‘And these are my “systemite” glasses. These are very important so that nobody can see where my eyes are looking.’
She slipped on a pair of black wrap-around sunglasses.
‘And last, but not least, my hat.’
It was a blue cap with a plastic visor emblazoned with a red love heart and the words, ‘I love New York.’
‘I need to wear these things to blend in with the systemite people. Some of the nice gentle ones, the ones we call sheep, would not hurt me. But those we call the goats, the disbelievers and the decadent sodomite ones, might capture and torture me. If I didn’t have my disguise they would recognise me as one of God’s chosen ones and kill me. This wig, hat and glasses are Grandpa’s clever way of protecting me.’
Grandpa was increasingly concerned for all of us. He sent the children a special letter called ‘Victory in Babylon’ that warned about the forces of the Antichrist and the possibility of raids by authorities. He said we could be snatched away by government people claiming to help us. The only chance we had to survive in that situation was to remain absolutely silent and not answer any of their questions, no matter how nice they might pretend to be or with how much delicious food or fun toys they might tempt us. Grandpa was very clear – it was all a trap designed to ensnare us.
Impending death and destruction were everywhere. My parents talked about it constantly. I was anxious but it was so normalised I wasn’t that scared. I did start to think about getting killed again and wondering how much it would hurt. Would it be slow or fast? Would the killer taunt me and say horrible things? Or would they feel bad and say sorry? Would I get shot, raped, burned to death or stabbed? I went through every form of violent death I could think of, trying to prepare myself for how I would react when it happened.
When we relocated to Malaysia, Joe had to remain in Thailand at the Victor Camp. We had barely heard anything from him since his brief visit home. My mom was worried sick and didn’t want to move without him. I overheard her fighting with my dad about it in angry whispers.
‘How can we even think about going to a new country without our son?’ she argued.
Dad’s voice was reassuring but with a firm tone that didn’t allow for dissent. ‘The teens in those camps will be having the time of their lives, playing lots of sports and climbing trees. These are the things that boys of that age need to do. Besides, the war is coming. Maybe they will all be safer there.’
Mom was still recovering from her Siberian experience and I suspect she was too scared to keep rocking the boat. If we asked about her time there she generally fobbed us off with descriptions of deep snow and how if you didn’t wear a woolly scarf over your face when you went outside your lungs would freeze. Any deeper questions were batted away. I suspected some very bad things had happened to her but I knew better than to keep pushing.
In May of that year, a few weeks after we arrived, my little sister Aimée was born. Having another baby girl thrilled both my parents and lifted my father out of his depression. I was completely delighted to finally have another sister, especially as by now I assumed I had lost Thérèse forever.
The new commune was in Penang, an island off the coast of Malaysia, not far from the border with Thailand. It was a wild, untamed landscape with lots of fern-covered hills. Our new garden backed straight onto the edge of a large expanse of jungle, which was full of scary wild animals.
The commune was what was known as a ‘selah’ home, which meant that it was a small secret home that would pretend to be made up of normal families in order to fool the systemites. It acted as a kind of bed and breakfast for visiting members from Thailand, who needed to leave the country in order to renew their visas.
There were 30 permanent residents – four families and a handful of single adults.
Vincent was now seven and in the MCs (middle children) dorm with me. It was brilliant being able to share a room with him, but our joy at that was marred by our teacher, Isaiah. He was a madman, and as he had been in the merchant navy was obsessed with everything military. He ran our dorm like a ship – he was Captain, his three sons Sean, Seamus and Seafra were First Officers, and Vincent and I were lowly deck mates. As soon as we woke up Isaiah had us on physical duties, scrubbing the wooden floorboards with coarse brushes.
‘Swab those decks,’ he shouted. ‘I want her shipshape and battle ready.’
If we didn’t scrub fast enough he would snatch the brush from our hands and fling it at our backs. Normally you had just enough time to cover your head before the wooden brush slapped into your shoulder blades or, worse, spine.
If he was feeling particularly vicious he would force you face down onto the ground, grab your ankles in one hand and wrists in the other, then force them up over your back with your tummy pressed hard into the floor.
‘Time for a keelhauling.’
The pain it caused your stomach and organs was immense.
‘This navy runs on discipline. I’ll make sailors of you yet.’
Uncle Isaiah hated any sign of weakness or improper attitude. But most of all Isaiah hated Vincent. And that feeling was mutual.
We had been out on survival training for most of the day. Isaiah had forced us to march round and round in circles for over an hour, kicking our legs high into the air as we sang the battle hymn of the revolution, a favourite song of Grandpa’s.
‘We’re the End Time Army that’s conquering hearts and minds and souls for the Lord! Lift up your Sword! Look to Heaven’s Reward! We’re the Revolution for Jesus and David our King!’
Every time we finished the song and collapsed on the floor, legs trembling, he barked at us: ‘Get up, men. Again. Soooooldiers. March.’
It was ridiculous. I usually found some enjoyment in survival lessons. For one thing we were outdoors; secondly, I knew it was essential training and that any day I’d be putting the techniques into action. If I couldn’t light a fire or know how to build a shelter, then how would I help my family survive the Tribulation? I had never been a top student, but in survival I began to excel. The marching, however, was pointless, and we knew it.
Just as we were walking back through the garden Vincent spotted one of the monkeys that made their home in the trees. The monkeys were really terrifying – very aggressive and vicious. From what we could work out there seemed to be two tribes. At night they would have gang fights where they had loud and protracted battles in a never-ending turf war. We would peer out the window to watch them pouncing onto one another’s back, biting and scratching. Then others would appear from the trees, jumping on top until there was a jumble of monkey arms and legs kicking and hitting, all of them making the most dreadful noise – coughing, barking and screeching all at the same time. From the safety of the window we joked that even the Antichrist couldn’t make such a din.
Vincent dug me in the ribs and pointed at a monkey, who was busy poking a finger in its ear. ‘March, soldier. March,’ he said, imitating Isaiah in a mock Irish accent. ‘You have no discipline, soldier. Stop picking your ear and march.’
We both giggled. I looked away at the monkey for barely a second, but as I turned back Vincent was hanging in the air, his feet dangling like a ragdoll.
Isaiah had his thick hands either side of Vincent’s neck, whose eyes were wide with fear. I looked up at Isaiah. His face was contorted with fury, but he said nothing. He just continued to lift Vincent, who was making awful choking sounds, higher in the air.
‘Stop. Stop it, you are killing him,’ I screamed. ‘Put him down.’
Isaiah stared straight at me, not changing his grip on Vincent. Vincent’s face was turning red and blotchy, the fear in his eyes now replaced by total panic.
‘I said put my brother down!’ The words spilled out with a force I didn’t know I possessed.
Isaiah curled his lip in my direction. For