League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul

by Sugrue, Rosalie

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Kat and Amber occasionally find themselves in conversation. Of course I’m OK about what I do, Amber reprimands Kat. It’s legal. It’s good money. Shut up, she orders the irritating Kat, who reminds her she hasn’t told her grandmother, not even her flatmates, about her major income. It’s none of their damned beeswax!

  The just-departed client is middle-aged and married. It’s legal for him too, always has been for blokes! It’s not her job to judge or moralise. Does he dislike his wife or does he dislike all women? Amber senses that for him, paying for a woman is his way of debasing women. She suspects he is a cop. He isn’t the only cop to pay an occasional visit. She has an uncanny knack for spotting them. They have an arrogance that betrays them. The result of having too much power too early in life is her theory. Amber keeps an eye on the crime pages. Statements and photos in the press have confirmed two of her suspects.

  Arthur is her final client for the night. Role-playing his parlour-game orders has considerably more appeal than the wham-bam bossiness of the cop. Does Arthur have a wife? She doesn’t want to know. Arthur is a gentleman. If he has desires that require discretion, he would be protective of his wife. Amber is the soul of discretion.

  She has a new frilly apron and matching cap, saw them in a handcraft shop. A good excuse to buy a pair of red high heels. She checks in the long mirror, taking a cheeky look over her shoulder. Long red ties loop enticingly over her smooth buttocks. Arthur will be pleased.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  11 — The Levite’s concubine

  Tuesday, 31 March

  Jen nudges Kat. “What do you think that is?”

  “A silver meat-dish cover sitting on a bit of wood, obviously,” returns Kat.

  “But why?” Jen echoes the thought of each student in the assembling class.

  Sarai goes to the lectern without so much as a glance toward the tree stump and dish squatting between the desk and lectern. “You will recall the book of Judges is a cyclic story — the Hebrews sinning, repenting, and God raising up a redeemer in the form of a new judge. Each cycle leads to further depravity. Within Judges’ 21 chapters are some of the most absorbing and terrifying stories in the Hebrew Bible. Both men and women receive and inflict violence. Near the end of the book a priestly Levite chops up his wife and sends a slab of her dismembered body to each of the Twelve Tribes. The book ends in total chaos, a chaos that the editor uses as a plea for a dynasty of Hebrew Kings. Not only does the narrator point to there being no king in Israel, he asserts each man did what was right in his own eyes. Chapter 19 illustrates what is right in the eyes of men as a father offering his daughter, and a husband his wife, to a predatory mob.”

  Philippa has her Bible open and her hand up. “The woman isn’t a wife, she is a concubine. And it says in verse two the concubine played the whore against him.”

  Kat notices a twitch in her cheek. She brings a soothing hand to her face. Is she soothing or hiding, she asks herself? The Old Testament is packed with prostitution, every other woman is whoring herself to stay alive or to effect some small advantage. I am just one whore in an eternity of whoredom. She turns her head to make sure Jen isn’t picking up on her uneasiness. No, Jen is totally fixed on the tension unfolding between Sarai and Philippa — Sarai loves giving the girl grief. Kat’s thoughts turn to the word whore. It has such a demeaning and filthy sound. Occasionally clients use the word when they want to talk dirty and she has always been happy to play along: it’s their time, they’re paying for it.

  “Ms Tombs if you could be weaned from the Authorized Version to the New Revised Standard Version as this course requires, you would see the word whore is a mistranslation. The Hebrew word is correctly given as angry. As for concubine the word does not imply mistress as you suggest, but wife. In a polygamist society one woman becomes head wife of the household, and the others secondary wives.” Sarai’s eye sweeps the room. For a moment Jen feels her gaze pause on her. What is she trying to tell me? Would she be Wilkin’s top wife? Clearly if this was a polygamist society Wilkin would have many wives — he can afford them, and that was the prerequisite. Plenty of women admire Wilkin, some openly flirt with him. Jen reminds herself how lucky she is that Wilkin is a moral fortress. But in a polygamist society he would have taken a child-bearing wife as soon as she proved herself unable. The younger, hotter bride would bear children and instantly become the top wife — she would be a lower wife, or, as the translation says, the concubine. She feels her cheeks warming and can’t stop the physical reaction that relates to anger and pain, and maybe humiliation.

