Mystical Circles Read online

  From the reviews of Mystical Circles:

  ‘intricate tapestry of human emotions and psyches with a romantic thread weaving through.’

  Caroline Bailey, creative arts specialist and ceramic artist

  ‘will captivate you from the first paragraph…like any good mystery the more I read the more questions I had… if a great mystery would not keep you reading there’s… romance as well.”

  Marsha Randolph, US reviewer

  ‘weaves romance…with spiritual searching and emotional needs, powerful universal themes.’

  Marie Calvert, arts psychotherapist and retreat leader

  ‘I fell in love with the beautiful house where the story is set and wanted to go there immediately…intense and compelling.’

  Eleanor M. Watkins, author

  ‘romantic…colourful…well observed cast of characters at the retreat centre of the esoteric Wheel of Love…the community’s practices, and their effect on vulnerable individuals, ring true.’

  Fay Sampson, prizewinning author of ‘In the Blood’ and ‘A Malignant House’

  ‘a gripping read … I wanted to get to the end to find out who were the “goodies” and the “baddies” … and to know what would happen to Juliet and her sister.’

  Frances Smith, Bookseller, Warwick and Kenilworth Books (voted one of the best 50 bookshops in the UK)

  Mystical Circles

  S.C. SKILLMAN

  Blue Lily Press

  www.scskillman.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2010

  Revised edition published in 2012 by

  Blue Lily Press

  Copyright © S.C. Skillman

  ISBN: 978-1-4461-5350-5

  The right of S.C. Skillman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Grateful acknowledgement is made to J.M. Dent, an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group, London for The Bright Field by R.S. Thomas; Hamish MacGibbon for Not Waving But Drowning by Stevie Smith; Faber & Faber for Valentine by Wendy Cope; Hodder & Stoughton for Celtic poem in The Celtic Way of Prayer by Esther de Waal; Denise Levertov for Writing in the Dark from Candles in Babylon, copyright ©1982 by Denise Levertov, reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp; University of Nebraska Press for For My Daughter by Weldon Kees, reprinted from The Collected Poems of Weldon Kees edited by Donald Justice copyright 1962,1975, by the University of Nebraska Press © renewed 2003 by the University of Nebraska Press; Penguin for The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald; Lenono Music for Beautiful Boy by John Lennon; Scholastic for The Subtle Knife by Philip Pullman; and Rev. Margaret & Rev. Richard Deimel for Liturgy for Midsummer Eve.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Cover design M.D. James 2012

  Mystical Circles

  To my father Ken,

  who first gave me a stamped addressed envelope

  to submit my stories to a London publisher

  when I was twelve years old

  and to David, Abigail and Jamie for their patience and support throughout the creation of this book

  1

  Arrival

  Juliet was trembling. It had all happened so fast. The explosion of anger between the two men. The rush for the car park. The engine roaring into life. As the rear lights picked her out, she dodged aside just in time. The next thing she heard was a loud bang. And the sickening crunch of metal giving way. And a fountain of fragmenting glass.

  He’d slammed on the brakes too late.

  And it was all her fault.

  *****

  Juliet’s palms were slippery on the steering wheel; she wiped the sweat away from her upper lip. The air conditioning might offset the strong heat of this June day, but not the burning anxiety she felt. Even the spectacular beauty of the high limestone hills and deep valleys as she headed west from the A417 had failed to calm her. A sign half hidden by the trees proclaimed that she’d found ‘The Wheel of Love’. She turned in at the entrance.

  Further down the valley, she could see the two steeply pitched gables of the farmhouse with its mellow honey-coloured stone. It looked idyllic. But that held no pleasure for her; her stomach twisted with apprehension for Zoe.

  She drove round the house to the gravel parking area at the back. A Bentley and a Saab were parked up against the woodland fence. She was about to nose her Renault Mégane in between them then realised there wasn’t quite enough room, and reversed into the space on the other side of the Saab. She drew to a halt and turned the engine off.

  She pulled a copy of an email from the door pocket. A few phrases leapt out at her with the same force as when she’d first read them.

  Hi, you in crowded, stressed old London from me in the peaceful, perfect Cotswolds…massive change of plan…I’m in love…Craig invited me out for supper…got to know him a whole lot better…gorgeous, sexy, intelligent…all I ever dreamed of…moved to his place…fantastic farmhouse a few miles from Cirencester…group called Wheel of Love…changes people’s lives…won’t be coming back…glad to leave London…paradise here…staying for ever…why not visit?... Material for a documentary here!..I’ll tell Craig you’re ringing…know what you’re like with a story.

  See what you think!

  Love Zoe.

  Juliet bit her lip, folding the sheet of paper. Zoe’s tone still needled her as much as when she’d first read it. Zoe knew her sister wouldn’t be able to resist coming to find out what was going on. And the suggestion about a documentary had worked out just as Zoe had proposed. Still, Juliet didn’t like it, not one bit.

