LITMIR.BIZ

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… nations … for … my … name’s … sake. OK, children, Bibles open at Matthew, please. Let’s all practise the verse together.’

      We repeated it in unison. I couldn’t say the word afflicted. Joy saw me struggling and laughed indulgently: ‘Oh, little Natacha. AF FLIC TED. It means to suffer, like when you die.’

      ‘Will I suffer when I die, Aunty Joy?’ I asked her.

      ‘Yes, of course, little one,’ she cooed as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

      ‘What if I don’t want to?’

      Aunty Joy laughed again, bathing me in her warm, beautiful smile.

      ‘Little Natacha, if you are not willing to suffer and die for Jesus how will you get to heaven?’

      Knowing I would die at a young age was not scary for me. It was a completely normal part of my life that was reinforced by every adult I knew, including my mom and dad. But it was the suffering bit that got to me. I would spend hours secretly worrying about it. Would it hurt? Would it be slow or quick? Would the person who killed me feel bad and say sorry or would they laugh and enjoy it?

      Those thoughts often kept me awake at night.

      Joy’s voice snapped me back to reality. ‘Very good, children. Let’s do it again. Then … shall … they … deliver … you … up … to … be … afflicted … and … shall … kill … you … and … ye … shall … be … hated … of … all … nations … for … my … name’s … sake. And again please, children.’

      And on and on we repeated it. Again. And again. And again.

Chapter 4

       Dances for the King

      Aunty Joy had sent me to an upstairs storeroom to fetch some books. Thrilled to be out of the stifling classroom for a few brief moments, I walked as slowly as I possibly could.

      At the top of the stairs I paused, wondering how I could drag the errand out even longer. I hit upon the ruse of pretending to be a princess inspecting my castle. Haughtily I practised an exaggerated princess walk, imagining that my brother’s old hand-me-down jeans, which were two sizes too big and held up with a nylon belt, were in fact a beautiful ball gown with a big petticoat skirt. I pranced along, swishing my imaginary dress from side to side as I went.

      The sight of a bedroom door, left ajar, stopped me hard in my make-believe tracks – one prancing leg still raised up above the floor. Why oh why hadn’t I noticed it sooner? Being seen or heard by the occupants was something I really didn’t want to happen.

      Gingerly I put my foot down, trying to be an ever-so-quiet tiny-little mouse.

      I heard the people in the room giggling.

      ‘Who’s there? Come on, nothing to be scared of. Come and say hi,’ said a male voice.

      I winced. Saying hi was the very last thing I wanted to do.

      ‘Heeeelllooooo?’ came a female voice I recognised as Aunty Salome. She was from Minnesota in the United States and was married with one son, a few years older than me. I got the impression she didn’t like children very much, so I usually tried to avoid her.

      The male voice spoke again: ‘Is that a demon? Or is it a little person? Is it an embarrassed little person?’

      At that the pair started to giggle again, followed by a few seconds of silence before the woman let out a low little moan.

      The man spoke again: ‘Hey, you kids shouldn’t be wandering about. Aren’t you supposed to be in Word Time? I’m in no mood to come out there and chastise you so pop yourself right in here and tell me what your business is.’

      The tone of his voice made it clear I didn’t have much choice. Reluctantly I hovered by the entrance, trying very hard not to look inside.

      ‘It’s Natacha. Aunty Joy sent me up here to get some books from the cupboard. I have to get them and go back to my class. Sorry if I disturbed you, Aunty Salome.’

      At that I turned to make my escape. But the man, amused now, was having none of it.

      ‘Why so shy, little one? We aren’t demons either. Come and say hi.’

      ‘I really need to get back to my class. Aunty Joy said …’ I trailed off nervously.

      ‘Joy won’t tell you off for being a polite little girl. One minute to say hello, that’s all we are asking. You wouldn’t deny your uncle and aunty that, would you?’ he countered.

      The woman’s voice spoke back to him, slightly impatiently. ‘Stop teasing her, Peter. It’s putting me off.’ Then she snapped to me: ‘Natacha, stop being a silly girl. Show yourself like your uncle has asked you.’

      I took a step into the room, still trying to avert my gaze from the bed where the two were lying. That made them laugh even harder.

      ‘Oh my, look at her. What a little prude. Natacha, LOOK. AT. US. We don’t bite.’

      I lifted my head up. On the little side table next to the bed was a bottle of Dettol disinfectant spray, a big box of tissues and a candle. That’s what all adults kept by their bed. I knew the Dettol and tissues were for hygiene because we kids used the same. Joy had explained to me that the candle was to help them make the room look pretty and give it a nice mood during love-ups. Lying in the bed next to Salome was a man I didn’t recognise. The crumpled sheets barely covered their naked bodies.

      ‘I am Uncle Peter,’ he explained. ‘I live in Bangkok. I’m just visiting. Natacha? Natacha, Natacha … I know your name. I know your daddy, don’t I? You are Shepherd Moonlight’s little girl?’

      I nodded.

      ‘Ah, you are as cute as a button, just as he said you were. Well, lovely to meet you, Natacha. You had better get those books then, hadn’t you?’

      At that he stuck out his hand, offering it for me to shake. I didn’t move.

      ‘Come on, silly girl. I already said I don’t bite. SHAKE. MY. HAND.’

      I reached forward and with the merest hint of my fingertips gave him a tiny shake. He lunged towards me, making a growling noise: ‘Grrrr. I fibbed. I do bite. Grrrrrrrrrr. Come here little girl. Let me eat you!’

      I yelped, stumbling into the table.

      ‘Peter, quit it now. You’re scaring the poor kid!’ snapped Salome. ‘Natacha, please don’t be scared. Peter was just joking with you. He’s a big silly billy, aren’t you, Peter?’ At that she raised herself onto her elbow and leaned over him, her breasts dangling in his face. The sight of that made him forget all about me.

      ‘Oh, am I now, my lady? Well, maybe I am going to bite your titties. Grrrrr. Come here and let me eat YOU.’

      At that the pair of them collapsed into a heap, her squealing with excited giggles, him still making the stupid roaring noise. I seized my chance and ran out.

      This kind of thing was par for the course. Everywhere I looked grown-ups were having sex. They left the doors open, they had orgies in the living room, they stood kissing and groping each other in the hallways. They never made any attempt to hide it from us because they thought sexual openness was not only healthy, it was divine. Grandpa preached that love – sex – was something Jesus wanted his believers to do lots of. By being so open about it the adults weren’t trying to harm us, they genuinely thought it would make us healthier adults and better Christians too. But I hated seeing it. For me, the sight of adults making out was just gross.

      Grandpa was completely open about his attitude to sex and children. We were read to from a book he wrote called The Devil

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