I was starting to feel very uneasy – I’m not sure how much of that was down to this place, how much was tiredness from two days of driving, and how much was because my latest fix of methadone was wearing off and I was now incredibly anxious. I had only one day’s supply left. What had I imagined would be here? Drug Dealers Central?

  None of the people we walked past – and the majority of them looked young and beautiful, some almost intimidatingly beautiful – looked as if they had ever touched either alcohol or any forbidden substance in their lives. But everyone with whom I made any eye contact smiled and mouthed something at me I could not hear. It might have been my imagination but they all seemed to be mouthing I love you.

  Almost before I realized it, we had entered a small, equally white office. Julia Schmitt sat across a glass desk from us and passed me an iPad on which there was a medical form. I spent the next few minutes filling first my medical background – hesitating when drugs came up and deciding what the hell, to be truthful. Then I filled in Bruno’s form, which was a relative breeze, while he sat beside me, his tiny hand on my knee.

  I saw the frown on Dr Schmitt’s face as she evidently read my opiate addiction and my weekly consumption of alcohol. But it was fleeting and then she smiled, yet again, seemingly unjudgemental, as if half the guests who registered here put down on their forms that they were substance abusers. Maybe they were.

  ‘OK, Sandra, Dr Waldinger will be able to speak to you about any issues and requirements you have.’

  That made me feel a lot easier.

  She passed me a registration form to fill in for Bruno and myself, which I dutifully did. When I reached the bit about car licence plate, I told her it was a rental and I needed to take it to one of the returns depots in Munich. She said not to worry and that someone would take care of it if I gave her the keys.

  But then came her double-whammy.

  She produced a machine from behind the desk. ‘May I take a credit card imprint, please, Sandra?’

  I looked at her, astonished. ‘Credit card?’

  ‘It is normal – for all extras.’ Then she gave a rather odd, knowing look. ‘I think you will have some quite expensive extras?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said, replying quickly before Bruno asked anything awkward.

  ‘And for your suite.’

  I suddenly felt clammy. ‘For my suite?’

  ‘Yes, the Höchster Meister has put you in our very finest suite. The Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel suite. You will find such peace there, it is the perfect place to begin your regeneration.’

  I stared back at her, momentarily at a loss of what to say. When I’d spoken on the phone, last week, to Hans-Jürgen Waldinger, calling him on the number he’d given me if I ever needed to contact him, telling him I needed to get away from his friend, Nicos – as he had once warned me I might – he had been utterly charming and so kind. He immediately told me to come and stay, as his guest, for as long as I needed. And I had felt again that strong connection with him I had felt four years ago, when I first met him at the Scientologists’ HQ.

  Now I was being asked for a credit card. Had he omitted to tell me I would be a paying guest?

  There was no way I could give a credit card. I only had one, that Nicos had given me, for the Santander Bank in Jersey, but the moment I used that I would be traceable.

  ‘Höchster Meister?’ I queried.

  ‘Dr Waldinger,’ she replied and smiled again.

  ‘I don’t have a credit card,’ I told her and she looked at me very strangely and suddenly broke into German. ‘Keine kreditcarte?’ Then she smiled again.

  ‘How much is the room?’

  ‘One thousand euros a day, full-board, for you and your son, which will cover his daily nursery school attendances,’ she replied, frowning before once again smiling. I was starting to find her smile disconcerting.

  ‘I – I understood we are here as guests of Dr Waldinger. Is it possible to speak to him?’ I asked.

  She glanced at her watch. I checked on my own and saw it was coming up to 2 p.m. She shook her head. ‘The Höchster Meister meditates every day between 1 and 3 p.m. It is not possible to speak to him.’ It wasn’t my imagination, there was a definite frostiness in her tone now. Despite yet another smile.

  ‘You see,’ I said, aware how lame I was sounding, ‘I thought my son and I were here as guests of Dr Waldinger – your – your Höchster Meister.’

  ‘It is correct, you are both here as guests of the Höchster Meister,’ she replied. ‘But I do not understand your issue, exactly.’

