Читать книгу Not Without My Sister: The True Story of Three Girls Violated and Betrayed by Those They Trusted - Kristina Jones - Страница 11

We had a little beat-up car that barely puttered along. The back seats had been taken out by the previous owners (which is why we got it cheap) so you had to sit on the floor. I was in the back with my playmate, Nicki, and we were giggling as we experimented with what we imagined sex to be, like we’d seen the adults do it, undies down, on top of each other and humping away. We were both only five years old. Obviously, things didn’t work properly and it was just a game.

‘You’re tickling!’

‘No I’m not–’

‘Yes you are. Ouch. My leg’s stuck.’

I heard muffled laughter, and glancing up, saw Nicki’s mum, Patience, peering in through the car window at us, her face alight with amusement. Like a shot, I sat up and shoved Nicki away.

He saw his mum and went bright red.

‘It’s okay, you guys can carry on,’ she said.

But I felt very embarrassed and silly. What a moment ago had seemed like fun no longer did. One thing I didn’t feel was guilt. Of all the sins we had to avoid, sex wasn’t one of them. Mo said God intended everyone, even newborn babes, to enjoy the full sexual experience.

If anyone turned on the radio and heard one of my dad’s Music with Meaning shows the message would seem idyllic: love was the answer to all of the world’s problems – sharing love, living in love and making love. Mo instructed Dad not to use the word ‘Jesus’ on the show. This strategy was an important one, because many listeners had no idea what they were tuning in to, or that the show had any religious affiliation, let alone a notorious one. But some of the songs on the show were hardly subtle. Jeremy Spencer sang a song entitled ‘Too Young for Love’, based on the Mo Letter ‘Child Brides’, where Mo set out his belief that children as young as eleven and twelve were ready for marriage, sex and children.

Part of Mo’s plan was to produce a second generation of children, like me, who were born into the Family of Love and who had never known the outside Systemite world. They would be untarnished by the sins of a former life. To show what faith he was putting into this earthly paradise he called ‘Loveville’, Berg sent members of his own family to live with us.

There was Faithy of course, his youngest and most loyal daughter, who was such a zealot her blue eyes shone fiercely. Mo also sent his granddaughter, nine-year-old Mene, who became a star of the show. When I first saw her I thought she looked like an angel, with her bright blue eyes, milky white skin and blonde, wispy hair. She had a soft, sweet voice and a dreamy look in her eyes. She behaved like the perfect Family child, always obedient and smiling, reading and quoting the Word.

We rarely spent time together anywhere except in the recording studio or at practice rehearsals. I never played outside with Mene in a normal childish way – I don’t think she was ever allowed to play.

Everyone had something to contribute to the Music with Meaning radio and video shows. It was fun and, like any child, I loved to show off my talents. There were musicians, artists, technicians, seamstresses and secretaries. Some of the more famous characters were Peter Pioneer and Rachel, a married couple and singing duo from Denmark, and Joan and Windy, a singer/songwriter team who were openly bisexual. Zack Lightman, from Norway, was the lighting man and cameraman, and his wife Lydia designed the costumes and backdrops. Sue, a softly spoken American with brown eyes and a charming smile, was the ‘club secretary’. Jeremy Spencer’s wife Fiona was the ‘Queen Mother’ of the camp, and the chef was a fiery Italian named Antonio. They lived as a threesome and Fiona had seven children by these two men.

In the centre of the camp a large canvas army tent was used as a gathering place for meetings and a dining hall in the winter months, when nights were cold. Two big gas fires heated the arena and we used kerosene lamps for light. To feed so many people, there was a whole team of people whose job was to ‘provision’ free food from the markets and local companies.

When the weather was warm, we ate on rows of benches and tables under the trees. Our food was fresh and, on the whole, delicious. Our breakfast consisted of semolina, sweetened with brown sugar, honey or molasses. Antonio tended to cook Italian food, the kind that could be quickly prepared for some two hundred hungry people. Big bowls of pasta with rich tomato sauce, or stews with beef chucks, potatoes and carrots.

