Cult following, p.18
Cult Following, page 18
So disappointing. I hoped at the very least if the tea wasn’t deadly poison, it would work to take me back in time. Or forward. Anywhere but here, I thought as I threw back my head and gulped the last drop of leafy liquid.
And things weren’t even that bad back then.
‘I didn’t know how lucky I was when I was five,’ I mutter.
‘What?’ Maria says, bringing me back.
‘Nothing,’ I say.
CHAPTER 10
They’ve Won. She’s Gone: 3 Years Before
‘She’s getting thinner,’ Maria says as she looks over at Kate’s tiny body.
‘I know, she should be showing by now,’ I say.
We stand at Kate’s bedside in the ‘Girls’ Room’. A dorm crammed with far too many girls. Girls who sleep on the floor, girls on the top bunks, girls on beds on wheels that roll out from under bottom bunks and girls ‘doubling up’ like Maria and I do. This ocean of girls recently started getting their periods in waves that have all linked up like tides to the moon and when that happens, it’s like a tsunami of moodiness, anger and aches flood through our room.
It’s not really what I imagined coming of age to feel like.
But Kate is no longer part of synchronised flow: She is pregnant. She’s 16. She fell in love with that teen boy who we saw her with at the demonstrations. He is 16 too. Not an unusual age to get married or pregnant here, especially as there is not much time before the End Time.
She lies in the foetal position in a single bed by the window, which is the one privilege we girls can give her in the hopes of giving her some space and making this easier. The massive window that frames her bed makes her look almost childlike. Her groans are almost inaudible. She hasn’t really had the strength to walk in months, but they still keep forcing her into the workforce, putting her name on the schedule. She can’t eat anything we make for her. Even the smell of our cooking makes her wretch. The minute she can, she comes back up here and curls up.
‘There really is nothing that she can eat,’ I say, shaking my head.
My mom got pregnant the same time as Kate, this will be her twelfth baby. Contraception is strictly forbidden, considered to be a sin against God. So here, pregnancy is like air, we normally don’t even notice it, women are always pregnant, breastfeeding or miscarrying.
Funny to think their babies will be the same age.
‘I have never seen anyone this skinny this many months in. She must be at least five or six months pregnant,’ I say.
‘Kate, what do you feel like eating? What do you think you could hold down?’ Maria asks her softly.
‘Maybe something sour. Can you guys close that door so that smell doesn’t come in.’ She’s balancing trying not to breathe in or puke out. I roll up a towel and push it into the bottom of the door, hoping that stops the smell of boiling meat enveloping her.
*
‘What have we got that’s sour?’ I ask Maria.
‘We have one lemon. Oh, we have a crab apple tree, they’re sour,’ she says, ever resourceful.
My hand wraps around Maria’s arm as I whisper, ‘We need a plan, she can’t go on like this.’
‘Last time, they said no special treatment. They won’t change their minds,’ she mutters under her breath. ‘Let’s think about it.’
We’ve already made a case to the home about Kate’s health.
But the answer’s clear in my mind and I’m going to have to do something I haven’t done since I was four years old to make it work. That night, I wait until the adults have their meeting. I look through the windows in the dining-room doors: my mom and dad sit next to each other, faces solemn or maybe bored.
Now’s my chance.
My feet fly up the stairs, two at a time. I tiptoe down the hallway and creak a door open, poking my head through: no one is around.
It’s safe . . . so far.
My feet know all the noisiest boards in this hallway. I skip soundlessly. All these rooms are adjoined. I slip through the next door: again, empty. I breathe for the first time since I started this run.
I stand in the middle of my parents’ room, I know there is money in here somewhere. Chest of drawers, bedside tables, bags in the bottom of the cupboard . . . It could be anywhere, my dad always has some. I start to look carefully through drawers, lifting papers, making sure I keep everything in the same order that it was in. Blood rushes to my face as I think about the last time I did this: in Johannesburg, when I stole the flirty fishing money from Auntie Beverly.