  “This story is not one you will hear in church. It never appears among the lectionary readings. It is a tale of atrocities.” Sarai’s gaze travels each row and returns to Philippa. “Regardless of status or relationship, is it right that any woman be raped and tortured?” Philippa flushes an angry red. Sarai pauses. “Perhaps role-playing will evoke some empathy. Ms Tombs please come to the front. You will select the players. Which woman would you prefer to be, concubine or virgin daughter?”

  No one is surprised when Philippa opts for the virgin daughter.

  “And likely to stay that way,” mutters Kat to Jen.

  “Now,” continues Sarai, “find a father for your virgin self.”

  Reluctantly, Philippa nominates Jake.

  “Father, go over there and hoe your fields. Daughter, stand behind the desk,” instructs Sarai. “The desk is your house. The doorway is at the far end, marked by the dish. Now, choose a Levite husband. He has a servant and three donkeys but we will manage without them. A husband please.”

  The curl of Philippa’s mouth suggests there’s not much choice.

  “Make sure you choose a hottie for my concubine, I have a reputation to maintain,” retorts Steve, as he strolls to the front.

  “He’s a tiger for punishment,” whispers Jen to Kat, remembering his humiliating role in the Manoah and Wife lecture.

  “An incurable show-off,” Kat replies.

  Philippa’s eyes rove the room and stop on Kat.

  “Ms Mergagh. An excellent choice, don’t you agree, Mr Paul?” says Sarai, nodding Kat forward. “You two stand on that side of the room.” Sarai turns to the class. “The story goes like this. A young secondary wife became angry with her husband and returned to her father’s house. Such independent action invited punishment as it threatened patriarchy. The text refers to the young woman as a girl, and describes the girl’s father as coming with joy to welcome his son-in-law into his house. We need a father. Ms Finley perhaps you would be so kind,” says Sarai, looking at Rochelle, who is sitting nearest to the front. “Your job,” informs Sarai, “is to entreat the Levite and his servant to stay for the night. Miming is all we require.”

  Rochelle throws herself into the role with enthusiastic bowing and handshaking. As Sarai describes the scene Rochelle motions where to tie the donkeys and where to sleep, then serves invisible food and wine. “The hospitality continued for days,” Sarai explains. “On the fifth day the Levite attempts to leave but his father-in-law plies him with more food and wine, insisting he be fortified for the journey. When they do depart it is late in the day. The text says nothing of a touching goodbye between father and daughter but we can pretend it happened.”

  Rochelle embraces Kat and waves, dabbing her eyes. “Mr Paul and Ms Mergagh, please trek back and forth across the room indicating a long journey. When it is dark the travellers stop in a public square, as was the custom of those seeking shelter. An old man, that’s you, Mr Jones, returning from work in the fields, offers hospitality. Take them home with you and have your daughter wash their feet and prepare a meal.” Philippa wrinkles her nose and makes a few half-hearted gestures.

  “As they were enjoying food and wine some men of the town gathered around the house and began knocking on the door, saying, ‘Bring out your guest so we may have sex with him.’ Yes,” says Sarai, looking at the class, “such behaviour was not confined to Sodom and Gomorrah. The rabbl
e would carry flaming torches and be armed with anything they could lay their hands on, sticks or knives and maybe an axe or two. The old man remonstrates with the mob, saying, ‘No, my brothers, do not do this thing. I have a virgin daughter and my guest has a concubine, do what you will with them instead’. What would that feel like?” Jen tunes in to the vision and feels a chill as the father’s words sink in. The play has ceased being a half-hearted exercise and becomes a vivid illustration. She cannot imagine any man she knows participating in such a hideous atrocity. Sarai flings her arms to the seated students. “Be those men, stand and shout.”

