Born into the Children of God

by Natacha Tormey

  Each week I would deposit some of my wages into the account. We dubbed it my ‘Escape from Thomas’ fund.

  His behaviour was becoming more controlling, aggressive and erratic. He seemed to resent my growing independence, still insisting that I should be at home full time to look after his every need.

  On top of that he’d recently got interested in the occult, and he was starting to become a bit obsessed by it. He had a new group of friends who shared the interest. I found them all very creepy. I had only just escaped a fanatical cult, so even the merest hint of anything similar made me want to run a mile.

  When my secret account hit 900 euros I knew it was time to go.

  Manon and I went to a wine bar after work.

  ‘So, little bird, time to fly free.’ Manon poured me a large glass of white wine. I gulped it nervously.

  ‘Is it? Am I really doing the right thing?’

  She shrugged. ‘You are young. You have a life to live. Yes, you haven’t had it easy, but you are strong. It’s poor old me I am sad for. I’ll miss you, my dear.’

  She was making a joke of it but I knew her words were heartfelt. I was going to miss her more than I could express. This woman had been my first friend in the outside world, a boss, a mentor and a surrogate parent all rolled into one. She’d given and taught me so much.

  Despite our closeness I realised I still knew relatively little about her. She was divorced with a grown-up child still living in Montreal, Canada, which is where she was from. I had never found out why or how she came to be in Cannes. I suspected there was a sad story lurking underneath. I wanted to ask her but it felt intrusive.

  ‘Merde, listen to me complaining. This is no time for sadness. A toast! To your future, Natacha. It’s time for your bright light to shine.’

  We clinked our glasses and drank.

  As we hugged our final goodbyes it was almost unbearable. I already felt lost without my wise and funny friend.

  I came home to find Thomas watching football at full volume as usual.

  ‘Thomas, we need to talk.’

  He didn’t say anything.

  ‘Thomas, can you turn that down, please. I need to speak to you.’

  ‘I heard you the first time,’ he snapped. ‘Can’t you see I’m watching a game?’

  I grabbed the remote and switched the television off.

  ‘What the fuck, Natacha?’

  I took a deep breath.

  ‘Thomas, I’m leaving you.’

  I expected him to explode. Instead, he just looked at me with contempt and laughed.

  ‘You’re leaving me?’

  He was on his feet. I took a step backwards.

  ‘You’re … leaving … me?’ he repeated. It seemed to be sinking in. ‘And going where? To do what?’ He was beginning to boil. ‘No one else would have you, you fucked up little bitch.’

  ‘Don’t you talk to me like that, you asshole.’ Now I was getting angry. ‘I’ve had enough of your bullshit, you control-freak mommy’s boy. I’m not your servant – and from now on I’m not your girlfriend.’

  ‘Fuck you, slut. Go on, get out then.’

  He shoved me hard. I fell backwards into the doors that lead to the balcony. The back of my head connected with the toughened glass. My head spun and my vision was blurred. Thomas was dragging me up, his hands around my throat. He forced me back over the balcony ledge, squeezing my throat. I was terrified he was going to push me over the edge.

  ‘Thomas, stop. I can’t …’ I was struggling so much for breath I couldn’t speak.

  The look of horror on my face snapped him back to sanity. He released his grip.

  ‘Go on. Fuck off. Before I do something I really regret.’

  I ran into the bedroom, throwing the contents of my wardrobe into a suitcase, followed by the contents of two drawers.

  The cool air of the hallway helped clear my head. The football started again as I pulled the apartment door behind me.

  There was a shout of rage and a crash as something solid smashed against the wall inside. That would be our Réunion photo – a memory of happier times.

  I hurried off, dragging everything I owned with me.

  I had done it.

  Chapter 19

  The Urban Jungle

  London might as well have been the Amazon jungle. Only this time I knew for sure it was me who was the strange one.

  The idea of moving around such a big city scared me witless. In Bangkok I’d lived behind high commune walls ringed with barbed wire, unable to see the street outside. Even when I went back there as an adult with Thomas I had hidden behind him for safety. And in Paris my greatest exposure to the city had been limited to a couple of glances from the back seat of a car.

