Borderliners (14 page)

Sometimes, like tonight, I get up and write. My host has heard me, but I don’t think she’ll dare come in as I sit and write. I will tell her I am not feeling well and that should send her off again. Contrary to appearances, she is not forthcoming with any help where my illness is concerned.

Today Julia and Iain sat me down again, to talk about membership of their community. The sun was low in the sky and penetrated the netted curtain against the expanse of glass in their large front window. I don’t like to sit right next to people on sofas, so I chose the old wooden rocking chair in the corner, leaving Julia and Iain diagonally opposite me on their plush new sofa. There are so many new items in this house which they say they’ve bought to help them welcome their community members to their home, to provide them with a place they can drop into at any time of the day or night. ‘I am always available for my community,’ said Iain, in that expressionless manner of his.

After a pause in which I shifted about in the rocking chair, fighting with Julia’s hand-sewn tartan cushions, Julia spoke. ‘We thought it might help if Iain laid his hands on you.’

There was a silence in which I stared over at them, at Iain’s small black form, at his pale face with its tiny, light blue eyes and his slightly curled lip which never completely hooks up into a complete smile. I wanted to tell Julia I would have preferred her to do it, but something in her expression made me think twice.

‘Is it safe?’ I don’t know why I said that.

Julia got up in one fluid movement. ‘I’ll make us a nice hot cup of tea whilst you think about it. All of our members allow Iain to lay his hands on them. It’s a very spiritual experience.’

She disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, the hem of her long skirt swishing around the doorway last, leaving a lingering hint of perfume in the room with us. Iain still had his eyes fixed on me as I fidgeted in my seat once more, unsettled by the suggestion.

‘Tell me,’ I said to break the silence. ‘What happens when you lay your hands on people.’

He didn’t reply straight away. In another part of the house I could hear a kettle whistling and the dog barking. Finally, he opened his mouth to speak. ‘I couldn’t say what happens as it differs from person to person. But I will connect with the Spirit. The one who resides inside of us.’

I thought, what harm can it do? As Julia returned with three steaming hot cups on a tray and a plate of chocolate digestives, I leaned forward, suddenly hungry. She stopped me. ‘We’ll have these afterwards,’ she said, suddenly cold.

‘Is that a yes, then?’ asked Iain.

His hands were cold and clammy on my shoulders. I shut my eyes as instructed, trying to ignore his heavy breathing and concentrate, instead, on Julia’s deep, soft voice as she chanted something from her corner of the room. At first I thought it was Latin, but then I realised it was like no language on earth. In a strange way this helped, as the voices were unable to join in with her unknown language. It made conversation impossible and one by one they stopped. In the end I was even able to ignore the pressure of Iain’s hands as they dug into my shoulder blades, the pressure of his palms just a little too hard.

When it was over I sipped my tea and reflected. ‘So you’ll join us?’ Julia asked, her eyes slightly darker than before.

So I said yes. I decided to join their Charismatic Community. I tell myself it’s the only way I can get immersed, which is what I need to do to understand this organisation properly. I tell myself I want to live it and I want to meet with the divine, as I’ve been promised. I tell myself and the voices tell me also. The voices of the people who are lost in time.

My research took me through pages of websites and testimonials from people who had escaped from cults, and what they reported back rang loud warning bells: the prevalence of fear rather than love, the indoctrination and punishments for attempting to believe anything outside of the cult’s own worldviews. It sounded all too familiar. Fear was the main emotion I came across in this village. It was everywhere.

I tabbed through articles by former FBI agents and psychologists. Many talked about the twisted loyalty demanded of cult members by their leaders. Once hooked by their charm, people would overlook all manner of alarming facts about the organisations they’d joined. Sometimes followers would succumb to a range of psychological ill effects, including mental breakdown. The most susceptible were those who were already vulnerable, people whose grip on reality was tenuous. I was reminded of the views of Max Weber, a German sociologist and philosopher I’d read about during my studies. He was best known for a thesis which combined economic sociology and the sociology of religion. Thinking back, I was reminded of Weber’s definition of
charismatic authority.
The term itself caused a bolt of alarm to shoot down my back. I Googled it, bringing up a definition of charismatic authority:
The external or internal rule over man made possible by the faith of the ruled in this supernatural power of the leader.

