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

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      The next time we came to the table, however, we had a plan.

      Vincent and I smiled at Rebecca as we sat down and said grace.

      ‘Thank you, Jesus. Lord, we pray that you bless this food that you have provided for us. Help us to be thankful for it and bless and keep all our family worldwide. Praise the Lord. Thank you, Jesus. We love you, Jesus.’

      She watched us like a hawk as we picked up our spoons.

      Isaiah was busy fussing over his boys. ‘God sent me a vision last night, boys. Glorious it was.’ Sean, Seamus and Seafra nodded as they slurped on their eggs.

      Rebecca turned her attention to the conversation. She loved hearing Isaiah’s revelations, particularly when it came to the wonderful plans God had ordained for her three boys.

      ‘He told me, you boys, that he has plans for you in the End Time Army.’ He paused, looking to see he had the full attention of his wife and sons.

      This was the moment Vincent and I had been waiting for. While the others were listening to Isaiah’s vision, we set about spooning the vile eggs into our pockets. Earlier that day we’d stolen some empty food bags from the pantry. Now these same bags lined our pockets, to prevent the eggs from oozing through our shorts.

      ‘Jesus appeared in a blinding light, boys. Wonderful. What a thing to behold.’

      I thought it was wonderful too. Isaiah was looking to heaven, recounting his vision, while Rebecca and the boys were fixated on him.

      Vincent and I were growing in confidence and speed, emptying our plates as quickly and smoothly as we could, the warm weight on our hips growing with every scoop.

      ‘Jesus told me you boys will be commanders at Armageddon and you will glorify Jesus and Father David with your courage and bravery!’ Isaiah glowed with his revelation.

      ‘Praise be to Jesus. That’s amazing. What else did he say about my beautiful boys?’ asked Rebecca, turning back to the onions she was frying.

      ‘That is really amazing,’ I chimed. ‘Vincent and I have finished our dinner. Thank you, Aunty Rebecca. That was delicious.’

      ‘Look, we ate it all,’ added Vincent with an exaggerated enthusiasm I thought was sure to give the game away. I shot him a look.

      ‘May we be excused?’ I asked in my sweetest voice. ‘I want to say some special prayers for my older brother in Victor Camp tonight.’

      Aunty Rebecca eyed me suspiciously.

      ‘Open your mouths. Both of you.’

      Our jaws dropped in unison.

      Rebecca seemed impressed by my new demure nature.

      ‘You may leave the table. Please go straight to your dorm now and remain silent until you get there,’ she said, almost happy.

      I nodded with a sickly-sweet expression, doing my best impression of Honey, the mean girl who had bullied me in Bangkok.

      As we walked down the corridor I felt like leaping into the air and whooping. We had put one over on the nasty old cow. We were learning the art of secret rebellion.

      Summer turned into winter, Christmas came, and the New Year with it. Then summer came round again. There was still no sign of the End Time Tribulation and I still couldn’t shoot thunderbolts.

      A new sense of paranoia gripped the adults. Dad told me the Antichrist had invented a weapon, something called the Internet.

      He was wreaking havoc with it. But it was also an important tool for us. A Shepherd came to install a big computer with a telephone and modem attached to it. We children were not allowed to touch it under any circumstances. If the phone on it rang three times and then hung up the adults would know it meant a message was coming through from HQ. The code was never to answer a phone until the fourth ring just in case. We also had a new warning code for when people went out witnessing. They were to drive up and down the street before coming in; if they saw a white sheet hanging from a bedroom window they knew it meant we had been attacked or raided by the government and they were to flee immediately.

      Grandpa sent out a Mo letter informing us the prophecy hadn’t come to pass because God had looked at us and decided we weren’t ready. We had failed him. It would happen, but probably not for another three years. He told us we had better be sure we were ready next time. Isaiah was bitterly annoyed that his sons’ chance of glory had been postponed. He became quieter and less frightening, brooding on his own failure to train his crew to the proper standards and thus displeasing God.

      I had a sense something terrible was about to happen. The grown-ups began fasting and praying for days at a time. They sat cross-legged, staring up to heaven as if in a trance or talking in tongues with sweat and tears pouring down their faces as they rocked back and forth.

      One autumn morning I woke to the sound of wailing and howling. As we entered the dining hall for breakfast I saw my mother kissing a framed photograph.

      ‘He was so beautiful,’ she kept repeating. ‘So beautiful. His eyes. Look at the light that shines. So beautiful. What a man. What a gentle spirit.’

      She reverently passed the photo to Isaiah next to her as if it was a relic. He gazed adoringly at it, stroking his fingers across the glass. Rebecca took it against her heart, hugging it to her chest.

      Some of the others were rolling around on the floor. It was pandemonium. Matt walked over to where Vincent and I stood. ‘It’s Grandpa,’ he said in a flat voice. ‘He’s dead.’

      I looked over at the weeping, wailing grown-ups. Rebecca had tears streaming down her red face. She shook her head in sorrow. ‘The King is gone. Oh Lord. Jesus has taken him for an angel. Our King is gone. What will we do now?’ She had the photo in her hand and held it up for us to see. ‘Look, children, look at him. Here he is in all his God-given glory.’

      I stared at the black and white image of an old man with a long grey beard. In all these years the only photocopied photos we’d seen had his face obscured by the cartoon lion’s head. It had to be that way because the devil’s soldiers would surely have murdered him if they had known what he looked like.

      ‘See his beautiful face. Our beautiful King David,’ my mother cried out. ‘I knew he would be beautiful.’

      But to me Grandpa had always been the drawn cartoon figure from my children’s books – carrying his staff, a halo over his mane of long hair and a flowing robe. He was the all-powerful conquering hero of my childhood. The photo Rebecca held up was of an ordinary old man.

      I wasn’t really sad but it was impossible not to be swept up in such a public outpouring of grief. I threw myself onto the floor, wailing: ‘Grandpa, Grandpa, Grandpa. Why did you leave us?’

Chapter 11

       Walking with Buffaloes

      Hypnotic incantations floated across the garden, hanging in the thick, hot air. Marching side by side, my parents circled the building as they chanted in joint prayer.

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