I am the only passenger leaving the train at Oxford station. The platform is deserted and there’s a sharp chill in the air. The sky’s a dull white sheet. I sit on my roller bag, button up my cardigan and look around for Chrissy Sondheim. She said she’d be on the platform holding a card with my name on it. The silence is almost deafening. I think about the many times I came to Oxford when Alba was a student and how close we were. It had been the two of us against the world from the moment I gave birth to her. She always knew what she wanted and followed her own path regardless of my attempts to guide her. But then who was I to guide her? My path had been convoluted and chaotic at times. I left home as soon as I’d scraped through my ‘A’ levels fuelled by an overwhelming desire to escape my suffocating mother. I travelled through India, Tibet and Nepal for two years before coming back to London and meandering into art school against my mother’s will and wish. Alba, on the other hand, decided at the age of fifteen that she wanted to study Arabic poetry. She won a place at Oxford and was soon fluent in Arabic. By the time she’d finished her undergraduate degree, she was an expert. Her trips to the Yemen for research filled me with fear, but who was I to hold her back? The last thing I wanted to become was my mother. Even though Alba’s so far from me now, I know she’s inherited my stubborn will and need to break out of the confines of home. If only I’d had her discipline and commitment but now’s not the time to think about the waste of my life.

I walk into the station building, past an unmanned kiosk with shelves displaying newspapers, magazines, packets of crisps and bars of chocolate. The clock on the wall beside the ticket booth ticks loudly. A couple of taxis stand at the rank outside the station entrance.

After a few minutes a small plump woman hurries up the stairs calling out, “Maria? I’m Chrissy. I am so sorry to keep you waiting. Things never work out as we plan.” She covers her mouth with her hand and laughs.

She leads me to a dusty Fiat 500 parked at an angle in the car park. The car stalls a few times before we edge into the busy main road. Chrissy is a nervous driver, and with each screeching gear change, I want to take over the driving myself. My body tenses with anxiety, and we don’t speak until she pulls up outside a small semidetached, pebble dashed house on the outskirts of North Oxford.

I follow her into the house. She laughs and bustles about saying that “we’ll have a little break before we get into the car again.” She takes my roller bag and leads me into a bright sitting room with French doors overlooking a small garden. Leaving the roller bag in a corner she rushes across the room to open the French doors. The scent of jasmine comforts me.

“This is my little corner of heaven,” she says looking at her garden with warmth, “come, sit down, I’ll make us some tea.”

I sit in an armchair next to the open doors. The garden is planted with peonies about to burst into flower, nicotiana, a cherry plum tree in the corner covered in white blossoms, three small Japanese maples with red leaves and pots of winter jasmine blooming with yellow flowers. I’m dazed and a little bewildered. This isn’t what I’d expected.

Chrissy had been in touch with me after reading the blog I’d started after Alba had stopped contacting me four years ago. I was desperate, she didn’t answer my phone calls or messages, and after several months despite my discomfort with social media, I started writing the blog in the hope that I’d reach her this way. I don’t think I believed that strangers would read it and was surprised when Chrissy messaged me saying she may be able to help me find Alba.

I look at Chrissie’s little garden and remember our phone conversation trying to equate this cheerful, kind plump woman with what she’s been through. I’m unsettled by her “little corner of heaven” as I think about the pain she suffered watching her daughter die needlessly. Maple trees sway in the wind, their fresh young leaves whisper secrets I can’t understand. Purple and yellow crocuses wink through a small patch of uneven grass.

“I’ve made us an almond cake. I thought you’d need some sustenance.” Chrissy hands me a mug of tea and a large slice of cake. “Now, where do we start?” She eases herself onto a small sofa balancing her mug and plate in both hands. The tea is hot and strong, the smoky sweet cake melts in my mouth.

“Is it strange being back in Oxford since Alba left?” Chrissy asks.

“It’s familiar I suppose. I hadn’t expected the commune to be so near,” I say breaking off another piece of cake. “I was certain she’d flown off to some remote place like India or Bali.”

“Did you say Alba was a professor at the university?” Chrissy asks and cocks her head to the side.

“An associate professor.”

“You must be very proud.” Chrissy smiles.