I was four years old and prowling the halls during quiet time. I walked up to Auntie Beverly’s doorway. I had been in her room many times before, but since that morning’s ‘big news’, I wanted to see if the room felt different. This was the room where the ‘top’ hooker for Jesus in Africa sleeps. As I crept inside, I held my breath. I ran my hand along her bedsheets, noticing the rough balls on the cotton from wear.
This is where all the Lord’s work happens.
On the nightstand were piles of money, all neatly stacked up in lines.
Cash for Jesus.
I didn’t know exactly why money was important, just that it was. Grabbing fistfuls of the paper notes, I jammed them into my knickers. This act was filled with so much adrenaline, I could hear my heartbeat in my head like a thousand cymbals crashing.
I snuck back to my room, shut the door and pretended to nap to cover my tracks. And then I heard the words I wait all day for: it’s ‘Get Out Time’. ‘Get Out Time’ was the time after ‘Quiet Time’ – our hour outside, when we would run to the forest for our wars, practise being soldiers for the End Time. But today is nearly 40 degrees, sizzling hot and all eyes will be on the pool that this house, like so many houses in South Africa, has. The call of ‘Get Out Time’ is like a call of the sergeant, or the snap of the hypnotist’s fingers – it pulls me to attention and nothing else matters. I ran through the house, through the living room where the glass doors lead out onto the promise of cold, wet freshness.
I sprinted past the shapes of my mom and my sisters and then took a flying leap through the air towards the pool. Water rushed in, replacing the sounds of the kids, the garden and the African day. My whole body cooled from the sticky heat in an instant. Looking up, the sunlight and garden became mini shapes of different colours above me, shattered, peaceful and beautiful. But then, floating in the pool among these shapes is the stolen ‘Hooker-for-Jesus money’. It’s all around me, gracefully suspended. But my brain snaps into immediate fear, knowing what this scene will mean for me. I wanted to stay down there forever, I never wanted my floating body to reach that surface. But a large hand reached in, the sounds of the garden flooded in with the heat, and I am taught exactly how important money is to my dad – it always has been.
That robbery did not turn out well for me. And getting caught now would be even worse.
It doesn’t take too long to find a leather purse with three notes and a few coins in it. I’m not sure what will be the most suspicious if it goes missing. I take one of the notes – I don’t want to have to do this again for a while.
I quickly get into bed to cover my tracks. The stolen note imprints itself on my tightly fisted hand. I wonder how long the imprint of this sin will last on me. As soon as the light is out, I stuff it between my mattress and a wooden slat. Phase one is over. I pull my covers over my face, my heart still pounding.
I will not sleep tonight, I have sinned.
But I do. And I sleep well.
*
I spend the next day waiting for my moment. And it’s now.
I slip out the back door, my eyes focused on the bottom of the garden. I avoid the paths – they are covered in gravel. The sound of smashing footsteps can be heard from far away, like a natural alarm system.
I’ll take the long way round through the fields.
The wet grass squeaks beneath my feet, the cold air hits my face and fills my lungs as I run. And as the cold hits me, so does the realisation that this is the first time in my life I have ever left home by myself. I have dreamed of doing this since I was a child. Running until my insides were filled with the outside, every step putting more and more distance between me and them. When I was small, I used to draw maps of what I thought the surrounding areas looked like – I’d pack up my belongings and wait for lights out. Then I’d sit on the floor, desperately trying to stay awake long enough to make my escape while the adults slept. Only to wake up with the morning light, still gripping a plastic bag containing socks, a T-shirt and a crumpled drawing of ‘the outside’ in my hand.
Waking up to yet another failed escape.
So, this run has been a long time coming. My pace is fuelled by both fear and freedom.
My feet speed down the path that leads to the middle of the village.
Slow your breathing down.