The words seemed to jump out at me from the screen. I swallowed as my throat went dry and flexed my hands, which felt clammy. I felt light headed and stopped reading for a moment. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? Julia and Iain were hiding in plain sight and nobody dared ask them why so many members of their community had fallen ill. In fact, nobody wanted to confront them about anything at all.

Scanning through a few more articles, I read about the traits associated with charismatic leadership. Sitting back, I hugged myself as I considered them: self-confidence and self-assurance combined with the need for power was common, as were strong rhetorical skills and assertive, dynamic, outgoing, and forceful personalities. Followers of such people were often encouraged to think of their leaders as prophets or saints who would provide them with a route to salvation.

In need of a break from my laptop I stood up, my joints stiff, and looked out of the window. I nearly shrieked. Julia was standing in her garden, staring over at my house. Emotionless eyes stared out from her gaunt face which was framed by uncharacteristically lank hair. Ducking down quickly, I reviewed the image, inside out, in my mind’s eye: a black and empty face framed by white hair, reminiscent of the Grim Reaper. Wondering if Julia had seen me by the window, I stayed in a crouching position until my breathing steadied. Then I backed slowly away from the window to a part of the room which was not visible from outside. There, I uncurled myself and stood thinking for another few moments, before padding back to the window to check Julia’s garden. As I suspected, she was gone.

The phone rang and I ran to pick it up, my head still spinning. As a familiar voice came on the line, I felt like I was talking into the receiver from the bottom of a lake.

‘Vince?'

‘Yes, that’s me.’ The usual ironic tone.

There was a silence. Aside from one text message to check I was safely inside a locked house on the night in which he’d followed me home, five days ago, I’d had no communication from him.

‘Are you still there? There’s something we need help with for the ball. Val’s going to do the flowers, but we still need someone to type up the menus and the auction prizes so that we can get everything printed in time.’

‘Oh yes, I forgot, men don’t do typing,’ I said. I couldn’t help myself. Nevertheless, I agreed.

‘Thanks for this,’ said Vince. There was another pause. ‘One more thing…I wanted to talk to you about the other night.’

‘Don’t worry about it Vince, there’s nothing to sort out. No big deal.’

‘No, not that Elena. It’s the ball. When you drop the menus in, there’s more to tell you.’

‘Oh.’ I felt like an idiot.

A couple of hours later, having done my household chores, I found myself at a restless loose end. Peering out of my kitchen window at the next door property, I saw Julia and Iain’s old Peugeot reverse out of the driveway. For a few moments, I paced about, moving from room to room before making a decision. With a flick of my too-straight hair, barely captured by the hall mirror, I swept outside, grabbing my keys as I went. Slamming the door behind me, I scuffed my feet into a pair of ballet flats before padding over to the next front door along.

Tony opened the door, his eyes alert.

‘Elena, I was just thinking about you,’ he said, ushering me in, looking more self-possessed than normal.

‘Hi Tony’ I said. ‘You know I said…that we should meet more often? Well, I thought I’d pop round. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘No, not at all.’

I kicked off my shoes by the door. ‘How are you, anyway?’

‘Very good, thank you. But there’s something I want to show you,’ he said.

I followed him to the kitchen at the back of the house. There was a comfortable silence between us.

‘No dog?’ I asked.

‘Nope. They’ve just gone out - taken him for a walk in the woods.’

I breathed out. The woods were a good half an hour’s drive away, somewhere people went for long walks on the weekend. They could be gone a while. Tea was thrust into my hand a little inexpertly. It was overly milky but this didn’t bother me. I looked directly at Tony over the tea cup, holding his gaze.

‘Mind if I smoke?’

I wrinkled my nose. ‘If you have to.’

As the tobacco rose from Tony’s roll-up, its over-sweet perfume enticed my nostrils with the promise of its other contents. I tried to block it out. He smoked at a leisurely pace, continuing to stare over at me. I finished my tea and set the cup down on the worktop with a small bang. Tony looked more relaxed than usual, but I was keyed up. If he had something to show me, then I wanted to see it. Flexing the hand I’d been holding the cup with, I stood up.

