Mad Men, Bad Girls

by Maggie Groff

  Toby and I have been together for almost ten years, having met shortly after I separated from my ex-husband, Rob. It may come as a surprise, and I have no idea why I’m telling you this, but I’ve only ever had two lovers, Toby and Rob. I realise this is a modest record by modern standards, and I like to think that I’ve made up for my lack of experience by having had a rather spectacular start.

  I was eighteen and at university studying journalism when I fell in love with Rob. Six months later I was pregnant with twins and marching up the aisle in a dress with an elasticated waist. Our beautiful daughters, Tasha and Niska, both now in their mid-twenties, were born shortly after I turned nineteen. The marriage lasted fifteen mostly happy years but Rob and I grew apart—too much, too soon, some have said, that ‘some’ being my mother.

  I drew another line to another box on the whiteboard and in the box wrote Call Dr Dan in NY.

  Chairman Meow had disappeared under my desk and I could hear him scuffling around, beating whatever he’d found into submission. A few moments later he emerged from his adventure with a large ball of orange wool in his mouth.

  ‘So that’s where it went,’ I said, grabbing hold of him and untangling the wool. ‘You naughty boy, we looked everywhere for that ball after the meeting. It’s evidence, you know.’

  It still amazed me that at our last GKI meeting not one of the members, myself included, had considered the creative possibilities of leaving Chairman Meow under a table with several baskets of wool. The member whose tag is Old Blood and Guts had shrieked with delight when she found the Chairman, bound in a veritable cat’s cradle of coloured wool, fast asleep in her knitting basket.

  For her tag, Old Blood and Guts borrowed the nickname of General George S Patton (sounds like pattern) and not, as you might think, from her profession, which is general surgeon at a Brisbane hospital.

  Putting the ball of orange wool into a desk drawer, I turned my attention back to the cult and, in an inspired move, registered with an American consumer protection website, then typed the cult’s long-winded name into the search box. And bingo!

  The good news was that I now had access to reliable information about the cult gathered by recognised authorities.

  The bad news was the information.

  And the word Danger! which was flashing in large red font next to the cult’s name.

  Chapter 3

  I was in a quandary. Sort of. It bothered me to think of foreign maniacs indoctrinating innocent Australians with their doom-laden cult teachings or, as Brian had called it, dodgy derring-do. Part of me, though (the mean nasty part), was secretly thrilled. If the cult was in Australia, the dodgier the derring-do, the more grist I had for a story. It was a conundrum with which I was not entirely uncomfortable or unfamiliar.

  I lifted Chairman Meow onto my lap and stroked him while reading the web page.

  The Luminous Renaissance of Illustrious Light uses the classic technique of isolating followers from their families and the outside world before brainwashing them into an unshakable faith in the charismatic leader.

  Hmmm, sounded like boarding school. My old headmistress, Miss Bush, ruled the school drama club with an iron rod, and she could rival any cult in the brainwashing stakes. I’d never forget Alison Yardley, who’d been chosen to play the part of a Roman senator because of her tight curls, fleeing from the stage wailing, ‘Miss Bush says I’ve got deformed follicles!’ Alison was inconsolable and wore a hat for the rest of the term. No doubt she was first in line when they invented hair straighteners.

  I read on.

  The self-styled leader of the cult is a middle-aged male with the fanciful name Heavenly Brother Excalibur. During a probationary period of shared joy and love, new recruits descend lower and lower into Heavenly Brother Excalibur’s shadowy world. A place where only true believers will be saved and civil authorities are to be feared.

  Good grief!

  A probationary period of shared joy and love? It wasn’t hard to imagine what that was all about. Potentially, this could be as harmless as sixties-style love-ins between consenting adults, or as deadly as the reported horrors visited upon women and children by David Berg and his sect known as the Children of God.

  A place where only true believers will be saved was also a concern. This was a familiar message preached, since time immemorial, by charismatic crazies who used powerful oratory, free love, acceptance, a roof over one’s head and a promise of spirituality to seduce the gullible into believing that they were the chosen ones who would ensure the survival of mankind. It reflected the preaching of the most dangerous—Jim Jones, David Koresh, Marshall Applewhite and Luc Jouret. And it always ended badly.

  Once indoctrinated, followers, having learned that simplicity and sacrifice are the path to real joy, prove their devotion to Heavenly Brother Excalibur by surrendering their life savings in exchange for acceptance and cosmic enlightenment.

  ‘Hey, Chairman Meow,’ I said, giving him a little shake. ‘Do you think the fear of loneliness and the need to belong is so strong that we’re prepared to believe anything to gain acceptance?’

  At the sound of his name, Chairman Meow looked up at me. He had a stoned expression on his face—I think the question was too hard.

  As well as the whiteboard, I also create mental images to help me isolate and categorise components of a story—a type of optical filing system, if you like. For this current task I pictured a carpenter’s spirit level, with one end representing dangerous cults and the other end harmless gatherings. The bubble in the middle I kindly allocated to mainstream religions.

