Читать книгу Call Me Evil, Let Me Go: A mother’s struggle to save her children from a brutal religious cult - Sarah Jones - Страница 7

There was an amazing change in Mum once she started going regularly to church. She seemed to cope with life much better and Dad felt he could at last go out with peace of mind, knowing there wouldn’t be any more overdoses. Her habits changed too. Mum and Dad regularly went to the pub on a Sunday night, but since Mum found Jesus she usually went to church instead and on the rare occasions she did keep Dad company, she had orangeade rather than white wine.

We all felt better when Mum was calmer and were pleased to see how well she was getting on with Pastor Collins. He told her all about a conference he attended nearby organized by the Divine Congregation, a cooperative fellowship that was spreading the Evangelical message in Britain. He was particularly enthusiastic about Troy Tyson, who he said was a marvellous Canadian missionary who was currently visiting various British churches. He had invited him and another young pastor, Ian Black, whom Tyson had taken under his wing, to speak in the towns and villages of the Pennines. He thought Mum would very much enjoy hearing them preach.

Little did any of us know that this would be an encounter that would change all our lives, and especially mine. Mum went along and was totally absorbed by the service, Black’s powerful sermon and the way he singled out individuals, most often women, to pray for their health. She told us she thought he was a wonderful man and very close to Jesus.

Nor was she alone. Rob Jarvis, one of our close friends and usually very down-to-earth, was equally taken with Black, who was, despite the power of his sermons, a short, stocky and sickly looking man. He described Black, who used to work for the Gas Board as a sales manager but who was now an evangelist, albeit with no formal religious qualifications, as someone with a personality that connected with people’s search for God and believed that women, in particular, would be captivated by his authority and power and not be bothered that he wasn’t particularly good-looking.

Ian Black’s first appearance was such a resounding success that he returned each month to preach, staying overnight with various members. Edmund Collins supported him with a good Christian spirit and didn’t feel threatened when he heard that Black had created an organization called the Society of Christ’s Compassion in the south of England, and was targeting various churches round the country, including his own, to find potential members. And that is why, when Black told him he was organizing a weekend conference down south and had invited several key members of Edmund’s church, including my mum, the unwitting pastor encouraged everyone to go along for what he said promised to be a fulfilling Christian experience.

Mum was obviously keen to go to the conference and told us enthusiastically that Pastor Collins believed it would be a place where people could feel the presence of God. She tried to persuade us all to join her, but Dad was indifferent to the offer and turned her down. Kerry said she would travel up from Southampton University, where she was studying occupational therapy, to join Mum. I was happy to be with Mum too. The conference took place in a spacious market hall and there were about 150 of us.

Mum and I loved our time away. We stayed in the home of Celia and Patrick Jones, who were founder members of the Society of Christ’s Compassion; they were the parents of a girl, Carol, and the aunt and uncle – and guardians – of Peter, whose parents had been killed in a boating accident some years previously. They made us feel so welcome. Nothing was too much trouble for them and they were really good at putting us at our ease. I immediately hit it off with Peter, who was several years older than me, little thinking that before many years had passed we would become husband and wife.

The highlight of the weekend for me wasn’t a religious one, but when Peter, helped by Carol, pushed me in a large old pram at top speed round and round the family’s vast garden. Later that day he and I were left alone in the kitchen and ended up having a food fight with some cakes. It all got very silly and Celia was briefly quite angry at the mess we’d made. We quickly apologized.

Mum was really moved by how friendly and loving everyone was. She really took to Celia too, and spent ages pouring her heart out to her about Roy. But most of all she was mesmerized by Black’s powerful presence. She found him charismatic and his sermons overwhelmingly authoritative. He told us all that we needed to be where God is and that He had chosen her to be in his church. She believed him and it made her feel special to be there.

I liked the sense of community and the fact that everyone seemed very happy. But I was very scared of Black, particularly when he implied that a local woman, who was an important figure in the Church, had contracted lung cancer because she had criticized Black and that God had given her the illness as a punishment. I was also scared of Black’s aloofness and the way he stared at me.

Kerry, who stayed with another couple, was less enthusiastic. She thought Black was distant and cold, and disliked the belittling and intimidating way he talked to her. She also disliked the way the prayer meetings dragged on and on. She wondered whether part of the reason for this was to exhaust the congregation and make them more emotional as a way of putting the fear of God in them and inducing them to become members of the Church. Mum didn’t want to hear her criticisms, and came home feeling stronger and more able to cope with her difficult life.