Children were regimented and expected to behave. Even the very youngest had to sit still on the hard wooden benches lined up in the big tent and listen during the long meetings we had in the evenings. These sessions were incredibly boring and I would end up retreating into my thoughts and a make-believe world as a way of escape. I also found it incredibly difficult to keep my eyes closed during the long prayers, and I would cover my eyes with my hands and peek through my fingers so no one would catch me.

Once Faithy had established the running of the camp, she turned over the leadership of Loveville to a married couple, Paul Peloquin – a French Canadian from Quebec – and his wife Marianne, and departed on her next mission, to set up a Spanish version of the show, Musica Con Vida, in Puerto Rico.

Paul and Marianne took their task seriously – too seriously. They were a childless couple and had been desperately praying for a son for many years. Paul had jet-black hair and brown eyes and spoke English with a heavy French accent. He was a real charmer, but also had a fierce temper that could flare up unexpectedly. Marianne was French – a well-built woman, big boned, nearly six feet tall with deep-set eyes and a pronounced nose. Part of their responsibility was to draw up the daily schedule and assign everyone their jobs for the following day.

Reveille was at 7.30 a.m., and after breakfast, I’d go to a nearby house which we named the Blue House because it was a pretty shade of faded blue – the same colour as many of the fishermen’s boats. This was our communal school, where we had Word Time and Scholastics, taught by our regular teachers, Johnny Appleseed, Fiona – Jeremy Spencer’s wife – and Patience, Nicki’s mother. We were shown flannelgraphs and read True Komix—illustrated Mo Letters for kids. An endless river of these Letters and books from Mo and Maria would come in the post, usually once every two weeks. Every Home had to open a mail box and the leader in each Home was the only one who knew that address and had the key. It was run like a military espionage service, with secrecy the code word.

On sunny days Word Time would take place under the shady umbrella pines in the campsite. Sunday-school teachers in the outside world would have swooned if they’d opened up a True Komix. Many of them showed scenes of explicit sex, nudity, or gruesome demons and bizarre dreams that Mo believed always had some meaning – they were God’s messages. ‘Mo is God’s prophet for today, His mouthpiece to give us His new Word,’ our teachers would tell us. ‘System Christians don’t have the Spirit; they are “old bottles” who can’t receive the new wine.’

God, Jesus, the angels and the Devil were real and part of our everyday lives. Jesus would reward us when we were good, or the Devil would punish us when were bad. Our indoctrination was constant, and questioning anything opened our minds up to the Devil’s doubts. A picture from one of the True Komix sticks in my mind. There’s a little table with a tea set, and the Devil is depicted as a little elf with horns and a pitchfork. A little girl is sitting in the chair next to him and four little ‘doubtlets’, and the Devil is pouring her a cup of tea. The next scene shows her trapped in quicksand, sinking back into the System, because the Devil and his doubtlets had got to her. ‘It’s dangerous to have a tea party with the Devil and his doubts,’ the comic said.

Some of the True Komix stories we read were based on the Royal Family’s children, Davidito, Davida and Techi. We already knew them from the ‘Davidito Letters’ as examples of how to raise ‘revolutionary’ children in God’s way. Mo’s secretary and second ‘wife’, Maria, had two children, Davidito and Techi. Davidito was born in 1975 from a Flirty Fishing encounter with a hotel waiter in Tenerife. He was only three days older than me, and I was very proud of that fact. Maria’s lover and Mo’s right-hand man, Timothy, was Techi’s father. Mo wrote that Timothy was ‘just hired for his seed’ and that Techi was his. He claimed that he’d received Techi’s unusual name in a vision, when a spirit of a little girl had come to him when he was sick (and just before she was born, in 1979). He decided that Techi was a reincarnation and tried to fit this Buddhist doctrine in alongside Christian doctrines.

Davida was the daughter of Sarah Kelley, Davidito’s full-time nanny. She called herself Sarah Davidito. All three children were part of the Royal Family and lived in seclusion in Mo’s Home. The Royal Family children were to have a lot of influence in my life. They were our idols we looked up to, and we followed their lives in the Mo letters we read with great interest and curiosity.