  Starting at the harmless end, I imagined the benign group of people in America called the First Presleyterian Church of Elvis the Divine, many of whose members believed that Elvis was a messenger from God. They were, by all accounts, an inoffensive bunch of happy folk doing no harm to anyone, but their very existence demonstrated a need by some for an escape from reality. Their mantra—No Elvis, No Peace. Know Elvis, Know Peace—was a clever wordplay and, if one day I was on the edge of reality and all shook up enough to join a cult, this would be the one I’d go for. Sorry Elvis, they made me say it.

  At the other end of the spirit level I placed the doomsayers and apocalypse preachers, most notably the Reverend Jim Jones who I’d previously researched in 1998 for an article on the twentieth anniversary of the Jonestown massacre. I shuddered as I thought about the twelve hundred faithful disciples who followed Jones to Guyana to prepare for doomsday, believing they would all live equally under Christ in the Promised Land. Altogether, over nine hundred souls died on that fateful November day—many voluntarily swallowed a concoction of potassium cyanide and tranquillisers, and the rest were shot by fellow cult members. Jones and his wife were among the dead.

  Maybe Jones believed his own rhetoric. Who knows? Certainly, some high-ranking American politicians thought he was above board, as Jones even managed a ride on the vice-presidential campaign jet. I’m sure the Democrats have buried this information in the ‘Bad Moves’ file, so I’d be grateful if you’d keep it to yourself.

  Tapping my pen on the desk, I pondered where on the imaginary spirit level Heavenly Brother Excalibur’s activities fell, though I didn’t ponder for long. The flashing red Danger! sign was clearly indicating the bad end, so I introduced Excalibur to the other mad men.

  Following links within the website, I found several articles from New York newspapers. The extracts, for the most part, alerted parents to the dangers of the cult and Heavenly Brother Excalibur’s hypnotic powers. One headline screamed, LOCK UP YOUR DAUGHTERS! I’m not sure, but the irony of this may have been lost on small-town America.

  One journalist, possibly confusing cult members with respectable Amish women, wrote that female disciples had old-fashioned hairstyles and shapeless long blue dresses. Many, he thought, were aged in their thirties, and most were pregnant. This was off the top of my head but I was guessing that was why the dresses were shapeless. Duh!

  Reminder to Scout: You
must not be cynical. It was hard, though.

  The same journalist noted that children from the cult attended local schools. This grabbed my attention as cults generally kept children close to home where they could be indoctrinated into the belief system from an early age. Why risk family secrets being exposed to classmates? Every kid I’d ever met was a blabbermouth, except my own little darlings, of course. This was something definitely worth following up.

  It was time to make more notations on the whiteboard. I settled Chairman Meow on the old Windsor chair and then drew another nine boxes on the whiteboard with connecting lines to the central box. Inside each box I recorded a piece of information—Heavenly Brother Excalibur, shared joy and love, true believers saved, civil authorities feared, sacrifice path to real joy—I stopped, spun on my heels and pointed at Chairman Meow.

  ‘Have you been paying attention? Tell me, what goes in the next box?’

  Startled by my sudden movement, Chairman Meow shook himself, which I took to mean that he didn’t know. Amused, I quickly filled in the remaining boxes—NY papers, long blue dresses/old-­fashioned hair, kids attend local schools and, lastly, cosmic enlightenment. I took a step back and examined the whiteboard. Unfortunately, it looked like an accident in a jigsaw factory.

  The remaining articles on the net consisted of jazzed-up offal—inferences of sexual peccadilloes, vague references to multiple wives and children and hints at extraordinary wealth. It was wishy-washy reporting, intended to titillate and shock, and I know because I’m good at that, too. To be on the safe side, I wrote plural marriage/polygamy on the whiteboard and drew a box around it. Neatly.

  By six o’clock I’d had enough of typing the cult’s tortuous name into search boxes and called it a day.

  ‘I’m missing something,’ I told Chairman Meow, knowing there was a relationship I should be searching for, a trait peculiar to cults and sects that might unearth an Australian connection.

  In my mind I could hear Toby saying, ‘For goodness sake, Scout, it’s as obvious as dog’s balls.’

  But I couldn’t see it.

  Neither could Chairman Meow.

  Chapter 4

  Type one diabetes picked me as the favoured child when I was five and I’ve had to inject myself with insulin ever since. It’s no big deal, except for the small fact that I could fall into a coma and die without medication. In order to stay alive and be well I have to keep my blood sugar level as stable as possible, and I do this by eating properly, exercising, testing my sugar level several times a day and giving myself insulin shots. It hasn’t been all bad. When I was a teenager the needles were useful for popping zits, and there was a certain street cred associated with having syringes in one’s schoolbag.

  Most diabetics I know use delivery pens to inject insulin these days, but I still use syringes and needles. If it ain’t broke don’t fix it, I say, although I really should change to pens. I’ll probably get around to it one day.