“I can’t understand how she can believe the religious propaganda you’ve described to me. When Alba called me at the end of that summer term four years ago to tell me she was leaving her job to join a group called the ‘Eternal Creator’ led by a charismatic genius called Raymond Bert, who was going to ‘save the world and finally achieve eternal peace’, I was convinced it was a phase prompted by heartbreak. But when her telephone calls stopped a few months later and I had no idea where she was, I began to panic. I’ve been living with the panic since then,” I say gripped by a wave of anxiety.

“I recognised your ‘panic’, as you call it, when I read your blog.” Chrissy sips her tea. “My panic was slightly different because I joined Cynthia in the commune and let Bert take charge of us both, but the panic set in when he refused to let Cynthia have any medical care at the birth of his child. I think the panic is deep inside me still even though she died six years ago.”

“Will we be seeing Alba this afternoon?” I ask trying to calm myself.

“I’ve made an appointment to meet Raymond Bert at five o’ clock.” Chrissy pauses and looks out to the garden. “I’m sorry to tell you this,” she says shaking her head while placing her cup in its saucer, “but he said that Alba refuses to meet us.” She turns to me, her eyes dark with concern. “I think I took Raymond by surprise when I said we’d be open to a civilised discussion about his ‘work’. I told him you’d be interested to know more about what he’s doing once you know that Alba is well and happy. He’s grown used to criticism from the outside world.” She wipes a crumb of cake from her mouth with a delicate gesture. “It’s the only way I could get him to agree to see us.”

“What good comes from seeing him and not Alba?” My disappointment almost chokes me.

“This is the first step,” Chrissy says gently, “let’s go, we need a good hour.”

Chrissy drives cautiously through quiet country roads lined with hedgerow and burgeoning hawthorn bushes. I sit next to her burning with disappointed anger. I’d convinced myself that I’d be able to persuade Alba to come home and take up her life again. Trees speckled with white blossom and pale green leaves flick past. Chrissy changes gears abruptly as we approach a crossing, lurching us both forward as far as our seatbelts will allow.

“We’re almost there,” Chrissy says looking ahead as we turn into a narrow road, which leads to a wide driveway. A sprawling manor house stands in a circular courtyard. York stone walls glow in the late afternoon light. Chrissy rings the doorbell, straightens her crumpled skirt and runs her fingers through her hair. She smiles weakly at me.

A man dressed in a gold silk kaftan opens the door. His steel grey hair is cropped close to his skull, his face is soft and full, a pale double chin peeks over his collar.

“You must be Alba’s mother, Maria?” he holds out a plump hand. “I am Raymond. Please come in.” We follow him into a palatial entrance hall. “Chrissy mentioned you would like to understand what we do here. I am willing to answer your questions, and knock on the head, any stories you might have heard about us being ‘a cult’.” He stops and turns to smile before leading us into a large rectangular room.

The walls are decorated with gilt mouldings. Two elaborate crystal chandeliers hang from the high ceiling. A cavernous fireplace fills the wall at one end of the room. A log fire crackles and spatters in its centre. The room smells of smoke and burning pinewood. A wall of sash windows overlooks a neatly mowed lawn.

Chrissy and I sit on a gold damask sofa in front of the fireplace. The fabric pricks through my cotton dress. The fire warms me, and I suddenly realise how cold I’ve been since I left the train. A man dressed in a blue tunic and white trousers slips into the room carrying a tray with two cups, a teapot and a plate of petit fours. He fills the cups with what looks like weak tea.

“Please drink our tea. We’ve created a perfect infusion to bring about complete health, peace and eternal youth. We need to be in the best physical condition to change the world,” Raymond Bert says smiling warmly from his chair next to the fireplace. I wonder if he’s being ironic. The man in the blue tunic walks out of the room. As he pulls the doors closed, the brass doorknobs rattle.

“We are grateful to you for agreeing to this meeting.” Chrissy speaks carefully. “Maria is worried about her daughter. She needs to know that Alba is well and happy.”

“I was hoping to see Alba,” my voice cracks through Chrissy’s calm.

“Of course, I understand,” Bert says with a nod and a reassuring smile.

“Where is she?” I ask and sip the tea hoping that my willingness to accept his hospitality will encourage him to be generous. The tea tastes bittersweet, like chamomile flowers mixed with ginger. Chrissy pushes her cup away and looks at the floor.

