The Follower Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Also available from Nicholas Bowling and Titan Books

  Title Page

  Leave us a review

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also Available from Titan Books

  Also available from Nicholas Bowling and Titan Books

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  The Follower

  Print edition ISBN: 9781789094220

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781789096798

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd.

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

  www.titanbooks.com

  First Titan edition: July 2021

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Copyright © 2021 Nicholas Bowling.

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  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 written permission 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 being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  For the JAB and the CPB

  1

  VIVIAN OWENS stepped from the bus at Mount Hookey with two black eyes and five hundred pictures of her twin brother bundled under her arm. The journey had been almost eleven hours, including the hour-long interchange at Lewiston, which she’d spent in the post office getting her brother’s poster photocopied. The pictures hadn’t even come out right. The toner was faded and smudged and made him look more like an escaped convict than a missing person, but she hadn’t had the time or the energy to ask the little man behind the counter to do them all over again. She’d just thanked him and gone back to the bus station, where she’d picked up the black eyes.

  The bus pulled away and left Vivian squinting in its exhaust. It was nearly midday and the street was baking. Apart from the backdrop of the mountain, the town of Mount Hookey was like all the others she’d passed through on that interminable bus ride, not much more than a stretch of highway huddled with tall billboards and squat, nondescript buildings: two bars, a thrift store, a supermarket, a gas station, a Chinese restaurant called Wing’s, closed and shuttered. There was a single traffic light dangling above the interchange at the far end of town, and beyond it the motel where she was staying, Cedar Lodge, whose sign was held aloft by a carved wooden bear. After that the town stopped. Five hundred posters was too many, she thought. That was twenty-five dollars she’d never get back.

  Vivian had an address for her brother in town but decided to check into the motel first. Jesse had already been missing for a month and a half, and she figured another couple of hours wouldn’t make much difference. She needed a shower and a nap. Her head was throbbing and she hadn’t eaten a thing since Lewiston. She wasn’t holding out much hope for the address, anyway. It might not even have existed. In six weeks they hadn’t once picked up the phone or answered an email. Hence her coming all this way. Hence the posters.

  The town unfurled as she made her way down to the motel. A few quiet streets led off the main highway to residential neighbourhoods, a barbershop, a school, and then petered out into pines and cedars and yellow Californian scrub. There were hints as to Jesse’s purpose here, too, in the back alleys. Palmists, shamans, a gallery displaying “transdimensional artistic interventions”. An improbable number of shops selling crystal skulls. She was in the right place, then.

  Vivian reached Cedar Lodge and crossed the parking lot. The motel looked dusty and worn-out. No cars out front. The wooden bear held its sign like it was enduring some sort of divine punishment, its face grim and stoic. Behind the L-shape of the motel building was dark pine forest, and beyond that the foothills of Mount Hookey itself, rising to a white cone against the huge blue sky.

  It was dark inside the lobby and smelled of perfume and old cigarettes. She’d been hoping for a roaring wood fire, but it was too warm for that, even in October. It wasn’t that kind of place, anyway – everything inside looked synthetic and flammable. There was a man of indeterminate age sitting on the couch who Vivian suspected wasn’t a guest. He was surrounded by shopping bags and was wearing his woolly hat so high on his head it had an almost ceremonial look, like a bishop’s mitre. He saw her and nodded and the hat wobbled.

  Vivian put the five hundred copies of her brother’s face on the reception desk and rang the bell. A woman appeared from a little office out back who seemed far too glamorous to be working in a place like Cedar Lodge. She wore a fuchsia jacket and a lot of gold jewellery and her hair was permed into an almost perfect sphere.

  “Good morning, miss, how you doing there?”

  “I have a room booked. The name’s Owens.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Owens.”

  “Would you mind removing your hood, miss?”

  Vivian had pulled up her hood to conceal the bruising. She loosened the drawstring and pulled the hood back.

  “Oh my stars!” said the receptionist. She put four heavily lacquered fingernails over her mouth.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

  “Oh my goodness gracious.”

  “It was just an accident.”

  The receptionist kept staring. There was a long pause.

  “So. Can I check in?” Vivian asked, finally.

  The woman twitched.

  “Of course. Yes. Owens. I saw your name on the booking earlier, but, you know what, I just never made the connection.”

  “Connection?”

  Up went the receptionist’s hand again, as though she’d said something she shouldn’t have. Then she looked down at her computer and pressed a lot of keys, arbitrarily, it seemed.

  “Do you have a credit card?”

  She didn’t. She didn’t have any cash, either.