I steady my legs as I walk up to the small convenience store. Sparks seem to be flying through my thighs. I’ve been in a shop before, but never alone. I slip inside, the creased money balled up in my hand as I am enveloped in the warmth and delicious smells of the shop – a mix of fresh fruit and sweets.
‘Mornin’.’ The shopkeeper’s voice ignites my nerves.
A pleasant smile sits on his shaved face. He looks clean, like maybe he showers every day. I become very aware of what I must look like to him, a frizzy-haired, panting, sweaty kid in ‘other people’s’ clothes. He must know where I’m from. Everyone in the village knows about the ‘Sex Cult’. But his face doesn’t change, as if this is the most ordinary thing in the world.
Slow your breathing down.
‘Mornin’,’ I respond shakily, cracking a damp smile and hoping to mimic his calmness.
Act like this is ordinary for you too.
‘You need help with anything?’ he asks, touching his flat cap.
‘I’m looking for sour stuff,’ I say, my American-ish accent standing out like a beacon against this English shop.
‘Well . . .’ He smiles. ‘Let’s have a look, shall we?’
He patiently points out the things that are sour in his shop: ‘Bitter lemonade is sour,’ he says, holding a plastic bottle. ‘Lemon drizzle is sour,’ he says, pointing to a cake. Then he shows me a jar of tiny pickled cucumbers, some packets of vinegar flavoured crisps, some sour sweets and of course, lemons. He never asks why I need the sourness, he just shows the items as if I am an alien seeing British food for the first time – and maybe I am.
I grab everything except for the sweets, uncrumple the money and hand it over. He looks at me with soft eyes and says, ‘You can pay me the rest next time you come in, don’t you worry.’
Now it’s just for the trip back.
*
It’s late that night in the Girls’ Room. The lights are out and the hum of sleep is already taking over the space. Cutting through the dark are the angry whispers of Kate and her best friend, Ariel. Kate devoured the food from the shop, and managed to keep it down, so perhaps that’s why she’s got the strength to talk. Even through her sickness, I have seen her grow more and more angry; under her tired weakness, there’s an inner strength that’s seething. I remember this fiery side from when she was really young, then there were the years of her trying to blend in. But she is 16, pregnant and perhaps sees our lives from a different angle – as a mother.
‘What did they think was going to happen?’ she whispers.
‘I know, I know,’ Ariel says (Ariel is Kate’s ‘Maria’, her soulmate).
‘Did they not think about what would happen, that they would get away with what they have done to us? Did they not think about what would happen when we got older and started leaving?’ Kate’s voice cuts through the night.
‘Shuuush!’ Ariel says kindly.
My fists bunch up my sheets, I’m nervous the other girls can hear them. I wish they would be quiet. And just keep safe. I wish they would just keep this stuff to themselves. But I know that it’s true too.
There had to be consequences.
‘Yeah, did they think all of us would just forget? Just make the home “open” and that just erases everything that’s been done before?’ Ariel says.
‘Maybe they thought no one would ever leave,’ Kate says.
‘Well, from what I’ve heard, people ARE leaving. The “End Time” hasn’t happened, so now what?’ Ariel says.
‘I know they are leaving, but how? Where are they going? How are they surviving?’ Kate asks. As she says this, I can hear it in her voice: the need and want to get out of here too. And fear runs through me that before too long, I may lose my sister.
‘I don’t know, maybe they have families that can take them in,’ Ariel says and then she takes a breath before adding, ‘But I do know that there are some of them who are testifying in court.’
‘Who?’ Kate asks.
‘Remember Saphira?’ Ariel says.
I think of all the things that happened to her – how they made her stay in isolation for months, how they beat her, her arm that nearly rotted off when she got burned, the stuff that she told me she went through as a child with her stepdad that made me feel like I was the luckiest alive with my own easy childhood.
‘And she’s not the only one,’ Ariel adds.
My body goes rigid. I worry that the pounding in my chest is loud enough to give me away, to alert them that I am awake and listening.