  ‘I – I thought – being a guest – that meant we didn’t need to pay.’

  Her eyes narrowed, and I noticed she had stencilled eyebrows, which now almost met on the bridge of her nose. As she spoke she opened her arms expansively. ‘Sandra, everyone here is a guest of the Höchster Meister. This institute only exists because of his immense generosity, but if no one ever paid that would not be good, that would mean everyone who came here was taking advantage of his kindness and his vision. But,’ she raised a finger, ‘there is something else even more important. And this is a point Dr Waldinger makes repeatedly.’ She smiled again. Her expression read, simples. ‘If something is free, then it is meaningless. Worthless. You do not perceive value. Do you understand?’

  I didn’t, but I was starting to get jittery as the effects of the methadone were wearing off faster and faster with every minute. So I dug my hand into my bag and produced one bundle of fifty-pound notes held together by a red elastic band, peeled off £5,000 and handed them to her. ‘Payment in advance for five days,’ I said.

  She scribbled a receipt and handed it to me. ‘We go to your suite?’ she asked. ‘Later I give you the familiarization tour.’ Then she smiled again.

  65

  Autumn 2011

  It’s strange how quickly you can go on and then off someone. My first impression of Julia Schmitt, in the car park of Schloss Leichtigkeit, was of a nice lady, if a little indoctrinated. And smelling a little too wholesome.

  But now, as our Spiritual Mentor led us up two steep flights of a narrow, stone spiral staircase, I was already going off her, big time. Was she being fiercely protective of Hans-Jürgen because everyone here wanted and expected a piece of him, or did she have another reason?

  My addled mind was already speculating wildly. Were they lovers? Or was she hoping they would become lovers and she was jealous of my arrival here?

  My problem in these recent past years was being able to think with proper clarity. Some days I struggled just to function properly, a hostage of the drugs to treat my opioid addiction, while trying to be a caring and protective mother and give out a semblance of being a normal human being, a thirty-two-year-old woman.

  Had I completely misinterpreted Hans-Jürgen when I’d met him previously in England? When he had seemed so interested in my life and well-being?

  Julia Schmitt was speaking and I realized I wasn’t listening and had missed the first part of whatever she’d said. ‘Complete mental regeneration,’ she went on. ‘That really is what everyone who comes here seeks and finds, if they are to look hard enough.’

  Once, I would have bounded up these steps, but I hadn’t done much aerobic exercise in months. As I struggled to keep up with her, lugging my two suitcases and my handbag, regretting not letting her take one of them, and getting increasingly out of breath, I grunted a reply. ‘I think my body needs regeneration first!’

  But my attempt at humour was lost on her. Or maybe she didn’t hear it. ‘Our Höchster Meister is very happy you are here,’ she continued, stopping finally on a small landing, with a narrow window slit. ‘He will see us soon.’

  Julia put Bruno’s Trunki down and he peered excitedly through the slit at the view beyond. ‘Wow!’

  ‘Please tell Dr Waldinger we are happy to be here and look forward to seeing him soon, too.’

  Julia opened a door with what looked like a pass-key and frowned. ‘Bitte – sorry – please, he does not use this name any more. You must not. Here he is always Höchster Meister.’

  I was tired and feeling more than a little fractious after the very long two-day drive to get here, as well having had a lousy night’s sleep in a hotel last night with a rock-hard mattress and even harder pillow, sharing the room with Bruno, who took hours to settle down. ‘So how does that translate?’ I asked. ‘Hans-Jürgen Waldinger is now Mr Big?’

  She looked at me without a trace of humour in her expression. ‘He is Höchster Meister. That is how we all address him. It is respectful.’

  I looked directly back at her. ‘Of course it is.’

  She ushered us through into a suite, the likes of which I had never seen before. Bruno ran around excitedly, from his little bedroom into the lounge, into my vast room and then into the bathroom with its twin basins, bath, shower and bidet.

