The Three (34 page)

When Elspeth Martins’ agent first sent me the proposal for
From Crash to Conspiracy
in early 2012, I was immediately intrigued. I had read and admired Elspeth’s first book
Snapped
, and I knew that if anyone could come up with a fresh perspective on the events surrounding Black Thursday and The Three, it was Elspeth. As the book started taking shape, it was clear we had something very special on our hands. We decided to rush it into production, choosing to publish in early October before the landmark 2012 election.

Within a week it went into a second, then a third printing. To date, despite the worldwide recession and a massive drop in book sales overall, more than 15 million print and digital editions have been sold. And no one–least of all Elspeth herself–could have foreseen the furore the book would cause.

So why an anniversary edition? Why republish the book that the Rationalist League has dubbed ‘inflammatory and dangerous’ in these deeply troubled times?

Apart from the most obvious reason–that the book itself has cultural and historical significance as it undoubtedly influenced the 2012 US presidential election–we were granted the rights to some exciting new material that forms the appendix to this edition. Many readers will be aware that on the second anniversary of Black Thursday, Elspeth Martins disappeared. The facts are these: after travelling to Japan, Elspeth left her hotel in Roppongi, Tokyo on the morning of 12 January 2014. We can only speculate what transpired afterwards, as later attempts to trace her last movements have been hampered by the escalating tension in the area.
It does not appear that her credit cards or phone were used after this date, although a self-published book,
Untold Stories from Black Thursday and Beyond
, by ‘E. Martins’, appeared on Amazon in October 2014. Speculation is rife as to whether the author is actually Elspeth herself or an impostor eager to cash in on
FCTC
’s notoriety.

For this anniversary edition, we have permission from Elspeth’s former partner, Samantha Himmelman, to publish her last known correspondence, which is included below.

Elspeth, if you are reading this, please get in touch.

Jared Arthur

Editorial Director

Jameson & White

New York

(January 2015)

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT:
Please read

12 January 2014, 7.14 a.m.

Sam,

I know you asked me not to contact you again, but it seems fitting to send this to you on the second anniversary of Black Thursday, especially as tomorrow I’m going to the Aokigahara Forest. Daniel–my contact in Tokyo–is desperately trying to dissuade me, but I’ve come this far, may as well go all the way. I don’t want to sound melodramatic, but people do have a habit of going into that forest and not coming out again, don’t they? Don’t worry–this isn’t a suicide note. Not sure what it is. Guess I thought I deserved a chance to make things right, and someone needs to know why I’m here.

No doubt you think I’m crazy travelling to Japan right now, specially with the spectre of the tri-Asian alliance on the horizon, but the situation here isn’t as dire as you might have heard. I didn’t pick up any hostility from the customs officials or from the people milling around the airport Arrivals area; if anything, they were indifferent. That said, my hotel in the ‘Westerners’ Sector’, which used to be a mega-star Hyatt–gargantuan marble lobby, designer staircases–has seriously gone to seed. According to a Danish guy I spoke to in the immigration queue, the hotels assigned to Westerners are now being run by Brazilian immigrants on limited visas and minimum wage–i.e., zero initiative to give a crap about standards. Only one of the elevators is working, several of the light bulbs in the corridors are dead (I was seriously spooked walking to my room) and I don’t think anyone’s bothered to vacuum the carpets for months. My room stinks of stale cigarette smoke and there’s black mould on the shower tiles. On the upside, the toilet–a sci-fi style thing with a heated seat–works like a dream (thank you, Japanese engineering).

Anyway–I’m not writing to you to whine about my hotel room–see attached. I can’t make you read it, for all I know you’ll scan the subject line and delete it. I know you won’t believe me, but despite all the cut n pasted stuff and transcripts in it (you know me, old habits die hard), I swear I’m not planning on using the content in another book–or at least I’m not now. I’m done with all that.

xx

11 January. 6 p.m. Roppongi Hills, Tokyo

Sam–I have so much to tell you, I’m not sure where to start. But seeing as there’s no way I’m getting any sleep tonight, I guess I’ll take it from the top, see how far I get before I flag.

Look, I know you think I ‘ran away’ to London last year to escape the flak I was getting after the book was published, and that was part of it, sure. The Haters and Rationalists still send emails accusing me of being solely responsible for putting a Dominionist in the White House, and no doubt you still think I’m getting everything I deserve. Don’t worry–I’m not going to try to defend myself or trot out my tired justification that there was nothing in
From Crash to Conspiracy
(or, as you insisted on calling it,
From Crap to Conservatism
) that wasn’t a matter of public record. Just so you know, I still feel guilty for not showing you the final manuscript; the fact that it was rushed into production as soon as I’d signed off on the final interviews with Kendra Vorhees and Geoffrey and Mel Moran is no excuse.

