Cult Following_No Faith To Lose

by Simon J. Townley

  “That’s kind,” he said. “I need to get myself sorted.”

  “We can do more than you’d ever imagine,” she purred.

  He kept his imagination rigidly in check as she held his hand and led him from the room.

  Chapter 10

  An Infiltration

  They put him in a minibus along with half a dozen other hopefuls and drove him across the city to a nondescript street somewhere in northeast London. After disembarking in a light rain they were escorted up stone steps towards an imposing Victorian building and stopped outside a stout oak door, painted black. It swung open with a creak and an attractive couple in their early thirties, with pure complexions and wide smiles, ushered them inside. A dingy hallway led to a large, brightly lit room at the back of the house, dominated by a long wooden table set for a meal, with plain cups, cutlery and jugs of water.

  “Sit, sit,” said the woman. She wore a lilac dress, with lilac ribbons in her hair. The group settled onto the benches, and a few minutes later the front door opened once more, and a second party arrived. Now they were twelve and ready for the last supper. The only thing missing was a messiah.

  An awkward silence filled the room. It was broken by a tall, stocky man with stubble and a pony tail, carrying a large serving bowl, which he set down in the centre of the table. “Bean stew, vegan,” he said. “Tuck in.”

  Bread arrived, and more jugs of water, and eating bowls, and soon the atmosphere relaxed. The food was hot, and there was plenty of it. Capgras ate heartily with a genuine hunger, and this was wholesome fare for a man who had endured prison for the best part of five months. It was over spiced, and over-cooked, but he’d forgive them that, because the bread was fresh and the water cool, and they were left to eat in peace, with no preaching on the side.

  When they had finished eating, conversations bubbled up around the table. A woman next to Capgras, in her forties he guessed, nudged him with her elbow. “Have you been before?” she asked in a conspiratorial voice.

  “No, first time. You?”

  “Same here. What do you think?”

  Was she a spy? One of them, here to test him? She might be. “Seems interesting so far. Don’t know what to make of it, to be honest.”

  “It’s exciting,” she said. “This is the one, I can feel it.”

  “You’ve been involved with these kinds of groups before?”

  “A few,” she said. “Keep looking for the right thing. I lived near Glastonbury for a few years, and there was lots going on. Lived with a group for a year or so, into numerology. Said the world was about to end, or change, and everything would be shaken up. But nothing happened. So I moved away. These sound more connected, you know?”

  Any other time, he’d have tried every trick he knew to escape a conversation such as this. But now, he wanted more. Keep her talking. “How can you tell?”

  “Can’t you sense it?” He eyes darted around. “I see their auras, so strong, intense, floating high above them, like they’re shining from inside.”

  Part of him longed to run, run fast and far and get away from this madness. Stick it out, he told himself. Learn how they talk, how they think.

  “The speakers at the hall were the most potent,” she said, “but it’s there with all of them. You can’t feel it? It’s so clear for me, but that’s a gift, and not everyone has it. You can learn to get better, though, I teach classes: aura reading for beginners.”

  I bet you do, he thought, but he feigned interest, putting up with the point scoring and the pulling of rank, and the manipulations designed to shore up the woman’s crumbling self-esteem. If it helped her to cope, to get through the days, what did he care? Let her talk. It was all ammunition.

  She started to tell her life story, how she realised she had special sight and sensitivities at an early age. Mercifully, the big man with the pony tail returned to gather up the bowls and serving dishes. The couple who had greeted them at the door arrived with books and pamphlets. “There’s a lot to learn and you can’t stand still. Not with this organisation. Everyone has to be moving forward, every day. That’s one of the rules,” the woman said. “Progress. Growth. Awakening. There’s no time to lose. We have to get there before things change.”