  I had found a room in a shared house with some other ex-cult members. I was grateful to have found a safe place to stay but I had very mixed feelings about taking their help. I felt as if I had lost my independence, everything I had worked for. Thomas and I had our own home; I’d even bought furniture.

  Having been the cook, nanny and general cleaner at my parents’ house for so many years I knew how to make myself useful, but it was made clear I’d need to pay my way.

  The first time I went to the supermarket I got very carried away. After years of not having enough food the array of things on display was more temptation than I could bear. I fell for the fancy prepared food, anything which looked like the taste of luxury. I bought lots of bags of salad because pre-packed food was such a novelty to me, as was anything fresh and healthy. But I realised my mistake when I ended up having to throw most of it away because it went off so quickly.

  Thomas was still hounding me. For the first few days he rang all the time – mostly at night, mostly drunk. Sometimes he begged me to come back. Other times he screamed down the phone that I was a messed-up bitch and no one else would have me. After a month his calls slowed down. After six weeks they stopped altogether.

  Manon, ever the true friend, recommended me for a job in a London branch of the same chain of sunglasses stores we had worked for in France. I was taken on as a sales assistant in West London, earning the princely sum of £13,000 a year.

  I was very grateful to her for fixing me up but I had a feeling this would be a different ballgame to the chilled-out little store in Cannes where it was just the two of us. I missed her wisdom and witticisms desperately.

  I went to Primark to buy what I thought was a suitable outfit. As I stared at the racks of clothes I realised I had no idea what people wore to work. In Cannes it was fairly laid back, but this was a major city and I felt I ought to be smarter. In the end I settled for sensible-looking black trousers, a white fitted shirt and a grey cardigan. The night before I started I pored over the Underground map, plotting my route.

  I also packed a large handbag, putting in a torch, a compass, a first aid kit, matches, a Swiss Army knife and water purification tablets – pretty much everything I thought I might need should the world end on my journey. The paranoia that it might was still very much ingrained in me.

  One of my new housemates had written down instructions on how to use the ticket machines, but when my turn in the queue came I stood there clutching at my piece of paper helplessly. None of it made any sense. The man behind me yelled at me to get in the queue with a human station attendant instead. By the time I’d waited in both queues I was already late for work.

  On the Tube I stared curiously at the other passengers, studying their clothes, their behaviour and the newspapers they read. They were fascinating. My curiosity was not well received. ‘Want my photo or what?’ snapped a grey-haired old lady.

  Changing trains was so stressful I thought I would have a panic attack. I tried to follow the flow and keep up with the millions of signs at each change. At times I followed a crowd, thinking they must be going the same way as me, only to realise they were catching another connection. I only had two stations to go but I was so scared of the crowd that I let everyone else push in front of me. I
missed two trains. I finally got the point and elbowed my way onto the third.

  When I arrived at the shop, panting apologies, my new boss could see how flustered I was and made me a cup of tea. He introduced himself as Daniel, and a pretty blonde Irish girl called Simone. She was wearing a bubble-gum pink mini-dress and heels and long dangly earrings. She looked at my dowdy cardigan and shirt with obvious pity. I felt like a complete idiot for having bought such a dumb outfit.

  The customers terrified me.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss, can you help me?’

  ‘Um … me?’

  ‘Yes, you do work here, don’t you?’

  ‘Err, yeah.’

  ‘Well, my friend bought a pair of these in tortoiseshell here last week.’

  ‘OK …’

  ‘Do you have any more in stock?’

  ‘Um, I’m not sure.’

  ‘Well, do you think you could check?’

  ‘Yeah …’

  I scurried into the stock room, pleased to be out of sight. It was dim and quiet in there. The rows of boxes were ordered and neat. It was calm, it made sense to me – unlike outside, which was busy and confusing.

  I could feel the anxiety building inside me as I searched, running my finger down the labels on the boxes. The knot in my stomach tightened until I had to admit the glasses weren’t there. I doubled back just to make sure I hadn’t missed them. Finally I gave up. The thought of breaking the bad news to the customer made me feel sick.