Incidentally, in August there was a new flurry of one-star reviews on Amazon. You should check them out–I know how much of a kick you get out of them. This one caught my eye, probably because it’s unusually restrained and grammatically correct:

44 of 65 people found the following review helpful

1.0 out of 5 stars Who does Elspeth Martins think she is???

22 August 2013

By zizekstears (London, UK)–See all my reviews

This review is from: From Crash to Conspiracy (Kindle Edition)

I’d heard about the controversy that this so-called ‘non-fiction’ book caused last year but assumed it was exaggerated. Apparently the Religious Right quoted parts of it in their campaign during the run-up to the election as ‘proof’ that The Three were not just normal children suffering from PTSD.

I am not surprised the US Rationalist League came down so hard on the author. Ms Martins has framed and edited each interview or extract in a deliberately manipulative and sensationalist manner (‘eye-bleeding’?????? and that awful mawkish stuff about the old man with dementia). She shows no respect for the families of the children or the passengers who died so tragically on Black Thursday.

IMHO Ms Martins is nothing but a lame Studs Terkel wannabe. She should be ashamed for publishing such trash. I will not be buying any more of her work.

Ouch
.

But the backlash from the book wasn’t the only reason I left. I made the actual decision to get the hell out of the States on the day of the Sannah County Massacre–two days after you’d kicked me out and told me never to contact you again. I first saw those aerial shots of the ranch–the bodies strewn everywhere, black with flies, the gore in the dust–in the anonymity of a Comfort Inn, which seemed as good a place as any to hole up and lick my wounds. I’d been working my way through the bar fridge miniatures and channel surfing when the news broke. I was drunk, couldn’t quite make sense of what I was seeing on CNN at first. I actually threw up when I read the strap line: ‘Mass suicide in Sannah County. Thirty-three dead, including five children.’

I sat frozen for hours, watching as reporters jostled for position outside the compound gate, spouting variations on the theme: ‘Out on bail while he awaited trial for incitement to induce violence, Pastor Len Vorhees and his followers turned their stockpiled weapons on themselves…’ Did you see the interview with Reba, Pamela May Donald’s frenemy? As you know, we’d never met in person, and from her voice, I’d always pictured her as overweight and permed (felt a weird disconnect when I realised she was actually skinny with a grey braid snaking over her shoulder). Reba had been a nightmare to interview–always off on a tangent about the ‘Islamofascists’ and her prepping activities–but I felt sorry for her then. Like most of Pastor Len’s ex Inner Circle, she was of the opinion that Pastor Len and his Pamelists thought that by following in Jim Donald’s footsteps they’d be martyred: ‘I pray for their souls every day.’ You could see in her eyes that she’d be haunted by their deaths for the rest of her life.

This isn’t fun to admit, but empathy for Reba aside, it didn’t take me long to start fretting about the consequences the Sannah County Massacre would have on me personally. I knew that the Pamelists’ mass suicide would result in another wave of requests for comments and begging letters from hacks pleading with me
to put them in touch with Kendra Vorhees. It was never going to be over. I guess what finally tipped me over the edge was Reynard’s address to the nation, his movie-star features carefully arranged for optimum piety: ‘Suicide is a sin, but we must pray for those who have fallen. Let us use this as a sign that we must work together, grieve together, strive together for a moral America.’

There was nothing keeping me in the US any more. Reynard, Lund, the End Timers, and the corporate fuckers who’d backed them could have it. Sam, do you blame me? Our relationship was shattered, our friends were pissed at me (either for publishing
FCTC
in the first place, or for wallowing in self-pity after I was called out for it) and my career had imploded. I thought about the summers I spent staying with Dad in London. Decided that England was as good a place as any.

But Sam, you have to believe me–I’d convinced myself that Reynard’s wet dream of a nation governed by biblical law was just that: a dream. Sure, I knew that Reynard and Lund’s Make America Moral campaign would unite the disparate fundamentalist factions, but I swear I underestimated how quickly the movement would spread (guess that was partly down to the Gansu Province Earthquake–another SIGN of God’s wrath). If I’d known that Reynard’s fear-mongering would infect the purple as well as the red states, and how bad it would get, I wouldn’t have left without you.

Enough excuses.

So.

I exchanged my Lower East Side hotel room for a flat in Notting Hill. The neighbourhood reminded me of Brooklyn Heights: a mix of brisk professionals with shiny hair, rich hipsters, and the occasional bum rooting through the trash. But I’d given no thought to what I’d actually
do
in London. Writing a sequel to
FCTC
was out, of course. I still can’t believe I’m the same woman who was so fired up about writing
Untold Stories from Black Thursday
. Interviews with the crash victims’ families (Captain Seto’s wife, and Kelvin from 277 Together, for
example); profiles on the Malawian refugees still searching for their missing relatives in Khayelitsha; an exposé on the new wave of fake ‘Kenneths’ who popped up after the Mandla Inkatha debacle.

