The Healing Place

CHAPTER 1

The old man sitting by the window was a dark silhouette against the grey dusk outside. He had a quality of stillness that set him apart from the rhythm and bustle of the place, so that everyone who came in dropped their voice and slowed their pace unintentionally.

What was he gazing at so intently out of the window, Sister Briege asked herself? There was little enough to engage anyone’s attention in a rural Irish winter afternoon.

She snapped on the light, making herself blink, but it was several moments before the old man looked up. When he did, she saw in his eyes that he had been gazing out on eternity.

Time to write that letter soon.

At this time of year, the early morning commuters went to work in the dark, pouring into the subway like garbage poured down a rubbish chute. The more fortunate passengers sat elbow to elbow as the train rattled through its black tunnel. The less fortunate stood swaying against each other, half-awake and clinging to the handrails, till disgorged at their destinations. Jump-started awake by the cold, they dispersed through the sullen streets to their places of work.

At this time of evening they returned, flattened by the day’s routine and the pressure of rush-hour bodies on the journey home, to find the streets dark again and the drizzle turning into rain. Spiteful gusts whipped up a mob of stale leaves and wrapped them round Coke-can missiles to hurl at homegoers’ ankles.

Out of the station the initial surge of people slowed, their breath caught not only by the cold but by the prospect of the walk through dark streets to dark homes waiting cheerlessly for their occupants’ return.

Some of the crowd took a detour into the line of coffee shops or one of the two pubs, which were lighted and warm. Others cast a sideways glance at a sign outside the big church building on the corner that shouted 'Welcome! Come In!' in red-on-white lettering. The lights were on but no one could see who was in there; besides, churches were for churchgoers, so the commuters walked on.

Further down the street was another building, remembered by long-term residents of this South London district as the old Gaumont cinema but impressively redesigned and facelifted now in contemporary brushed steel, floodlit from the outside. Cool silver lettering on a blue ocean background informed passers-by that this was The Healing Place.

Through the etched-glass double front doors, discouraged commuters could see into the foyer, moodlit and warm, with two live-coal fires, comfortable sofas and fresh coffee.

The billboard outside, in the form of a silver scroll, read: 'Open Evening Forum - eight till late - every night this week. Browse our life-enhancing courses, chat to experienced mind/body/spirit guides, sample a range of relaxing and healing therapies. Come early and try our SoulFood Cafe!'

Like the church down the road, this sign also invited 'Come in!' But this invitation connected with lonely commuters’ need to be somewhere more homely than their own separate homes, and many of the crowd did not walk by.

One after another slowed down, dropped out of the stream of cold humanity and stepped towards the big glass doors that swung open instantly for each one of them as they followed each other into the warm.

In the restaurant around the corner, the early diners sat at candlelit tables, shut off from the passing crowds.

The couple in the corner had chosen the table farthest from the street and appeared engrossed in each other, though they looked no more or less romantic than any other couple in the restaurant. They made more eye contact perhaps, ate more slowly and drank less wine, but engaged in an average amount of conversation.

Somehow, though, they seemed to draw attention. The diners around them kept casting involuntary glances in their direction. The waiters were unusually responsive. Once, when the man made an expansive gesture to illustrate a point he was making, two waiters appeared immediately beside him. The customer looked surprised and they apologized and withdrew, bemused by their over-attentiveness.

The group at the nearest table asked one another whether they recognized the couple; they had an indefinable air of celebrity, though understated. His clothes were fashionable but unremarkable, while her faded jeans, beaded tunic and headband were bohemian in an unchallenging way.

It wasn’t that they were exceptionally attractive either, though he was striking for a man in his late twenties or early thirties, with a sweep of prematurely silver hair above black eyebrows of irregular heights, a long fine nose and wide mouth, and she was dark, long-haired, delicate-featured and wide-eyed.

Their attraction had more to do with a certain luminosity in their gaze. Fixed on each other, their eyes seemed not only to hold each other but to draw in everybody around them.

The girl leaned back abruptly, as if deliberately breaking the spell, and ran a hand across the slim curve of her stomach. Her partner, still leaning towards her, raised his eyebrows.

‘Indigestion?’