  ‘Where’s the lady gone?’

  ‘What lady?’ said Daniel.

  ‘Um … I’m really sorry. I went to look for some glasses, but she’s gone.’

  ‘So? It doesn’t matter.’

  Relief washed over me.

  ‘Cool. Hey, we’re having work drinks on Saturday. Like to come?’

  The knot in my stomach was back. Somehow his wavy blond hair and blue eyes made it hard to refuse.

  ‘Yeah, I guess so.’

  ‘Wicked.’

  The drinks were in a wine bar in Putney. Simone had kindly given me her A-Z street map; I was really pleased with myself when I got there without a drama. As I walked in Daniel was at the bar. A pair of outrageously made-up women stood next to him, sipping white wine. I couldn’t take my eyes off them.

  ‘Thinking of expanding your horizons?’ asked Daniel playfully.

  I didn’t know what he was talking about. I was about to nod inanely in agreement when he let me off the hook.

  ‘They’re geezers,’ he said under his breath.

  ‘What?’ Now it made sense.

  ‘Blokes. Don’t worry, they won’t bite. Not unless you ask them to.’

  I felt foolish and shuffled a little uncomfortably.

  ‘Boss always gets the first round in – what are you having? Simone, what about you?’ Daniel called across the room to the table.

  ‘Rum and coke, please.’

  I copied: ‘Same for me too, thanks.’

  At the table Daniel introduced me to his friend Felix.

  ‘So you’re the new girl, then?’ He winked at Daniel. ‘Prettier than Simone.’

  Simone pulled a face and swatted at him with a beer mat. I smiled along with the joke, but found the humour – banter, as they called it – a bit bemusing.

  ‘So, Natacha,’ said Daniel. ‘You grew up in Thailand, right?’

  Felix jumped in. ‘You grew up in Thailand? My mate and I are going there in January. What’s it like? Where are the good spots?’

  I could feel three pairs of expectant eyes on me. I started taking short gulps of air to suppress the rising panic.

  ‘It’s nice.’

  It was an abusive hell. I nearly lost my mind. And I don’t have a bloody clue about Thailand, only the inside of the compounds I lived in.

  ‘Nice? I bet it’s amazing. What did your parents do?’

  ‘My dad was an aid worker.’

  He was a Shepherd in a Christian sex cult.

  ‘Oh, wow. I always wanted to do aid work,’ Simone chimed in.

  ‘Giving tramps hand-jobs in bus shelters doesn’t count, Simone.’

  ‘No, Felix, but it always cheers your dad up.’

  I hoped for a moment an argument was going to break out, sparing me from answering more questions, but they both fell about laughing instead, something that perplexed me even more. Felix had been so rude to her but Simone seemed to find it genuinely funny. In the end they bought my vague answers and the conversation moved on.

  ‘What are we doing with Iraq? Tony Blair is a sick joke,’ said Felix.

  ‘Yeah, but you didn’t bother to vote, did you? Don’t complain if you are too apathetic to care,’ chided Simone.

  ‘Touché. You got me on that one.’

  I tried to keep up. I knew who Tony Blair was but only because I had seen him on the news and worked out he was the British Prime Minister. I didn’t understand what they meant by voting. And I had read something in the newspaper about a war in Iraq. I had worried whether it was another sign of the impending End Time.

  Their conversation had jumped again. They were talking about someone called Nelson Mandela.

  ‘He’s just so awesome. Man, what a dude.’

  I had no idea who he was. The only personalities or celebrities I knew of were the ones David Berg had promoted. The two that had stuck in my mind were Mother Theresa, because she was a Christian and an example of sacrifice, and Colonel Gaddafi, whom Berg had met and described as a ‘great leader’ because he opposed the USA.

  Since leaving home and moving in with Thomas I had tried to educate myself. If I got caught out and heard someone talking about a figure or a place I didn’t know I looked it up so I knew for next time. I was intelligent, I knew I was. But I felt like an uneducated simpleton. And I hated the fact that people might think I was.

