~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
1.25 pm
Wilkin strides through the foyer on a collision course with a woman. He stops dead. He knows this woman — the cleaning lady. “Mabel!” he ejaculates, unable to keep the shock from his voice. Why is she here? Was Mabel the only person Jen could reach in her hour of need? Before he can form a coherent sentence Mabel speaks.
“Wilkin, you look terrible. Tut-tut-tut,” she scolds. “I’m sure you don’t get enough sleep. I suppose you’re here to join Jennifer and her friend?”
“F-f-friend?” stutters Wilkin.
“Don’t look so worried, the young lady is well and so is her baby.”
Wilkin wants to shake her. It is all he can do not to grab her, pull her face up to his and scream into it. He is momentarily grateful that he is holding a bag. “Who … who, what are you talking about?”
Mabel shrugs her shoulders. Wilkin is the type of man she holds in contempt but she has made a career out of playing the right role for her customers and isn’t thrown by this bizarre barrage. She moves past him, offering a softer tone. “Things are fine, Wilkin. They’re in wing C, ah … Room nine, if my memory serves me. Jen is there with her friend, go and see for yourself,” she says, turning toward the main doors.
“Mabel!” Wilkin shrieks and manages to check himself in time to moderate his tone for the vital question. “Has Jen had the baby?”
“Good God, Wilkin,” Mabel wears a bemused expression but doesn’t explore the bizarre question. “It’s not Jen’s baby. Jen’s friend has had a baby.” The automatic doors close behind her.
Halfway to wing C Wilkin is sufficiently aware to recognise he is in a mess. He tracks through the events that have contributed to this state. His mentor has turned on him. Ralph used to say Wilkin was like a son to him. The changed status is because Ralph’s globe-trotting prodigal has returned. In the past 48 hours Wilkin has gone from the charismatic, unquestionable leader of SUS to the guy against the odds. In fact, he realises, feeling a squeeze of his lungs, there will be a sweepstake on his career right now. The young bulls that are the powerhouse of the business will be taking bets on his survival. Young Stopforth, now not so young, unexpectedly back from an extended OE, will be doing deals all over town, soliciting support, lobbying clients and buying favours, using every trick Ralph has taught him. The tide is turning.
And … he has failed a test from God and consequently nearly killed a child by a graveyard. Is his own perfect son about to be born or is death shadowing him through the grim corridors? Nothing is as it seems. Symbolism and extreme events are gathering to biblical proportion. Is an Old Testament abomination about to descend? The Devil has visited him twice already this day. Is he going mad? Pressure is clouding his mind. He pauses and looks up and down the empty corridor. If he is to face his destiny here, today, in this hospital, he needs to know where he stands spiritually. He has lived a pious and righteous life. Why would the Lord forsake him at this crucial time? It doesn’t make sense. Where are you, he calls inside his head, where … are you? Is he calling God or Satan? Whoever answers will answer for both.
An out of place fire hose catches his attention. The fitting is broken. A length of hose droops from the reel, untidy but of no consequence. He looks up from the hose, at the bright wall posters, and scans the ceiling. No divine message manifests from the acoustic tiles. His God-thoughts are interrupted by urgent footsteps, voices, and a squeaking sound. An ambulance trolley is pushed around the corner, travelling at speed and surrounded by a group in diverse uniforms. It is clear an emergency is erupting before him. It is a sign. This is the sign! This sign will reveal his next step, his escape or salvation. What fate do I deserve? Wilkin asks himself and his Lord, mindful of his faithfulness to the one true God, unswerving devotion to church life, and morality in the community. Is he not living as God intended?
“Stop!” snaps a voice. “Stop pushing. The meth is bad enough, but she mixed it with god-knows-what. She will injure herself or us before we reach a stomach pump.” Two nurses and a police officer fling themselves over the flailing body. Wilkin’s blank mind fills with one word, possessed. He does not believe in spiritual possession, well, not in present times. In normal circumstances he would consider such thinking utterly pathetic. The twitching, heaving body is completely out of control. Possessed! The medic in charge is wrestling a wrist into submission. “We’ll have to restrain her. We’re not going anywhere till she’s secure.”