‘Not really,’ she said. Her eyes scanned the other diners, without noticing that some were watching her, then returned to him.

‘I thought not,’ he said, smiling.

She returned the smile. ‘You think indigestion wouldn’t dare pick on a nutritionist?’

‘Exactly.’

‘I was just wondering,’ she said, ‘what everyone else here has planned for the rest of the evening. Going home together, most of these couples, I guess.’

He continued regarding her steadily but the smile gained an anxious edge. She kept her hand resting on her stomach.

‘Do you have to go?’ she said. ‘Every time? Surely the team’s strong enough to cope by now?’

‘There are quite a few new guides exhibiting at this forum,’ he said. ‘And the seekers need help to clarify what they’re looking for, sometimes. You’re welcome to come, Ella. You know I still see you as very much part of the team.’

‘I know,’ she said. The second sigh was lighter, no more than a whisper. ‘No, I’ll go home. It was a … challenging day.’

He nodded and quoted: ‘Difficult equals challenging; challenging equals rewarding!’

She grimaced. ‘Which book was that from?’

‘Not a book: the Think Yourself Positive course we did last year. Remember?’

‘Probably.’ She sounded less than positive about the memory.

‘Dessert?’ he offered.

The question was a rhetorical one, a tactful way of telling her that time was running short. Neither of them ate dessert, with the exception of ethnic sweetmeats served at The Healing Place’s occasional celebrations. Without waiting for the shake of her head, he waved a hand at the waiter.

‘Sir?’

‘The bill, please.’

‘Certainly. Have we seen you in here before, sir?’

‘When was the last time we came here, Ella?’ he appealed to her.

‘About a year ago,’ she said.

‘Is it that long? We don’t go out enough,’ he said.

‘It’s just that I thought your face looked familiar,’ the waiter said. ‘Have you been on TV or …?’

‘Only local TV,’ he said. ‘We’re associated with The Healing Place, if you know it. Franz Kane.’ He put out his hand and the waiter shook it. ‘And Ella Cohen,’ he introduced his companion. ‘And your name is?’

‘Manoj, sir. I’ve seen that place but I’ve never been in there. What is it exactly?’

‘A place to change your life.’ Franz laughed but took a leaflet out of his jacket pocket as he spoke and handed it to Manoj, who stood and scanned it, a look of incomprehension on his face. Ella looked away.

‘I don’t know what some of these words mean,’ Manoj said, ‘but I recognize clairvoyance. My grandmother had that gift.’

‘Our leading clairvoyant is very gifted,’ Franz said. ‘His name is Sharma. You may have heard of him.’

‘No. I’m not really into it. It was just my grandmother. She always knew when any of us was ill. Even when we were living here, in a different country.’

‘Really? That’s fascinating.’

‘He’s Indian?’

‘Our clairvoyant ? Yes. He likes to be called by his surname.’

‘He’s half-Indian,’ Ella told Franz. ‘His mother’s from Pakistan. And his wife.’

‘Really? I didn’t know that.’

‘I couldn’t come to these evening meetings, anyway, sir,’ Manoj said. ‘I’m working.’

‘Sure. But keep the leaflet. The phone number’s there if you ever want to contact us. Or drop in any time and one of our staff will show you round.’

‘I might do that. I’ll get your bill, sir.’

Franz turned his attention back to Ella. ‘So, what are your plans for the evening?’

‘Bath, phone Maz, bed,’ she said.

‘Phone Maz, when you work with her every day?’ he joked.

‘She’s got an exam tomorrow,’ Ella said. ‘Institute of Hypnotherapists. If she passes, she might want to hire a treatment space for a few hours a week.’

‘Sure. The demand for hypnotherapy is fairly constant. Tell her we’ll give her half-rate for the first three months to get her established.’

‘Thanks.’

An enamelled papier mache saucer bearing the bill was slid on to the table. Franz had the money ready. ‘Keep the change, Manoj. With our thanks.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Franz pushed back his chair, but Ella sat.

‘So,’ she said. ‘What are you looking out for this evening?’