After siesta, we would be allowed out to play. My regular playmates were two sisters, Renee and Daniella. I liked their mother, Endureth, and took to her as my second mother. I still did not accept Serena as my stepmother and often ignored her. I suppose my childish mind figured that if I blanked her out, she didn’t exist. Serena also had her hands full caring for her six-month-old daughter, Mariana, and was now heavily pregnant by my father. To ease the situation, I ended up staying indefinitely with Endureth and her husband Silas, My sister Kristina would have been the same age as Daniella, and I would always talk about her as if I knew her, only she was in ‘India with my mother and baby David’. Being with my friends in their family atmosphere helped me to pretend that I had lots of sisters. During the day we would play together, and at night we slept in a large double bed in the back of the caravan.

My other friend was Armi. We could not have looked more different. She had dark, straight black hair and brown eyes just like her mother, who was half Native American. She was one of the first children to be born into the Children of God, in February 1972. Her father, Jeremiah Russell, was one of the first disciples to join Mo’s team in Huntington Beach when there were only fifteen members. He was a musician and wrote songs that were played on the Music with Meaning show. Armi inherited her father’s musical talents and was a star performer and I wanted to be just like her, sing like her, and hang around with her and her group of friends. We laughed at the same jokes, told each other our secrets and she would help me and teach me things, like how to draw a body in proportion, instead of just a triangle for a neck and a circle for a hand. And she was also the one who helped me lose my clipped English accent and speak ‘American’ like most of the other children.

Armi and Mene, Mo’s granddaughter, bonded together as sisters of misfortune. Their parents had been asked by Mo to send their daughters to Loveville with the assurance that they would be returned in six months. This never happened. Instead, Paul Peloquin and Marianne became their guardians.

No one dared to go against Mo’s requests, which were obeyed as orders. After all, he was the prophet. We were conditioned to believe that carrying out Mo’s directives was following God’s will. It’s clear looking back on it now that we were simply his playthings, his followers, used to fulfil his ambitions, lusts and fantasies. When Mo requested the women to dance naked for him on video, Paul got us all together, even the three-year-old girls, for a special meeting to read us the Mo Letters ‘Glorify God in the Dance’ and ‘Nudes Can Be Beautiful’.

‘Thank the Lord! Isn’t it a special privilege to be able to dance for the King?’

Excited, the adult women responded with many ‘Praise the Lords’ and ‘Amens’ to Paul’s question.

Paul continued, ‘He’s given us detailed tips in these letters of how to do it. Praise the Lord.’

I watched as the women picked their music and see-through veils and then performed their strip dances. When it was the girls’ turn, Paul said, ‘Now this is for Davidito – so smile for him.’

Armi, Mene, Renee and Daniella did their dances for the little prince – and then it was my turn. Paul chose two songs for me and tied a white veil around my neck that I was supposed to take off during the dance. He gave me directions from behind the camera.

‘Wiggle!’ He pantomimed it. ‘Wiggle nicely and rub your bottom, honey.’

I simply copied the motions I had seen the adult women perform earlier.

‘Good, very good! Now blow kisses to Davidito so he’ll know you really love him.’

I tried hard to smile and at the same time listen to what he was telling me to do behind the camera. This video still exists and the adult I have grown to be looks back in time at that sweetly smiling six-year-old child who was me. I am gazing into the camera, seducing it; and what is stunning is the knowing-innocent look in my eyes. What makes it worse in retrospect is at the time Davidito was only six years old – so this request was Mo’s sick idea that his namesake should be groomed like him, while the dirty old man enjoyed these dances for his own pleasure.

From then on, nude pictures were taken of us girls on a regular basis and sent to Mo. He told us that he would post them around his room for his daily inspiration – a euphemism for masturbation. It is quite obvious to me now that Mo got his jollies off on voyeurism. However, we didn’t realize that he was getting closer to the stage where he would select his favourite girls to be brought to him for his personal gratification. Their parents believed naively that they were in ‘good hands’, even though they were unaware of their children’s whereabouts and unable to communicate with them. But all that was in the future and, happily for me, I didn’t yet know where some of my friends were destined to go.