  Get where? And what would change? There was no explanation, only an enigmatic twitch of the lips, and no chance to ask such questions. The talk went on. “Some of you will stay here tonight, those that don’t have anywhere to go, or who’ve said you want to get more involved right away. You’ve done the right thing, because once you get an opportunity like this, you must grasp it.Don’t sit back and hope it will come round again. Something important, deep inside you, brought you to the hall. Listen to that inner wisdom. Keep going. No back-sliding. Make changes now. The time is right for you. If it wasn’t, then you wouldn’t be here.” She beamed a smile that could have illuminated a seaside resort in the depths of dark winter. “We’ll show you where you’ll stay, soon. But first, we get to know you. We must be sure, you understand. We can’t risk taking in people who aren’t committed. It’s a waste of our resources, and there’s too much to do. So we’ll need to speak with each of you, alone. Don’t worry, it’s all very friendly.”

  It would be a test, Tom thought. They would weed out those that didn’t pass. And then what? Cast them out onto the dark, wet streets of London to find their own way home. He could tell from the attitudes, and the platitudes, that once he had come this far, there would be no second chances. He had to come through this test if he was to locate Gina, and find out what was going on, and if they were involved in the sarin gas episode, and if the dead girl was one of them. And if she was, then how she died, and why. And who was to blame.

  Chapter 11

  An Interogation

  Capgras sat on a wooden chair facing a table, and three empty seats. It felt like waiting for a job interview, or an interrogation. Making him sit it out was a ploy: from the arrangement of the furniture to the lighting and the tinkle of new age tinnitus music in the background, the whole thing was designed to put him on the back foot, get him uncomfortable. They would pretend he wasn’t good enough, or right, or ready. He must ask for a chance to prove himself and right there, they would have won. He would have accepted the subordinate role and become a follower.

  The door opened, and they filed in without looking at him: a tall, angular woman in leather trousers and a black sweater; a man with white hair in a black suit and lilac tie; and the woman in her twenties from the community hall, the one who had given her name as Julie. They settled into their chairs and took out papers and pens, folders and files. Tom waited, biding his time. Their silence was calculated to make him nervous. He folded and unfolded his hands in his lap. Let them think it was working.

  Finally, they had a chat amongst themselves, then turned to him.

  “So, tell us, what do you believe?”

  No messing here. They were getting straight to it with the tricky question. “Nothing much,” he said. “There’s a lot of lies around. And people looking for the truth, and finding things that look like it, but might not be. People accepting easy answers. They want belief on a plate with everything handed to them: here’s what to think, what to feel, what to do and say and how to behave.”

  “You don’t agree with any of that?”

  “It’s an easy way out,” Capgras said. “Life’s more complex, don’t you think?”

  “It’s what you think that we’re interested in,” said suit man.

  “I reckon some people are wiser than others. Though picking them out is hard to do.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” asked angular woman. “Do you hope that we have truth for you?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “What kind of truth?”

  “About myself, I guess,” Tom said. “That’s the only kind that’s going to help, at the end of the day. But do you have it? I don’t know. You tell me.”

  Julie, if that was her name, leaned forward in her chair and fixed him with a
stare. “Why did you go to prison? You were vague earlier.”

  “It was a mix up. Not my fault. I didn’t do anything wrong, didn’t hurt anyone. I have nothing to be ashamed of, I can promise you that.”

  “It’s not an answer, though, is it? So how can we trust you? Why should we believe anything you say?” Julie paused, but the man in the suit didn’t give him a chance to answer.

  “Where did you work, before prison?”

  “All sorts of places,” Tom said.

  “Where? Specifically?”

  “Repair shop, motorbikes.”

  “Did you steal from them? Is that why you went to prison?”

  “No, and I didn’t hurt anyone, either. But I had stuff on me that I shouldn’t have had, and the police found it and that was that.”

  “Drugs?”

  Tom shrugged, as if to say ‘you got me there.’ But he didn’t tell a lie, outright. Skirt around them, if you can.

  “What are you hoping to do, now you’re out?” asked angular.

  “Find something different to do with my life. Something that adds meaning.”