‘I’ll play it by ear,’ he said, taking the hint and settling back in his seat. ‘Marisa may need a bit of support to get started, and Sharma’s Introduction to Clairvoyance course is in danger of being oversubscribed, but we’ll see who turns up. The interests of the individual seeker take precedence over the guides’ quotas, of course.’

‘Of course,’ she said.

Was there a hint of irony in her voice?

‘What?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. What?’

‘You know I rely on you,’ he said, ‘always to tell me the one thing I don’t want to hear.’

‘That’s the most backhanded compliment!’ she said.

‘It is a compliment. Tell me, honestly. You think I’m turning into a businessman, trying to amass clients for the sake of the cash?’

‘No. I know you’re not in it for the money, Franz.’

‘But?’

She hunched her shoulders slightly, as if softening the impact. ‘It’s just – you try to keep everyone happy. Happy guides with full classes, happy seekers finding therapies to make them feel good about themselves.’

‘Meaning … that’s wrong, or it’s not enough?’

‘It’s not reality, is it? People have to find out that happiness doesn’t come from developing the right philosophy or using the appropriate scented oil.’

He raised those black eyebrows at her, one slightly higher than the other, jagged-shaped like a lightning flash.

‘Okay, I know!’ she conceded. ‘Let people find their own path.' She said it like a quote, inverted commas in her tone of voice. 'Some people’s expectations just aren’t realistic though, Franz - the guides’ as well as the seekers’. If some of the guides are struggling to sign up enough clients, perhaps you should stand back and let the market dictate.’

‘Rather than encourage a new seeker to try something unfamiliar?’

‘I’m not saying that, no. The Healing Place wouldn’t exist if people weren’t willing to try new ideas. I feel everyone’s pulling your strings, that’s all: newly qualified practitioners wanting you to provide them with clients, and seekers who aren’t sure what they’re seeking but want you to deliver it, six weeks from now, in return for cash.’

He leaned back. ‘And you think I’m trying too hard to please people?’

‘Bending over backwards,’ she said bluntly. ‘And when you’re tired and won’t admit it, like now, and you keep on smiling and saying all the right things, it doesn’t come across as genuine.’

He flinched. ‘I’m a hypocrite, is that what you’re telling me?’

‘No. Forget it,’ she said quickly. ‘Look, I’m the one who’s tired, probably. Shall we go?’

‘Sure.’

‘It was nice to spend some time together. I know you need to go. I’ll give you a geranium oil massage when you get back, if it’s not too late.’

‘I won’t be late,’ he said instantly, and she laughed at him.

He held out her embroidered wrap and she shook out the wide sleeves of her tunic before winding herself into it. He kept his arms round her for a moment before they walked out of the restaurant and went their separate ways.

By the time Franz arrived the main hall was already full, with small excitable groups gathered outside The Healing Place front door and in the foyer.

He slipped through the side door at the end of the alleyway and up the stairs to his office behind the treatment rooms, where he changed into his white suit with the lapel badge bearing The Healing Place’s logo – a white flame emerging from brushed steel fingertips.

He opened a drawer and took out his name badge: Franz Kane. He went to clip it to the other lapel then stopped, lowered his hand slowly and studied the badge for a few moments, frowning, then dropped it back in the drawer.

He descended the wide stairway two steps at a time and entered the main hall by its back door, which was screened by display boards, giving him a chance to survey the queues.

As expected, Sharma had a long line of impatient seekers standing waiting, while he sat earnestly explaining his course to a pretty dark-haired girl and her blonde friend. Franz knew Sharma would give as much time and care to the disgruntled middle-aged man at the back of the queue, but at this rate the man would be waiting all night and he looked inclined to walk out any time now.

Franz didn’t want Sharma overloaded. The Healing Place’s leading psychic was getting too popular for his own good and rumours last year had suggested that Sharma’s marriage was suffering from his growing workload. He was in demand as a visiting speaker and leader of weekend courses around the country, though The Healing Place, having taken him on when they were both new and unknown, had first call on his loyalty. Franz was keen to keep it that way.

He focused on a lady, smartly dressed and fiftyish, three ahead of the man at the end of the queue, and approached her, smiling.

‘Franz Kane,’ he introduced himself. ‘You’re making enquiries about the Introduction To Clairvoyance course?’