“Unfortunately, Alba believes that you’ll try and persuade her to leave us and doesn’t want to have the argument with you given the volatility of relationship,” he says looking at me with solicitude, “but you have nothing to worry about, she’s a great asset to us and is very happy, a different person from the sad lonely soul who joined us four years ago.”

“But I’m her mother,” I say, taken aback. “We don’t have a volatile relationship; it’s lively and loving, trusting and stable. Alba has always had my support and love.” I’m angry and frustrated knowing I’ve been right all along, and this man has brainwashed my daughter.

“Of course you’re her mother,” he says softly. “Since Chrissy’s phone call, I’ve been trying to reason with Alba for days, reminding her of the fifth commandment to ‘honour thy parents’, but she maintains that until you’ve studied our teachings and fully understand our work, you will destroy the balance she’s struggled to develop these past years. I assure you, Alba has found her place and her meaning, you don’t need to worry.”

I put my half empty cup on its saucer next to Chrissy’s full cup. “If she is happy and doing meaningful work,” I say, “she’d want to see her mother, especially if, as you say, she feels our relationship has been difficult. Knowing Alba, she’d want to prove me wrong. Alba’s immersion in your religious teachings doesn’t make any sense to me, Mr. Bert; I left the Church as a teenager and kept her as far from it as I could. Her father left us when she was three so I raised her alone.”

“I know Alba’s story,” he interrupts me. “I’ve been teaching her to take responsibility for herself rather than blaming you and her father for her suffering. She no longer feels she’s a victim. She’s becoming the person she truly is, not the person you, her teachers, her ex-boyfriend want her to be.”

“What is Alba blaming me for?” I say feeling confused and angry with this man who has been feeding my daughter lies to take her away from me. “I supported her when Peter left and hurt her so deeply. She was strong and happy and then she met you.”

“Maria is struggling to understand how you managed to convince Alba to leave everything she loved and join you,” Chrissy says trying to soothe the tension I’ve created. I can see she is uncomfortable with my anger.

“It makes no sense, but it must have been the relationship with Peter that weakened her,” I insist, pulling out the narrative I’ve created to explain to myself Alba’s transformation from the daughter I believed I knew intimately to a stranger I haven’t seen for four years. “Peter was possessive and authoritarian, he wore her down. She met you a few months later.”

“She was disorientated by that relationship, she knew he didn’t understand her but stayed. He became abusive, as you may know,” he says with a discomforting authority, as if he knows Alba better than I do.

“I had my suspicions,” I whisper looking at Chrissie who nods at me, willing me to stay calm.

“There was a void in Alba,” he continues in his even tone, “our teachings, which go back to times before the Hebrew bible, have opened her eyes to a new way of living that has filled that void. She no longer needs to prove herself to the material world; her vessel is healed and filled with the teachings she is receiving.”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about, Mr. Bert,” I shout. “Alba was fulfilled and excited by her work, not only the teaching but the research she was doing in Yemen. It’s not like Alba to be taken in by religion.” I’m embarrassed by myself and a wave of desperation washes over me.

“Alba is a poet, my dear, she is now writing her own poetry instead of reading and interpreting the work of others,” he speaks softly but with confidence. “She was half alive when I met her, only a part of her considerable essence had been developed, the rest, the spiritual, had been neglected and was empty. This is why she opened herself up to our teachings with happiness and elation. She asked penetrating questions, I answered them. You must take comfort in this,” he says rubbing the stubble on his chin. “Alba is brilliant, one of the most important women in our tribe, a lucky one, chosen by me.”

Chrissy’s plump face is pale and drawn; she looks down at the floor. The room begins to swirl around me, and I can’t digest his words.

“Perhaps it would be helpful for Maria to speak directly with Alba, Raymond?” Chrissy asks softly and takes my hand.

“You’re an artist, Maria,” he says looking at me intently, “surely you tap into a spiritual dimension to create your beautiful paintings?”

“I paint what I feel and how I perceive the world around me, Mr. Bert, it’s the materiality that fascinates me, how the materials I use interact and react with each other to express an idea or feeling.” I am finding it difficult to get the words around my thickening tongue.

“But surely you know, there’s a world beyond this clear logic that is motivating you? We call it the kingdom of heaven. It means different things to different people. Ancient Kabbalistic sages taught that complete, healed vessels can receive the wisdom needed to close off the ego and see the world beyond the material.” His voice is gentle, but I’m filled with sickening fear. I can’t understand what he’s saying.

