Yet her strategy of objectively analysing the church’s means of indoctrination was only partially successful. Kept in a permanent state of tiredness, it was a constant effort to reflect on how obedience was compelled, rather than simply complying. Finally, Robin hit upon the trick of imagining herself telling Strike what she was up to. This forced her to discard all church jargon, because he wouldn’t understand or, more likely, would mock it. The idea of Strike laughing at what she was having to do – though she did him the credit of doubting he’d find Revelation amusing – was a better means of keeping a foothold in the reality that lay outside Chapman Farm, and even broke the chanting habit, because she trained herself to imagine Strike grinning at her when she found herself doing it. Not once did it occur to Robin that she might have imagined talking to Murphy, or any of her female friends, rather than Strike. She was desperately looking forward to his next letter, partly because she wanted to hear his opinion on the Polaroids she’d placed in the plastic rock the previous Thursday, but also because the sight of his handwriting proved he was real, not just a useful figment of her imagination.
The journey across the dark field and through the woods the following Thursday was her easiest so far, because the route through the trees was becoming familiar. When she opened the plastic rock and turned on the torch, she saw the longest letter from Strike yet, and two Cadbury’s Flakes. Only as she began unwrapping one of these and easing herself into position behind a tree, to make sure her torchlight wasn’t visible to anyone who might be looking through the woods from the farm, did she realise there was no note from Ryan. Too nervous and ravenous to worry about that now, she began gobbling down the chocolate while reading Strike’s letter.
Hi,
Your last was very interesting indeed. The tin you described dates from 1987. Assuming the person who took the Polaroids owned the tin, and assuming the tin was taken to the farm when new, it got there before the church started, which might suggest our amateur pornographer was there in the commune days, even if his models arrived later. Could be the Crowthers, Coates, Wace himself, Rust Andersen, or someone we don’t know about. I’m inclined to discount the Crowthers or Coates, because they specialised in pre-pubescents. The blonde girl’s hair looks like Cherie Gittins’, though obviously there could have been more than one blonde, curly haired girl there. I also wondered about the boy with the tattoo on his arm. Shanker’s got me a date with Jordan Reaney, so I’ll ask him if he’s got any skulls up his sleeve.
Other news: Frank One posted a birthday card through the client’s door. Hard to prosecute over that, but Barclay’s found out one brother’s a flasher and the other one’s got previous for stalking. I called Wardle and I think/hope the police are going to pay them a visit.
We’re still lumbered with Littlejohn, unfortunately. Wardle recommended an ex-copper and I interviewed him, but he’s taken a job with Patterson instead. Says the pay’s better. News to me, Dev says they pay less than we do. Maybe he just thought I was a dick.
Pat’s in a bad mood.
Murphy apologises for the lack of letter, he’s had to go up north. Sends his best.
Take care of yourself in there and any time you want to leave, we’re ready.
S x
Robin now unwrapped the second chocolate bar, propped the pile of blank paper on her knee and began to write back, pausing regularly to take more bites of Flake and try and recall everything she needed to tell Strike.
Having apologised for not having anything new on Will Edensor, she continued:
I told you about the two girls who let the little boy escape. Both have had their heads shaved. It’s clearly a punishment, which means Louise and Emily Pirbright have been punished, too, but I don’t yet know why. I haven’t been able to talk to Emily Pirbright again. Two nights ago I also saw the back of the black girl, whose bed’s a couple away from mine. It had weird marks on it as if she’d been dragged along the floor. I haven’t had any opportunity to talk to her. The trouble is, everyone in here shuns/avoids people who’ve been told off or punished, so it’s very obvious if you make overtures to them.
I’ve heard more about Jacob from a girl who’s been helping look after him. She says he’s getting better (not sure that’s true) and that people ‘like him’ are euthanised in the materialist –
Catching herself, Robin crossed the word out.
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