They are only a few paces from Wilkin. He hears the click of the police officer handcuffing a wrist to the bed. He tastes the fury of the situation. The adrenaline leaps from them to him, instantaneous transferral. With the adrenaline comes something else, something smooth and familiar.
“For God’s sake get the legs secured.”
The patient kicks. Her skirt flies up and a long leg performs a violent arabesque. It is sublime, perfect. A strong hand grabs the shapely ankle. The scene moves into slow motion, Wilkin watches spellbound as the uniformed male smashes the limb back to the stretcher. The flying leg is captured and about to be tamed. The nurse reaches for the straps and the errant limb almost kicks free. The medic grasps ankle and foot with two hands. In Wilkin’s mind the moment elongates like the final note of an aria. The masculine hand slides from ankle. He hears the woman moan as the grip travels her slender calf muscles. The strong fingers reach the knee and push down. The woman responds by jolting her chin skyward and arching her back.
Wilkin’s mouth drops, air caresses his hot lips as he inhales. The nurse’s hand halts on the naked knee, Wilkin’s eye continues up the thigh. The distinct thwack of the securing bind is a sound he has produced. His shoulder blades twitch and his head lowers in aching pleasure. His pupils widen, honing in on the restrained limbs that thrash in torment and can’t break free. The she-devil is secured, tamed, owned by those who have bound her. Her struggle is for their pleasure, for his pleasure. His erection strains at the restraint of his own belt. In another setting it would be removed in an instant.
The scene that arrived so suddenly disappears as fast. A female nurse takes a second look at Wilkin they rush past. He reads fear, loathing — and disgust? It excites him further. It is good to dominate wild women, to own and control them, to bind and use them. It is what God intended. He licks his lips and sees an apple on a poster advertising healthy eating. An eye twitch lodges and draws his head to the left. From the floor rises a serpent that becomes the phallic appendage of a wild beast then morphs to a bondage tie, and back to a serpent. The grotesque snake rises to the ceiling and looks down on Wilkin. Its steel head speaks. “All is for you, Wilkin. They were created for you.”
Wilkin shakes uncontrollably. His vibrating head sends cracking sounds through his neck and humming in his ears. When the convulsions stop he refocuses on the snake. It hangs passive and lifeless, disguised as a fire hose. For the second, or is it third time today, he has to force his body into action. He pulls himself forward by the handrail that runs the length of the corridor until he can walk unaided. Satanic visitations will have to wait. Wilkin Hawthorne is on a mission.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Pauline navigates her way to the staff cark-park and texts Shirley. Her nurse friend emerges from the staff exit carrying a basket. “Here’s the wrap you wanted,” she says. Pauline glances in the basket, murmurs her thanks and departs.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
1.30 pm
Ben figures getting a park at the hospital is always pot-luck. Sundays are probably a big visiting day and sure enough the parking lot is crammed. Doing a second lap he rolls his eyes at the behemoth covering one and a half handicap parks. Wait a minute! He shifts his foot to the brake. Not wanting to believe his eyes he jolts the stick shift into reverse. The Toyota angrily submits to his will. “It can’t be!” The words come through clenched teeth. His eyes smart as he stares at the grey Chrysler. “The Cheat,” he mutters. “The Pervert,” he hisses. “The Cheating Pervert is here.” Wilkin Hawthorne is seeing his
ex-concubine? The Pervert is visiting his deviant! A groan rises from Ben’s diaphragm. What the hell is he doing here? Amber isn’t interested in old clients. She’s moved on from that part of her life. She said everyone from it is history. Is the Pervert the exception? Is she so entrenched in whoredom that she will share the most sacred event of her life with him?
Aggravated honking shakes Ben back to reality. Shouting emitting from a beat-up Holden in his mirror prompts him to pull over. Maybe, the Pervert is here uninvited? Maybe, he has turned up unannounced and unwanted. Ben steels himself, there is no point dreaming up scenarios, he must find the truth. Go and face whatever the truth is.