“Stop this, Raymond.” Chrissy’s voice is surprisingly shrill. “Can’t you see this poor woman is suffering? She needs to see her child, to understand what has happened to her.” Her plump face is covered in puce blotches, and her breathing is shallow.

I feel I’m in a dream. I lean back on the sofa and remember Chrissy’s voice on the phone telling me how Bert explained Cynthia’s death. “‘God’s will’ he said, I wanted to believe him, but I was destroyed by losing her knowing that if he’d allowed her to see a doctor before and at the birth both she and the baby would be alive. My eyes had been opened, and I couldn’t stay with the group. I left after we buried Cynthia. Raymond stayed in touch but his beliefs in destiny and God’s will sickened me. I’ve found my own strategies for survival.’”

I watch Chrissy stand up and walk towards the closed doors, tears running down her cheeks. Seeing her plump back shake with sobs, my body tenses with anger. I want to shake Raymond Bert out of his complacent lecturing. “Is this how you ‘make the world a better place’ Mr. Bert?” I ask, trying not to slur my words. “How do you bring eternal peace and joy? Through capture, imprisonment, brainwashing and control? I know what happened to Chrissy and her daughter.” Suddenly, I’m fearless and walk towards him. My legs are weak, but I’m determined not to leave until I’ve seen Alba. “You will not get away with this.”

“Calm down, Maria, I’m sorry, I see you’re very distressed. ‘Brainwashing’ is a complex concept, aren’t we all brainwashed everyday by all that goes on around us, school, persuasive writings, works of art, advertising, algorithms? And the people who join our group are not ‘captured’, they choose to join out of their own free will.” He stares through me as if I’m not there. His head is larger than his body, tufts of his steely hair stand out from his temples in ragged patches, his skin is pocked with acne scars and his eyes seem to have sunk into his skull. He smells dank and mouldy. Chrissy’s sobs are a soft rhythmic accompaniment to the shrill voice in my head wanting to argue further with Bert but unable to get the words out. I stumble back to the sofa and sit down next to her.

It’s dark in the room when I wake. I lie on the floor wondering where I am. The smell of burned pinewood brings it back to me. I look around, Chrissy is across the room, leaning against the door. We’re alone. A wild wind flails against black windows. “What happened?” I rub my eyes and pull myself up to sit.

“You fell asleep, I think the tea may have been a soporific, valerian and chamomile, which in your state of anxiety hit you hard,” Chrissy says.

“Is that why you didn’t drink it?” I ask.

“No, I’d had three cups at home and didn’t want any more. It only occurred to me when you fell asleep on my shoulder. I pretended to fall asleep as well.” Chrissy starts to sob.

“Why would he drug us? It doesn’t make sense,” I ask, my head throbbing. I’m terrified for Alba and suddenly angry with Chrissy for getting us into this trap. “What will happen to Alba?” I try to stand but my legs buckle under me, and I sink on to the sofa. Chrissy sighs, her eyes, no longer red and frightened, shine with a strength I’ve not seen before.

“I think he meant well, Maria,” she says, staring at the black window, “he probably wanted you to relax and hadn’t expected the tea to affect you as it did. He believes he’s doing good. It’s taken me a while to see this. After Cynthia died, I was angry and blamed him. But I’ve been remembering the conversation I had with him after reading your blog. He was gentle with me, insisted that we all have the freedom to choose how we want to live. He understood that the people joining his commune had friends and family who loved them and were worried. He assured me that anyone who didn’t want to be in the group was free to leave as I had. He reiterated that Alba is fine, that she’s deeply rooted in his group, they’re her family. Perhaps this is what she’s chosen?” Chrissie sighs and looks down at her hands clasped in her lap.

“He’s never apologised for killing your daughter?” I spit the words out, furious that Chrissie seems to have been seduced again.

“He can’t take responsibility for Cynthia’s death. He says she made her choices as a free woman.” She shakes her head.

“Can’t you see, Chrissie?” My voice is rising into a shrill howl, “he’s playing you in the same way he played her and is playing Alba, he sees himself as a self-righteous guru, who knows better than us how to live decently. He’s drunk on his sense of power.” Chrissie shakes her head and wipes her face with the back of her hand.

