See You In September, page 17
Justin said not to worry, it was a long time ago. Then he asked about the children in Cairo’s class, every one of whom he knew and loved. He understood their individual foibles, and who was best friends with whom, and who needed extra care. He wondered whether there were any resources Cairo needed, and she mentioned more early reader books.
‘Talk to Rome,’ he said. ‘He’ll order them.’
Without fanfare, the sun hauled itself over the horizon and into a layer of cloud. Justin cast again and again, the line snaking onto the milky opacity of the water.
‘Do you ever hear voices, Cairo?’ he asked.
She was startled. ‘No! Should I?’
‘I think you will one day. I foresee that for you … hang on, have I caught something?’ He peered, shook his head, and unhurriedly cast again.
Cairo was leaning closer, watching and listening. Six months ago she’d have been looking for some way to escape (Help! Trapped on a tiny boat with a raving nut job!) but she was a different woman today. She knew that human existence was a speck in the universe. She’d communed with the Infinite.
‘I’ve heard voices ever since I was a little boy,’ said Justin. ‘Not mad, hallucination voices. Real voices, of real beings. I’m perfectly sane, I promise you … Aha!’
The rod was bent almost double. This was the part she didn’t like about fishing. She’d never really wanted to catch anything, though her father always put the trout back. That was the rule, in the little lake.
‘Isn’t it stressful for the poor thing?’ she’d asked once, looking at the gasping mouth and pulsating gills.
‘Not if you’re very careful,’ Mike had said. ‘Not as stressful as being banged on the head.’ He’d lowered the fish into the water with both hands and held it there, and they watched it come to life and flick away.
Justin let his line out, wound it in, let it out. ‘He’s a big fella,’ he said. ‘Look … there! See him?’
She did—a silvery flash of tail, churning the water. Little by little Justin brought it closer, finally dropping a magnificent trout into a net. It lay flapping, rainbow scales shining, while Justin lifted a vicious-looking knife out of the tackle box.
‘Glorious creature,’ he said, taking hold of the fish. Cairo winced and looked away, despising herself for being feeble. When she turned back a second later, Justin had cut its head clean off. ‘Seems a bit barbaric,’ he said, ‘but it’s a lot kinder than clubbing it or leaving it to suffocate.’
He dropped both head and body into a bucket. Then he sat down and grabbed the oars.
‘Back to my place for breakfast?’
They pulled the boat up the beach together. Once she was on dry land, Cairo stood entranced. Justin’s island was a miniature paradise, covering perhaps a quarter of an acre. Rocky coves and pumice sand surrounded a bush-clad interior. She heard the melodic sweetness of a tui and caught a flash of his white pom-pom among the crimson flowers of a pohutukawa. She’d thought the Gethsemane settlement was peaceful, but this was another world again.
‘Welcome!’ declared Justin. ‘Here’s my cabin, up in the trees … come along in, we’ll make some more coffee. I have a propane stove. Bit of a luxury.’
It was a simple cabin, smaller than her own and very bare: just a few books, writing paper and a pen lay on the table. The floor was swept, the stove unlit. The porch looked straight across the lake to the mountain.
‘What a magical place,’ said Cairo.
‘Yes. Yes, it is.’ Justin was gutting the fish, then lacing fillets along a couple of sticks.
‘Not lonely?’
‘I need to be alone. But I have Peter for company. And the birds—so many birds! Rome visits me often. Sometimes I have guests to stay.’
‘Guests?’
‘Watchmen, when they need special care. Maybe they’re fighting their demons, maybe depressed. Maybe just overwhelmed by life.’
‘Like Paris. She told me that you were the only one who listened. And Dublin. And Kyoto.’
‘Or it’s just a friend, like you, who’s good enough to while away an hour or two with me. Right, I think we’re ready. Let’s sit outside.’ He led the way out to the beach and nodded to a ring of pumice. ‘If you’d just add a couple of bits of wood to the fire and blow on it?’
Within minutes, the fish was gently cooking. It smelled exquisite. Justin and Cairo settled on smooth wooden stools under the cicada-hissing trees, their feet in the sand, watching wisps of smoke in the wavering air.