‘You said you had something to show me?’

Tony stubbed out his cigarette and took in a deep breath. ‘Come with me,’ he said and turned to leave the kitchen, without answering my question. I followed him as he creaked up the stairs to a door off the first floor landing. It swung open and I hesitated before following him into the dark room beyond.

‘Is there a light in here?’ I coughed, my throat irritated.

Tony flicked on a desk lamp at the other end of the room, and I noticed how his aquiline nose and hair formed black waves against the sudden, yellow light. I saw that he already had hold of a large, black lever-arch file.

‘Come over here and look at this.'

For a moment, I remained at the far corner of the room, eyebrows arched and mouth open before striding across to where Tony was standing at the other side of the small study, framed by a wall crammed with black lever-arch files labelled ‘Sermons’. I counted about ten of them before I paused to look down at the tiny desk on which a file sat there, splayed open, its contents awaiting me. Newspaper print flew out from its pages and I blinked.
What in God’s name was all this?

I focussed on the print, which read:
‘31 October, 1986. Death in the village.’

Tony flicked the page over to reveal another plastic file pocket and more newspaper words.
‘31 October 1994. Villagers missing after infamous Walpurgis night ceremony.’

‘Ever read
"The Master and Margarita"
?' Tony asked, eyes intent. ‘I read it in the original.’

‘The original?’ I didn’t understand what he was getting at.

‘Yes, it’s Russian, by Mikhail Bulgakov.’ He paused, a frown passing across his forehead. ‘Ah, so you don’t get the reference.’

‘No.’

‘Walpurgis. Sometimes known as
“the other Halloween”
.’

‘Oh,’ I exhaled softly, shivers tracing the length of my spine.

‘In northern Europe they celebrate it in the spring, sort of the other end of the year from Halloween. They light bonfires intended to scare away evil spirits.’ He continued, ‘Well, legend has it that witches stir up trouble before spring reawakens the land. Are you familiar with Goethe's Faust?’

‘Not really,’ I answered.

‘In that story, Mephistopheles brings Faust to Brocken - the highest peak in the German Harz mountain range - to consort with a coven of witches.’ He paused again briefly. ‘Anyway, to cut a long story short there’s a similar scene in the Russian work
"The Master and Margarita"
, in which a ball is hosted by Satan on this night, the last one of the winter, known as Walpurgis night. From what I can gather – and I’ve been doing a bit of digging through Julia’s stuff here – the Charismatic Community hold a ceremony after the main ball event has finished. Its nickname is Walpurgis.’

‘Satan’s ball?’ I said, eyes wide.

‘Sort of,’ he repeated. ‘They begin the winter season by punishing those who won’t walk their path, to cast them out.’

I stared at Tony ‘Cast them out? How?’

Even as I said the words I dreaded the answer. My mind sprang back a step to the last village council meeting and the doctors’ staff meeting.

‘Keep looking through the file,’ Tony said. ‘31 October is the day of the dead, a good day to purge. As the clock chimes midnight and the 1 November brings the day of the saints, the Charismatic Community must be clean. Anyone who has strayed cannot pass through to that day.’

‘Symbolically speaking, I hope,’ I said, my eyebrow arched and my voice sharp.

Unwelcome thoughts sped through my mind: the idea of Tony making this up was very appealing. I went back to browsing the clippings file and turned a few more pages. After a few minutes, I felt I had seen enough, so I shut the file and picked it up, standing to go.

‘Tony, what else do you know about this?’ I was afraid that the walls in this room had ears.

‘Not as much as I would like,’ he said. ‘But I’d like to confide something else. Do you mind?’

‘Of course not,’ I replied, watching him carefully. I was quite near the narrow window which looked out onto the back of the house and I could make out my trees and the edge of my garden next door. The view was better than I’d imagined.

‘I’m studying comparative religion, but in any case, theology and philosophy are my hobby. I came here to look at how Julia and Iain’s community fits into the wider landscape. You know, of belief systems. I suppose I thought I was going to find similarities with the evangelical movement.’