I moped around for the first few weeks, living on a diet of Stoli and take-out Thai. Barely spoke to anyone except the cashier in the off-licence and the To Thai For delivery guy. Did my best to turn into a hikikomori like Ryu. And whenever I did venture out I tried to disguise my accent. The Brits were still incredulous that Reynard could have won the election after the Kenneth Oduah scandal–and the last thing I wanted was to be dragged into political discussions about the ‘failure of democracy’. I guess the Brits thought we’d learned our lesson after Blake’s tenure. I guess we all did.

I tried to avoid the news, but I caught a clip about the anti-Biblical Law protests in Austin on my Mindspark feed. Jesus, that scared me. Scores of arrests. Tear gas. Riot police. I knew from stalking you on Twitter (I’m not proud of this, okay?) that you’d gone to Texas with Sisters Together Against Conservatism to join up with the Rationalist League’s contingent, and I didn’t sleep for two days. In the end I called Kayla–I needed to know you were safe. Did she ever tell you that?

Anyway, I’ll spare you more details about my self-inflicted London isolation and get down to what you would call ‘the juicy bits’.

A few weeks after the Austin riots, I was en route to Sainsbury’s when the headline on a
Daily Mail
placard caught my eye: ‘Murder House Memorial Plans.’ According to the story, a council employee was pushing for Stephen and Shelly Craddock’s house–the place where Paul had stabbed Jess to death–to be turned into another Black Thursday memorial. When I flew to the UK to meet with my British publishers and interview Marilyn Adams, I’d avoided visiting it. Didn’t want that picture in my head. But the day after that story came out, I found myself waiting on a freezing platform for a delayed train bound for Chislehurst. I told myself it was my last chance to see it before it got the National Trust treatment. But it wasn’t just
that. Remember when Mel Moran said she couldn’t stop herself from going upstairs to Paul’s bedroom, even though she knew it was a bad idea? That’s how I felt–as if I
had
to go. (Sounds hokey and Paulo Coehlo-esque, I know–but it’s the truth.)

It lurked in a street full of pristine mini-mansions, its windows boarded up; the walls smeared with blood-red paint and graffiti (‘beware the DEVIL lives here’). The driveway was choked with weeds and a ‘for sale’ sign leaned mournfully next to the garage. Most disturbing of all was the mini-shrine of mildewed soft toys piled outside the front door. I spotted several My Little Ponies–some still in their packaging–littered on the steps.

I was thinking about climbing over the locked garden gate to check out the backyard, when I heard a voice shouting: ‘Oy!’

I turned to see a stout woman with stern grey hair striding up the driveway towards me, dragging a small elderly dog on a lead. ‘You are trespassing, young woman! This is private property.’

I recognised her immediately from the photographs taken at Jess’s funeral. She hadn’t changed a bit. ‘Mrs Ellington-Burn?’

She hesitated, then straightened her shoulders. Despite the military stance, there was something melancholy about her. A general who’d been decommissioned before her time. ‘Who wants to know? Are you another journalist? Can’t you people stay away?’

‘I’m not a journalist. Not any more, at any rate.’

‘You’re American.’

‘I am.’ I walked up to her and the small dog collapsed at my feet. I scratched its ears and it looked up at me through smoky, cataracted eyes. It resembled Snookie (both in appearance and smell), which made me think of Kendra Vorhees (the last time I heard from her–just after the Sannah County Massacre–she said she’d changed her name and was planning to move to Colorado to join a vegan commune).

Mrs Ellington-Burn’s eyes narrowed. ‘Wait… Don’t I know you?’

I cursed the giant photo the marketing people had slapped on the back of
FCTC
. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Yes I do. You wrote that book. That ghoulish book. What do you want here?’

‘I was just curious to see the house.’

‘Prurience, is it? You should be ashamed of yourself.’

I couldn’t stop myself from asking: ‘Do you still see Paul?’

‘What if I do? What’s it to you? Now leave, before I call the police.’

A year ago I would’ve waited until she’d returned to her house and poked around a bit more, but instead, I got out of there.

A week later the phone rang, which was something of an event–the only people who had my new number were my soon-to-be-ex-agent Madeleine and the spammers. I was completely thrown when the guy on the other end of the line introduced himself as Paul Craddock (I later discovered that Madeleine’s new PA had been taken by his British accent and given him my number). He said that Mrs E-B had mentioned I was in London, and told me matter-of-factly that in a rather controversial move, one of his consultant psychiatrists had encouraged him to read
FCTC
, in order to help him ‘come to terms with what he’d done’. And Sam, this man–who let’s not forget had stabbed his niece to death–sounded completely sane: coherent and even witty. He brought me up to speed on Mel and Geoff Moran (who’d moved to Portugal to be closer to their daughter Danielle’s resting place) and Mandi Solomon, his ghost writer, who’d joined a splinter End Times sect in the Cotswolds.

