dreadful conclusion.’
Kyle raised his hands and let them slap against his thighs in exasperation. ‘How?’
‘Kyle, I began The Last Gathering with Brother Heron who is now gone. I was one of its founding stones, its natural parent. And I was quickly and quite ruthlessly usurped by Katherine in the very first year.’
‘Why keep that from me? I don’t understand. You know my feelings about agendas, Max. We’ve been through this.’
Max was distracted again; he gazed in silence, as if beyond the chic walls of his fortress of light. Shook his head in some private reverie, and smiled, though not in a pleasant way.
‘Oh, she was clever, even then. Not monstrous, but close to it, and capable. Older than us. Streetwise. A hard woman.
But a very charming one. Seductive when she needed to be. She learned a great deal behind bars, I can tell you.’ He finally met Kyle’s eye. ‘We were no match for her. She was already a Clear in Scientology when I first met her, at a Process meeting in Mayfair. The Process were another group. Far more advanced than us, so we based much of the 185
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architecture of our own organization upon them. They had such allure, even grace. And we wanted it for ourselves.
‘And I was young and foolish. Idealistic. What people called a hippy. A devotee of Sufi mysticism, of Buddhism, considering a Franciscan order, experimenting with communal living, an anarchist, a pacifist . . . clueless. Didn’t know who or what I was. But knew I wanted something else to what was on offer to an economics graduate in 1960s London. Something different. And like my friends, you must understand, I was perfect material for a manipulative socio-pathic personality like Katherine.’
‘But why couldn’t you tell me? I don’t get it.’
‘It’s hard to admit, Kyle. That I was such a fool. And allowed something so real, so positive, to slip through my fingers. To allow it to become so twisted, so corrupt. The very antithesis of everything we hoped to escape by founding the organization. A refuge from the world. But we were so naïve . . . inexperienced. And she took it from us. Turned us against each other. Quickly. Brought in others. Formed a majority. A new consensus.’ Max squeezed his hands into fists. ‘She took everything. Everything, Kyle. There is nothing I regret more than that. I would say it is my
only
regret. I am afraid I am quite ashamed at how I was taken in by her.’
‘So why do you need me? You have everything at your disposal. Equipment, financing. You’ve even done all of the research. You even know the bloody people involved, Max.’
‘True. And I toyed with the idea of making the film myself.
Directing, or at least scripting. But I changed my mind. For several reasons.’ Max stood up and walked across to the bookcase. Fingered the spines of the Revelation Press first editions. ‘I could not afford the stigma. Not with my pro-186
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duction company, the publishing, my business interests, the charitable work. The unique selling point of all of my ventures is based upon positive spirituality, of offering hope through alternative paths. What the Gathering became . . .
This film is an enormous departure for me. It’s why I have created the independent
Mysteris
imprint, solely for this venture. The film will never bare the Revelations brand. It can’t.’
Max rubbed at his tight cheeks. ‘Imagine the shame, the potential ruin, if the
Daily Mail
realized I actually helped found The Last Gathering. They’d make no distinction between the early days of the Gathering and The Temple of the Last Days. What my creation became. That monstrous thing in the desert. I watched things go bad in London in sixty-eight. Watched the poison seep in. But I played no part in
that
. . . in the desert. You have my word on that, Kyle.
I learned my lesson and I removed myself. Started over.
Covered my tracks. Broke contact with the others. And genuinely believe I have done a great deal of good since.
To make amends. I suppose that has always been my motiv -
ation in my professional life.
‘And making the film myself would have been a mistake.
My own bitterness, my resentment, my anger would have spilled all over it. You are right to fear agendas. So I needed an independent and objective retrospective. To tell such an incredible story that has been unforgivably ransacked by exploitation and opportunism for decades. When I think of that dreadful
Desert Bitch
film!’
Max looked into Kyle’s eyes, beseechingly. ‘I wanted someone who understood the occult terrain. Who had already cut his teeth with similar stories. Who presented the otherworldly as a very real possibility. Who has already 187
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suggested that disturbances do occur in the natural order of things. My own contribution, I knew, would be most effectively employed in an executive production role. As a manager of resources. A cultivator of contacts. A guide.
‘And I still genuinely believe that the very spirit of this story lies beneath the blood that Katherine and her deranged acolytes spilled in Arizona. The very meaning of the story is still buried. The real story has never been told. And it is a story of such an extraordinary nature, Kyle, as we are already discovering. Which is why I have directed you to pursue a paranormal angle.’ Max paused, sighed. ‘Because I have not been ready to see the full results of what Katherine did. To confront it. Even now I still need an intermediary. A defence.
You must understand that it is a mystery I need you to unravel for me. I’m afraid I just don’t have the strength.’
Iris appeared in the doorway. ‘Sir, your car’s here.’
Kyle’s journey home from dropping off the rushes at Finger Mouse’s place passed without an awareness of his surroundings. He uncapped the pint bottle of Jack Daniels and took another hit. Pocketed it. He came out of meetings with Max uplifted, reluctantly flattered, even strangely energized.
But the spell wore off. He was a good verbalizer, was Max.
Sincere to a tipping point of becoming emotional. But Kyle fidgeted with the persistent suspicion that he had just been manipulated, again. He wanted to believe Max. Because he wanted to make the film more than anything. But maybe Dan was right and they should walk away. ‘Fuck that,’ he said out loud in the Tube carriage. No one looked at him.
It wasn’t possible for him to give up on the film, despite the instinctive notion that more was at stake than his career, 188
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finances or mental wellbeing. And he hated himself for it. He now felt vulnerable to dangers he could not even identify.
One week in and he also queried his exposure to it all. His brief but compressed contact with all things Sister Katherine left him seasick, nervous, and disoriented. Two interviews and two shoots made the world he took for granted an insubstantial place, populated with maniacs and ghastly presences.
It was all coming at him too soon. Virtually coming out of the walls. Something revealing itself when he should have been revealing it.
In his mind, all the way home, he both walked away from the film and flew to Arizona. It felt like he’d made a wish on a monkey’s paw; a wish for an edgy, groundbreaking documentary to fall into his lap, during an economic downturn that had plunged film and television commissioning into a free fall it might never pull out of. But now the film deal of a lifetime was in the bag, what else was in there with it? And not for the first time did he reflect that his compulsion to make films might be, as many had warned, his final undoing; though his long-suffering parents and friends were referring to financial ruin, not what he’d stir up by looking too hard in the wrong places.
But there was no denying the high-voltage current was back. Yes, there was fear, bewilderment and an inability to process what was being flung at him, but this was an opportunity to add the best work yet to his filmography.
That
production.
That
film. The consuming labour of his life. One he had circled, but never nailed. This was
it
. The Last Days.