  “I’ve already paid, haven’t I? Online?”

  “We just need it to verify your identity. Although, I guess, I can see you’re… you know.”

  “I’m what?”

  “Nothing. I’m sorry.” She went back to hammering the keys on her computer. “You’re in room 30,” she said finally.

 
At this point the old man on the couch leaned forward.

  “You keep her out of my room!” he yelled.

  “She’s not in your room, Mr Blucas.”

  “Is it ready yet?”

  “Don’t you worry, Mr Blucas, your room will be ready very soon.”

  “That’s right! I want it good and clean.”

  “Cleaner’s in there right now, Mr Blucas.”

  “You tell her to clean it inside and out.”

  “I have done, Mr Blucas.”

  The receptionist turned back to Vivian, gazed at her a moment longer, then smiled quickly.

  “Here’s your key,” she said, handing it over. “Room 30 is up the stairs, turn right, all the way along. You have a beautiful view of the mountain up there. Do you need any help with your bags?”

  The woman peered over the edge of the desk.

  “No, thank you,” said Vivian. She didn’t have any bags.

  “Okay. Well. Breakfast starts at seven-thirty and goes till ten. Unfortunately, the pool is closed because…” She laughed nervously. “Well, the pool is closed.”

  Vivian looked at her and didn’t say anything.

  “Here’s a map of the town,” the receptionist continued. “And would you like to make an offering to the mountain?” She gestured to a carved wooden box at the other end of the counter.

  Vivian scowled. Her head was throbbing horribly now, and not just from the bruising; from the smell and the darkness and the oddness of everything.

  “An offering?”

  “Most visitors give an offering of thanks to the mountain.”

  “What kind of offering?”

  “Just a few dollars.”

  “Do I have to?”

  The receptionist chewed her lip. She turned around as though looking for support, but she was alone at the desk.

  “It’s just a tradition.”

  “I don’t have any cash.”

  One of the receptionist’s eyelids twitched.

  “No problem!” she said. “Then you’re all good. Is there anything else I can help you with, Vivian?”

  “Can I get some ice? For my head?”

  “Ice machine is right behind you there.”

  Vivian had to pick her way between the old man’s shopping bags to get to it. He winked at her and she ignored him. She filled a paper cup with ice and held it to her forehead, but it seemed to make the pain substantially worse.

  “Thanks,” she said on her way across the lobby.

  “You’re welcome,” said the receptionist, and gave another taut smile.

  She was halfway to her room when she realised she’d left all her brother’s posters lying on the reception desk. She sighed at the top of the stairs, turned, tramped back the way she’d come. It was incredibly hot under her coat now, and her feet were hurting, too.

  When she got back to the lobby, the glamorous woman had the posters in her ringed fingers. She was looking at Jesse’s face and shaking her head. Her lips were moving but Vivian couldn’t hear what she was saying.

  “Sorry,” said Vivian, approaching from the periphery of the receptionist’s vision. “Those are mine.”

  The receptionist whirled around.

  “These here? Sure thing.”

  She kept them clutched to her chest.

  “Can I have them?” said Vivian.

  “Of course.”

  The receptionist handed them back very slowly.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You haven’t seen him, have you?”

  The woman looked frightened.

  “Seen who?”

  “My brother. That’s why I’m here. He came here about a month ago and we’ve not heard from him.”

  “No, I haven’t seen him.” She paused. “I’m so sorry!”

  “Well. If you do, let me know.”

  “I’ll do just that.” She peered over the top of the desk at the picture of Jesse. “Say – would you let me keep one of those? So I can show it to the other staff.”

  Vivian gave her a poster. The receptionist traced Jesse’s jawline with a fingernail and went back to muttering something.

  “Are you sure you haven’t seen him?” said Vivian.

  “No, I have not,” said the woman. Her eyes were suddenly wet. “And if I had, there’s no way in hell—” She brought herself up short and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for cursing. I will let you know if I hear anything.”

  She sniffed and smiled through her tears. Vivian watched one of them crawl down her cheek, viscous with mascara.

  “Is everything alright?” she asked, though in her current state she hardly felt able to offer the woman any compassion.

  “I’m good,” the receptionist said. She scrubbed at her face with the heel of her hand. “Long shift. Good gracious! No one catches a break round here!”

  Vivian nodded.

  “Alright. Well. Thanks,” she said, and she turned and went back up to her room.

