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.
She clicked on his email address and began to type.