‘Yes,’ she said, smiling back. ‘I didn’t think there’d be so many people doing the same.’

‘It’s the name,’ Franz said. ‘Everyone recognises the term. Are you sure it’s the right course for you, though ? We have others that go into the whole area of clear-sightedness from a slightly different angle, some in more depth perhaps.’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She looked confused. ‘My friend recommended this one.’

‘It’s excellent,’ Franz assured her, ‘if it’s right for you, of course. Are you sure you need the beginner’s course? Some seekers who come here are further along the path than they appreciate.’

‘Oh!’ This time she blushed slightly. ‘No, I’ve never done anything like this before. I mean, I do sometimes have … whatever you call them. Premonitions?’

Franz smiled more warmly. ‘Then this course may not be for you. You may be more of an intuiter, do you think? An empathizer with human suffering?’

‘Oh, I am!’ she responded. ‘Random people tell me their life stories, all the time.’ She laughed self-consciously. ‘I don’t know why they choose me!’

‘Would you like to look around at some of the other courses?’ Franz offered. ‘There’s one of our guides over there I could introduce you to, if you’re prepared to explore a bit further?’

The woman stepped out of the Clairvoyance queue, as if it had somehow become less desirable than at the start of the evening, and moved away slightly.

‘My name’s Rosemarie,’ she said. ‘With an i-e, not a y.’

Franz shook her hand formally but she held on with both hands till the lady ahead of her in the queue intervened.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, addressing Franz. ‘I’m not sure if I’m signing up for the right course here.’

‘And I think my gifts might not fit the beginner’s course either,’ said another woman.

‘We’ll discuss this individually,’ said Franz. ‘Give me a moment and I’ll come back to you. The same alternatives won’t be right for each seeker.’

They held back, not trying to follow Rosemarie as she held on to Franz’s elbow. Franz made eye contact with the disgruntled man at the back of the queue, who frowned.

‘Are you happy with where you are, my friend?’ Franz asked him.

‘Well …. I don’t know now.’

‘Is your spirituality more of the down-to-earth variety, perhaps?’ Franz asked.

The man scowled. ‘I have fascinating dreams,’ he said belligerently.

‘Ah, dreams,’ said Franz. ‘Earthy and ethereal – a potent combination of qualities. Does that sound like you?’

‘Could be,’ the man conceded.

‘Come with me,’ said Franz, holding out his free hand. ‘If you two ladies don’t mind waiting a few more moments?’

The two in the queue shook their heads. The man took Franz’s hand and let himself be led away, like a small child on his first day at school.

‘I’m Franz,’ Franz told him.

‘I know who you are. I’ve seen you on local TV. I’m Matthew.’

Franz waved above the heads of the crowd at an anxious-looking young man sitting at his desk with only one man and one woman in his queue. A couple, Franz thought, judging by their nonchalant body language, jostling without apology as they reached across one another to pick up pamphlets from the desk and skim-read them without much respect. The banner sign above the desk identified the course as Psychic Profiling and the name badge pinned to the young man’s woven tabard identified their prospective guide as Zen Smith-Brown. The worn leather bracelet round his left wrist bore the faded name 'Nick.'

Seeing Franz signalling, Zen rose to his feet and stood uncertainly. Franz moved nearer.

‘Zen!’ he said into the ears of the reading couple. ‘I have a treat for you – a gifted prospective pupil for an outstanding guide!’

The couple turned and stared at him.

‘Zen, meet Rosemarie who has an intuitive understanding of human nature and is looking for just the right guide to help her develop her calling.’

‘Delighted,’ said Zen, with relief.

‘Wait a minute,’ said the man, waving his pamphlet at Franz. ‘We were here first!’

Franz took the pamphlet from him and straightened its crumpled corners reverently. ‘A complex and sophisticated discipline. For the discerning few.’

‘We were just about to sign up for it,’ the man’s wife asserted.

‘Very perceptive,’ Franz commended. ‘Nick - ah, Zen - sign this couple up without keeping them waiting any longer. I know you won’t mind,’ he told the couple, ‘if Zen takes a few moments, while you’re completing your forms, to explain the course to this lady and to answer any questions you yourselves may have.’