  The receptionist had been right about the view. The great white mountain filled the window completely, in a way that looked almost vulgar; the symmetry too perfect, the colours too bright, like a bad oil painting. Vivian closed the curtains and investigated the rest of the room. Nothing much to talk of. A bedside table with a lamp and a Bible and a magazine called Lotus Guide Northern California. A TV that hadn’t been tuned. The bathroom smelled slightly sulphurous, and there was no difference in temperature between the hot and cold taps, so she decided not to pour herself a glass of water, despite how thirsty she was. There was nothing to eat, either, but she did open and drink four tiny pots of coffee creamer. Then she undressed, showered, dressed again, and climbed into bed fully clothed.

  She lay in the sweltering darkness for some time, considering her situation. No suitcase, no wallet, no phone. “Peeled” was the term, as she’d learned from a slightly dubious young man she’d had to sit next to on the bus. His name was Lucky, and he hadn’t stopped talking to her the whole way. He had open sores on his hands. He’d been “peeled” too, it turned out.

  She probed at her forehead and the bridge of her nose under the covers. It was still very tender. Broken, perhaps. She remembered very little of the assault apart from the shape and the sound of the weapon her assailant had used. A bell of some kind, that made a cartoonish clanging noise when it connected with the front of her skull. The police in Lewiston had found this particular detail very funny. She could still picture them now, grinning through mouthfuls of gum. Could still hear the note of the bell, too, as she drifted into jet-lagged sleep, and the words, receding into the darkness:

  “It’s not him. It’s not him.”

  2

  WHAT WAS meant to be a thirty-minute nap turned into four hours sunk in blackest oblivion. When Vivian woke up a slice of late-afternoon sunshine had found its way through the gap in the curtains and was burning her cheek. She sat up, not knowing where she was, sweating heavily into her coat and hiking boots.

  She got up and opened the curtains. The mountain was red and glowering, furious with her for not giving an offering, no doubt. Below her the unused pool was shivering in the shadow of the motel building. It was roped off but hadn’t been covered, and its water was very dark and accruing a kind of pink scum at its edges. She closed the curtains again. She made herself a coffee, black, since she’d already drunk the free cream, and had another shower. Then she left the motel with her armful of posters to follow up her one and only lead.

  Vivian’s destination was the House of Telos, a school of spiritual education that promised to purge the Western capitalist mind of its ills and bring it within touching distance of the One Cosmic Spirit, through a series of online seminars that cost seventy-five dollars an hour. Jesse had never been a particularly happy child when they were growing up, but adulthood had brought with it a whole new raft of emotional and existential crises, and Vivian had watched him flounder from one to the next with a mixture of pity and frustration. When he was
twenty-two he’d signed up to the House of Telos’s enrichment programme, and after three years had given them so much of their parents’ fortune that they’d offered him the opportunity to study at the House itself, in Mount Hookey, CA.

  He’d wavered at first, thanks to a talking-to from Vivian. Then, in March, their father had died. Everyone spoke about what a shock it had been, but Vivian felt like she’d seen it coming for years, and it certainly wasn’t an accident. Jesse became difficult to communicate with. Six months after the funeral, Jesse – a man who had difficulty even getting the bus by himself – had taken the flight to LA, telling Vivian he had gone to seek guidance first-hand from the Ascended Masters of Telos. That was the last they had heard of him. He’d just gone, taking his grief with him, and leaving Vivian and her mother to theirs.

  The House of Telos’s headquarters were at 125 Vista Street. Vivian had committed that to memory. She followed the black-and-white map that the receptionist had given her and put up half a dozen pictures of her brother on telegraph poles as she went. The reception desk at Cedar Lodge had been unattended and she’d helped herself to a roll of Sellotape. Mr Blucas had still been there with his shopping bags, though he’d moved to a different couch.

  Vista Street ran parallel to the main highway. Vivian went back to the centre of town, took a left at the Earth Foods store and a right at the tea house and began counting down the numbers on the mailboxes. It was a residential street, though many of the homes doubled as businesses of a spiritual bent: psychics, yogis, healers of various kinds. In among them a video rental store and a nursery, both looking a little embattled. Outside “Mount Hookey Crystal Visions” a man in a robe and sandals was packing postcards and dreamcatchers and glass orbs into a plastic crate. He saw her and there was the same look of recognition she’d seen in the receptionist’s face. He dropped the crate and the orbs went rolling all over the pavement. He stared at her as she sellotaped another poster to the mailbox outside the shop, and she turned and glared at him.

  “What?” she said.

  He got down on his knees and started picking up his wares. Then he dragged his crate through the door of the shop and locked it from the inside. He watched her for another few moments from behind the glass.