  “You want to make a difference to the world?” the man asked. “Do you think things should be changed?”

  “Yeah, I guess they should,” Tom said.

  “How?”

  “Damned if I know. But something ought to change.”

  “It takes a wise man to know,” the angular woman said. “You don’t think you’re up to it?”

  “I don’t have all the answers, that’s for sure.”

  “But what if we told you that we do? Would you believe us?”

  Tom shrugged once more. “No. Why should I? But I’d give you a chance to prove it.”

  “And why do we owe you proof?” the man asked. “Who are you to demand that of us?”

  “I don’t demand it,” Tom said. “But if you claim to have all the answers, well… I don’t even know all the questions. I’m not sure anyone does. So I won’t take it on faith, no matter how convincing you sound.”

  “Ah.” The man pointed a finger at Tom and smiled. “Do you know why we sound convincing?”

  Capgras shook his head.

  “Because we have tapped into a well of truth,” said the man in the lilac tie. “There are people who guide us, who are operating at a different level. They have insights beyond anything you can imagine. And powers too. No, not magic. But deep abilities, like self-control, and awareness. They taught us, and we can teach you if you trust and believe us. But first we have to believe in you. Are you willing to commit to this? It’s not a game, but the most serious and intense thing you will do in your life. It will change and take over your life, make it better and more fulfilled but you’ll never go back. You’ll be changed forever.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Tom said.

  “But are you serious?” angular woman asked, repeating the man’s question. “Can you endure? Will you join for the journey? It will take forever.”

  “I’d be willing to try.”

  “Are you prepared to fail?” asked the woman who called herself Julie. “Fail, again and again and again, and still get up and keep working, listening and following the path set out for us? Even when it seems like it must be the wrong way? Do you have the strength of character to put aside all you’ve believed before, and embrace a new truth?”

  He didn’t get a chance to answer. They were in full flow, getting him to commit, sign away his self-determination and value system, the works. They wanted him, here and now, to submit to whatever mumbo jumbo they threw at him in the future. It would be drip fed, but they needed the initial surrender.

  He hesitated, bit his lip, rubbed his hands together. Appear troubled, that was the trick. He glanced up at them. “Yeah, I guess I will. You folks seem to know what you’re doing, and what’s wrong in the world. And more importantly, what’s wrong with people. You seem to have answers and I’d like to know them too. So yes, I’ll believe you. If that’s what it takes.”

  The three of them looked at each other, smiling.

  “Good,” said lilac tie. “Then we have a little test for you.”

  Chapter 12

  Locked Doors

  “Our problem is simple,” said lilac tie. “Can we trust you? Should we believe what you say? We have vulnerable people here, it’s our job to protect them. We have possessions, paperwork. Are you a thief? A killer? Did you attack a woman, or a child? We don’t know. So, we have a simple rule for you, while you stay with us. Until we are sure, and trust you. Are you willing to comply?”

  Capgras looked him in the eye, held his gaze, unblinking. “Hard to say. What’s the rule?”

  The man smiled to himself. “You stay here tonight,” the man said. “We have a room for you, small and cramped. There’s a single bed. A pot underneath. Nothing else.” He paused. “And the door will be locked.”

  Capgras winced. A prison cell, in other words. The man was fully aware what he was doing: imposing a torture, designed to match his own deepest fears. He had promised himself, when he walked free, that he wasn’t going back. Not ever. He would not be shut in like that again. He glared at the man.

  “The door stays locked,” said the man, “until morning. There will be a guard outside, to make sure. You agree to this?”

  How hard could it be? It was late already. He needed to sleep. But a cell? Anything but that. And they knew it, they sensed it. “When does the door open?”

  “Not before six,” said angular woman.

  It was almost midnight already. He could do this. He’d have to.

  “We know this may be difficult,” the man said. “And so we offer a way out. If, during the night, you find you cannot endure it then knock on the door three times. The guard will open up and lead you to the main entrance. But there’s no way back.”

