Selling energy to cure our ills

The Energy Bank, according to its brochure, 'is the place that sells energy'. It is not a spa; nor, the brochure explains, is it a gym, a spiritual centre, an investment bank or a version of life coaching.

It is simply somewhere that sells 'energy'.

The Bank's staff cannot say exactly what energy is - what it looks like, where it comes from or, indeed, how it works. They can say with certainty only that it does work. By which they mean it can cure everything, from a bad mood to cancer. Gravely ill customers may spend tens of thousands of pounds buying energy. And if it doesn't cure them, it is not the Bank's fault but their own. They did not have enough faith in the energy.

According to the Bank, one day the power of energy will be as undisputed as electricity is today. It claims to represent the future. Critics might claim it is closer to an old-fashioned rip- off, perpetrated on victims too vulnerable to see through it.

From the outside, it's not easy to guess what the Energy Bank might be. Located on Commercial Street, in the heart of E1 loft-living, the converted tobacco warehouse looks like a stylishly minimalist hotel or a high-concept City design company. Tropical fish swim in the window, and the foyer is a smooth expanse of frosted glass and stainless steel. A preternatural aura of calm prevails.

These tranquil surroundings provoked a flurry of excitement in the press when the Energy Bank opened early last year. 'Out of this world,' enthused The Wall Street Journal. Even this magazine was impressed by its slick, futuristic image. At its Christmas launch, TV presenter and model Nell McAndrew sparkled, while glamorous Hoxtonites hung out enjoying massages.

A few weeks later, I walked in with a simple request. Giving up smoking had turned me into a frantic, 20-KitKats-a-day lunatic. Could they do anything to help? A tall young man call Joel glided into the foyer, and offered me a drink. What did I need? Something to calm? A cup of chrysanthemum tea. So far, then, so New Age. According to Joel, my problem was pitiably easy to solve. He said that even clients who never intended to give up smoking found they had quit within weeks of attending the Bank. If I came once a day for three weeks, I would suffer no withdrawal symptoms whatsoever - a prognosis expressed not as a hope, nor even a promise, but as a statement of absolute fact. The cost would come to about £300 which, if it worked, sounded like a bargain. And so began my daily attendance at The Energy Bank.

The Bank consists of five 'halls', each conceived as an element - fire, water, earth and so on. Sessions in each run from 6.30am to 8pm; some are called 'Truth', others 'Health', but the basic premise is the same in all. A group of clients - usually between two and ten - discuss their problems with an instructor; they ask for energy to help solve them, and practise relaxation. These problems can range from a sore hand to excessive drinking. Mainly middle-class, thirtysomething men and women, there is nothing obviously striking about them - except that they all sit with legs apart, hands on thighs, mouths hanging open, as this is considered the best position for 'receiving' energy.

The idea at the Bank is basically this: all living creatures need energy. Healthy people receive fresh energy, which flows through their bodies and passes out like waste. Negative thoughts and feelings, however, block energy - and when it gets stuck in the body, bad things happen. Fresh energy can't get in, and you fall ill. In order to clear the blockage, receive good energy, and get well, all that the Bank's clients must do is turn up - and have faith. But to stay healthy, they must learn to stop worrying - in fact, to stop thinking at all. 'You have to have faith. Don't worry, be happy,' intones the Bank's director, over and over. 'If you stop thinking, everything becomes clear. The more faith you have, the more results you will see.'

The Bank's philosophy purports to be grounded in ancient Chinese wisdom. The words 'ancient' and 'Chinese' crop up a lot - used rather loosely, in my view, but with wonderfully conclusive effect, for any old 'ancient Chinese' theory is hailed as irrefutable truth. All the clients I meet appear to be fluent in the Bank's rather slippery philosophy. As the sessions pass, though, to me it seems to amount to nothing more than some fortune-cookie homilies, dressed up in mystical mumbo jumbo. The instructors' self-serving logic has an answer for everything: if a client feels better, this is thanks to energy; if they feel worse, this is equally good news, for it proves that they are 'cleaning out' bad energy. If they think it is all bogus claptrap, that just shows that the great mistake is to think - reason is the enemy of wellbeing, to be rejected at all costs. 'Never doubt,' an instructor solemnly urges. 'For you to be made good, all you must do is never doubt.'

