by Nicholas Lim
“It all frightened me, really frightened me. I knew from the diary that Jason was staying at the commune’s temple in Brighton. It’s a block of flats; you can walk straight in. I found him sitting on the floor of a concrete cell meditating. He refused to come with me. They have armed guards.”
Garrett considered her clenched right hand then took a sip of water.
“I had a fight with one of them. They evicted me. Jason met me outside the gates. He was upset, I think at least in part at how the guards had treated me. He told me never to come back. I refused to promise. We came to an agreement. He would call me once every six months. So far he has kept his word. Twice.”
Prenderville contemplated Garrett for some time before speaking.
“What your son described in his diaries–”
“It was wrong of me to read them.”
“It is understandable. You said you were afraid for him–”
“It was wrong.”
Prenderville waited a moment then said, “Such an act is usually regarded as a violation of trust.”
“And going to visit him in that temple was stupid.” Garrett shook her head. “It pushed him away.”
“Possibly. But you have maintained contact. Which is a considerable achievement. More than you perhaps realise. May I ask what prompted you to visit me now?”
“I'm investigating a new outbreak. It is medically unusual. One of the victims is a member of Asari. The coincidence spooked me a little.” Garrett stopped. She stared at her hands. “I wanted to contact Jason. To see if he was all right. But I can't.”
“It must be hard, coming here and talking about him.”
Garrett’s head came up. “Do you know anyone who has left?”
“I have counselled nearly a dozen ex-members of Asari.”
“Might I speak to them?”
“I can try to arrange it.”
“Thank you. If he calls – do you have any advice on the best thing to say?”
“Just listen. Encourage him to speak. Accept what you hear. Of course use your own judgement if there is an implication of harm to anyone else, but otherwise just listen. Maybe try to talk about shared experiences. But not too much.”
Garrett nodded then looked away.
“Can I tell him I love him?”
The psychiatrist’s smile was like the touch of winter sun, cold, white. “Just that is surely never wrong.”
Prenderville cleared his throat then added, “But without ‘buts’ or advice if possible. I would not offer him rooms, or cars, or money. If he asks for a place to stay that is different. If there is any indication he wishes to leave Asari, you can be supportive. If you wish me to, I would be happy to help in such circumstances.”
Garrett’s hands twisted into a nest of nails and knuckles.
“If he doesn’t call–”
“I would strongly advise against repeating your visit.”
“Can we not do something, to get him out?”
“Against his will? Remember he could always go back, unless you intend to imprison him yourself. Coercion doesn’t work on its own, not for parents or for cults.”
“Is there nothing we can do?”
“Not directly. He will always be free to choose.”
Garrett thought about that for a long while. When she spoke again it was as though from far away.
“He was such a pious little boy. I brought him up a very strict Catholic. He took catechism, First Communion, Confirmation. He attended a Jesuit school. He was in the choir and served at Mass every Sunday. It was just the way I was brought up. Perhaps–”
“It’s not your fault.”
Garrett held still. She trembled slightly, like a glass full to the brim.
“Perhaps I could have prepared him better.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“But there must be something, some defence–”
“Only one that I'm aware of.” Garrett looked at Prenderville, her eyes suddenly focussed. He too was sharp, motionless in his chair. Garrett heard in his voice words he had paid for, had earned the right to say. “It is the superstitious, the literal and the faithful who are vulnerable to exploitation. The only defence I know is teaching people to think for themselves. To question. To reason. It’s the only thing I’ve found that works.”
Prenderville limped over to a bookcase. Garrett began to knot her fingers again.
“But Jason is already–”
“Mrs Garrett, how is your son's physical health?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, does he suffer from any chronic conditions? Is he physically fit? Does he rely on medications?”
“No medications, no chronic illness.”
Prenderville picked out a book. “Based on current research, sixty-nine percent of people who enter cults leave eventually of their own accord. The average stay is between three to six years. From these statistics, your son is likely to leave this commune within the next few years. It is then that he may be able to recognise the connections between you. It is then that he will need, and may be able to accept, your help, support and love.”
Prenderville returned to his chair. He pushed the book over the desk top.
“This might be helpful.”
Garrett took the book.
“Be patient,” Prenderville said. “Wait.”
Garrett contemplated the pain of the last two years, the continual, almost physical, sense of loss. Parents always worry, about a child who doesn’t sleep, or is sleeping too silently, is too hot or too cold, about a chesty cough, vaccinations and schools. But these last two years had been like living with a sort of death when no-one had died, an accident always happening, out of sight, an endless waiting, listening for phone calls, doorbells, watching for e-mails, texts, letters that never came. She measured her strength out against the coming years. He might need her. She must wait. Yes, she would wait.
Garrett unplaited her fingers and sat up straight. “When did the last person you know of leave?”
“Oliver Weightman. His cult name was Nilesh. He was a brave man.”
“Was?”
“Oliver died six months ago from a drug overdose, apparently self-administered.” Prenderville opened the drawer of a filing cabinet behind him. “What I am going to tell you is prompted in part by the nature of your attempts to make contact with your son. I believe you have been very lucky.”
