Cult Following: No Faith To Lose (The Capgras Conspiracy Book 0)

by Simon J. Townley

  By late afternoon, the recruits were flagging. They were given ten minutes outside to look at the views, stretch their legs, think about their former sins and prepare themselves for the revelations to come that evening. Ten whole minutes of wandering back of forth, but still watched over by the faithful.

  Tom wandered as far from the group as he could, staring across the moors to a distant tor. He used to come up here in his student days, on long walks with his friends, rambling over the hills and along the river valleys. Those were simpler times.

  The woman from the minibus who had sat next to him in the meeting, wandered towards him. She stood a few feet away, her hands clasped as if in prayer. “I’m surprised you’re still here,” she whispered.

  “Why’s that?”

  “You didn’t appear to be enjoying it.”

  “Are we supposed to enjoy it? I thought the suffering was good for us.”

  She smiled at that. There might be hope for her yet. “Are you going to join?”

  She frowned. “I don’t know. They’re strict. And strange. But yet….”

  And yet she needed something in her life, and these people offered her companionship, direction. They would pay attention to her, focus on her, make her feel important. They would see to her material needs, though they would take all her money, and turn her into a slave who would work at menial tasks raising petty cash for the cult. He said none of these things. “You should go home, talk with friends and family.”

  She shrugged. “They don’t want us to leave.”

  “That’s kind of scary, isn’t it?”

  “It’s important, the work they do.”

  Was she serious? “Only if they’re right of course. If Hernando really is the Messiah, sent from God, and the world’s going to end and all of that. If that’s not true then…”

  She almost seemed shocked. She glanced over her shoulder. One of the supervisors, a woman in her fifties, loitered nearby but out of earshot.

  “You don’t think it’s true? Then why are you here?”

  “Because it’s hard to leave,” Tom said, keeping his voice low and not looking at her directly, addressing his words to the moor in the distance, and the woods falling into darkness as the sun went down. “I won’t be joining. You shouldn’t either. They use mind control techniques. Don’t say anything. Don’t tell anyone. But get out of here. Trust me. Just go and never look back.”

  She stared at the looming black shapes of the hills. He waited. She said nothing but turned and walked off. When he glanced over his shoulder, she was talking with a member of the church, one of the goons who loitered menacingly. He glowered towards Tom.

  She had given him away. He had been betrayed, and it served him right for breaking one of his own golden rules in life: never do anyone a favour, because they’ll stab you in the back for it, every damned time.

  Chapter 17

  A Former Lover

  He could have fought, or run, but he still needed information, and if they were to kick him out now at least he might confront them with what he knew, get a quote, on the record. Then again, if he admitted to being an undercover journalist, they might kill him. Many would.

  He struggled when the heavies came to get him. They were members of the faithful, four of them, with stern faces and big shoulders, strong from the manual work they did around the place, ten, twelve hours a day, and they had plenty of reinforcements to call on. Struggling didn’t help, but he had decided to carry on protesting his innocence, and insisting he had done nothing wrong.

  “Move,” grunted one man, gripping Tom by the upper arm.

  “I can walk by myself. Touch me again, I’ll go to the police, make a complaint.”

  They ignored his whining, and hauled him across the farmyard towards the manor house, where was met by a charming, elderly lady in a long, elegant lilac dress. She asked him to sit in an office on the ground floor. A group leader would be along to speak to him soon, she said, and left him on his own.

  He scrutinised the room looking for clues or information. A filing cabinet in a corner represented a source of deep temptation, but it was sure to be locked, and besides, he was probably being watched. Was there a camera? A peephole? He stood up, crossed the floor and examined a series of photographs on the wall, showing dozens, hundreds of the group’s members. A sea of faces. No one came to order him back to the chair. Did he dare risk opening the drawers of the desk? Voices in the corridor outside persuaded him to wait. He studied the photos. Police hadn’t released pictures of the dead woman, but he’d glimpsed her face when she was brought out of the Tube station. It was unlikely, but he had time to kill.

  What was taking so long? Were they leaving him here to stew, hoping he’d be easier to break down? He scanned a photo of fifty or so people in summer clothing, in mountains with clear blue skies, but rocky and arid: might be Spain or southern Italy. Then he saw a face he recognised: Gina. He peered closer. Behind her, to the left, stood the man he’d seen at Farringdon, the one with the uncanny resemblance to his old friend Charlie Marlo, deceased.

  The door opened. He turned, expecting to see Daniel, perhaps, or one of the ashen faces leaders of the group in their black suits and lilac ties.

  Gina scowled at him and closed the door. She pointed to the chair. “Sit.”

  He dropped the West Midland’s twang he’d adopted and settled back into his normal, nondescript southern English accent. “It’s lovely to see you too.” He remained standing. “How have you been? I was admiring your photo on the wall. When was it taken?”

  “None of your concern.” She crossed the room, sat behind the desk. “Are you going to sit, or stand there like an idiot?”

  Capgras shrugged. He picked up the chair, repositioned it with a flourish, sat on it theatrically and put his feet on the desk. “Didn’t realise it was your kind of thing, all this god business. When did you get religion?”