  “Fine,” Capgras said. “Whatever. Bring it on.”

  The cell was every bit as Spartan as they had promised: brick walls, concrete floor, bed with a severe lean, a damp mattress. The blankets smelt of stale sweat and the ceramic pissing pot had a crack in it. He stepped over the threshold and they clanged the wooden door shut behind him. A cold-hearted key turned in the lock. Voices mumbled outside, steps walked off down the corridor. The bare bulb in the ceiling switched off, plunging him into darkness.

  It was worse than a jail cell: dirtier, smellier, more cramped. And he had none of his own possessions, only what he carried in his pockets. He used his phone as a torch to check out the room. It didn’t take long. So he lay down on top of the bed, fully clothed, and determined to get to sleep, stay asleep, and wake when the door opened. Easy. A child could endure it.

  But sleep wouldn’t come. Instead, his mind churned, chewing over events of the day and the previous weeks, the months in prison, the time of his arrest, the stress of the court case, and having to tell his parents he was going to jail. Anger flushed through his body, mixed with regret and fears and despairs. He got up, walked up and down the room, back and forth. It was only four steps long, and even then he had to be sure to shorten his stride. He could do it in three if he wished.

  He paused, listening, then got down on his knees and peered under the door. No chink of light. Nothing to tell him if there was a guard out there, or if that had been a lie.

  “I need water,” Capgras said, “something to drink.”

  The guard said nothing. Tom knocked on the door once. Still nothing. He rapped three times. There was no one there, no failsafe, no way out if he chose to take it. He was trapped in here for the night unless he had the strength to kick the door down. Or the skills, learnt in the nick, to pick a lock, any lock, any time, anywhere.

  Luckily, this lock had not been changed since it was first fitted and that might have been a hundred years ago. It was double sided. Not what you would choose if the aim was to keep someone locked in.

  He fished his keys out of his pocket. He had taken to carrying a basic lock-picking multi-tool on his keyring, since learning the techniques from ‘Tumble
r’ Joe Johnson. Tom slid a rake pick soundlessly into the lock and turned it, back and forth, testing the mechanism. It was primitive, easily beaten, but this was the wrong rake. He tried a second, then a third. That did the trick. It clicked open.

  Part of him was disappointed. He’d been expecting a more serious challenge, something to keep him occupied during the long hours of insomnia.

  The door creaked as he eased it ajar. He swore under his breath. He flashed a light from his phone up and down the corridor. No guard. No one came to confront him, or escort him from the premises.

  He tiptoed along the hallway to the left, then back the other way. All was dark, and quiet. He crept down the stairs in his socks and headed into the kitchen where he poured himself a glass of water as a cover story: an excuse for breaking out. He checked the ground floor. The only room of interest was locked, securely this time, with what appeared to be an alarm system rigged to the door. Behind it must be an office.

  Tom slipped into a common room at the front of the house, with a ring of sofas. He lay on the longest of them, stretched out his feet and set his alarm for five-thirty. That should give him plenty of time to get back to his cell without being seen. He lay his head down, knowing there was no locked door between him and his freedom, and sank into a deep and restful sleep.

  Chapter 13

  Happiness Is A Warm Gun

  Charles Marlo clamped his teeth onto the back of the young woman’s neck and growled like a bear. He gripped her naked buttock and pinched it for good measure. She squealed and squirmed, a wriggling kitten in his arms.

  His body crumbled into a post-coital subsidence, his weight crushing the girl, whose name he still couldn’t remember. She murmured softly, he grumbled, and kissed her neck, working down her shoulders as he withdrew from her, kissing her spine all the way down, biting her ass, gripping flesh in his teeth and shaking his head. He slapped her arse, and when she giggled, he did it again. He kissed back up her spine and untied the blindfold around her eyes. He released the knots on the rope that bound her wrists and ankles to the bed, pinned her to the mattress and whispered in her ear.