Teens rebelling and testifying against us.
This is huge. Should I be scared that they will tell our secrets and testify – the very thing we are being trained to stop? Should I be excited that this could all come tumbling down soon? Should I be afraid that my parents could be put in jail? Should I be excited about the possibility that if they do, I could have a life ‘out there’?
It feels like there’s a wave of change coming. On top of this big news I have also heard about small rebellions happening in different homes. That some of the Teens are gaining a newfound boldness. And this scares me. We aren’t far enough away from ‘how things were’ or how we pretend they never were. Rumours fly around; whispers of Teens drinking, kissing and listening to music. I heard about a girl wearing jeans with rips, some style their hair like the Systemites. It’s bold. And it’s stupid. This type of behaviour would have been completely unheard of just six months ago. Music is one of the system’s powerful ways to get the devil’s messages to the masses’ brains and so is completely forbidden. If you play pop songs backwards, you can hear hidden messages that come directly from Satan so while it might sound like light, fun, playful music, it could be telling you to take drugs, kill other kids, or commit suicide.
I lay in bed and worry that things are going to go back to how they were in the ‘Teen Home’. It’s been such a short amount of time that we have had these perceived freedoms. We have to ‘look’ like we are of the world here, but we can’t ‘be of the world’. With everything that’s going on, the court case, living in an open home might give us the idea that there is freedom in our house. But a door slightly ajar does not always mean ‘a way out’. And the ‘freedoms’ we are given are given with a purpose – to give the perception of freedom to journalists and the authorities. These freedoms are not for us, they are for them.
I thrash through a night violent with visions; of being trapped in a glass box where Maria, Kate, Ariel and my siblings are on the other side. Perhaps they can see me, but as I bang on the glass, no one turns. I scream from behind the transparent cage and no one notices. The air in the box is running out, but I can’t smash through it.
I wake up, my throat raw from an empty scream.
Later that day, with the dream still playing loops in my mind, I am filled with nervous energy that I can’t shake. A bad, bad feeling. I open the door to the kitchen to start work, I jump as a hand reaches out from the pantry and pulls me in roughly.
‘Shhhhhhhhh!’
I am face to face with Maria, her eyes wide and a finger on her lips.
I furrow my brow.
I haven’t said anything.
‘Look.’ She pulls out a cassette tape from her pocket.
‘Put that away, Maria!’
I don’t have to ask her what’s on it – it’s not our music,which is clearly labelled and so familiar. I look at the tape in her hands; I feel it could harm her, like it could burn into her skin, poison her through its plastic jacket.
‘You can’t walk around with that on you. You have to hide it somewhere,’ I whisper.
I grab her hand, afraid for her. I want to protect her, but I feel like the walls are closing in on us in this tiny room and there might be nothing I can do to stop the inevitable.
‘I know, I know,’ she says, pulling her hand away, trying to sound relaxed.
‘Where are you going to keep it?’
I want assurances.
‘In the attic. I promise you, I’ll hide it with the cassette player,’ she says.
*
Later that day, I head to the office. I’ve been training in office administration for a little while. I’m getting the hang of it. I used to think of the fax machine as some bizarre, bleeping machine from outer space, now I can almost do it with my eyes closed. I have to send out rebuttals and press releases to lists of numbers my dad gives me. He says the newspapers only print stuff when it is ‘sensationalist’ but we have to ‘play our part’ to get our message out.
I press my finger into the plastic numbers, enjoying how they beep, then wait for the screeching sound, which means the message is going through the wires in the wall, through cables across the sky and ending up in the office of a newspaper somewhere.
Over the squealing of the fax, My dad’s distinctive voice growls through from the next room. He is with another one of the teenage girls, and they are prepping for the UK court case.
‘Have you read through it?’ he asks.
‘Yes,’ she says.
‘Enough to remember it?’ he asks.
The question feels like a threat.