Two cars simultaneously pull out of parks. Ben points his Toyota into one and within a minute is slouching through the automated doors. The signs to maternity are easy to follow, and a blessing — he is in no mood to ask directions from fearsome women behind desks. He moves stealthily. If the Pervert is with Amber he will get a read on the situation before making his presence known. This is one encounter he intends to manage and control. He will call the shots. His father’s sense of purpose wakes from his DNA, courses through his veins, and he squares his shoulders. Ben feels his spine expand as he stands tall. He feels like a man.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen considers, uttering the words thoughtfully, “Grace, or Eden?” Her clasped hands rest on the white pillow beside the head of her friend. Kat lies flat, hands at her sides and head tilted to Jen. “You can’t shorten Grace,” offers Jen. “There is no nickname for Grace.”
“You can extend it though,” returns Kat. “Gracie.”
“Eden could go to Edie, or Ed.”
Both chuckle. Kat winces. “Sutures,” she explains. “Having the old puku surgically sewn up puts a new light on being in stitches.”
They are blissfully happy. It is a beautiful day. The baby is stable and a good weight for one born early. Even so the specialist wants to check her more thoroughly. The nurse who wheeled the crib away said the specialist is vigilant about jaundice in early-borns and he may decide she needs light treatment. Kat and Jen couldn’t detect a hint of yellow but are pleased the specialist is so careful. Both women have engaged with the baby’s innocence, felt and smelt her soft grasping beauty. Jen can understand why Mary was moved to utter the Magnificat. Kat is sore and uncomfortable but on a high. They chat about names and future dreams for their infants. Jen stands and collects a bunch of flowers by the bed. “I noticed a little room with a sink and some vases down the corridor. I’d better get something for these before they die of thirst.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
1.35 pm
Wilkin barges around a corner to maternity reception. Wing C. He spins twice, making sense of the signs, forcing his eyes to focus and his brain to engage. He can’t remember the room number. He strides into the corridor labelled C and barrels into the first room. Empty. Wilkin swats at a curtain and pushes it back to be sure. He checks the room opposite with the same result. The next room discloses a woman sobbing, she is too distraught to notice him. Behind a curtain in the fourth room a startled woman looks up from the baby at her breast.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Ben arrives at maternity reception. No one is in attendance. Despite the full car park this part of the hospital is not exactly swarming with visitors. As he orients himself an athletic young man appears carrying a bunch of flowers. He is wearing a red and black backpack and looks vaguely familiar — a sporting celebratory perhaps? The magnificent specimen of manhood wears a grim expression as he strides into the corridor. Ben refocuses on how to approach Katrina Mergagh. Fools rush in where angels fear to tread. A recce is required. He reaches over the high counter, extracts the waiting clipboard, skims the list of names and checks the wall-mounted floor plan, returning it hastily at the sound of excited young voices. A father holding a box of chocolates heads a train of three small children, each clutching large homemade cards. He doesn’t have anything. Not even strawberries. Why is he so useless? Don’t fold now, his father’s DNA chastises. A floral-topped cleaning woman emerges from a side corridor. Ben steps back to make space for her mop and bucket. She bustles past and exits through a door marked Staff only. He moves to the door. Through the glass panel the cleaner treks a path alongside the maternity rooms. She re-enters a similar door at the far end of the wing. Ben glances around the reception space. It remains empty. Rooms come off C Wing from both sides. Kat’s room is at the very end. How appropriate that she has a special location. Ben pushes the door but it remains shut. He notices a ‘door release’ button, pushes it, and the locking mechanism disengages. He steps through the staff exit buoyed on a wave of pride and love. Whatever he finds in C7 he will address from a place of love. Love and strength, he tells himself. Then it hits him — hospitals are security conscious! He has probably just locked himself outside. He turns back to the staff door and sure enough it is immovable, fixed by a small grid of numbers. Idiot, he curses himself, walking away to check the door at the other end of the wing.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
1.40 pm
Wilkin stares at the breast-feeding woman. Slowly he gathers his wits and forms a word, “Sorry.” Blundering out he adds, “Sorry, wrong room.” A movement in the corridor catches his eye. A figure walking with the gait of a pregnant woman. It is Jen. She still conveys the confidence of good breeding and education. Her legs remain slender and toned. Her hair gleams as it swings. He falls into step behind her. She enters the room at the end of the wing. Who or what lies beyond the angled door? His pace slows but doesn’t stop, he is going in. He will face whatever devil or angel awaits him.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Ben pushes at the identical exterior door and, wonder of wonders, it moves. There must be something wrong with the mechanism! Through the gap he sees a room containing buckets and vases. He looks past his door-pushing hand into the corridor and sees the Cheat. He and the pervert have arrived at the same time! Suave, confident, powerful, handsome, successful Hawthorne is the man who has used his beloved. The Cheat personifies everything he lacks. It is the ultimate slap in the face. Ben’s hand slips from the door and the door pushes back at him. Its intent to close is greater than his intent to enter. It swings heavily, hitting his head as he turns to go. He stands rubbing his head, his shoulders slump, he is a defeated man.