Sex was completely open and transparent in our world. The adults had no inhibitions about making love in front of us and actively encouraged us to masturbate and explore our bodies. As a result, our childish curiosity was exploited, although we were always told to never, never do it in front of strangers, or discuss it where they would hear. ‘The System hates sex,’ we were cautioned. ‘They think it’s dirty and sinful.’ When the weather was very hot, everyone walked around in bathing suits or shorts. I didn’t have any problem with running around in only my knickers, like all the children. By the age of five or six I was highly sexualized and extrovert.

My father never did anything to me in a sexual way, nor did I see him do anything improper at this time with my peers, but I assumed he knew what was going on. His best mate was a drummer, Solomon Touchstone, who would often go into town with us on Sundays for lunch at a little taverna overlooking the harbour. Like Dad, Solomon came from London and they’d speak together in fake cockney accents, joking about. Solomon was short – about five and a half feet – handsome, and all the women liked him. I liked him too, because he was fun, and would pay attention to me.

Sexual grooming was normal to us and happened everywhere. Everyone was always hugging and kissing and being affectionate with one another. To me it was just a game. But my openness and eagerness to gain attention, love and approval was horribly exploited. Playful, friendly Solomon, my dad’s best friend, was just one of the many men who exploited my natural, puppyish affection for him. When we were alone in his bedroom he would ask me to dance for him naked while he masturbated on the bed.

‘You’re so sexy!’ he would moan.

Little wonder that in that video specially shot for Mo I have such a knowing-innocent look. I was innocent – but I was learning what turned men on. The only positive attention we received from the adults was when we did what they wanted, acted flirtatiously or were sexy. Children crave acceptance, and I was no different. We would be rewarded for being ‘yielded’ and showing God’s love. Being stubborn, saying no or being prudish was of the Devil and bad, and would get us in trouble. I learned quickly to act in a flirtatious manner to get attention, and didn’t know how to act otherwise around men.

Another man who pursued us young girls was Peruvian Manuel. He and his German wife, Maria, taught us our dance routines. They were another childless couple. He had dark eyes and an intense, almost piercing gaze that made me feel uncomfortable. He always paid us girls special attention, especially Mene and Armi. Maria enjoyed performing lesbian acts with the women, and they both taught the girls to mimic their actions for the enjoyment of the men who would watch. Because I was younger, I was not included in many of the sexual acts that my friends were roped in for. I always counted myself lucky compared with them. But I did not escape completely.

One afternoon Peruvian Manuel came into Silas and Endureth’s caravan, where Renee, Daniella and I slept together in the back. I knew the caravan well and treated it as my second home. The red curtains were drawn. He told me to lie down, then pulled my panties down and spent some time kissing me – ‘This is how the adult women do it,’ he explained as he knelt over me and proceeded to rub himself on me, complete in all respects without full penetration, until he had an orgasm.

When I felt the sticky white stuff come over me, I was repulsed. I had never seen semen before. It felt disgusting and was messy. He took some tissues and wiped it off me then went into the small toilet closet of the caravan and cleaned himself up. I remained on the bed, dazed and confused. It was the same feeling as when you are in a nightmare: you want to scream or say something and nothing comes out. I had so many thoughts, questions and feelings but was unable express them. Even when adults asked me directly what I was thinking, I always froze, my tongue rooted to the top of my mouth.

When I watched the adults having sex they seemed to enjoy it, so why didn’t I? These men were trying to instil in me the knowledge that a little girl like myself would provoke the same sexual attention and arousal from a man that a woman would. My self-perception was distorted, and I had no concept of my own vulnerability or that I was different from the adult women.

Though in many ways we were expected to act like adults, we were still just little kids. At least once a week, Loveville would gather for a dance night, which would end up as an orgy. As usual, we were left to do our own thing while the adults – all those over the age of twelve – paired off for sex.