This, I'm afraid, I find impossible. But I do learn to keep the doubts to myself. Other clients report miracle cures to me; depression conquered, creativity unleashed, confidence restored. Some make bolder claims - ulcerated colitis cured, infertility overcome, a peanut allergy banished. One instructor spent seven years in a wheelchair with ME before discovering energy. And look at her now! Sustained by each others' triumphs, the pressure to repay the group's hopes by offering up a success story gathers strength. I find myself reporting fictional 'results' - 'Amazing! No, no cravings at all' - and suspect I may not be alone.

But most clients are genuinely satisfied. The sessions do ease bankers' early-morning stress, and soothe the nerves of Hoxton Square creatives - the self-fulfilling powers of faith-healing are well documented. These, however, are not the only clients. A hardcore group, who only half-jokingly call themselves 'Energy Bank junkies', have been persuaded to spend all day every day at the Bank, as well as thousands of pounds, in the desperate hope that it will cure serious - even terminal - illness.

One man, Warwick Powell, has a T-cell count so low that, technically, he has full-blown Aids, but he will not take the antiretroviral drugs that would keep him alive. The Bank has taken every penny he had: 'I've spent my entire fortune,' the 40-year-old concedes, 'and then some.' By late last year, he was £30,000 in debt. After 12 months of utter devotion to the process, his promised recovery of T-cells has failed to materialise, but the instructors' glib faith in the curing powers of their platitudes persists. 'Warwick,' one of them assures me, in the manner of someone stating the mindblowingly obvious, 'is not HIV positive. There is no such thing as illness - only energy blockage. He just needs to give the energy more time.' What if the Bank fails to cure him? 'It would not be the energy's fault,' he replies. Warwick thinks, in other words, that it would be his.

'We can cure cancer and HIV. We definitely can. There is nothing we cannot cure. Absolutely no doubt about it.' This is what Joel told me on my first visit - and what is claimed in almost every session, by every instructor. But it is not a claim the Bank is willing to make publicly. 'That opens up a whole can of worms, you see,' confided Joel regretfully. 'People find it a bit controversial. They want proof. The media make a big controversy out of it. Unless you've got evidence, they think that we are taking advantage of people because they are weak, and we are taking their money and stuff.' Faced with this awkward obstacle, the Bank's solution is publicly to promise help with insomnia, smoking, or depression - '21st-century lifestyle issues' - then, once clients are in, to reveal the more magical powers of energy to them.

As the Bank's client, I heard it make its outlandish promises every day. The more I heard, the more inclined I became to write about them. Due to the Bank's paranoia regarding media coverage, however, I'm afraid I gave the misleading impression that I admired its work, and wished to publicise it so that others would hear of its miraculous services. Clients who gave interviews on that understanding deserve an apology. They are intelligent, generous and blameless. To the Bank, I make no apology. If its staff were half as attuned to 'energy' as they claim, my increasing suspicions would have been blindingly obvious.

A handsome, charismatic New Zealander, Powell began attending sessions almost two years ago. He was seeking help with his acting career and found that the energy gave him 'great results'. Having been diagnosed HIV positive two years earlier, he decided to ask the Bank for help with his health. Instructors told him that if he devoted himself to the process, energy could clean his blood and cure him. For more than a year now, he has been attending sessions every single day, from 6.30 am to 8pm. 'Of course it can't cure HIV if you are just coming once a day,' he explains. 'It's like, if I wanted to win an Olympic medal, I would have to dedicate myself. This is just the same.' On the Bank's advice, he has given up alcohol, caffeine, all recreational drugs and sex. 'The fifteenth of January 2001 was the last time I ejaculated. No sex, no masturbation, no orgasm. They explained that sex depletes your energy pack, which is stored in your kidneys. It's obvious, isn't it?'

