Diana
Dr Cameron Allsop’s office at the university wasn’t tidy, and neither was he; but he had a precise way of speaking, teamed with a gentle manner. It was he who’d suggested they pay him a visit. There was no fee, he said, though a donation to the Destructive Cults Information Trust would be very welcome.
‘I don’t have a solution,’ he’d warned them. ‘All I can offer is moral support. But come and see me.’
Every news channel that day was dominated by the apocalyptic events in Japan. For a while the three of them talked about the tsunami and the Fukushima nuclear disaster. It seemed wrong not to, somehow.
‘Right,’ said Allsop, once they were settled around a low table with mugs of coffee. ‘Cassy.’
He sat with clasped hands while they gave him their full story, filling in the details. When Diana mentioned that Cassy’s new husband was the driver of the white van, Allsop tutted. ‘Textbook stuff, I’m afraid.’
‘Really?’
‘They found her at a vulnerable moment. Lucky break for them. Sounds like she’d had a row with the boyfriend and she was far from home. Some of these groups do it with military precision. They’re experienced, and they’re disciplined. They offered community, made her feel wanted, used the man as bait. Classic techniques.’
Mike was gripping the arms of his chair, fingers drumming. ‘But she’s not an airhead.’
‘I’m sure she’s not,’ said Allsop. He peered at Mike for a moment, as though checking he hadn’t caused offence. ‘These destructive cults—or “new religions” is the PC term—tend to target people with something to offer. There’s a perception that it’s all about oddballs and no-hopers with low self-esteem, but that’s way off the mark. Your daughter fits the profile: a youngish adult, educated—and maybe at the idealistic end of the spectrum?’
‘I don’t think she’s idealistic.’
‘Oh, Mike, of course she is,’ said Diana, exasperated. ‘You know she is.’
‘We brought her up to think critically. She’s well educated, she’s smart.’
‘That’s certainly true,’ Diana conceded, ‘but she worries about every stray dog or cat or human being she sees. She worries about melting ice caps, and child soldiers in Uganda, and … remember when she phoned home from school after they’d been learning about climate change? Floods of tears. The world’s ending, Mum. The world’s ending.’
‘Okay, so she’s got a social conscience. It doesn’t make her reprogrammable. You make her sound like a total drip, Diana.’
Allsop had been listening to this exchange, cradling his cup in one hand. ‘As I said in that newspaper interview, people are chameleons. They’ll change their colours to blend into any society, if they’re manipulated effectively. Hostages often align with their captors—it’s well documented, you’ll have heard of Stockholm syndrome. Children learn the slang and join the gang. A perfectly normal teenager from Manchester becomes a suicide bomber. A battered wife covers her bruises and tries to be exactly what the man wants.’
‘But Cassy wouldn’t care about blending in,’ said Mike.
‘She already has.’ Diana tapped his arm. ‘C’mon, we’ve got to be realistic. They’ve somehow uninstalled critical thinking from her brain—ping!—and downloaded this Stepford wife.’ She turned back to Allsop. ‘They’ve even taken her name away. She calls herself “Cairo” now.’
‘As in Egypt?’
‘As in Egypt.’
‘Mm. I imagine you know about Heaven’s Gate? All those pleasant, smiling people died in the certain belief that a spaceship was going to take them to the Next Level, and that their leader was the Second Coming of Jesus Christ. They had the most eccentric names you’ve ever heard. Names are powerful, aren’t they? Every school bully knows that—Smelly, Freak, Four-eyes. A change of name helps to disconnect the recruit from their old identity. It disorientates them. I interviewed a woman brought up among the Children of God. She had eleven different names before she was fifteen. She had no idea who she was any more. When this man Calvin persuades people to accept an outlandish name, he’s putting a collar and lead on them.’
It was a horrible image. For a moment Diana didn’t trust herself to speak. She shook her head and sipped her coffee, waiting for her dismay to subside.
‘You talk about hypnotism in your article,’ said Mike. ‘Do you mean literally—’ he mimed a fairground hypnotist, holding up a pendulum ‘—hypnotism, like in the films? Tick-tock, ticktock, you are going to sleeeeep.’