One night in particular, Renee, Daniella and I watched as the adults danced naked, groping each other. We decided to pull a prank, and took turns sneaking up behind a busy couple and pinching them on the bum. We thought it was hilarious when they gave a startled jump. By the time they turned around to try and catch whoever did it, we’d be long gone and giggling in the corner.

We weren’t supposed to tell anyone outside the Family about our sexual freedom, as the adults called it. I was told that Systemites would not understand the truth and liberty we had, and I learned to lead a double life.

I remember singing at an orphanage one morning, and then having siesta time in our camper van before going to the TV studio in Athens to perform a Christmas song on a local TV show. We parked on the street, closed the flimsy curtains of the van and had what the adults called Love Up, or Cuddle Time.

My teacher Johnny Appleseed lay down beside me and stroked me while kissing me on the mouth. He opened his clothing and guided my hand to his penis and helped me to masturbate him. In the end, he finished himself off while I lay next to him. I was conscious of the others having sex around us. His eyes were closed, his mouth open while he panted and gasped. When he was finished he said a prayer.

‘Thank you Lord, that we can share with one another your love,’ he prayed, and then he rolled over for a short nap.

The whole time, I was scared – he was my teacher – and also because there were gaps in the curtains. I could hear the footsteps of people passing by, and I thought that at any minute someone could look in and see us.

When it was time for our appointment, as if none of the afternoon sex had happened, the adults made up our hair and gave us a little pep talk. ‘When we get in there, remember to smile and show God’s love. Don’t worry about the cameras, like Grandpa said, just sing from your heart and think of the lost souls who will be watching.’

We piled out of the van and into the studio. The TV presenter thought we were great and we pulled off a well-rehearsed performance. Of course, no one watching us would have had a clue what had gone on just an hour before behind the red curtains in the van.

When visitors came to the camp to stay with us, everyone dressed up a little more conservatively and I soon learned there were subjects we didn’t talk about with ‘outsiders’ – such as sex and our prophet Mo – and Mo Letters and Family publications such as the Davidito Letters would be tucked away from sight.

‘Sweetheart, my parents, your grandpa and grandma, are coming to visit us from England,’ Dad said one morning, after receiving a letter from them.

‘But we call Mo Grandpa,’ I said. ‘Is this another Grandpa?’

‘Yes, his name is Glen, and he’s my Dad.’

‘Oh. I might get confused if I call him Grandpa too,’ I said. After a moment I had figured out how to solve the problem. ‘Maybe I’ll call him Granddad, that way I won’t get confused. Did I meet them before?’ I asked.

‘Yes, they met you when you were a baby when we were in London,’ Dad replied. ‘I’ve been wanting to witness to them. My father hasn’t been saved yet, he’s been stubborn, but maybe he’ll pray this time.’

Dad always talked about saving souls. He sincerely believed that without Jesus in their hearts, they were doomed to hell. Dad didn’t want his parents to suffer such a fate in the afterlife.

When I met them, I noticed the difference in their appearance and manner immediately – how reserved they were, and the way Penny, Dad’s stepmother, dressed was different from Family women. Her hair was cropped short and permed and she wore a long-sleeved blouse and trousers. Penny gave me a kiss on the cheek, but there were no hugs, though they seemed happy to see me.

‘My, you’ve grown since we last saw you when you were just a baby,’ Penny said.

The evening they arrived Antonio prepared a delicious pasta dish and we sat together on one of the tables under the trees. Faithy Berg had come for a visit, and introduced herself to them and spoke glowingly of the radio show. Windy and Peter and Rachel played guitar and sang songs from the show. Dad sat beaming with pride, like he was a little boy again, at being able to show his parents what he had achieved.

The next day we accompanied them on a tour of the town, but what I remember most from their visit was the stories Granddad told of when he was a young man. He told stories about his escapades in Palestine during the war as a British army officer. ‘One time I woke up in the morning to find my bed had been stolen right out from under me,’ he chuckled.