That summer, Roy decided to leave the squat and return to live at home. Initially, we all tried to make him feel welcome and hoped we would be a united and close family again. Tragically his behaviour was even worse than before. He behaved so peculiarly that we were all scared stiff of him. None of us could relax for a second and the tension in the household quickly became unbearable. My parents feared the long-term damage the strange atmosphere would have on us all, and how it would affect our lives as adults. Dad, who had always looked out for us, began to suffer from the same symptoms of stress and panic that had marked the start of his nervous breakdown.

He felt on the verge of collapse and told Mum that if Roy stayed permanently he feared he would become ill again. Mum was beside herself with worry. On impulse she rang one of her friends from Bethesda Charismatic Church, who immediately invited us to come and stay with her family. We accepted her offer and Mum, Dad and I all trooped over and slept in the spare room. It was a crush but at least we felt more sane. After a week Roy was fed up with being on his own and returned to the squat, so we moved back home. The house was in chaos and it took days to get it clean and tidy again.

Unfortunately Roy kept coming back and on one occasion in the middle of the night he went downstairs and turned all of the gas stoves on. Dad, who was an insomniac, smelled the gas and rushed downstairs before anything serious happened. Mum got me out of the house to some other good people from the Church. She and Dad bravely stayed with Roy, and when he calmed down he told them he wanted to move to a larger squat in a bigger town, ‘away from small-town life’. In desperation she rang Pastor Collins. Edmund didn’t seem to mind how late it was and offered to ask a couple of people from the congregation to drive Roy to wherever he wanted to go. Mum said she would be very grateful, so he rang them immediately. They didn’t hesitate to take him on the two-hour car journey. Dad was amazed at their generosity and it ignited something deep inside him.

Roy settled in his new squat and shortly afterwards Dad told Mum he wanted to come to church with her. It was a real turnaround for him, because although he had always considered himself to be a Christian in the way he went about his life, he had been very sceptical about the Church as an institution. He thought it was full of hypocrites who went there when it was good for business. But the way so many of the Bethesda Church members selflessly helped with Roy was a true eye-opener and he was overwhelmed by their kindness. He decided to find out more about this Church, particularly as it was having such a positive effect on Mum.

Dad attended a few services and it wasn’t long before he told Mum he could feel that there was someone else in charge and that all situations could be overcome through Him, and that he too wanted to become a Christian. Mum was thrilled and the next time Black came to preach Dad went along to listen. He expected to be very impressed, but was not and instead found him overbearing and insincere. He didn’t want to upset Mum as she was going through so much with Roy, so he kept his thoughts to himself.

Mum was meanwhile keeping a much bigger secret from him. At a recent community charity event Black had whispered a few words into Edmund Collins’s ear implying that Dad had sexually interfered with me. Pastor Collins quietly passed this information on to Mum, adding that he was sure it wasn’t true. Mum knew it was a total lie and although she didn’t mention anything to me, she was absolutely right. My wonderful father had never been anything other than appropriately loving towards me.

It was instead an example of Black’s trouble-making and his sly way of setting one member of a family against another. Mum kept this dark secret from Dad for twenty years, partly because she knew it was nonsense and partly because she didn’t want him to stop being a Christian. Luckily Dad’s new-found joy in religion wasn’t dimmed by his low opinion of Black, so much so that once he started going to church regularly he found the answers to his prayers. About a year after Roy left to go to his new squat, we were phoned by the police to say he had created such a scene in the street that he had been arrested and sectioned. It had happened before and each time he was taken into hospital he was merely given a dose of some sort of tranquillizer and discharged again.

This time he was again taken to hospital, and Mum and Dad rushed there to see him. When they arrived his first words to them were, ‘I am so sorry.’ He had never shown any awareness of his effect on the family before and sounded like a totally different Roy. He continued to be so apologetic for all the trouble he had caused that both Mum and Dad burst into tears. Once they calmed down they went to speak to his consultant, who told them that Roy was suffering from bipolar illness. He had been ill for ten years with all the classic symptoms and it was only now that anyone had offered a proper medical diagnosis. They both believed that it was something God had facilitated.

Roy remained in hospital for about a month and was found supported accommodation, where he has lived ever since. He takes mood-stabilizing medication to control his condition and manages his simple life. Support staff help him with daily tasks and activities, and check he is OK. He phones me once a day and my parents about six times, which is sometimes quite stressful for them, but he needs reassurance that we are still there for him.