‘Oh no, that’s fine,’ the man assured him.

‘Excellent,’ said Franz. He detached Rosemarie from his elbow and placed her hand into Nick/Zen's then resumed his handclasp with Matthew and steered him towards a young woman standing by an empty desk, twisting her tousled hair into chaotic outlines as she surveyed the growing queues around her colleagues and rivals.

If she wanted to attract seekers, at her first-ever forum at The Healing Place, Marisa would have to look a bit less despairing, Franz thought. He looked from her face to Matthew’s and changed direction.

He continued on his circuit of the hall, scooping a leaflet from a stand. ‘I’m going to give you this,’ he told Matthew, ‘to consider as a possibility, though it doesn’t take place till next month. One of our Dream Therapy workshops. They’re increasingly popular so if you do think it’s for you, you can either sign up tonight or later this week; just call in and see the receptionist, any time.’

‘I wanted a course to do on a Tuesday,’ said Matthew. ‘That was my pub quiz night but it’s moved to Wednesdays now.’

‘Is Tuesday the only night you’re free?’ People had some odd criteria for choosing a path to enlightenment.

‘It’s a lousy TV night.’

Franz tried to calculate how long it was since he had spent an evening at home watching TV. He and Ella used to curl up together on the sofa with a bottle of wine and watch a movie. They hadn’t done that for a long time. He felt a pang of longing. ‘Tuesdays, then,’ he said briskly. ‘Let me take you to the front desk. One of the receptionists will tell you which courses are available and then you can take your pick.’

On his way back to retrieve the two other ladies from Sharma’s queue, which had grown again in his absence, Franz saw they had followed him and Rosemarie from a distance and were now at Zen’s stand. He watched as Zen handed them two more forms and they began filling them out. He moved on.

A group of three young men about to join the end of Sharma’s line appeared distracted by the sight of Marisa, no longer twisting her hair into knots but adjusting the low neckline of her top over a significant cleavage.

‘Marisa,’ Franz told them, ‘is our expert in a new therapy, Spiritual Massage.’

The boys looked at each other and grinned.

‘Sounds good to me,’ said one.

‘Come with me and I’ll introduce you,’ Franz said. Three clients in one go, even if they were somewhat ambiguously motivated, were not a bad start to Marisa’s new career as a complementary therapist at The Healing Place.

The crowd was becoming denser. While the young men listened to Marisa talking about opening the psyche to spiritual influences via massage, their eyes sized up her proportions. Franz estimated they wouldn’t last longer than the first session which, Marisa had informed him at her interview, involved no massage but theoretical study of the precepts of ‘focal centering.’ This included staring into space for a considerable period of time while repeating a mantra that sounded like ‘lost my hoe’ but obviously meant something else. Marisa hadn’t quite been able to remember what.

Franz was not convinced she had accurately grasped the principles underpinning her chosen therapy but she had a certificate to prove she had and he was willing to give her a chance. He had suggested she introduce the practical aspect of massage in an earlier session before inviting clients to study the rather strangely translated documents expounding the inspirations of its founder but she had refused. The founder – whose name she couldn’t quite pronounce but she had it in her file somewhere and offered to look it up for him – would not approve, she said.

Franz took two application forms from Marisa’s stand, handed one to the boy who didn’t seem to be sharing his friends’ enthusiasm but whose eyes were beginning to scan the crowd for other possibilities, and gave the second to Matthew, who was trying unsuccessfully to attract Marisa’s attention.

‘I was about to tell her about my dreams,’ he told Franz.

‘It’s always a bit frenetic at these forum evenings,’ Franz apologized. ‘You’ll have further opportunities. Did you sign up for the Dream Therapy workshop?’

‘Yes, but it was expensive. I only did it because the reception lady told me I could have a discount. Is that right?’

‘It is. If you sign up for two or more courses, you get the second and subsequent ones half price.’

‘It’s still a lot to pay out!’

Franz handed him a pen. ‘An investment in your spiritual pathway,’ he said encouragingly.