The tree to the right of the door is thick with broad leaves. Through it an open window is just visible. Kat’s window? Ben hears a door slam. Kat’s door? A roar travels from the window through the leaves and beyond. “YOU LYING WHORE!” The outburst begins with power and cuts off. Ben tears at the leaves. Pouring himself into a maze of spiky branches he has a view through the window. It is a frozen tableau. Clearly, the Cheat was not expected. Kat is in the bed and standing beside her is another woman, a girlfriend, not a working girl. This woman dresses like Ben’s sisters, a lady of class. The Cheat stands in front of the closed door, grasping a sports bag. The tension from the room pulses through the window, through Ben and the tree. Silence is followed by bedlam. The woman screams the Cheat’s name. The Cheat looks like he may explode. His face is red. His eyes are red. His veins make ridges down his temples. He jerks out, “Why are you here?” he says. Kat looks from the woman to the Cheat, covers her face with trembling hands and starts to cry. She begins with a sob that erupts into gasping wailing. The other woman reels back from the bed as if it were electrified. Her golden hair flows like the mane of a lion.
“You sluuuuuuut!” It rings from her as discordant as a burglar alarm at close quarters. “You traitorous, heartless whore … my Wilkin?”
Could the screaming woman be Hawthorne’s wife? Kat manages a word. “Arthur?” She says it in half question, half accusation.
“ARTHUR?” yells the woman. “This is WILKIN!” She rounds the end of the electric bed, brings her arm back and strikes the man’s face. Not a slap. The woman strikes with a tight-closed fist. Unbeknown to Ben, it is the result of three years of boxing cardio training and the explosion of a
cornered pregnant woman at the end of her mind’s capacity. The sound is surreal. The thwack bounces off the glass, squeezing his chest. The punch bloodies Hawthorne’s nose. He lunges forward, his right arm rising to a fist. His wife’s scream becomes a sob, Kat’s sob becomes a scream. “YOUR BABY!” she shrieks at Hawthorne. “She’s carrying your baby!” A moment of uncertain sanity stills the room. The primate fingers uncurl and clutch a swathe of blonde hair. The woman lashes again, her nails tearing lines down his face. He clasps at his face. The released woman spits like a cornered cat then springs toward the door. She wrenches it open then glares at Kat. “You whoring bitch, how could …”
Kat sobs back, “I didn’t know, I didn’t know. God Jen, I didn’t know.”
“How could you degrade my husband with your … your … filth!”
The Cheat still holds the bag. He fingers his face with his free hand then gazes at the blood dripping to the white of his shirt cuff. His wife addresses him. “You, ahhhhhhh,” words fail, no name is sufficient. She gathers herself. “Your child waits inside me, your gift from God is in this womb.” She grasps her stomach. “And your bastard devil-spawn sleeps down the hall.” She gesticulates wildly. Hawthorne’s body tenses but the action comes from his wife. Vomit gushes, no pause, gulp or gasp just a torrid explosion from the woman’s mouth. The woman’s disgust, disbelief and horror manifest in a vile eruption. Ben has never seen anything like it.
Kat continues to sob. “I’m sorry, Jen. I didn’t know who he was.” Jen rips a hand towel from the wall and disappears.
“YOU!” roars Hawthorne, turning to the cowering Kat. “You brought the devil into my life.”
Ben flinches as Kat flinches. She is terrified. Ben can feel it from the darkness of his hiding place. He is a cowering child, a pathetic, impotent eavesdropper.
League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul Page 37