  “More to the point, when did you get it? What are you doing here, Tom?”

  “I was at a loose end, got out of prison, and needed a new direction in life, wanted to find meaning, and this looked appealing. They seemed to have answers.”

  “Don’t bullshit me,” Gina said. “You’re here on assignment.”

  “Like I said, I’m fresh out of nick. That’s a fact. You can check it. And I don’t work for the paper anymore.”

  Gina sat forward, stared at him. “Did my dad send you?”

  “Your father and I are not on speaking terms. He’d have me knee-capped sooner than trust me with your safety.”

  “You’re not taking this seriously,” Gina said. “You’re up to something. Investigating, or digging dirt, so you can tell lies in the newspaper or to the police. We’re used to it. The authorities will do anything to discredit us. Even use someone as disreputable as you.”

  “I’m here on my own behalf,” Tom said. “But while we’re on the subject, why are you here? Do you believe all this crap they talk? This guru of yours is no messiah, and this mob are not God’s chosen ones. You should get out of this. Come back with me to London. Take a few days to reflect, discuss it with friends.” It was a direct pitch, he’d shown his hand. “I can promise you, there are things about this group you may not appreciate, seen from the inside. For one thing, they control your access to information and manipulate you in ways you may not understand.”

  “Please,” Gina said, “save me the deprogramming routine. There’s plenty about what’s going on that you don’t know.”

  “So enlighten me. When was that photo taken?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “Because there’s a face in the picture I recognise, and not only yours. Charlie’s dead, so who is that?”

  “It’s an old shot. From before.”

  Tom nodded sagely as if he believed her. “These crazies are waiting for the end of the world. How far are they willing to go, Gina? Are they going to help bring it about? Do they hurt innocent people?”

  Gina stood up, glared at him. He
watched her, admiring her figure. She’d kept herself in shape. She opened the door and called for backup. Two men came in, swinging their arms and warming themselves up ready for action.

  He had a simple choice: he could get up and fight them, or stay in his seat and hope they backed down when faced with passive resistance. It worked for Gandhi. Give it a go. But they wasted no time in taking things to the next level. They grabbed an arm each, hauled him up and kicked the chair from under him. One of them punched him in the stomach and he doubled over, fell to his knees and retched on the floor. “This how you treat all the new recruits,” he gasped, between coughs.

  “Only the spies,” Gina said. “Who sent you and why are you here?”

  “I told you, got out of prison. Check it yourself. My story’s straight.”

  A boot thudded into his chest and he rolled over onto the floor. He should have fought. He’d have lost, but at least it would give him some satisfaction. But it was too late now. He was winded already.

  “Who knows you’re here?” Gina asked.

  Now that was the trick question. Capgras mulled over his response though it was clear the two heavies didn’t intend to allow him much time to think. One of them pinned his arms behind his back while the other knelt on the floor next to him and gripped him in a headlock. “Answer the lady.”

  “A lot of people know,” Tom said.

  “So you are a spy.”

  “No, but I like to let friends and family know where I’m going to be. It’s only decent. You should try it sometime.”

  Powerful hands tightened around his neck. “Don’t get clever,” said the heavy.

  Gina waved them away. “Put him down. Wait by the door.” She rested her foot on Tom’s hand, but kept the pressure gentle, for now. “The truth. Did the newspaper send you?”

  “If it did, how do you think beating me up will look?”

  “You’ll tell lies, whatever we do. There’s no fair hearing from the likes of you. You play the game, same as the rest of them, doing what’s expected, following like sheep. Keeping evil people in power, doing their bidding.”

  “And what are you doing? How does following a fake messiah make the world a better place?”

  “You’ll find that out, one day. If you live long enough.” She pressed down with her foot.

  Tom yelled in pain, tried to pull free but his hand was trapped. He shifted his weight, barged her with shoulder to knock her off balance and lumbered to his feet.

  The heavies moved in, crossing the room before he’d stood up straight, and punched him in the back of the neck. He fell against the desk, reached out and grabbed a paperweight and swung it around, smashing it into the forehead of the closest heavy. The man staggered back, a look of intense surprise on his face, then crumpled to the floor. The second heavy, on his own now, faced with a fair fight, hesitated. “Leave him,” Gina barked. “Out. Get help.”

  She closed in on him, standing staring into his eyes, her face inches from his. For one wild moment he thought she might kiss him. Instead, her hand closed around the paperweight. “You can’t fight us all,” she said. “Tell me the truth. We can always torture you.”

  “That won’t get to the truth, you know that.”

  “It might be fun, though, seeing you suffer.”

  “You still hold a grudge then?”

  “My father sent you, didn’t he? Was it him?”

  “Maybe it was the police,” Tom said. “We did a deal, so I could get out of prison early.”

  “You’re lying,” she said. “Everything you ever say is a lie. Always has been, Tom Capgras.”

  “That’s not fair, Gina. I meant what I said.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, I did love you. Don’t now. But I did then, for a while.”