He had completed two more circuits of the hall, pausing to speak to guides and answer questions from seekers, when a voice stopped him. 'You’re going round in circles.' It was spoken as clearly in his mind as if it had been uttered aloud by another person.

He shook his head briskly. Ella was right. He was tired. Overdue for a holiday. He had promised her – how many times? He should consider it seriously now. Imagining inner voices was a clear sign of psychological overload.

He usually got a buzz out of these evenings. Although they were tiring, the excitement of the crowd was palpable. Expectations ranged from – like Matthew’s – filling a spare weekday evening, to completely transforming the seeker’s life.

'Round in circles. That’s where you’re leading them all.'

He felt unaccountably embarrassed, standing here in his white suit, jostled and buffeted by eager pursuers of inner tranquillity, hearing this inconveniently audible voice.

Enough now. He would finish here quickly, hand over the remaining applicants to the guides and to the receptionists operating the cash tills at the front desk, and go home to Ella. He felt he hadn’t seen her for a long time.

'Haven’t seen yourself for a long time either.' That voice again.

A quick glance at his watch surprised him. The evening had hardly started.

He veered towards a giggling group of girls who were eyeing up Sharma’s glossy dark hair and Bollywood profile.

‘Good evening, ladies,’ Franz greeted them, smiling. They fluttered their eyes and drew themselves up to full height, trying to look older than their years. ‘Are you deciding what you’d like to do?’

‘We’re just eyeing up the prospects … I mean, the prospectus,’ said the tallest and boldest, while the other two nudged each other and giggled behind their hands.

‘Right. Well, let me know if you need any advice.’ Reaching out a hand to catch the attention of one of the evening receptionists who was passing, he said quietly, ‘Would you make sure these girls see our leaflet on parental consent for under-18s signing up for courses? Thanks.’

Standing behind Sharma and casting an eye over his list, Franz saw it already exceeded its quota by four or five. Sharma had intimated reluctance to take on more sessions at The Healing Place. Franz had offered him a generous increase in his share of the takings but Sharma, typically, had looked through him and said it was not about money and he was adequately rewarded.

So Franz had promised instead to keep Sharma’s bookings here manageable, as long as it didn’t mean turning away seekers who really wouldn’t settle for any alternative course. In return, Sharma publicized The Healing Place wherever he visited, leaving brochures and flyers in town halls and at psychic fayres where he spoke to would-be visionaries from places as far-flung as Bexhill-on-Sea and Barnsley.

‘Sharma,’ Franz said, into his ear. ‘You’ve run over quota there. You’ll have to settle for a larger group if you don’t want to run an extra class.’

‘Excuse me one moment, please,’ Sharma addressed the woman sitting facing him, with his invariable politeness. He turned to Franz. ‘This number is too many for one class of beginners, Franz; I couldn’t give them enough attention.’

‘And you don’t want to run two new groups,’ Franz mused. ‘What are the alternatives ? We don’t want to make people wait till another course starts.’

‘I would be willing to take an extra class if some could come on a different night but there aren’t enough for two full classes.’

Sharma’s queue was now down to two women, the second of whom was studying the leaflet on Predicting The Future Through The Tarot and was beginning to move away.

‘If you’re sure you’re OK with running a second group, keep signing up anyone who comes now, Sharma, and I’ll see what I can do.’

He returned to the group of girls, who were still scanning leaflets and Sharma’s profile alternately.

‘Sign up for the Clairvoyance course with the very talented and stunningly goodlooking Sharma,’ Franz invited the girls, who giggled happily, ‘and we’ll offer you half-price on a complementary six sessions of Spiritual Massage with Marisa. How about it, girls?’

‘Complimentary means free, not half-price,’ said the sharpest-looking of the girls. Her audience agreed.

Franz gave a smile. ‘Free massage you’ll be able to give your boyfriend,’ he said, ‘who may then be very complimentary! Well worth the half-price.’

As they shrieked with laughter and moved to sign up for the second evening class in Clairvoyance, Franz caught Sharma throw him a glance that could only have been interpreted as distaste.

'Sorry,' he muttered. He valued Sharma's respect.