Despite his unfaltering dedication, Warwick's T-cell count remains around 250 - nothing like the recovery he had been promised. Is he worried? 'No, worrying is negative.' Why not take combination therapy? 'My Chinese doctor says I have a weak liver, so the drugs would be too toxic.' He puts it another way: 'HIV has a victim aspect to it. By using energy to heal, I am taking responsibility for my own recovery.'

Jane, a 44-year-old former fashion designer, came to the Bank over a year ago. Long-term depression and low self-esteem coupled with self-destructive partying had left her an emotional wreck. She believes that the Bank saved her life. 'I felt at home as soon as I came. I felt I had somewhere where I could talk and people would understand. They don't think I'm a complete raving lunatic.'

So far, Jane has given the Bank about £15,000. Does she ever feel she's being brainwashed? 'No! It's nothing like that.' She pauses. 'Then again, in a way we need our brains washed, because they are so full of s**t. All these negative thoughts that aren't useful. You don't need all that stuff in your brain. You just need to be empty, to receive fresh energy.'

My guess would be that the full-time 'junkies' have all become more peaceful, happy, positive people since joining the Bank. The benefits to their mental health are manifest even though the financial cost has been astronomic. But because they be-lieve that, to be cured, they must suppress anxiety, they daren't allow themselves to worry about it. They must simply keep spending more. To question the Bank's efficacy, let alone ethics, might jeopardise their recovery. And after spending so much money already, who would have the nerve to take that risk? Jane gets defensive at the mention of her debt. 'Journalists always pick up on money, but the Bank only charges us to teach the value of energy. It isn't manipulating money out of people.'

The Energy Bank is an offshoot of '603 Phenomena', an academy in New Zealand founded in 1998 by a middle-aged Chinese woman, Aiping Fulepp. At her academy, she trains followers (for a fee of £30,000 to £40,000 a year) in energy healing. A British pair graduated two years ago, returned to London, and set up the Energy Bank. They are back in New Zealand now, having left a management team in charge. What's mysterious is how much money they make and where it goes. The Bank won't say, other than to imply that it's not very much. This seems plausible - the place is almost empty most of the time I'm there - but it is striking that management seems even more defensive than clientele when discussing money.

The Bank used to charge by the session, but has now introduced a flat monthly fee of £260, for which members can attend all sessions every day. However, a daily group session with Aiping - conducted via a 'teleporter' machine, a sort of sci-fi hologram version of video conferencing - costs £8,000 a year. One-to-one sessions with instructors cost extra, as do various other services. No one at the Bank is keen to say exactly how much, but it is easy to see how the bills could soon run up. How can Joel justify these fees? 'Well,' he smiles, 'we have to pay the bills. But really, it's to make people respect what they are getting. For people to receive energy, they must have a good position. The position to have is: respect and expect. Aiping realised that when people started to pay for her healing, they got better results. Strange to say, but the more they paid, the better they got.' He searches for the right way to put it. 'It's an exchange of energy, I suppose.'

And so here we have an organisation selling something that nobody can see, to clients whose troubles incline them towards a certain desperate suggestibility. The product costs the business nothing, but the more it charges to sell it, the greater the incentive for its customers to believe it works. And if it doesn't, it is the clients' fault, because they lacked sufficient faith. As a business idea, it is truly inspired.

The Energy Bank would appear to prove that, given enough fashionably minimalist decor, and references to 'ancient Chinese healing', 21st-century London can fall for a 'cure' that has nothing even slightly scientific about it. It's hard to imagine we could have been this gullible ten years ago, before our appetite for holistic chic. It is, if you like, the logical conclusion of our enthusiasm for everything New Age.

For what it's worth, in my view, every member of staff Imet was sincere, and honest, and much of the time the clients' faith in their treatment is justified, for basically healthy clients believe that energy will make them feel better - and so it does. But the Bank is testing out the limits of its faith on some clients who will die if the experiment goes wrong, and that strikes me as criminal.

The Bank's retort to an attitude like that would, of course, be simple. It's obviously just a case of bad energy.