Once Dad became a committed Christian he stopped both drinking and smoking, and family life dramatically changed as a result of their new religious beliefs. We stopped going to the more riotous parties, gave up playing cards and barely watched TV. Instead my parents’ social life revolved around Bible-study groups, going to church and the occasional weekend conference arranged by the Society of Christ’s Compassion.

I was still only in my early teens, but the dramatic changes went down like a lead balloon with me. When Mum went to church before Dad became a Christian she was very discreet about religion and made sure it didn’t dominate the house. But suddenly Bibles were everywhere and my parents now played only religious music or recordings of sermons. It was so different from our previous home life and I found it suffocating.

I also felt resentful that they made new rules for me that hadn’t applied to my sister Kerry. She had had lots of freedom and fun, but just as I was old enough to join in, everything disappeared. Mum and Dad were trying to get me to go to church all the time, which I certainly didn’t want to do. I was so cross that it didn’t take long for my rebellious spirit to emerge. In most other households I would have been seen as a fairly typical teenager, but because of what my parents had gone through with Roy, which for years one doctor after another had attributed to youthful rebellion, my general stroppiness seemed far worse than it was.

I had always loved my parents and was basically a decent child, but having endured a pressure-cooker atmosphere at home for so long, I needed to let off steam. Also the change of regime at home, which suddenly switched from being easy-going to strict, occurred at just the wrong time for a lively adolescent girl.

My first teenage rebellion was to become a hippie and I began wearing paisley kaftans, tie-dyed T-shirts and a long Afghan coat that was impregnated with patchouli oil. I also started smoking, like most of my friends. At that time I was a pupil at the local comprehensive school and smoked behind the shed during school hours with a group of friends and, later on, in some derelict woodland once classes were over.

There were some difficult and disruptive children at the school and I knew Mum and Dad were worried about their influence on me. They were right, but the small voice inside me was always aware of what was right and wrong. It was just that at the time it was outweighed by my longing for fun. I started lying to them. I’d say I was staying overnight with a friend and instead went with a gang of about four or five to the woods and stayed up all night drinking and smoking. At about 6 a.m. the next morning we’d all return home bleary-eyed, smelling of fags and cider.

One day as we lay in a clearing in the woods, we made a pact to steal trinkets from the gift shop in the village. It was a ridiculous and horribly dishonest thing to do, not least because the community was very small and everyone knew everyone else. I wanted to back out, but as none of us dared make the first move, I went along too and we all lifted some jewellery. Not surprisingly, a day later a policeman turned up at my home and demanded I hand back what I had taken. I went to my bedroom where I had hidden it all but cheekily decided to give him only half of my haul. Two days later he returned and asked for the rest. This time I handed everything over. My parents were mortified and I was lucky the shop didn’t press charges. Instead, Dad took me down to the police station and made me stand in front of the local senior officer, who gave me a severe talking-to. I was very submissive, felt thoroughly ashamed and said I would never do it again.

Even at the time I could tell that my bad behaviour was a reaction to both what had happened at home with Roy and mixing with the wrong crowd. I felt awful about letting Dad down, as he was such a loving father and worked so hard for us. Because of all of this I never shoplifted again. Instead I started playing truant, which I am not proud of either. Mum didn’t notice anything when I went out in the morning at the right time in my school uniform but with a pair of jeans or a long skirt stuffed into my satchel. Once I was out of sight I changed direction and met some friends who were also skipping school and we would go off for the day. I even had the cheek to phone the school secretary and, pretending to be my mother, said I had a bad cold and managed to stay away for a week.

Eventually Mum noticed that my school uniform wasn’t getting dirty and that I never had any homework. When she challenged me I admitted I had been skipping school. She was so worried about me that she gave up her part-time secretarial job so she could be at home to keep an eye on me. The problem was, I didn’t have either the incentive or the discipline to work, as I felt I could never perform as well as my high-achieving sister.

Around this time I started having boyfriends and pretty soon I lost my virginity. I even tried sniffing glue. With a group of friends I went to our woodland haunt where I poured some Tippex correction fluid into a plastic bag and breathed in the fumes. Fortunately, I quickly realized it was a very dangerous thing to do and stopped immediately, although I experienced a brief ‘high’ followed by a crashing headache. I never tried it again nor touched any other drug, despite my attempt to look and behave like a hippie.