  But I could barely take it in. I was starting to feel even more anxious. Next to no methadone left. Unless someone has been dependent on opiates, like me, they have no idea how it feels to be in need of a fix. Back in our early days together, when I’d really thought he loved me, Nicos had asked me to describe the feeling of needing a heroin fix. I’d told him the truth. That it felt like being in a very dark place, where all the lights had gone out. A place where you were all alone in darkness that was populated entirely with your demons.

  I’d been there before and didn’t ever want to go back there again.

  ‘And this is the temperature control,’ our Spiritual Mentor said.

  I realized she was showing us around the suite and I had again missed something she had said. I heard a beep-beep-beep as she jabbed the little device on the wall. ‘This is to make it cooler and this to make it warmer.’ Beep-beep-beep.

  ‘Where’s the minibar?’ I asked.

  And immediately wished I’d been holding a camera to capture her shocked expression.

  ‘Minibar?’ she said.

  I nodded. ‘Yes, minibar.’

  ‘There is a minibar in the kitchen area.’

  I was in there almost before she had finished speaking. It was next to the fridge and I pulled it open. All it contained, to my dismay, were chocolate bars and bottles of mineral water, all labelled Schloss Leichtigkeit Wasser.

  I checked out the fridge. It was empty.

  Shit.

  ‘How do I order wine or vodka or anything?’ I asked.

  ‘Schloss Leichtigkeit has a zero-alcohol policy,’ she replied. And smiled.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘This is one thing you will learn here, Sandra,’ she said. Her voice was zealous rather than judgemental. ‘To become a Free Spirit is to be like a flame in the wind. But not one that is attached to the wick of a candle or the head of a matchstick. Because if you need a crutch to survive, when that crutch is gone so are you. Extinguished. Yes?’

  I frowned, unsure exactly what she meant.

  ‘Here at Schloss Leichtigkeit you will learn to become a flame that burns brightly alone, without fuel, without any external attachment or dependence. You alone will be that flame and when you graduate, you will for all your life burn brightly from just what is inside you. You will find yourself in a place of happiness and fulfilment that you never before found. You will know yourself for the first time, and what you will know will empower you in a way you would have thought impossible before you came.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, and was distracted by the sight of a thick, white brochure neatly placed on the desk in the living room. On the front cover was a photograph of Hans-Jürgen Waldinger, looking very much as I had remembered him, if a little younger in this picture. Some clever backlighting created a glow that gave him the appearance of a messianic guru.

  It wasn’t the first time in four years that I’d seen his face, of course. I’d googled him often, at times feeling like some kind of a fangirl stalker. And each time, such as I felt now, just as every infatuated stalker feels, those penetrating eyes were looking at me. Only me.

  So close now. So many emotions whirling around inside me. Would we pick up straight where we had left off, that closeness and connection I’d felt with him back at the Scientologists? Or—

  Bruno, seated on a sofa and focused on his game, brought me back to reality by suddenly calling out, ‘Mama, what’s the Wi-Fi code?’

  I looked at our Spiritual Mentor. She smiled again. ‘We have a zero Wi-Fi policy at Schloss Leichtigkeit,’ she said. Another smile. These were getting smug.

  They were starting to infuriate me.

  The association of Free Spirits seemed less and less free.

  ‘Today you must be tired and hungry after your journey.’ She pointed at an iPad on a desk in the living room. ‘All the menus are there, you may have your meals brought to your room or eat in the Refectory. Perhaps you will care to order some lunch?’

  I momentarily distracted Bruno from his screen. ‘Are you hungry, darling?’

  ‘Can I have a cheeseburger? And chips with ketchup, Mama?’

  ‘It is on the children’s menu,’ Julia Schmitt said. ‘You will find it on page six. Oh, and I have just had a message from the Hochmeister. He will see you here to welcome you himself at five o’clock. Before then I will be back to give you your familiarization tour.’

  I thanked her.

  She handed me a card with a number on it. ‘If you need me, whatever the time, you call on the room phone and this will reach me.’

  As I took it she said, deadpan, ‘There is one more thing before I leave you alone to unpack. When we meet people here, we tell them that we love them. This is very important. Our foundation is love, and this is our greeting. We do this in the common language, which is English.’