  Sarai shouts, “Come out! Come out, or we will burn your house down.” The students gradually respond to Sarai’s orchestration. “Enough!” she silences, thumping the lectern with her right hand, her left indicating sit.

  “The old man buried his head in his hands but the Levite grabbed his wife and pushed her through the door.” She nods at Steve, who mimes the action with more enthusiasm than is needed. Kat scowls and stands rigid on the other side of the ‘door’.

  “She was sufficient for the mob,” continues Sarai. “They took the young woman and raped her all through the night. When the light of morning glowed on the horizon her abusers departed. The woman staggered to the door and fell before it with her arms outstretched, her hands just touching the threshold. Ms Mergagh if you would be so obliging.”

  Kat looks as if she may refuse but Sarai holds her gaze and Kat submits, prostrating herself before the desk, her hands reaching to the imaginary door.

  “The woman is dead, murdered,” announces Sarai. “Behold her.” Sarai steps down and stands beside Kat and gestures dramatically. “She is a lamb sacrificed to the appetites of men.”

  Unlike Jen, Kat is not caught up in the vision. She hates this kind of attention, and if she has to be up in front of the class she would certainly not choose to be playing the poor bitch who got raped to death. Why did I get this role? Although it was Philippa’s choice she feels sure that somehow Sarai engineered it. She blows a clump of dust away from her face. God I hope I don’t sneeze down here. That would just cap it off. A collective gasp from the class causes Kat to look up. Sarai is holding the silver meat-dish cover, revealing a raw leg of lamb.

  “You are dead, stay dead,” Sarai orders and continues narrating. “The Levite placed his murdered wife over a donkey and continued on his way.” Sarai stands above Kat and looks scornfully down on her. Jen jumps from engaged to alarmed. There is something crazy in Sarai’s eye. She has passed through role-play into role possession. With two purposeful steps she moves from the prostrated corpse to her lectern. Every face in the room freezes as she pulls a tomahawk from the lower shelf. Her face is stone. Her eyes challenge the class to speak. Not a murmur is heard. Sarai runs a hand down the shaft of the tool. There is something unnervingly male in her projection. Sarai’s voice becomes a controlled bellow, “When he arrived home he took his axe …” She strides back to Kat, “and dismembered the body, dividing it into twelve pieces.” She is holding the tomahawk with both hands. Mouths drop and eyebrows meet hairlines as Sarai swings her weapon beside Kat’s outstretched arms. Jen and Philippa scream in unison as the blade falls. It severs the leg of lamb.

  Kat springs to her feet. “Jesus! You’re crazy.” There is a rage in her voice that Jen has never heard.

  Philippa has her hands over her face. Sarai motions the other players to return to their places. They do so in stunned silence. Unperturbed, Sarai takes a tissue and wipes the blade of her axe, talking as she does so. “You found some feeling for the victim, Ms Tombs.” It is a statement not a question. “The twelve portions of human flesh were delivered to each of the twelve tribes. They also discovered feelings of outrage and civil war erupted.” She puts the axe in her jute bag. “The world of MEN is always one tiny step away from chaos, violence, and war — one tiny step,” she says, and exits, ignoring the severed pieces of lamb, dish, and chopping block.

  “Mint sauce, anyone?” Steve calls, ending the stunned silence. The room hums with disbelief and outrage.

  “It seems we are not invited for our Tuesday cuppa today,” says Jen to Kat.

  “I wouldn’t go,” returns Kat. “She’s a mad bitch.”

  “She did give me a fright,” concedes Jen, “but it was a great lesson.”

  Kat isn’t listening; her eyes are fastened on the chopping block. “Come on,” says Jen, “she’s just trying to engage us, you know, reach the Philistines, that was …” Jen pauses.

  “Shit!” supplies Kat.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Fish adjusts the angle of his trilby as he passes the goddess water feature beside the front path. She is an interesting woman, he conveys telepathically to the brass toad, as he drops its warty nose onto its webbed feet. Pauline responds in seconds. She has been waiting with anticipation since his phone call 30 minutes ago.