‘You said you heard voices,’ ventured Cairo.
‘One in particular,’ said Justin. ‘He’s been visiting me—on and off—since I was five years old. He calls himself Messenger. I was a sad kid. My mother and I were refugees, in a way, and things weren’t good. Messenger promised that one day I’d rule over the people who were hurting me. Wait, Justin, he used to say. Your time will come.’
Cairo began to have a very odd, very intense sensation. A mist was clearing from her mind. Something extraordinary was being unveiled.
‘I grew up with a lot of violence,’ said Justin, ‘and I gave a lot back. By the time I was Rome’s age I hated the world and everyone in it.’
‘I can’t imagine that.’
‘Ask Liam! He knew me back then. People were afraid to look me in the eye. They saw the rage. I was a one-boy crime wave—petty theft at first, then drugs kicked in and I got nastier. The shrinks said I had conduct disorder, the police thought I was a psycho who was going to kill somebody. And one day, I almost did. An innocent stranger.’
Cairo saw only a serene, middle-aged man with sea-green eyes, a man whose love chased away shadows. He looked like a university professor, perhaps, or a distinguished actor.
‘Was it a car accident?’ she asked, thinking of Paris.
‘It was a knife. I drove a knife into a young man’s stomach.’ He saw her shock and nodded. ‘Yes. Yes. I know about sin. I know about hate and anger and shame. I know about forgiveness.’
‘Has everyone in Gethsemane heard this story?’
‘Only those I trust.’
It was his gift to her. She hugged his words. Those I trust.
‘What happened to him?’ she asked.
‘He survived. We were both lucky.’
‘And you?’
‘I descended into hell. I crawled into a hole and tried to die. And it was at that moment—the darkest of my life—that Messenger returned. He brought reinforcements, thousands of them—an army! They came to tell me who I am.’
His gaze held hers, affectionate but a little severe. She sat absolutely still. She couldn’t look away.
‘Cairo,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Cairo. Don’t you know who I am?’
The answer was dazzling. It was in the air, in the lake, in the sky. It was in the drifting smoke, the rattle of cicadas, the music of the birds. It was in every atom of the universe. She was on her knees in the sand. How had she been so blind?
Old Cassy—the one who’d never been to Gethsemane—would be scoffing right now. What a load of old bollocks, she’d be saying. Get yourself out of there, girl. But Cairo’s mind was open, her eyes were open, and she could see clearly. She knew she was in the presence of the light of the world, of Jesus Christ himself.
‘Of course!’ she cried. ‘Of course I know you! I’ve known you all my life.’
Bliss rippled through her body and her mind. Even her unborn child seemed to somersault.
‘The baby’s dancing,’ she said, laughing. Then she burst into tears. ‘He knows exactly who you are!’
For an hour or more she knelt at his feet. She never wanted to be anywhere else. He broke the white flesh of the fish to share with her. While they ate, she asked about his previous mortal life. He described his mother, who always believed in him. He reminisced about his cousin John, brutally murdered. He remembered siblings and friends who resented him.
‘The same patterns this time,’ he said. ‘And the same old guard, vested interests—modern-day scribes and Pharisees. Though I’ve kept a lower profile. The idea this time around isn’t to get myself executed.’
‘Is the Infinite your father?’ she asked. ‘Are you the Son of God?’
The question made him chuckle. He held out a scrap of fish for Peter.
‘We’ve watched humans tying themselves in knots with their clumsy theology. Century after century, war after war; Judaism and Christianity and Islam and Hinduism and all the others, splitting into a thousand different sects. They’ve all got it hopelessly, catastrophically wrong! You’d think Christianity would have done better, since I do actually exist. But no. I mean, the Trinity? Seriously? Where on earth did that come from?’ He held up his hands in exasperation. ‘And the Creationist narrative! Beggars belief. The sheer ignorance and arrogance of it makes me weep. Transubstantiation would be hilarious, except that people have been tortured to death for questioning it, which isn’t funny at all.’
‘Tell me the real story. I want to understand.’