Prenderville handed Garrett a piece of paper. On it was a crude crayon drawing, of a primate animal – a monkey? – impaled on a long pole.
“This was found on Oliver’s body.”
“What is it?”
“I believe it’s a warning. The drawing is a well-known reference to an Indian farming practice called ‘Monkey on a stick’.” Garrett looked blank. “When monkeys invade banana plantations, farmers kill one of the animals and put its body on a stick in the middle of the field to warn the rest of the troop off. Oliver’s dead body was found soon after a visit from some friends, members of Asari.”
Garrett stared at Prenderville.
“You think he was murdered?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Do you have any evidence?”
“Only circumstantial. The type of drug used. The time of his friends’ visit. An action inconsistent with the progress he had been making. Previous warnings.”
“Warnings about what?”
“Oliver was once a journalist. Around the time of his death he was writing a series of pieces on Asari. Only one was ever published, in a periodical. I have seen drafts of the other articles. They were all highly critical. Also–”
Prenderville moved awkwardly in his chair.
“Soon after Oliver’s death I was hit by an unmarked van. It didn’t stop. Then I received a letter warning me to stop exit-counselling with members of Asari. The letter also expressed concern about the recovery of my damaged leg. It was a crude threat.”
Prenderville leaned forward in his chair. “How much do you know abou
t Asari?”
“I’ve tried to find out what I can. They are very secretive.”
Prenderville nodded. “Fanatically so.”
“Jason’s diary has told me the most. Asari is a cult.”
“The term cult is not well defined. But yes, the Asari community exhibits behaviours characteristic of modern organizations described as cults: charismatic personality worship, totalist doctrines, milieu control–”
“Milieu control?”
The Persian with the purple eyes leaped onto Prenderville’s lap. It gave a yawn then settled with a leg resting on the desk top, as though making a point.
“The term describes all the ways physical and communications access is restricted. Typically it involves a place – a farm or compound – with a defined perimeter, and rules forbidding ownership of mobile phones, the use of computers... The outside world is a potential alternative authority and must be excluded. For this group, Brighton is where they try new outreach programmes – street campaigns, yoga classes, meditation retreats – but their base in Wales is where they exert complete milieu control.”
Prenderville watched his cat fold an ear over with a paw, three times.
“Not all so-called cults are malign. But I believe Asari is unusual. In Oliver’s articles he made a series of serious claims: that the group was involved in the illegal drugs trade and criminal theft, used violence to support those activities and recruited with extensive use of thought reform techniques. There are a number of ongoing police investigations. My exit interviews confirm Oliver’s concerns, as well as others.”
“Such as?”
Prenderville got up, the cat spilling to the floor with a yelp. He limped over to a window. “Many modern cults hold deeply alienated world views together with a corresponding millennial doctrine or prophesy: that is, a belief in a coming transformation of society, without which current problems are intractable and after which all things will be changed. The centrality of such doctrines is a good index to the possible harmfulness of a cult, to its members or wider society. For Asari, these beliefs now appear to be dominant.”
“I don’t think that was always the case. From what I can gather, Asari began as an ecological group experimenting with communal living and science to create a sustainable lifestyle.”
“What happened?”
“How did the well become poisoned?” Prenderville looked out of the window and sighed. “We can only guess from other cults. Each is different. The Dravidians and MRTC began to self-destruct when their visions collided with reality; the Krishnas were corrupted by sex, drugs and money; the People’s Temple followed their founder into breakdown and final suicide; likewise Heaven’s Gate. Asari? I don’t know.”
“What is clear is that the group is very well-funded – through endowments and drug running – conventionally amoral, scientifically literate and extraordinarily well-organised. Everyone is a member of a House, named like ministerial departments, for Theology, Health and Knowledge, Agriculture, Education, Right Force, Justice, Children.”
“Jason’s diaries mention Education.”
“It’s an extraordinary social construction.” Prenderville looked out of the window and straightened up, as if an old soldier coming on duty. “My present concern derives from interviews with Oliver and other ex-members. The cult appears to be in the advanced planning stages of a major operation.”
“To do what?”
“A recruitment campaign maybe, acquisition of funds or land, something more violent perhaps. I don’t know.”
As Garrett drove away she noticed one of Prenderville's cats on top of a wall. It lay in the sun licking its whiskers and watching her with a large purple eye.
Chapter 3
Two hundred miles off the Javanese coast, the Indoex continental pollution cloud is visible as a brown haze. The WHO officer stood in the prow of the small ferry, feet between rusting tangles of anchor chain, eyes on the muddied horizon. Ahead, the Kepaluan volcanic crater, Gunung Neira, rose up ash-grey.
The ferry tilted on a slow swell. Spillage oil reflected back iridescent on gently-heaving surfaces of water. The volcano was a welcome sight – a promise of landfall – but it cast a looming shadow, reminding the WHO officer of the reason for his journey. From three of the surrounding atolls, thin grey lines rose into the sky, perfectly straight against the blue. An image flashed across his mind, of the flat lines on the EEG of a lost patient.