  She was deeply suspicious of this Craig guy, for a start.

  But friends and colleagues hadn’t been at all sympathetic. One had said, Hey, the love of her life and the truths of the universe all wrapped up in one package – great! But Juliet knew she needed to come and see the situation for herself.

  Another colleague had advised her to wait and see if this infatuation would blow over, despite the tone of the email. Not a hope. Not if Juliet knew Zoe. Too late now, anyway. She was here.

  She had, in the limited time available, done a bit of research into whatever powers Craig might produce. Psychological powers, she thought most likely. Mind control. That sort of thing. But, as she’d discovered when she’d googled the subject, Knowledge is power.

  Prepare yourself: that was the key. Know what you’re up against.

  So thinking, she stuffed the copy email into her shoulder-bag, pushed the door open and jumped out. Ahead of her she could see the north-facing wall of a fine tithe barn. The stonework all looked in perfect condition.

  The atmosphere closed in around her. She drew a deep breath and felt strangely unsatisfied. Going to the back of the car, she opened the boot to lift her suitcase, laptop and portable recorder out. Setting them down on the ground, she locked the car.

  As she turned, a champagne cork in the gravel drew her eye. She picked it up and twisted it in her hands, pondering. Then she glanced towards the back door, and saw the discarded bottle lying there. Going across, she took hold of that too.

  She was suddenly aware of being watched.

  A silver-haired man appraised her. “Found the champagne so soon?”

  She straightened. “No.
The bottle was empty when I saw it on the ground.”

  Might this be Craig? Did Zoe now prefer her men lined and wrinkled? But his Yorkshire accent soothed her. It hadn’t seemed anything like so pronounced over the phone.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  She put the champagne bottle and cork back down. “Juliet Blake. Zoe’s sister.”

  He held out his hand to shake hers. His grip was firm, businesslike and brief. “McAllister’s the name.”

  So it was Craig. She was about to ask where Zoe was, when he broke in.

  “You caught me on a rare break. I’ve been slaving over a hot computer up there.”

  “Oh? How hot?”

  “Scorching. Sweated over one cursed Excel spreadsheet all morning. Income and expenditure for the last year. Decided to take a break for the sake of my sanity.”

  “Auditing the accounts? Bit late, surely? We’re more than halfway through June.”

  His glance sharpened. “Why? Not an accountant, are you?”

  “No.” I introduced myself to him on the phone only yesterday. Surely he remembers. “You know I’m a freelance radio journalist.”

  Silence cut between them.

  “Journalist?” She could hear his breathing for a few moments. He moved a little closer. His eyes penetrated hers.

  Why was he playing this game with her? She indicated her portable recorder. “It is still OK for the interviews?”

  “Interviews?”

  Is he testing my nerve, pretending he doesn’t remember? Juliet gave a brittle laugh. But her BBC training five years back had taught her to get on with people of all types, and she was adept at disguising her true feelings.

  “Want to start with me then?” he said.

  “That would be a good idea,” she replied. “After all, you’ve already enchanted my sister.” And you can begin by explaining how you managed to lure Zoe to your group.

  He stared at her and then burst out laughing. “Me? Enchanted her? Wish I had! No, you’ve got me wrong. That’s my son Craig you’re talking about.”

  “He’s your son?”

  “Expecting character instead of youth, were you?” he asked.

  Her cheeks burned. She clenched her fists, rammed deep in the pockets of her combat jacket. How would she manage to keep up this restrained image? But she visualised Toby, her programme editor contact at Radio 4, who she hoped to sell her documentary to, and it helped.

  “So he agreed to your coming to investigate?”

  “He did.”

  “You fixed a fee?”

  “Yes. Half payable on recording, the balance payable on broadcast.”

  “That’s something.” He nodded. “A step in the right direction, any road.” He considered her. Then he deftly changed the subject. “Which matters most? Your keenness to quiz the group? Or your fears for your sister?”

  She flushed. “Well, naturally, I’m worried about Zoe.”

  “No need. They’re not axe murderers. Mad, I grant you; but harmless. Does that help?”

  It didn’t really. “Mad in what way?”

  “Best you find that out for yourself. I won’t tell you what to think. Last person to look to for that. Though you and I may have something in common.”

  “How so?”

  “You’re unhappy about your sister. And I… my problem’s my son. He’s created his own philosophy of life. Knows why we’re here and what for. Always beat me. But when it comes to the practical stuff…” He shook his head. “No money sense at all.”

  Their eyes met and held. The atmosphere hung heavy between them. “You don’t cast Craig in a very good light,” Juliet said. “But he’s mesmerised Zoe.”

  “True. Special ability he has with young women. He can be very charming.”

  She resisted an urge to follow him up on this subject. So, Craig’s charming is he? I’ll be the judge of that, when I meet him. “Good to have met you, Mr McAllister.”