‘You can’t. It’s on a scale that even you, wise Cairo, can’t come close to comprehending. But you can make a start by accepting that the natural universe has dimensions and physical laws that are beyond all possibility of human knowledge.’
‘More things in heaven and earth?’
‘Exactly. The Infinite is far beyond understanding. There are realms beyond realms; heavens beyond heaven, peopled by divine beings. Ironically, science is much closer to understanding God than any religion. But even the most brilliant scientist can’t comprehend infinity.’
The lake licked the shore; the volcano merged into the hot sky. Justin talked, and Cairo floated in the mystery of his words. He was describing the indescribable. She was dazed by the time he emptied his flask of coffee into their cups.
‘Do you remember your baptism, Cairo?’
‘That was the best day of my life.’
‘It was a wonderful moment, wasn’t it? I asked whether you would keep the Vigil and look towards the Last Day. And you said yes. You didn’t know what it all meant, but you said yes. You trusted me.’
‘I did. I do.’
‘I once asked my followers to keep Vigil while I prayed. They fell asleep. You’ve heard the story, I’m sure.’
‘The Passion. In the Garden of Gethsemane. I was brought up by atheists but even I know that story.’
He shuddered. ‘None of the Gospels do justice to the horror of those hours. They got quite a lot of facts wrong … but the core is true. It was the most terrible night of my human life, and my friends couldn’t even stay awake. Well, now I’m back, and this time a lot more is at stake! We can’t afford to fall asleep on the job. That’s why we keep Vigil. A Watchman is always awake, always watching for the Last Day.’ He threw the dregs of his coffee into the fire, and it sizzled. ‘You know it’s coming, Cairo. You were already afraid when you came here. You were afraid for a world that’s going to hell in a handcart. The Devil is doing her work—oh! So merrily.’
She couldn’t read his expression; she didn’t know whether he was serious or not. ‘The Devil?’
‘You don’t believe in her?’
‘I thought it was an allegorical concept,’ said Cairo. ‘Not a sentient being.’
‘You see her work. Buchenwald. Bosnia. The Killing Fields of Cambodia. Rwanda, the Congo … the casual cruelties in homes and schools and offices and factories and farms … on and on, day after day. Our planet is sick. The temperature is rising, the ice is melting, while humans squabble and deny. They’ve got their fingers in their ears, their eyes shut—they’re singing la-la-la, refusing to hear or see. I warned them! Earthquakes, I said. Tsunamis. Famine, war, plague. It’s all there, in the Gospels. The Last Day is coming for mankind.’
‘When will it come?’
‘Soon. In my present lifetime.’
‘But all those innocent people. What about the children?’
‘Let me worry about them. Here at Gethsemane we’ve made an oasis in the chaos. I promise you—I promise you—I won’t leave you or Aden or this beautiful new child of yours. You’ll be with me in the Kingdom of Peace.’
He began to describe a fiery cloud of glory, a legion of angels—more than the stars in the sky—and how he’d regain his divine form. There was too much to take in, especially as Old Cassy still whispered: This stuff is just weird! Get out while you can.
Justin gave her hands a shake. ‘Wondering if I’m a basket case? I wouldn’t blame you. History is littered with people who think they’re Jesus Christ. There are plenty of false messiahs in the world today.’
‘There are?’
He gave a startling shout of laughter. Peter swept his tail across the sand.
‘Enough to make up a football team! They’ve all got loyal followers, and they’re mostly very rich men. Hardly any women. I hate to say I told you so, but … I told you so. One of the last things I did was to predict the false messiahs, and the false prophets.’
His laughter was gone. The shadows were back.
‘Do you love me, Cairo?’
‘You know I do.’
‘I have a job to do. It might take courage. Will you help me see it through?’
‘You only ever have to ask.’
He reached down, laying his hand on Peter’s head.
‘No matter what?’
‘No matter what.’
Twenty-five
Diana
As the months passed, she survived on autopilot. Tara seemed perpetually angry. Mike lost interest in life; he even gave up cycling. He stopped talking about Cassy, and then he stopped talking about anything at all. He and Diana began to turn down invitations. Their social circle shrank.