My grandparents’ visit and hearing Dad talk about his real mother made me feel special. I was excited that I had another family, my own flesh and blood that was separate from the Family. After Granddad Glen and Grandma Penny left, I wrote letters and sent them drawings and gifts of little things I had made, telling them that I hoped that I would get to see them again.

Perhaps all these family stories struck a chord with Dad. He wanted to know more about his mother and he received permission from Mo to make a trip to Poland to find his mother’s relatives. He was able to track down a surviving relative in Krakow and came back with stories and pictures of my grandmother, Krystina. She looked so young and beautiful in her wedding photo with brown eyes and fine dark hair. Dad told me proudly that I got my singing voice from her. The sad ending to her story was that she got a degenerative illness like mad cow disease and died within months when she was just twenty-four years old. Dad was a little boy of three and a half and had no memory of her, but he idolized her just like I did my mum.

I knew then that Dad and I had a deep link – and understood why he never forced me to have a relationship with my stepmother Serena. I still talked about wanting to visit my mum in India, but Dad told me it was too expensive and he was needed for the radio show. He suggested instead I make a tape for them. I sang my favourite Music with Meaning songs and jingles while shaking a tambourine. When I forgot the words, Solomon Touchstone was there to coach me. I also quoted Mo Quotes and Bible verses. At the end I told Kristina and David that I loved them and to be ‘good witnesses for Jesus’.

Before saying goodbye I said, ‘If I don’t see you here, then I’ll see you in the Millennium.’

This was Dad’s favourite line when I would talk about missing my family. He always said, ‘You’ll see them again soon, if not here on earth, then in the Millennium.’

The end of the world was going to happen any day and it would not be long before we would all be together forever. Whatever my dad said was true. He knew everything. He was also very important, as I discovered one evening we all gathered together for a big celebration. It was the anniversary of Music with Meaning and I was beaming with pride when I learned that we were going to honour Simon Peter – my dad! – as the founder of the show. Mo had declared it ‘Simon Peter’s Day’. I don’t think my father could believe that this was happening and that he and his work was being recognized by the prophet himself. In a glowing letter Mo had even called him Saint Simon Peter.

Adoringly, I stayed by Dad’s side the entire evening. When the ‘birthday’ cake was brought out, Paul passed an envelope to Dad with a large sum of money. ‘Simon, this is for you, to spend in any way you like, along with a full week’s holiday. It’s your just reward for your hard work in the Lord’s service. As you sow, so shall you reap. Praise the Lord.’

There was a further reward to mark that auspicious event. Everyone got a three-day holiday. Of course they were all delighted with Dad and crowded around congratulating him and thanking him. He glowed in their praise and I glowed in his reflected glory as I stood beside him, hanging on to him and gazing up at him – my dad.

After our three-day family holiday Dad took Serena, who was eight months pregnant, to the island of Patmos for his special week’s holiday while I stayed back with Silas and Endureth and my friends Renee and Daniella. When Dad returned, he showed me the pictures they took on their trip.

‘We rode on a donkey. It was really bumpy, and I was sore after that for a few days.’ He chuckled.

‘What else did you do?’ I asked, wanting to know every detail of what he had done without me.

‘Well, we went into the cave where the Apostle John received the Book of Revelations. Just think, it was the very place where he received in visions the final events before the End of the World!’

A few weeks later, on 2 June 1981, my half-sister, Juliana, was born in a little Greek hospital in Rafina. I couldn’t wait to see her. Solomon Touchstone drove up to the house, with Dad and Serena in the back of the car. The door opened and there was a cute little baby girl in Serena’s arms, with her eyes shut tight.

Excited, I asked, ‘Can I hold her?’

‘Sure,’ Serena replied. ‘Be careful.’

She placed the baby in my arms gently. I thought she was like a little doll as I lifted her up. But as I did, her head hit the car door and the poor thing let out a mad cry.

‘Oops,’ I said, upset. Serena quickly took her from my arms and comforted her. She didn’t tell me off though, which was reassuring.

Dad gave me a hug and we all went into the house. ‘What’s her name?’ I asked.