  “Call me Don. Can I give you a hand?”

  “Thanks, but no. I’ll be all right.” She walked back to her car, picked up her recorder case, and slung the strap over her shoulder. She was just about to grasp the handles of her laptop bag and suitcase when she saw Craig’s father had followed her, and was standing close by. “Well, Don, I’d best be getting in.”

  “How long are you staying?” he asked.

  “Few days at the most.”

  “You’ll find the bookings diary in the front hall. Table near the stairs.”

  She nodded.

  He studied her. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

  She stifled a smart reply.

  “No sense in false pride,” he said. “Let me carry your bags.”

  She moistened her lips. You need to get on with him or you won’t last long as an interviewer. “All right.”

  As they reached the back door, her mobile phone buzzed. Digging it out of her pocket, she took the call, aware all the time of Don’s searching gaze as she spoke to Toby’s personal assistant.

  “How are you getting on, Juliet?”

  “Just arrived,” Juliet answered in a low voice. “Can’t say yet.”

  “Met Zoe yet? And Craig?”

  “No to both. Tell Toby I’ll call later.”

  “Fine. Bye – good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  Don had the door open for her. Before she could step through, however, her way was blocked. Someone was coming out: a man. Early thirties. Tall. Dark haired. She swallowed. Was this him?

  “Well timed,” said Don.

  “Oh, thanks, Father.” Craig wore a deep-raspberry polo with white cotton twill trousers. He closely resembled a former English cricketer turned television personality. He looked athletic and relaxed, faultless in the role, completing the effect with gleaming Reeboks.

  His eyes were fixed upon hers, dark and intense. He took her hand, and pressed it. “You must be Juliet. Delighted to see you here.”

  Her mind went blank. It was as if all thoughts cut out, for one second, two, three…

  Craig broke the silence. “Did you have a good journey?”

  “Yes thanks.” She heard herself breathing. Almost as if she’d stopped, and restarted. Bizarre. What had happened just then?

  He still had not released her hand. It seemed as if only she and Craig stood there, with no other person present.

  Then, swiftly, she found words, as he dropped his hand back to his side. “Thank you for agreeing to the recordings.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You impressed Zoe with your talk in Cirencester last week. She seems set on a long stay here.”

  Craig smiled. “She certainly is.”

  “May I see her? Is she around?”

  “No, she’s in the barn doing a group meditation.”

  “Not to stop before time’s up. On pain of death,” said Don shortly.

  Craig switched subjects. “Like the house, Juliet?”

  “I love what I’ve seen of it so far. To find a house so old in such beautiful condition…”

  “Thank you,” said Craig. “It was a bit run-down when we found it. But we’ve done some good work since then.”

  “Yes, haven’t we?” said Don. She could have sworn he was trying to suppress mounting rage. “Very different state when we first saw it.”

  She looked from one to the other. It had taken only the very briefest exchange for her to register an odd blurring of the boundaries between father and son in the matter of who owned this place.

  “See the date above the door there?” said Craig. “1532. As you might expect, a fascinating history. The first family who lived here were strong Catholics. This property was used as a safe house for displaced monks. Feel free to look around when you’ve settled in.” He held her gaze for a few more moments.

  “That’s kind,” she replied. “But I’m most anxious to see Zoe as soon as possible.”

  “Absolutely. I’ll let her know you’ve arrived, once she’s out of meditation.” He still contem
plated her. Then his manner became brisk. “As I said on the phone, take as much time as you like to explore the community. You’re welcome to speak to anyone you wish.”

  “Good. We must have a briefing, Craig. When’s the best time for us to talk? We need to discuss the contract, and get it signed. And then I’d like to learn something about your group members. And draw up a schedule of interviews.”

  “Of course, Juliet. Four o’clock suit you? Fine.” He turned to Don. “You two clearly met a few moments before I turned up.”

  “We did.”

  Craig rubbed his hands together. “Would you please show Juliet round then, Father? I’m just off to deal with an urgent call. See you later.” And without giving further details, he shot away, round the north side of the house.

  Juliet turned back to Don.

  “Come on,” Don said, and they stepped into the house.

  They stood in the passageway. The stone walls were whitewashed, and a variety of corn dollies hung along their length. To her left Juliet could see the utility area, and to the right a rack containing an assortment of boots and walking shoes.

  “Aha,” she said. “So the group are keen on walking then?”

  “No doubt about that,” said Don.

  “Just as one might hope, among these rolling hills.” She could hardly wait to get out there, crossing stiles and streams, following woodland trails that might lead her to the top of a high escarpment and open onto stunning views.

  Don continued to look at her. He’s trying to read my thoughts. Such as – ‘at least they do something normal like going for country walks’.

  Don led the way forward until he reached a right-hand turn. At this point, a door ahead banged open and someone charged out. She stopped just in time: a small, slight woman in a flimsy voile dress.