‘At least Cassy’s not dead,’ friends would say, trying to be reassuring. ‘Gotta look on the bright side!’
Then those same chirpy Pollyannas would pass around photos of their own daughter’s graduation—or wedding—or adorable children.
One foot after another. One day after another. Autumn, winter.
In December, the police rang to say that they’d be taking no further action regarding Cassy’s complaint. Diana waited for some kind of an apology, or at least some explanation as to why they’d let the family dangle for so long before making a decision. But no. She and Mike weren’t innocent, it seemed, just not demonstrably guilty.
They went through the motions of that first Christmas, inviting Joyce for lunch. Pesky was pleased about the tinsel. Everyone did their best, but Cassy’s absence made a mockery of the day. Even Joyce’s optimism was faltering.
‘Seems odd,’ she fretted. ‘She only wrote to me that once. Well, as long as she’s happy.’
On New Year’s Eve, Tara headed off to a party dressed as a slutty Tinkerbell and arrived home too drunk to stand up, with crumpled wings and her head down the loo. I want my big sister back. Where’s my sister? Diana spent the rest of the night sitting by her bed in case she choked. She couldn’t afford to lose another daughter.
In January, Joyce slipped in the shower and broke her hip. After a month in hospital she had to give up her studio and move into the nursing wing. She spent her days in a high-backed armchair in the lounge, between a woman whose strokes had left her unable to speak and a man who cried all the time.
‘I hope I slip away in my sleep,’ she said calmly, while Diana was brushing her hair one wet February evening.
‘Mum!’
‘Don’t “Mum” me. I’m not asking for sympathy. I just pray to die in my sleep while I still have my faculties. Everybody here prays to die in their sleep. It’s our ambition. We’ve seen the alternative.’
You want to abandon me again, thought Diana, and she brushed more vigorously, which made Joyce wince.
‘Ouch! Okay, my hair is perfect. Now, I’ve been thinking about Cassy and I cut this out of the paper.’ Joyce fished into her latest crime novel and produced a press cutting. ‘Here.’
It was an interview with a man called Dr Cameron Allsop who, according to the write-up, was an anthropologist based at the University of Sussex, and director of something called the Destructive Cults Information Trust.
‘Take it home,’ said Joyce. ‘Let me know what you think.’
•
Mike had been held up at work again. He’d been coming home later and later, and often not at all. He had to go overseas, or he had to work all night because of time zones. Any excuse, Diana thought, to avoid the sadness in this house.
Tara was out. Probably drinking. Diana sat on the sofa with her legs tucked under her, and unfolded Joyce’s article.
PEOPLE ARE CHAMELEONS, SAYS CULT EXPERT.
Dr Allsop’s story was intriguing. He and his wife had joined an organisation that claimed to be about life coaching, but which began to demand that they take part in group sex. He was shocked and left, but his wife didn’t. A year later, she was accusing him of the sexual abuse of their five-year-old. Fortunately, her accusations didn’t hold water.
The group destroyed my marriage, and could have put me in prison. I was left wondering what had hit us. What was the nature of this beast who’d stolen my wife’s mind? Years of research followed, during which I wrote my PhD thesis on destructive cults and new religions. People are like chameleons. They change in order to fit in.
The article was wide-ranging. Allsop described the chain of events that led to the deaths of almost a thousand people in Jonestown in 1978; he discussed the tragedies of Waco and Heaven’s Gate, and the ghastly murders carried out at the behests of Charles Manson and Aum Shinrikyo. But it was the passages about his wife that most fascinated Diana. They could have been written about Cassy.
Her mind was hacked, her memories corrupted. The techniques are popular with hypnotists and the wilder evangelists, with dodgy psychiatrists, even with controlling partners. The organisation isolated her in a controlled environment before using the power of suggestion, again and again, to plant these obscene thoughts into her mind.
Diana read the article twice. Then she opened her laptop and searched for Destructive Cults Information Trust.
Bingo. There was Dr Allsop. He looked like a caricature, with a nose and eyebrows that dwarfed the rest of his face. There were links to his publications and videos of lectures he’d given all over the world. If anyone could help, he could.