I further disgraced myself when I was invited to a birthday party in a local hall by one of the sixth-form girls at school. I was much younger than nearly everyone else there and when the other guests started dancing I went round sipping their alcoholic drinks. It was a mad thing to do and I ended up being terribly sick in the ladies’ loo. My timing was terrible because there was a police raid just as I was throwing up. They were obviously looking for drugs and under-age drinkers, and when they found me in the toilets they rang my father. He came to pick me up but refused to say one word to me during the half-hour drive home. He didn’t have to. His look of disapproval was enough. Once we were home he said curtly, ‘I will speak to you in the morning, young lady.’ I went to bed feeling ill and stupid. Next morning Dad gave me a thorough telling-off. I knew my behaviour had been wrong and I felt ashamed that I had embarrassed my parents.

Mum and Dad remained very worried about me, and although it was obvious that I was not mentally ill, after all they had gone through with Roy they couldn’t face another spell of adolescent bad behaviour and the resulting tension at home.

Meanwhile Black’s Society of Christ’s Compassion was going from strength to strength and had grown to approximately 250 members. He wanted to expand further and so opened a new church building in the south of England, together with a school, in a derelict warehouse on the edge of town. The warehouse was bought with a combination of a large inheritance that Black had recently come into by way of a childless Scottish uncle and donations from nearly all of the church members (Black told his congregation that their gift was a way of thanking God for the blessing of faith). The school was called Tadford School, to tally with the new name that Black had chosen for the church – Tadford Charismatic Church.

That July Mum and Dad decided to go to the church’s weekend conference. I didn’t want to go as it sounded much too boring but they refused to let me stay at home on my own, or go to a friend. They didn’t trust me. I made such a fuss that Mum asked Pastor Collins what she should do. He told her firmly to insist I come too and she told me I didn’t have a choice in the matter. I was so furious and upset that I cried throughout the five-hour drive down south to the church. We arrived late on Friday afternoon and pitched our tent in a temporary campsite in an area of wasteland near to the church, which Black used whenever there was a large weekend meeting. It was a grim place and I was still sulky, telling my parents I didn’t want to go to any of the Church meetings. Mum said that was OK.

So the next morning I wondered off on my own and had a sneaky cigarette while they were praying. Later that day Mum said Ian Black insisted I come to the evening meeting in the church. I tried arguing but it was hopeless. I trailed along with them to the redeveloped warehouse dressed completely inappropriately. I had put my hippie period behind me and now sported a skimpy black top and very short miniskirt that just about covered my Union Jack knickers, which I had made myself. Inside the warehouse there was a garish floral carpet and row upon row of orange plastic chairs, which were filling up rapidly. There must have been at least three hundred people present. At one end there was a stage and I felt that perhaps we were all going to watch a performance. I was not far wrong.

It was very hot and stuffy in the warehouse-cum-church and I felt very bored. I made the point, as young teenagers do, of making sure my parents knew I didn’t want to be there. I refused to stand up when everyone else did to pray loudly or sing. Nor did I join in. Instead I looked around and recognized a few faces from my visit to the Black’s previous church with Mum when I was much younger, but I didn’t acknowledge anyone. In total contrast to me, my parents were obviously captivated, as were most of the congregation. I must have stuck out like a sore thumb.

We had to go through the same routine on Sunday evening, by which time I was so hot and uncomfortable that I suddenly decided I couldn’t take any more. Despite the fact that I was sitting in the middle of a long row and being stared at by Black I got up, squeezed my way through to the end and ran out towards our tent in the temporary campsite. Olivia, who was the wife of the senior pastor, Hugh Porter, ran after me and asked in a doom-laden, intimidating way whether I realized that if I didn’t return I would go to Hell. I was so shocked by her words that I started crying and then let her march me straight back into the church again. The entire congregation had seen how I behaved and my parents were obviously very embarrassed.

Black then seized the moment by asking the congregation to pray for me and led the prayers himself. They were all about saving me, not letting me go to Hell and trying to cast out my ‘rebellious spirit’, which according to 1 Samuel 15:23 is called the sin of witchcraft. I had never been involved in any sort of witchcraft and found the whole thing terrifying. My parents were traumatized too. They knew that to have a daughter labelled as rebellious was a very serious stigma within the Church and kept their heads bowed in shame. I sat quietly next to them, hoping desperately that Black would focus on someone or something else, but when he finished the prayers he said there was someone in the congregation who should go to the new Church school and called out my name.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing and felt a mixture of shock, fury and embarrassment. Black then called me to the front and, with three hundred people’s eyes fixed on me, prayed over me yet again. He reeked of Brut aftershave and I really didn’t like him. The prayer meeting finished shortly afterwards and I asked my parents what was going on.