‘We’re calling her Juliana Faithful,’ Dad said. I was so happy to have a baby sister. I watched as Serena changed the baby’s nappies and nursed her. I even tried to nurse her myself – and got a few purple hickeys as a result. But because of the age gap between us, after the initial excitement of having a new baby sister, I saw her and Mariana rarely, except for Sundays. I preferred to spend time playing with Renee and Daniella. I was never jealous of our new addition to our family. I was Dad’s first, and he assured me that no one would ever take my place.

Sundays were our Free Days and the only time I spent with Dad and our little family. I looked forward to Freeday, but dreaded the traditional afternoon Sunday fellowship. On one of these fellowships, everyone filed in to the big communal tent and sat down on rows of benches lined up in front of a television set.

Paul led everyone in a prayer and then announced excitedly, ‘This is a very special privilege. I have here in my hands a series called the Garden of Eden. Mo has allowed us here in Loveville to view these tapes, but no one must talk about it with anyone else or discuss what he looks like.’

There was complete shock and silence, and then an excited buzz of conversation while the first tape was turned on. Except for a few trusted leaders, no one knew what David Berg looked like. His last name was never mentioned in internal publications and pictures of Moses David showed his face covered by an artist’s drawing of a lion’s head. This was done to protect his identity and whereabouts, as he was already a fugitive from the law. The media regularly printed articles about him – all of them negative – that raised public awareness and alerted government authorities around the world. All these cumulative reasons had led to David Berg – Grandpa Mo – living a shadowy life, guarded by his inner circle, who slipped from country to country with forged passports.

I was curious to find out what Grandpa really looked like and stared hard at the screen as his image came up. He had deep-set eyes, a balding head and a long, pale blond beard. He was dressed in a dark-brown robe, and around his neck he wore a great big yoke – the kind of wooden thing worn by oxen – hanging from a chain. He fit the perfect image of what I imagined a prophet would look like.

It was as if Jesus had appeared on earth. Everyone drew a breath, as they oohed and aahed.

‘It’s such a privilege–’

‘What an honour–’

‘Praise the Lord!’

The room went quiet immediately Mo began to speak. When he talked ‘in tongues’, everyone joined in. They raised their hands in the air when he did and followed his every move. I looked from one person to another, wondering what on earth was going on. I didn’t understand what they were saying. I didn’t know how to speak in tongues. When they started weeping and crying, I wondered what I was missing out on. Sometimes, during united singing the atmosphere became emotionally charged and I felt a slight shiver, like goosebumps – had Jesus touched me? People said that was what it felt like. Everyone seemed as if they had been touched by Jesus watching those videos, and I wished that something would happen to me too – but it never did.

For the next few weeks, we spent many hours watching those videos. Mo preached on the Endtime, interpreting passages from the Book of Daniel and Revelations and explaining to us that a one-world dictator called the Antichrist would soon arise and usher in the last seven years on earth. According to his calculations, Christ would return to earth in 1993.

Everyone praised the Lord. No one seemed worried or terrified that the End of the World was about to occur. Mo said that meant the Antichrist would have to appear in mid-1986 – only five years away. I was almost seven years old. To me, five years seemed like a long time.

The Garden of Eden series marked a great exodus from Europe. Mo told us to move to the Southern Hemisphere, to escape the nuclear fallout that would soon engulf the West. Paul Peloquin announced that Loveville would soon be packing up camp and moving wholesale to Sri Lanka. We were not told this at the time, but I found out later that Mo and his team had moved from France, where the Garden of Eden series had been filmed, to South Africa, and then to Sri Lanka. We would simply be following in our prophet’s footsteps.

A few days later, Dad told me that he had been asked to go on a scouting team ahead of the rest of us to find a suitable place to re-establish Loveville.

‘I don’t want you to go, Dad,’ I pleaded. ‘I’ll miss you.’

‘Don’t worry, honey. It will only be a few months.’ He tried to encourage me.

I clung on tight like a baby when he said goodbye and Serena had to prise me away.