  The large table is bare, waiting to receive the canvas. Fish unrolls it with a mix of care and showmanship. Above the hills of Akaroa two women ride a broom in similar poses to the Lancashire witches, but these faces convey delight. The older woman is clad in traditional witch gear. The pointed hat is set at a jaunty angle. Beneath its brim streams dark hair streaked with grey. The younger woman wears a mini-skirt and boots. Her amber locks fluff around a pretty face.

  Pauline throws her arms round Fish in an impulsive hug. “It is perfect,” she declares.

  “I’m glad you like it,” he says, returning the squeeze.

  Pauline hastily extracts herself and takes another look at the painting. “The young woman, she reminds me of someone. Did you have someone in mind when you did it?”

  Fish shrugs. “Not really, young women are pretty generic.”

  Pauline’s eyes flick to the canvas and back to his face. She holds him in a steady look. “I think this is a particular young woman.”

  “Does she have a name?”

  “Katrina, she is a waitress.”

  A pause threatens to betray the artist’s surprise but he controls his features, rolling his mouth to another question. “You’re happy with the painting?”

  “Yes, very happy, but I would like to know why Katrina is in my painting.”

  “First things first, let’s get business out of the way. You said you would pay in cash.”

  “I did, and here it is.” Pauline takes a wad of notes from her purse and counts out the agreed price.

  Fish writes a receipt from an off-the-shelf receipt book. They shake hands.

  “OK, you’ve caught me fair and square. I did have a particular woman in mind. That waitress, Katrina, happens to be my daughter.”

  Pauline sinks to a chair. “Your daughter?”

  “Yes, we’d lost touch. Haven’t seen her in years, then I came across her recently but she doesn’t want to know me.”

  His look of sadness is eloquent. The restaurant incident comes flooding back to Pauline. “Oh Fish, how awful for you.”

  “I can understand it. I’m not the world’s best father.”

  “Let me make you a nice cup of tea.” In Pauline’s world a nice cup of tea can mitigate most situations.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Ben glowers through his speckled windscreen at the gleaming grey car parked opposite. Him again! On a Wednesday! Has he been coming regularly on a Wednesday? He thinks not. Ben hates to think of other men with Amber, but particularly that man. At first it had been his appearance — successful and handsome, a suited businessman probably at the peak of his career, everything he isn’t. A man like that would have a wife. If I had a wife I would never cheat on her, Ben thinks for the umpteenth time. He acknowledges his feelings toward ‘The Suit’ have ranged from envy through judgemental to disgust.

  For a while Ben had developed almost obsessive thoughts about the man: did Amber give him more time than she gave Ben? One Friday evening in summer he timed The Suit’s visit. He knew it was pathetic but he had reading to do, the motel car park was quiet and as good a place as any. T
he Suit did have a longer appointment than his. Why? What did he get up to with Amber? Who is he? Ben relives the saga with embarrassment. He had got out of his car to record the number plate of the grey car. One thing Ben excelled at was finding information. As he jotted down the number he heard something, a sharp human noise. It could have been a cry of pain. It came again. He’d dashed back to his car and pulled his digital from the compartment between the front seats. He had no plan but a camera was the only weapon he had. He hovered near the bedroom window for several minutes but heard nothing. Then he heard a door clack shut. Guilt-filled he dropped behind a bush and had a perfect view of The Suit and his briefcase returning to the car.

  The next Friday Ben armed his Toyota with his large camera and telescopic lens. Despite not having an appointment he pulled into the motel car park. The grey beast was there. It was not easy for Ben to put his morals on hold, but The Cheat, as he’d now begun to call him, was married and happened to work in Ben’s father’s company. Ben’s father might be retired but he is still a partner. His father’s grandfather had founded the company.

  “Those who eavesdrop live to regret it,” his mother used to say. Ben banished her words and quashed the niggle that conveyed Peeping Toms are in a category so low his mother would not consider a warning necessary. Amber always kept the bedroom curtains closed. All he could hope for was a lounge shot, hardly ‘compromising’.