  My head was spinning from the drink and trying to keep up.

  Now Daniel and Felix were arguing about football.

  ‘Beckham is an idiot. He shouldn’t have lost his temper.’

  ‘Yeah, but Fergie hates him, doesn’t he? That’s not his fault.’

  Sport and the way people spent so much time debating it was so strange to me. Why did people care so much about it? I think I worked out Beckham might be a player, but I still couldn’t work out who the Fergie person was.

  Simone seemed to get the impression my frown meant I was just bored with the boys’ sport chat, so I was grateful when she changed the subject back to a subject I could actually answer.

  ‘So, Natacha, what was Cannes like, then? Is it super glam?’

  Later that evening we all went back to Daniel’s flat to carry on the party.

  ‘Your future’s so bright, you gotta wear shades,’ he sang, shaking his hips.

  I giggled at the irony as much as his funny little dance.

  ‘Did you know this song’s actually about nuclear war?’

  A peel of laughter just burst out of me. Really loud, inappropriately loud. Almost maniacal. Nuclear war! Of course it was!

  ‘Yah, but it’s not meant to be funny, Natacha.’

  I just stood there rocking with the black humour of it – even here Heaven’s Girl was still stalking me.

  As the night wore on I downed several rum and cokes. I didn’t like the taste but with each one I started to feel fuzzier and more confident, dancing wildly round the living room with Simone. When Daniel handed me a joint I took it.

  When I woke up several hours later I was fully clothed and covered with a duvet. ‘Morning, beautiful.’

  Daniel. He was lying next to me, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts.

  My bladder hurt so much I thought it would explode. I wanted to cry.

  ‘What a night. Blimey, you can’t half pack it away.’

  I felt the nausea rise in my throat.

  ‘Felix seemed taken with you. I told him “hands off, she’s my employee”.’

  My leg started to spasm.

  ‘How pissed was Simone? I had to beg the taxi dr
iver to take her. He was worried she’d throw up in his cab. Daft cow. She always drinks her own bodyweight in Bacardi.’

  My chest tightened. I couldn’t breathe.

  ‘Are you all right, babe? Don’t stress. We’ve all got hangovers.’

  I couldn’t move.

  ‘Ah, I get it. Nah, don’t be daft. Nothing happened. You’ve still got all your clothes on. You wiped out on the sofa so I put you to bed. I was a good boy. Come on, I’ll even make you a coffee. Bathroom’s just down the hall to the left, by the way.’

  My legs sprang back to life. I rushed to the bathroom just in time to lift the toilet lid and heave into the bowl.

  Bit by bit I started to cope with work and find my way around the city. But inside I was a jumble of angst.

  For a while I went Goth – I could identify with the gloomy style. I dyed my hair black and painted my nails black to match my lipstick. I don’t really know what motivates Goths to dress the way they do – I didn’t really care. For me it was an outward expression of how I felt inside.

  But I didn’t like the strange looks I would get from people, so I moved on to bright orange leopard prints and slicked-back hair, a look that I thought screamed Confidence! I dropped it after someone on a bus called me a chav. I wasn’t sure what a chav was but the tone in the man’s voice had made me pretty sure I didn’t want to be one. And I was definitely sure I didn’t want to look like someone who attracted abuse from strangers. I reinvented myself in an American preppy style. I looked like a walking Gap advert. I thought it made me look like someone who was clean-cut and going somewhere. Next I tried the sexy French girl look. I put blonde streaks through my hair and dressed in little mini-skirts and ballet pumps. I played up my Frenchness. I guess this was my sassy phase, waving my cigarette around and saying Oh la la! I patently sounded ridiculous because I had an American accent. To cover for that I continued with the lie I had told Felix and Daniel about my dad being an aid worker.

  None of it had anything to do with fashion. Each look was about my trying find a personality. It’s hard to build an identity around an outfit – no matter how hard you might want to.

  In a moment of self-loathing I cut all my hair off, which was awful because I felt ugly for weeks afterwards. I had no friends and no one to confide in.