  ‘OK,’ I replied solemnly, ‘thank you.’

  She smiled. ‘I love you,’ she said.

  ‘I love you,’ I replied, feeling absurdly self-conscious.

  ‘I love you, Bruno,’ she said. But he was staring at his screen again and just frowned.

  As soon as she was gone, I sat at the desk and waded through the menu on the iPad. I ordered what Bruno wanted, and a Buddha Bowl for myself. I didn’t have much appetite.

  Then, and I had been desperate to do this ever since arriving here, I looked at my phone. I was relieved to see there was a 3G signal, and immediately opened my search engine and typed in Jersey Evening Post, anxious for any possible news about Nicos. Although I had no idea what news I was expecting to find.

  I scrolled down through the headlines. The main story was the plan for a new hospital for the island, which was being fiercely debated. The police were having a crackdown on speeding. There was a big piece on house prices, and alarm from the hospitality industry on the number of hotel rooms being lost to property developers building apartments aimed at the booming financial sector.

  I almost missed what I had been looking for. Just a couple of column inches, the very last item before the sports news.

  A major air-sea search, led by the Guernsey Coastguard, is underway following the discovery of an apparently unmanned St Helier registered motor yacht adrift ten nautical miles west of St Peter Port.

  That was all it said.

  Shaking, I then checked out the Bailiwick Express, the online newspaper of the Channel Islands. It had the same story, and no more.

  Unmanned. Adrift.

  I read the few words over and over.

  Could it be the Bolt-Hole?

  Unmanned.

  Adrift.

  I wasn’t sure how I felt. What did it mean?

  I sure as hell knew what it might mean.

  I hadn’t heard from Nicos. Then I realized of course I wouldn’t, I’d tossed the phone with the only number he had overboard. But I’d checked my emails on my laptop at our hotel last night and there had been no email from him. I was half expecting there would have been one, after he’d opened the suitcase and found some of the cash gone.

  But I guess I was also half expecting this silence.

  The sea around the Channel Islands was a mecca for yachts in the summer months. This boat adrift could have been any boat. There was no reason to speculate about this particular one.

  And yet I had every reason.

  My insides were in such turmoil that when our food arrived all I could manage of our meal was one mouthful of chickpeas from my Buddha Bowl, and a couple of Bruno’s French fries dunked in ketchup.

  A few minutes later, I threw them both up in the loo.

  66

  Autumn 2011

  Other than not serving alcohol, Schloss Leichtigkeit offered pretty much all the facilities I guess you might expect to find in an upmarket hotel. Indoor and outdoor swimming pools, gym, spa, treatment rooms, meditation rooms, games room, library, tennis court, bicycles available to borrow, children’s play area, and a whole ton of other stuff I barely took in, as I walked alongside Julia Schmitt on our guided tour.

  My mind was elsewhere. Thinking about a drifting boat. And thinking about my meeting with Hans-Jürgen Waldinger in less than an hour.

  Bruno and I were conspicuous as newbies, by still being in our own clothes rather than the white uniform tunics of everyone else. I was getting a little tired of endlessly and self-consciously saying I love you or, whenever I chose, ich liebe dich, and having it equally endlessly said back to me.

  Bruno, despite his hand locked with mine, was in his own little world, occasionally glancing up to me but not commenting.

  I kept looking at my watch, wanting plenty of time to look my best before Hans-Jürgen Waldinger came to our suite. The man I had been thinking about often for the past four years, the man I really thought in my strung-out, stripped-out, messed-up mind might be the man I would connect with like a doting uncle and be there to support me emotionally and spiritually for life, and who had sounded so happy to hear from me just a few days ago.

  What should I wear? How much make-up should I put on? How should I smell? I didn’t have a huge choice of outfits – I’d packed a few dresses, a couple of pairs of jeans, some blouses, a skirt, my favourite shoes and trainers, and that was just about it in the style department. Of course, when we got back to the room, our tunics might have arrived, as Julia had said they were on their way. But I guess I wanted to look stand-out special for our first meeting in four years.