When Franz first met him, Sharma had been barely earning a living from gloomy Sunday afternoon gatherings in crumbling Victorian premises. Franz admired the fact that he had thought long and hard before agreeing to be part of The Healing Place. Even in the early days it had been clear that Sharma's reputation would only be enhanced by The Healing Place’s success, and that The Healing Place’s success was due to Franz - his commitment, charisma and willingness to work impossible hours.

'And due to all that cash, without which this place would still be a fantasy.' That voice again!

Time to go.

Walking away, checking his watch discreetly and satisfied that for the moment everybody seemed happy and the new guides’ quotas were being filled, another voice stopped him - an echo of Ella's earlier this evening.

'When you keep on smiling and saying all the right things, it doesn't come across as genuine.'

And his own reply: 'I’m a hypocrite – is that what you’re telling me?'

She had denied it. Too quickly. But he had been wrong in asking the question of Ella. The only person who could answer that one was Franz Kane.

Was that what the audible inner voice was telling him? That the man whose mission statement was acceptance of everyone and every shade of opinion, creed and myth – everything except hypocrisy – had become precisely that man he couldn’t abide: a hypocrite peddling a tolerance he didn’t feel, to people as directionless as himself?'

Alison, the nearest receptionist, was sympathetic to Franz’s intention to leave before the close of the forum.

‘You go on home,’ she encouraged. ‘We’ll manage.’

Actually leaving the premises was not so easy. In the lobby, someone called his name. He turned and saw Saffron, facilitator of the one-day Dream Therapy workshops and the Interpreting Your Dreams series of evening seminars, and made his way towards her through the throng, distracted momentarily by the glimpse of a man sitting in the foyer, just inside the front door, reading the newspaper.

He was an ordinary looking man, in his mid-thirties, Franz estimated, or possibly early thirties like himself, if he hadn’t aged gracefully. His hair, which needed restyling, was greying patchily and there were undisguised wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, which looked tired.

Franz wasn’t sure what made the man stand out from the crowd, except that he seemed unconcerned by the crush of people around him and was reading the Evening Standard rather than scanning The Healing Place literature. Unlike most seekers attending their first forum, he was neither excited nor anxious. Nor even interested.

‘Franz, you did say we could use the auditorium for the next Dreams session, didn’t you ? I’ve got a really good number of applicants.’

Franz turned his attention to Saffron. ‘Good. I’ll do the final allocation tomorrow but I haven’t forgotten you asked for the main space. And you’ll do your own visual presentations as long as we set up the sound system – is that right?’ He found his gaze drawn back to the man reading the paper.

‘Yes, but I won’t need it for the final session.’ Saffron followed the direction of Franz’s stare as she spoke. ‘The seekers will be dream-experience sharing. What is that man doing?’ she said incredulously. ‘He’s not ….?’

‘He is!’ Franz moved swiftly towards him, with Saffron following. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, addressing the man. ‘You can’t do that in here!’

The man looked up, mildly surprised. ‘Do what? Oh, I see! I did look around for No Smoking signs but I didn’t see any.’

Franz pointed to the sign above the main door. ‘It's kind of self-explanatory.’ He tried not to sound peeved.

‘The Healing Place (Centre for Holistic Healing And Spiritual Progression),’ the man read aloud. ‘Ah, I see your point.’ The wrinkles around his eyes joined forces when he smiled. ‘Is smoking bad for the soul as well as the lungs, do you think?’ He lowered the newspaper and Franz was further annoyed to see he was wearing a clerical collar.

‘All health is a spiritual issue,’ Saffron told him.

The man dropped his smile to match their sobriety. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’ He studied Franz’s white suit. Franz stared at the man’s white collar. The man spoke first.

‘Are you the manager?’ he asked.

‘We work as a team,’ Franz told him, ‘In-house admin staff and independent therapists and tutors.’

‘Right. But are you … head of the team?’

‘Are you a seeker?’ Franz countered.

‘Seeker after what?’

‘Have you come to this evening’s forum to enquire about one of our courses?’ Saffron contributed helpfully.

‘No, I’m waiting for my wife. She’s interested in studying aromatherapy. I’ve just come from the hospice,’ he added, indicating the dog collar, ‘hence the uniform.’ He stood up and Franz, thinking he was about to introduce himself, held out his hand but the man was looking over Saffron’s shoulder at a woman with cropped highlighted hair and hoop earrings, dressed in a one-shoulder red top and black leather jeans.