Unbeknown to me, my fate had already been sealed the previous day. Mum and Dad had been taken to one side on Saturday morning by Black and the Canadian evangelist Troy Tyson’s nephew, Charles, another visiting preacher, and told that they should leave me behind so that I could go to Tadford School. I am convinced the whole thing was premeditated. The school was in its first year and only had fourteen pupils aged between 4 and 18.

My parents were warned by Black and Charles Tyson that my bad behaviour was a certain sign that I was on the road to Hell. They were told that I was in mortal danger unless they moved fast and put me in the care of the Church. It was stressed that there was not a moment to lose and that my situation was so desperate that they shouldn’t under any circumstances even take me home with them to collect my things. My only chance of salvation was for me to be left behind immediately.

It was Dad’s first visit to Tadford and he decided to talk to Pastor Collins, who was also at the conference, before making such an important and radical decision. Edmund told him it was the best thing that could possibly happen, that it had come from the Lord and was a wonderful opportunity for me. This was a view he later fully acknowledged that he bitterly regretted. Dad’s qualms vanished. Not only did he admire Pastor Edmund, but he was also impressed by the Tadford Church members, who he said were the most devoted, loving people he had ever met. He and Mum were shown round the school. It was housed at one end of the warehouse, where swing doors led to the newly built classrooms. Dad was told that Black had started the school in response to the declining Christian, moral and educational standards that were apparent in the state schools.

The Church had a firm Statement of Faith and members were required to believe in a long list of tenets, such as the Virgin Birth, the Second Coming, the depravity of human nature and a number of other things that meant very little to me but which mostly sounded terrifying. Despite my total opposition to the idea, Dad liked the fact that all the teachers were Christians and thought it was a good, clean, godly environment. Although there was something about Black that made Dad feel uneasy and he couldn’t warm to him, he decided not to tell Mum and instead tried to put it to one side because he was so impressed by everyone else.

Mum told me that Black suggested I stay at the school for two years and was so persuasive that she and Dad felt that, if they didn’t agree, they would be going against what God wanted. I tried to insist I would not change schools, but it soon became obvious that they had made up their minds. I then pleaded with them to take me home so I could collect my things. I had only brought with me what I needed for the weekend, but they refused. I felt frightened, both of being left behind and of all the talk about going to Hell.

My parents stayed on for a couple of days to sort me out for my new life. My miniskirt and tight jeans were completely unsuitable for a Church school and Black told Mum to take me shopping in town for some new clothes. I ended up with a small selection of ghastly, demure three-quarter-length skirts and dresses, long-sleeved blouses with high necks and thick stockings, all of which were designed to make me look respectable and modest. I was not allowed to have jeans or trousers because Black apparently believed they were not ladylike. I hated everything, and felt I was losing my individuality. Instead of being a distinctive teenager I looked like Mary Poppins.

But I didn’t make a terrible scene. It was all much too serious and I was in shock. Instead, I did what I was told and behaved like a robot. After our shopping trip Mum and I came back to the church to buy the school uniform. This consisted of a grey pleated skirt with a white blouse, a maroon blazer with grey trim to match the skirt, a grey coat and a maroon hat, also with a grey trim. It was all hideous. I felt terribly upset that I was not allowed to go home to say goodbye to my friends or boyfriend, who I was particularly keen on, or collect my books, diary and special things.

My parents left on Wednesday morning and I was in floods of tears as they hugged me and said goodbye. I have since learnt that lots of questionable organizations, selling anything from double glazing and commemorative china to religion, often target people and pressurize them into making quick commitments. They persuade them that, unless they make a fast decision, they will lose the chance to take advantage of whatever is on offer.

But, at Tadford on that bleak Sunday in July when my fate and future were about to be sealed, neither of my parents felt under duress, nor were they the slightest bit suspicious of any ulterior motive on the part of Black. Mum had looked round the school, seen well-mannered children and thought that it would be the ideal thing for me. She had always wanted me to have the best opportunities in life and thought that here was my chance.

For my parents it was a hard decision and a sacrifice to leave me behind, both emotionally and financially. Mum even went back to work full-time to pay for my schooling. She also told Black that she wanted me to come home during half-term and the school holidays, and at most stay for a year, but I didn’t know that. Nor did she realize I would be one of only two boarders.

In the cold light of the long car journey home, neither of them felt quite so confident about what they had done. Mum felt guilty and inadequate at not being able to manage me, and about passing me on to somebody else what she felt was really her problem. Dad just felt terrible. They talked about what had happened all the way back. Neither of them slept that night, while several hundred miles away I cried myself to sleep.