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

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СКАЧАТЬ lots of fern-covered hills. Our new garden backed straight onto the edge of a large expanse of jungle, which was full of scary wild animals.

      The commune was what was known as a ‘selah’ home, which meant that it was a small secret home that would pretend to be made up of normal families in order to fool the systemites. It acted as a kind of bed and breakfast for visiting members from Thailand, who needed to leave the country in order to renew their visas.

      There were 30 permanent residents – four families and a handful of single adults.

      Vincent was now seven and in the MCs (middle children) dorm with me. It was brilliant being able to share a room with him, but our joy at that was marred by our teacher, Isaiah. He was a madman, and as he had been in the merchant navy was obsessed with everything military. He ran our dorm like a ship – he was Captain, his three sons Sean, Seamus and Seafra were First Officers, and Vincent and I were lowly deck mates. As soon as we woke up Isaiah had us on physical duties, scrubbing the wooden floorboards with coarse brushes.

      ‘Swab those decks,’ he shouted. ‘I want her shipshape and battle ready.’

      If we didn’t scrub fast enough he would snatch the brush from our hands and fling it at our backs. Normally you had just enough time to cover your head before the wooden brush slapped into your shoulder blades or, worse, spine.

      If he was feeling particularly vicious he would force you face down onto the ground, grab your ankles in one hand and wrists in the other, then force them up over your back with your tummy pressed hard into the floor.

      ‘Time for a keelhauling.’

      The pain it caused your stomach and organs was immense.

      ‘This navy runs on discipline. I’ll make sailors of you yet.’

      Uncle Isaiah hated any sign of weakness or improper attitude. But most of all Isaiah hated Vincent. And that feeling was mutual.

      We had been out on survival training for most of the day. Isaiah had forced us to march round and round in circles for over an hour, kicking our legs high into the air as we sang the battle hymn of the revolution, a favourite song of Grandpa’s.

      ‘We’re the End Time Army that’s conquering hearts and minds and souls for the Lord! Lift up your Sword! Look to Heaven’s Reward! We’re the Revolution for Jesus and David our King!’

      Every time we finished the song and collapsed on the floor, legs trembling, he barked at us: ‘Get up, men. Again. Soooooldiers. March.’

      It was ridiculous. I usually found some enjoyment in survival lessons. For one thing we were outdoors; secondly, I knew it was essential training and that any day I’d be putting the techniques into action. If I couldn’t light a fire or know how to build a shelter, then how would I help my family survive the Tribulation? I had never been a top student, but in survival I began to excel. The marching, however, was pointless, and we knew it.

      Just as we were walking back through the garden Vincent spotted one of the monkeys that made their home in the trees. The monkeys were really terrifying – very aggressive and vicious. From what we could work out there seemed to be two tribes. At night they would have gang fights where they had loud and protracted battles in a never-ending turf war. We would peer out the window to watch them pouncing onto one another’s back, biting and scratching. Then others would appear from the trees, jumping on top until there was a jumble of monkey arms and legs kicking and hitting, all of them making the most dreadful noise – coughing, barking and screeching all at the same time. From the safety of the window we joked that even the Antichrist couldn’t make such a din.

      Vincent dug me in the ribs and pointed at a monkey, who was busy poking a finger in its ear. ‘March, soldier. March,’ he said, imitating Isaiah in a mock Irish accent. ‘You have no discipline, soldier. Stop picking your ear and march.’

      We both giggled. I looked away at the monkey for barely a second, but as I turned back Vincent was hanging in the air, his feet dangling like a ragdoll.

      Isaiah had his thick hands either side of Vincent’s neck, whose eyes were wide with fear. I looked up at Isaiah. His face was contorted with fury, but he said nothing. He just continued to lift Vincent, who was making awful choking sounds, higher in the air.

      ‘Stop. Stop it, you are killing him,’ I screamed. ‘Put him down.’

      Isaiah stared straight at me, not changing his grip on Vincent. Vincent’s face was turning red and blotchy, the fear in his eyes now replaced by total panic.

      ‘I said put my brother down!’ The words spilled out with a force I didn’t know I possessed.

      Isaiah curled his lip in my direction. For a moment I thought he was going to kill me too. He dropped Vincent to the floor and walked into the house.

      Vincent curled up, choking and gasping for breath. I lay with him, holding him and trying to calm him with my own breaths. Eventually his breathing slowed back to normal.

      ‘I thought I was dead,’ he said, his shoulders shaking with little sobs. ‘My eyes went black.’

      I sat him up and put my arm around him. We stayed there, not moving, until he felt ready to walk. I looked over at the monkey. It stared at us, wide-eyed and immobile. I think it too was stunned at what it had just witnessed. I swear it flashed Vincent a look of sympathy.

      When we got back inside Isaiah was all smiles.

      ‘Good work today, soldiers. Good work. Go get your shower. MCs’ dinner at 1900 hours.’

      Usually after survival training sessions Isaiah liked his ‘crew’ of MCs to have dinner together. ‘A crew that fights together eats together,’ he insisted. He could say that all he liked but I had no intention of fighting alongside Isaiah. When the time came my family would fight and die right next to each other. No way was I staying in his crew. And if he tried to stop me he would get one of my thunderbolts.

      Isaiah’s wife was Aunty Rebecca; she was as bonkers as her husband. Their sons Sean, Seamus and Seafra often got to choose the food we ate at crew dinners. Not that there was much choice – rice with lentils or rice with eggs.

      They always asked their mother to make scrambled eggs. It was a total mystery to me, because Aunty Rebecca’s scrambled eggs were a congealed, slimy mess. It was made worse by the fact all our food was bought in bulk, so very often the eggs were on the point of turning bad. It was like trying to eat putrid egg snot.

      I did wonder if the boys only pretended to like her eggs because they knew we hated them so much. Aunty Rebecca took our refusal to eat as a personal insult. Wearing a hurt expression, she folded her arms and stood over us.

      ‘Now I made these eggs for you naughty children and you don’t even have the decency to enjoy it. Well, God be told, I never saw two more ungrateful wretches in all my life.’

      Vincent and I tried everything we could think of to avoid eating them, stuffing our cheeks with the vile slime and spitting it out once we had been dismissed from the table. But that tactic meant putting the horrible stuff in your mouth in the first place. And Rebecca soon figured out what we were doing – her fat fingers would tug at the corner of our mouths and then we’d be forced to swallow the contents of our bulging cheeks.

      Other times we would ‘accidentally’ spill our eggs on the floor – a self-defeating exercise because, if we were caught, whatever СКАЧАТЬ