  She shook her head. “You’re a good liar. You get lots of practice I suppose. Fine. That’s how it is. We’ll use that.” She paused in the doorway, stabbed him with eyes like daggers, then turned and was gone.

  Chapter 18

  The Penitent’s Cell

  The cell was below ground, damp and infested with insects. Potentially, they represented a secondary source of protein to supplement the meagre rations brought twice a day, but Capgras held off on eating them. Better to wait until the spiders were fat and juicy.

  The room, eight foot by four, was equipped with a wooden bed, a prayer cushion, a rusty metal pot for pissing and crapping, a washbasin with running cold water, a cracked cup, and the complete works of his divine holiness the greatly beloved Hernando de Landro. There was no window and no chinks of daylight burrowed their way into his underground cave, but the room was lit by a single, bare bulb in the ceiling. It remained on throughout what Capgras assumed to be the daytime, and went off at night, when the visits from the faithful became mercifully less frequent.

  They had taken his watch and phone, naturally, so while he couldn’t be certain, he was reasonably sure those visits happened on the hour, every hour, for twelve hours a day. Sometimes a single person, always male, who would talk, or read from the teachings, or invite him to pray, or sit in silence. At other times, a group would descend on his penitent’s cell and insult him or berate him, or pour scorn on his life and lack of achievements, his cynical and selfish attitudes or his inability to see through the lies of the materialistic society in which he lived.

  Possessions are evil: he agreed with them in an abstract sense. And yet he loved his motorbike, his smartphone, and his laptop which freed him to work anywhere. He enjoyed coffee and Italian food and most of all beer, wine and whisky.

  Tom didn’t tell them this, of course. He merely nodded and tried to appear thoughtful as if he were only now understanding what they had been trying to teach him all along.

  His last visitor had left about an hour ago. They would be here any moment.

  He poured himself a cup of water from the tap and settled down on the thin, scratchy mattress with a copy of Hernando’s autobiography: ‘Meetings with the Messiahs and Other Messengers of God.’ As titles go, it needed work. Lots of it. But the main body of the text wasn’t much better. It rambled self-indulgently, lacked cohesion or narrative, jumped from place to place, time to time, thought to thought, with little regard for the wretched reader struggling to make sense of the jumbled ideas.

  Footsteps on the stone floor suggested a visitor was about to make a house call. Keys jangled, the lock turned, and the door opened. Daniel nodded politely to Tom, and with a slight shrug of the shoulders requested permission to enter. Capgras held out an upturned palm by way of greeting, inviting him inside for an audience.

  “How is the book?” Daniel asked.

  “It could do with an edit,” Tom said. “And a better structure.”

  “You’ll appreciate it more, in time. The first read through you won’t understand much. It must be absorbed five times before you can begin to grasp the true meanings. That is what his holiness himself told me, and I found it to be true, from my own experience. Of course, I’ve found everything he’s told me is true, and I’ve learnt never to question anything.”

  “Your faith must be a great comfort to you,” Tom said, with a straight face.

  “It is, indeed.”

  “How can I help you today?”

  “I wanted to check in on you myself, make sure you were being looked after. I hear reports but decided the two of us should have a talk.”

  “A heart to heart, you mean?”

  “After a manner of speaking,” Daniel said. He pointed to the chair. “May I?”

  “Of course. How rude of me. I never meant to leave you standing.”

  “According to our rules, you should have stood when I entered the room. I am above you, both in terms of the formal organisation and spiritual development. One of the tragedies of your low level of growth is that you can’t appreciate that, or even sense it. You’ll deny it, if not openly, then at least to yourself. I think you’ll admit that’s true.”

  “You have me tied in knots.�
�� Tom smiled at him. “Whatever I say, I incriminate myself.”

  “It wasn’t meant that way, I assure you. Nonetheless, to business. You’ve been here with us now a full week, including the five days spent in this cell.”

  “I was going to bring that up myself: it’s technically illegal to hold me here, against my will.”

  “Is it against your will?”

  Tom rubbed his chin in a deliberately melodramatic style. “Hmmmm, let me see. Ah, yes. What with the locked door, the heavies who threw me in here, and the fact that no one will allow me to leave, I would say this does count as false imprisonment, which is a serious crime, by the way. Trust me, I should know. I’m a crime reporter, in case Gina didn’t tell you.”

  Daniel smirked as if delighting in a verbal faux pas. “You are, or you were? You implied to her that you were no longer working as a journalist.”

  “That’s as may be, but the law looks unkindly on kidnapping.”

  “You came voluntarily.”

  “On the understanding that I could leave when I wished.”

  “But there’s this problem with why you are here.” Daniel rubbed his hands together as though wrestling with demons. “Did you come as a spy, intent on causing trouble? We’re treated with suspicion everywhere we go and the media has never been kind, or even fair. They make us out to be monsters.”

  They might have a point there, Tom thought. The dead girl’s parents would surely agree. He held his tongue.

  “We still hope we can persuade you of the truth of our teaching,” Daniel said. “A man with your skills, your resources, someone respected in the media…”