Escaping the Cult: One cult, two stories of survival. Kristina Jones

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СКАЧАТЬ his head against the wall, so he was made to wear boxing gloves that were taped down so that he couldn’t take them off. Then if the weather wasn’t too scorching or wet he was put out in the garden for the day, usually tied to a tree. He often screamed out and made terrible wild animal howls. When he did that someone was sent outside to hit him. If he refused to stop they either shoved a dry nappy in his mouth or dragged him back inside to lock him in the tiny room where he slept. It was right at the back of the house, like a dungeon with a tiny barred window and no air conditioning.

      The worst thing was when he had seizures and fell to the floor writhing and banging. ‘The devil is in him again,’ the adults would shout, rushing over to hold him down, punch and slap him and say prayers over him, urging the evil inside him to cast itself out.

      I didn’t know what was wrong with him but I could see he was a boy, not a demon. James’s eyes were so confused and full of pain I didn’t understand how anyone could think he was bad. He reminded me of my earlier childhood friend Simon with his taped-up mouth.

      He was a bit like a communal punch bag. Other kids were often tasked with feeding him and would get frustrated at him, following the adults’ lead by giving him a kick or a slap round the head.

      His younger half-sister Claire was my closest friend. She and I were the only ones who were kind to him, holding his hands for a few grabbed seconds or whispering to him that he was a good boy and not to cry. Claire confided in me that when he was born the leaders accused her mother of allowing the devil into her bed, insisting that James’s disability could only be the result of an unholy union with evil. Claire confided in me that she sometimes wished he could just go straight to heaven to stop him suffering so much.

      Early spring came, and with it the beginning of the rainy season. The pain of my mother’s absence hadn’t lessened, but I had learned to cope by blocking it out as much as I could, focusing instead on the males of the family by trying to mother them all.

      But, lying in bed, I was often overcome with a sense of panic. Thérèse and Leah had never come back. Was my mom really ever coming home? Was Dad lying to me when he said she was?

      When I thought these thoughts I struggled to breathe and my old shakes came back. Uncle Jeremiah seemed to sense my fear and played a huge part in seeing me through that difficult time. He always made a point of talking about her or praising me, saying how pleased she would be at how clever I had become or how she would like a picture I had drawn. His concern for me meant the world.

      The air was sticky and the skies fat with tropical thunder when the gates finally opened and a beige sedan car with blacked-out windows drove in. It was just after lunch and I was filing back to class when I heard the sound of the engine.

      My heart went tight in my chest. Could it be? I hardly dared move in case it wasn’t. Then I heard Vincent’s squeal of delight: ‘Mommy’s here!’

      I broke away from the line and ran outside just as the door opened. For a second I barely recognised her. She was fat and round and heavily pregnant. As a joke she had put on a big furry Russian hat that made her look like a doll.

      ‘Mommy, Mommy, Mommy yaaaaayyyy, Mommy is here!’

      By now Dad, Matt and Marc were outside too. We all threw ourselves at her at once. She giggled with delight, not knowing whom to hug first. My dad had carried Guy down from the nursery. He was wary and looked scared as my father held him forward: ‘Look, baby, your mommy is here. It’s your mommy. You know Mommy.’

      Guy shook his head and clung around my dad’s neck.

      ‘Oh Marcel, why?’ she whispered under her breath. ‘My own baby doesn’t know me.’

      He nodded wordlessly, biting down on his lip.

      She was supposed to have come back from her mission compliant and uncomplaining. Showing any public signs of anger or regret at having been cruelly ripped away from her children could land her in trouble again. So, a bit like the forced cuddles we had to face after a beating, my mom too had to spend the next few days playing a pretend game, whereby she made out the pioneer camp had been a just wonderful time and how grateful she’d been for the opportunity.

      On her first family day back at home she sat me on the bed with a huge smile. ‘I have something very special for you, chérie. I bet you will never guess what it is.’

      With a dramatic flourish she presented the most beautiful, prettiest, most wondrous thing I had ever seen. It was a Barbie doll, dressed in Russian-style clothes. The doll wore an embroidered little tunic, black trousers, plastic lace-up boots and a little furry hat like the one my mom had.

      I squealed with delight, kissing the doll. Mom put a finger to her lips. ‘Shhhh. Keep her to yourself. She’s your special toy, so look after her well. Please do not brag.’

      She was giving me a tacit warning. As a rule we didn’t have toys. There were a few shared ones around but they were generally simple and educational, building blocks or alphabet games. Things like dolls were said to set a bad moral example and were a sign of rampant commerciality. My mother knew she was taking another risk by giving it to me.

      I tried to hide my Barbie well, cramming her into the space between my mattress and the bunk frame. But I kept sneaking her out to look at her during the night. I was so mesmerised by her that I didn’t notice another girl had spotted me.

      Of course, she complained about me. After breakfast next morning Aunty Esther came to take my doll away. I tried so hard not to give up her hiding place. ‘Where is it?’ Esther demanded, waving a warning fist.

      I sat on the bed, shaking my head. ‘I don’t know.’ For the first time I was finding lying easy.

      Esther pulled up the sheets, shook out the pillows, her eyes as manic as a bloodhound in pursuit of prey. ‘Tell me now, you naughty girl. Where is it?’

      I shook my head, lips pursed, and refused to utter another word.

      In the end it was inevitable she’d lift up the mattress to look underneath. With a triumphant shriek she brandished the doll in the air like a trophy. ‘This is going in the trash right now.’

      She walked out, muttering curses about my mother. ‘What was the woman thinking, bringing such wordliness into the good Lord’s house?’

      The unjustness of it all left me too full of impotent rage to even cry.

      I put my hand in my sock and pulled out a little trophy of my own – Barbie’s fur hat.

Chapter 10

       Mutiny at Tea

      ‘Go, go, go. The soldiers are at the door. They are right here. Move it. MOVE IT!’

      I leapt out of my bunk, trying to adjust my eyes to the darkness. A cold wave of fear flooded through me but I knew I had to stay calm and follow the drill. I fumbled for my flee bag – a little brown satchel with stitched pockets that held a clean set of clothes, my torch and a tin of food. I sprinted out of the room, past the angry monkeys that lived in the garden, and towards the surrounding forest and the secret clearing that was our designated meeting point. Had the war begun? I ran as fast as I could, trying to keep up with the older children in front of me, leaping over fallen branches and tearing leafy vegetation out of my eyes. At the clearing I was relieved to see my parents and СКАЧАТЬ