Cult
I’m having coffee with Mike at the Costa Drive Thru and it’s the usual mix of girlfriend troubles (for him) and the pressures of family life (for me) when something he says suddenly catches my attention: big time.
I frown a bit, put down my cup and mutter: ‘What was that again?’
He shrugs. ‘I’m just saying: she never really seems interested in what’s going on with me and-‘
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Not the stuff with Laura: you said something before about a gang at Westwood-‘
‘The Cross Cult.’ He points out of the window. ‘Complete mentalists, mate: I’m so glad I didn’t end up getting involved in any of that stuff.’
I try to look where he’s pointing, but all I can see are shoppers. There’s a couple going into Staples, a few guys coming out of Pets at Home and a small group leaving Matalan.
‘Cross Cult?’ I ask, trying to get a glimpse of anything remotely unusual.
‘The Cult of Westwood Cross, mate: two of ‘em just went into Matalan. A few years back, I nearly joined myself.’
I lean back in the chair and fold my arms. I know how much Mike likes to talk, so I’m desperate not to indulge him….but he looks so serious.
‘The idea of a shopping centre having a cult is just ridiculous. A cult is a religious thing: what do they worship? Tesco?’
‘It’s not that sort of cult: it’s more of an underground hobby group. You know Iceland?’
‘The country?’
‘No: the supermarket.’
‘Of course I know Iceland….but there isn’t one at Westwood Cross.’
‘Exactly. Now: WATCH-’
I can’t believe I’m going along with this, but as he points, I find myself staring intently at the doors of Matalan.
‘Wait for it-‘
‘What exactly are we waiting-‘
‘THERE! NOW! LOOK!’
Coming out of Matalan is a couple, perhaps in their early thirties. Both are ordinary-looking, wear perfectly ordinary clothing, and are burdened with shopping bags…
….Iceland shopping bags.
‘That’s just a coincidence,’ I say, with a nervous laugh. ‘You probably saw them go in and just made it up-‘
‘OVER THERE! Coming out of Staples!’
I switch my viewpoint, and – sure enough – there is a third man on his way out of Staples: a distinctive-looking guy in a biker jacket.
He is also carrying an Iceland bag.
I shake my head slightly, and I feel my nose scrunching up in that weird expression I tend to use whenever the world goes a bit Twin Peaks on me.
Mike grabs my shoulder and says: ‘Now……CHECK IT OUT.’
As we both look on, the three people converge into one group and begin to have a conversation: an intense conversation. They all look slightly uncomfortable, and the biker dude keeps looking behind him.
It’s like a scene out of a spy movie, and it’s incredible to watch.
Incredible.
After a few seconds, I turn back to Mike.
‘How often do they meet?’
‘Once a fortnight.’
‘Where?’
‘Coffee shops.’
‘Who is the leader?’
‘Guy from Kingsgate: nobody knows who he is, but apparently at the meetings he wears a rabbit mask. His deputy is a bloke called The Fisherman: a hairy dude who hangs around Westwood Cross, smoking a fake pipe.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Ridiculous or not: it’s TRUE. I don’t know what they’re actually into, but Iceland is a big part of how they identify each other. You can’t just join. You have to get noticed. You have to be approached.’
‘How?’
‘You need to walk around Westwood Cross with an Iceland carrier bag.’
‘Honest?’
‘Honest.’
‘I could totally do that. Er….when, exactly?’
‘ALWAYS, Dave. Every time you come to Westwood Cross. You never know who’s watching.’
‘Right! Come on: I’ll drive.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘Ramsgate Iceland….for bags.’
‘You’re not seriously considering-‘
‘Of course I am. It’s me.’
We head for the car, and I feel a burning excitement in my stomach.
It’s like this: I come to Westwood Cross all the time, so I might as well be part of the massive.
The Fisherman is waiting.