Allsop nodded enthusiastically. ‘Sometimes, yes! I do mean that. A clever manipulator can implant all sorts of ideas in a person’s head. It can be a crowd phenomenon. Ever seen a video of the Nuremberg Rallies? Or … have you been to one of those fundamentalist awakening churches?’
‘Heck, no. Never.’
‘Look on YouTube. Stirring music—like a rock concert—big stage, clever lighting, charismatic speaker promising the earth, often in a singsong voice, lots of repetition, a crowd sky-high on collective emotion. Before you know it people are falling down and babbling and giving themselves to the Lord. And, incidentally, a lot of cash to the church.’
‘Amazing,’ said Mike. ‘We’ve got one of those places at the end of our street. So, are you saying there’s no line between a religion and a cult?’
‘Big question. I have a tutorial group arriving in ten minutes to discuss exactly that.’ Allsop put down his cup and leaned forwards in his chair. ‘Look, here’s the bottom line: the destructive cult is exactly what it says on the tin. Destructive. If a group encourages people to cut off their families, if it uses mind-control techniques, psychological coercion, if it takes their money, if it controls their daily lives and isolates them … if it uses deception to recruit and fundraise … well, then the alarm bells start to ring. And there’s almost always a self-appointed, charismatic, messianic leader.’
As Mike told Allsop about his disastrous visit to New Zealand, and about Cassy’s allegations, Diana listened with half an ear. She was wondering about the white van. They were singing, Hamish had said. They were friendly.
‘I wonder what they were thinking,’ she said suddenly.
Allsop and Mike both looked at her. ‘Who?’
‘Sorry. I mean those people in the van. What were they actually thinking, when they lured her in? They can’t all be evil bastards.’
‘They’re not,’ said Allsop. ‘I think someone who’s been inculcated is more than just an actor. They truly believe the role they’re playing. I dare say they believed they were saving her by taking her into their loving community.’
‘So she’s one of them now? She’s the bait?’
‘Quite possibly.’
‘Which means we can’t hate them for it.’
‘I don’t think you can. If the leader’s done his job well, he has complete control. In extreme cases—Heaven’s Gate, Jonestown, the Solar Temple—they will die for him. They’ll accept any amount of abuse from him. They seem to forget what normality is.’
‘And what about him?’ asked Mike. ‘Calvin. What makes him tick? He doesn’t believe his own bullshit, does he?’
‘I don’t know about Calvin in particular, but as a general rule I’d suggest most leaders have narcissistic, sociopathic tendencies. Generally it’s about money, power or sex. Or all three. They may pretend to be altruistic—they may even believe themselves to be altruistic—but altruism is probably not their moral imperative. Even if they start out with ideals, it all gets out of hand.’
‘Power corrupts,’ said Diana.
‘When it goes unchecked, yes.’
It sounded as though students were congregating outside Allsop’s door: footsteps and chatter and—from the sounds of it—a tennis ball being thrown repeatedly against a wall. Allsop glanced at his watch. It was a subtle movement, but his visitors took the hint and got to their feet, thanking him for his time.
‘One last thing,’ said Mike. ‘I’ve heard of families having people kidnapped to get them back.’
‘Probably land yourselves in the criminal courts and get you kicked out of New Zealand for good.’ Allsop drew the flat of his hand across his neck. ‘Nope! You really can’t go around kidnapping people.’
‘I thought you’d say that.’ Mike looked gloomy. ‘It’d be a long shot, anyway. This place is pretty inaccessible.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Any other advice?’
‘I’m afraid it’s a waiting game. One day she may phone and say, “Come and get me.” In the meantime, write to her. Some of your letters might get through. Let her know you love her. And don’t rubbish those people!’
‘Too late,’ said Mike gloomily. ‘We’ve already made that mistake.’
‘Hang on a minute.’ Allsop riffled through a cardboard box on his desk before handing them each a leaflet. ‘I dole these out at events. It’s very simplistic. Just a potted guide. Might help when you’re trying to explain it to friends and family.’
The leaflet was a sheet of A4 folded in three, with the Destructive Cults Information Trust logo at the top. The printer had used the sort of font Diana associated with old-fashioned typewriters. It was titled The Cult Leader’s Manual: Eight Steps to Mind Control.