He asked me to apply for a visitation order, so that ‘we could have a little chat face to face’.

I agreed to visit him. Of course I did. I may have been in the midst of a self-pitying, depressive funk, I may have moved to London to get away from the fallout of the goddamned book, but how could I pass up that opportunity? Do I need to explain why I jumped at the chance, Sam? You know me better than that.

That night I listened to his voice recordings again (I’ll admit I got spooked–had to leave the bedroom light on). I replayed Jess saying, ‘Hello, Uncle Paul,’ over and over again, trying to detect something other than playfulness in her tone. I couldn’t.

According to Google Images, Kent House–the high security psychiatric facility where Paul was incarcerated–was a dour, grey-stone monolith. I couldn’t help but think that insane asylums (okay, I know this isn’t the PC term) shouldn’t be allowed to look so stereotypical and Dickensian.

I had to sign a waiver saying that I wouldn’t publish the details about my meeting with Paul, and my police clearance and visitation order came through on the last day of October–Halloween. Coincidentally the same day that Reddit first aired the rumour that Reynard was planning to repeal the First Amendment. I was still avoiding Sky and CNN, but I couldn’t avoid the newspaper billboards. I remember thinking, how could it be unravelling so fast? But even then, I didn’t allow myself to believe that Reynard would manage to secure Congress and the two thirds majority he’d need. I assumed we’d just have to ride out his presidency, deal with the fallout after the next election. Stupid, I know. By then the Catholic church and the Mormons had pledged their support to the Make America Moral campaign–even a moron could have seen where it was heading.

I decided to shell out for a taxi rather than play Russian Roulette with the train service, and I was right on time for my meeting with Paul. Kent House was as forbidding in real life as it looked on Google Images. A recent addition–a brick and glass carbuncle tacked onto the building’s exterior–somehow made the whole place look more intimidating. After being searched and scanned by a couple of incongruously cheerful security staff, I was escorted to the carbuncle by a jovial male nurse with skin as grey as his hair. I’d been picturing meeting Paul in a stark cell, bars on the doors, a couple of grim-faced jailors and several psychiatrists watching our every move. Instead, I was buzzed through a glass door and into a large airy room furnished with chairs so brightly coloured they looked insane. The nurse told me that there would be no other visitors that day–apparently the bus service to the institution had been cancelled that afternoon. That wasn’t unusual. The UK wasn’t immune to the recession caused by Reynard’s meddling in the Middle East. But
I have to say, there was an admirable lack of grumbling when the electricity and fuel rationing was proposed; maybe the end of the world is Prozac for the Brits.

[Sam–I couldn’t record our conversation as I’d had to leave my iPhone at security, so this is all from memory. I know you don’t care about these sorts of details, but I do.]

The door on the opposite side of the room clicked open and a morbidly obese man dressed in a tent-sized T-shirt and carrying a Tesco’s bag waddled in. The nurse called out, ‘All right, Paul? Your visitor’s here.’

I immediately assumed there must have been a mix-up. ‘That’s Paul? Paul Craddock?’

‘Hello, Miss Martins,’ Paul said in the voice I recognised from the recordings. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

I’d checked out the YouTube clips of Paul’s acting roles just before I left, and I searched in vain for any sign of his conventionally handsome features in the sagging jowls and doughy cheeks. Only the eyes were the same. ‘Please, call me Elspeth.’

‘Elspeth, then.’ We shook hands. His palm was clammy and I resisted the urge to wipe mine on my trousers.

The nurse clapped Paul on the shoulder and nodded to a glass-fronted cubicle a few yards from our table. ‘I’ll be over there, Paul.’

‘Cheers, Duncan.’ Paul’s chair squeaked as he sat down. ‘Ah! Before I forget.’ He rummaged in the plastic bag and pulled out a copy of
FCTC
and a red sharpie pen. ‘Will you sign it?’

Sam–it was going from the bizarre to the surreal. ‘Um… sure. What do you want me to put?’

‘To Paul. I couldn’t have done it without you.’ I flinched, and he laughed. ‘Don’t mind me. Put what you like.’

I scribbled, ‘Best Wishes, Elspeth,’ and pushed the book back across the table to him.‘Please excuse my appearance,’ he said. ‘I’m turning into a pudding. There’s not much to do in here except eat. Are you shocked that I’ve let myself go like this?’