A sudden breeze was warm. The sun dazzled in bright flecks on the water. The officer thought of the infamous Chikungunya outbreak on Reunion, infecting over a hundred thousand islanders, traced to two young girls. Isolated from continental infections, with narrowed immunity, he knew island communities were accidents waiting to happen. For medical researchers, islands acted as Petri dishes: small real-world laboratories for passive experiments. Only passive: deliberate introduction of infectious agents had never been sanctioned.
Closer now, he could see the black slopes of the volcano. The smaller islands were visible, hovering in the surrounding sea like attendant guards. They made for the nearest of the atolls and a horseshoe jetty jutting fifty yards out into the water. There was no-one in sight.
The officer squinted against the midday sun and thought about what the ferry captain had told him.
The captain made the trip two or three times a month. On his last visit – two weeks ago – some of the islanders had been complaining. The pearl fishing was suffering because of a recent fever that had come to the island. Many were laid up in bed. He had picked up one passenger, a man he had taken out the previous month, who had said he was on a pilgrimage. The captain had suggested starting with a hospital. He had not looked well either.
Up by the tree-line four wooden sheds faced out to sea, the vacant eyes of their open windows staring back unblinking. Behind them the thatched roofs of a village were visible through a palisade of palms.
As they pulled in, boats rocked gently at their moorings. The sun glittered on the water. Shoals of fish flickered in the aquamarine shallows, brightly-coloured against the white sandy bottom. There was still no-one in sight. The captain gave a sudden cry and raised an arm to point at something in the water ten feet from the end of the jetty. He gunned the engine and swung alongside.
It was floating half-submerged, like a piece of driftwood. But not driftwood. A brown back, face down. The officer ran down the side of the boat and peered at the corpse. It bobbed gently in the water. There were no visible marks of injury. With the magnified awareness of shock, close up, he could noticed rainbow shoals of small fish circling, darting in to touch the skin. Gentle nudges, like kisses. Nibbling.
“Doctor!”
The captain stood frozen upright in bright sunshine, pointing at the walkway. Three more bodies lay sprawled at intervals along the uneven run of slatted wooden planks, motionless, in awkward heaps, the closest a few feet from the ferry’s gunwales. Similar shapes were scattered over the ground, small mounds of arms, legs, heads and torsos heaped anyhow like untidy piles of clothing.
“I must examine the bodies.”
The captain looked uncertain.
“I must find out what’s happened. That’s why we’ve come! Please wait for me here.”
The WHO officer hefted his pack, stepped up onto the boat's gunwale, balanced, judged the gap, then jumped.
In the silence he could hear the slap of water against the ferry’s metal hull. His ears strained to hear another sound – a raised shout or cry perhaps, from the direction of the village. Any human noise. But there was nothing, only the lapping of the water and the intermittent cries of the gulls overhead. The captain stood unmoving at the wheel of his boat, wide-eyed, staring at the bodies along the shoreline.
The officer turned and walked up the jetty.
***
The operations centre of the World Health Organization, South East Asia Network, is a cramped, florescent-dim basement just off Mahatma Ghandi Marg in New Delhi. From his raised desk beneath a wheezing air c
onditioning unit, Amitabh Kumar, night-shift duty officer, watched a dozen operators playing computer games, emailing friends, taking the odd support call. It was a quiet evening.
Kumar was proud of the room and his place in it. It was no small responsibility to oversee the hub of a healthcare network serving two continents, fifty million square miles, four oceans, eleven countries and nearly two billion people. It was the boredom he couldn’t stand.
He lit his nineteenth cigarette of the shift. Five large time-zone clocks showed how slowly ten hours could pass when nothing happened. He had spent most of the night trying not to watch the row of synchronised red second hands.
He stared sourly at a new email. It was from his manager, Samir Sharma. Just texted in. “Do NOT go home before seeing me. We need to talk about Kepalua.”
Typical Samir. Do this, need that. Kumar wished he could just delete the email and go home. He wanted a shower badly. He stared at the wall clocks and remembered the original support call from Kepalua, six nights ago.
It had been another quiet shift just like tonight. Singapore had patched a shortwave radio broadcast through from a group of Indian Ocean islands. Kepalua? It was not in a risk zone. The report shouldn’t even have been escalated to them. But he remembered the panic in the nurse's voice. So frightened the report had made little sense. He heard again the silence when the connection had been lost, then Singapore Relay’s attempts to re-establish contact, “Trying… Trying…” The six red second hands of the wall clocks had swept round and round like the clear signal line on an empty radar screen.
On an impulse Kumar crossed to a large wall map. The eleven SEAN WHO member countries were pimpled with coloured pins representing all current outbreak reports. Off the south coast of Java in the middle of empty blue was a single white pin next to the N of Indian Ocean.
“Middle of bloody nowhere,” Kumar muttered to himself. They had sent out a junior inspection officer.
“Amitabh!”
One of the tele-operators made her you’re-in-trouble face. Kumar sighed.
“AMITABH!!!” The shout echoed down the hallway.