“He confuses me so much in his teachings, which are good and kind.” She sniffs and bangs the back of her head against the door. “I don’t know, anymore. Sometimes I need to believe there’s meaning in it, otherwise I can’t bear it.”

“All I know is that both our daughters’ experiences with this cult are enough to tell me what he is doing. Alba is in his circle of power, and it seems there’s nothing I can do to remove her.” I try to stand; my legs feel like liquid; they don’t hold my weight. My legs falter and I sink to the floor. The world is slow, underwater, I blink hard, force my body upright. I stare into the fireplace; the logs have dissolved into cold grey ash. I think about Alba and ask myself if I can believe anything Raymond Bert has said.

“Ah, you’re awake.” Raymond Bert walks into the room. “It must have been the tea, totally harmless but an herbal combination that eases anxiety and stress. I wanted to help you calm down and didn’t expect it to affect you so intensely. I hope you haven’t been too much disorientated and are feeling more at peace now. I have a surprise for you.” He turns and waves in a group of three women wearing full-length grey dresses, their hair held back from their faces by matching headbands. They stand in a row behind Bert. I refocus my eyes and quickly realise that the tall woman in the middle with a slightly bowed head is Alba. I pull myself up and holding on to the back of the sofa, I close my eyes with relief.

“Here she is.” Bert nods slowly with gravity; in his gold robe he makes me think of one of Giotto’s wise men in ‘The Adoration of The Magi’. “Alba has finally agreed to meet you, with her helpers, Deborah and Angel,” he says sitting in his chair next to the fireplace.

Alba smiles and walks towards me. She takes my hand and leads me to the sofa. Deborah and Angel sit at Bert’s feet, Chrissie stands by the open door. I cling to Alba’s hand and relief floods through me, but beneath it is a ripple of unease I can’t name. “I’m so pleased to see you,” I blurt and squeeze her hand.

“Me too, Ma,” she says, and for the briefest moment her voice trembles with something unsaid. She pulls her hand from mine and looks across the room at Bert who nods gently. “Raymond has asked me to explain myself to you, he says it’s the least I owe you as my mother. I’m well and happy here. Raymond has opened a world to me, and I never want to leave it. I would love it if you would learn from him too and join our family.” She looks at me with a familiar hint of a smile in her eyes.

“But Alba, it doesn’t make sense that you’ve given up your brilliant life for this,” I whisper, aware that everything I say is being witnessed.

“You’re deluded, Ma,” she says softly. “I was successful in that same hollow material world, but I needed more, I needed to believe in a world beyond logic. I can’t begin to explain the dimensions I’ve explored and discovered these past four years. Oxford was child’s play in comparison.” She looks up and smiles at Bert who continues to nod his head in encouragement. Alba stands and smiles down at me. “I want you to meet my son,” and she walks towards the half open doors. My heart races in my chest and pumps like an engine in my ears. The room swirls again.

“Your son?” I splutter. “You have a son?”

“I have a perfect boy. He’s three years old,” she says. The doors open and a small boy with a solemn face walks in. Alba lifts him up on her hip and he strokes her cheek. “This is Abraham.” Alba turns to me. Her face is serious but glows. She reminds me of Cimabue’s Madonna in The Uffizi in Florence that we saw together the summer before she started at Oxford. I try to warm to the child whose large blue eyes remind me of someone I know but can’t place.

“How did this happen? You didn’t tell me,” I say unable to control the sobs rising through me. Chrissy runs to me and puts her arm around my shoulders protectively.

“I wanted Alba to tell you herself, Maria.” Bert speaks slowly, looking at Alba.

“I made a choice, Ma, I knew you wouldn’t agree,” she says gently searching my face. “I don’t want to hurt you, but this is where I belong. You must accept me for who I am, who I’ve become.” For a moment her face glows with the smile I’ve known since she was a child.

I stand and step into the ink-dark night. The wind has died down and the chilled air is sharp with jasmine and the earthy sweetness of tobacco. I look back at the light, filled windows. Alba stands in the middle window and waves at me. Her smooth young face glows with a beatific smile. Her child stands beside her staring gravely; his blue eyes are two ponds of still water. I try to convince myself that Alba is alive and well and living in her “little place of heaven.” Chrissie presses the car keys into my hand, her eyes unreadable.  I swallow a rising wave of nausea, grit my teeth and start the engine. The headlights carve a path through the manicured silence as we slip into the endless, black night.