‘Phil!’ she said breathlessly. ‘Oh sorry - am I interrupting your conversation?’

‘I’ve just been told off for smoking,’ he confessed. ‘This is my wife Jan,’ he told Franz and Saffron. ‘I didn’t ask your names?’

They introduced themselves. ‘Phil Kennedy,’ the clergyman returned.

‘I hear you’re interested in our aromatherapy courses?’ Franz asked. To compensate for his annoyance with her husband, he turned to Jan with his warmest smile.

‘Yes. I’ve just come to ask you, Phil,’ she said, turning from Franz, ‘what you think about me doing Indian Head Massage as well. It’s half-price – is that right?’

‘Half-price for a second course when you register for both at the same time,’ Franz affirmed.

Phil smiled. ‘I reckon you are the manager, after all. Isn’t he?’ he asked Saffron.

Saffron gave Franz a sideways glance. ‘We don’t do titles,’ she said, ‘but he kind of does run the place.’

‘The uniform gave it away,’ Phil said.

Franz suspected mockery.

‘And what does your uniform say?’ he asked, more sharply than he had intended.

‘It says vicar of St Mark’s, the barn-like place at the end of the road,’ Phil answered. He turned to his wife. ‘Yes, sign up for what you want, love. I’ll wait for you here. I won’t smoke,’ he promised Franz.

Jan and Saffron went ahead of Franz through the door into the main hall. The vicar detained him with a hand on his arm. ‘If you wouldn’t mind my asking,’ he said, ‘out of interest, what is your aim here ? What are you offering all these people?’

‘We offer relaxation and healing,’ Franz said, ‘in a wide range of complementary therapies, and we offer study courses for those who want to develop their psychic and spiritual potential.’

‘Well, it’s certainly drawing the crowds,’ Phil allowed. ‘I’d love to see congregations this size in St Mark’s! But what,’ he added, taking Franz’s arm again as he began to move away, ‘about the spiritual potential for evil? What do you do about that?’

‘We believe in focusing on the positive,’ said Franz. ‘We’re not into sin and guilt trips. Maybe that’s why our seekers outnumber yours,’ he couldn’t resist adding.

In case the vicar tried to claim the last word, Franz allowed himself to be distracted by a young woman who was hesitating inside the door of the foyer.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

‘Oh, I really hope so,’ she said fervently.

Franz noticed as he ushered her through the door that she was trembling. He estimated that she was in her twenties, though so slightly built and thin-faced that she could have been mistaken for a child. She was neatly dressed in clean jeans, trainers and a hooded top that didn’t offer much insulation from the February evening air. Black hair in braided twists surrounded a dark-skinned face with darker circles beneath wide, frightened eyes.

She reminded Franz of somebody but he couldn’t think who it was. ‘What are you looking for?’ he asked, with gentleness. His return home would have to be delayed.

Tears sprang into her eyes. ‘I need …’ she swallowed then continued determinedly, ‘I need something to make me feel better about myself.’

‘You’ve come to the right place,’ said Franz. ‘We have some of the best relaxation facilities in the whole of London - for instance the largest flotation pool. You choose the colour and level of lights, the music, even the water temperature.’

‘No!’ she said abruptly. ‘Nothing like that. I don’t want to think. I need something to occupy my mind. To study something.’

She was trembling more violently now. Better to find the most sympathetic listener for someone so vulnerable, Franz thought, than to advise on courses.

His eyes settled on Saffron, who was still within reach, but she was too deep in conversation with Jan to notice his discreet signalling. He felt another flicker of irritation. The vicar and wife had got under his skin, for some reason.

‘Dream interpretation?’ he suggested to the girl.

‘You don’t understand!’

He was surprised by the girl’s anger. Or desperation. ‘Okay,’ he conceded. ‘Tell me.’

‘I don’t want something that makes me look inside myself,’ she said. ‘I want to get away from it! To get something else in my mind!’

‘And what are you interested in?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. The fight drained out of her, as if the outburst had taken her last