  After so many years I’m a trail-hardened cowpoke at the diabetic lark and once business was out of the way, and both Chairman Meow and I had eaten breakfast, I pulled on a swimsuit, shorts and a T-shirt and headed out onto Jonson Street.

  It was still early and Byron hadn’t put its teeth in yet. The streets were deserted apart from local walkers and delivery trucks—tourists tend not to be conscious in Byron until a little later. It was already bright and sunny with a light breeze wafting off the ocean, bringing with it the smell of bread from the bakery. I walked up Jonson Street, turned right onto Bay Street, across the park, and down onto the beach.

  The magic of Byron Bay never dulls. It’s simply the most spectacular stretch of coastline on planet Earth. Lord Byron, I’m sure, would have approved. A polished white lighthouse sits in charge of the dramatic headland, the most easterly point on the Australian mainland, and rugged cliffs drop down to pristine beaches where manta rays and giant turtles bask close to the shore.

  Today, dolphins were playing in the clear waters not far from the ribbon of perfect sand, and I took great pleasure in my oneness with nature, ignoring the all-night revellers who lay passed out on the beach. One can’t have everything.

  After a quick swim, I picked up the newspapers in town and was back at my desk by 8.30 am. At 8.31 Chairman Meow assumed his position as second banana in the old Windsor chair and promptly went to sleep.

  My ad was in both daily newspapers and now I just had to wait for a response. I switched on my computer and discovered that the internet was down, so I read the papers, intermittently checking to see if I was back online.

  For want of anything better to do, I propped my elbow on the desk, nestled my chin in the crook of my hand and stroked the side of my face with my forefinger. This is a standard thoughtful investigator pose and I use it a lot when the guys in the apartment across the street are on their verandah looking my way. They waved but I didn’t see them, seeing as I was so deep in thought.

  As soon as I was back online I checked my mail, hoping that Brian had scanned and sent the anonymous letter from his personal email.

  Nothing.

  On the off-chance the Luminous Renaissance of Illustrious Light was selling snake oil, I searched for outrageous claims to cure incurable diseases. There was way too much scary stuff, but nothing connected to my cult. I even scrutinised the archives of the American 60 Minutes, but drew a blank there, too.

  ‘Bugger!’

  Chairman Meow raised his head, looked at me and in a swift and agile move leapt across to my desk, landing on the keyboard and sending the computer screen wild. Gently, I picked him up, thanked him for his help and returned him to the Windsor chair. He smelled earthy with a hint of Whiskas—Cat No. 9.

  Apart from the data that I’d found yesterday, there wasn’t anything new. This was a Teflon cult—nothing was sticking, and there was nothing to support an Australian perspective. I’d found no reference to kidnapping the nation’s youth or dodgy derring-do, and aside from a mention of shared joy and love, and a hint at polygamy, there wasn’t a trace of deviant sex anywhere. It wasn’t looking good for Brian. Or me.

  My mobile phone rang and I didn’t recognise the caller’s number.

  ‘Yes?’ I answered warily.

  ‘I’m on the Gold Coast and I’m calling about the ad in today’s paper. Who are you?’ It was a woman’s voice, strained and mildly desperate.

  This amazingly quick response to my ad made me extra cautious, and I refrained from blurting out my name. Nor would I give it until I was absolutely certain that the person on the other end of the line wasn’t a cult member. Politely, I explained that I was researching the organisation, which was almost the whole truth.

  There was a long silence while I assumed she was absorbing what I’d said. I knew she was still there as I could hear her breathing.

  After what seemed an appropriate length of time, I asked, ‘Do you have any information on the Luminous Renaissance of Illustrious Light?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied.

  ‘Are you able and willing to share it with me?’

  There was another pause and I heard her swallow—hard.

  ‘They have my daughter,’ she said, and I could hear the tremor in her voice.

  Stunned, I was unsure what to say next, and all I could come up with was a rather pathetic, ‘Oh.’

  The woman started to sob, deep snorting sobs that made me feel useless and uncomfortable. I waited while the torrent subsided and I heard her blow her nose.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said finally, ‘it’s just, it’s just, you know . . .’

  ‘Please,’ I said, ‘I understand.’

  ‘My name is Marcia Sanderson. My daughter’s name is Matilda Wilding. At least, it was. It’s . . . it’s Eternal Shadow now.’ There wasn’t a hint of amusement in her voice and I refrained from comment.

  ‘How long has Matilda been with the group?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s a cult,’ she snapped, and her abruptness made me jump. For a brief moment her voice sound
ed familiar and, goodness knows why, I thought of pizza.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, fearful that any upset might cause her to hang up.

  ‘Matilda’s been with the cult for about three months,’ she said, sounding calmer. ‘They’re not called the Luminous Renaissance of Illustrious Light in Australia. Bacchus Rising is their name here, and they have a website.’

  Deciding that Marcia Sanderson was safe, I told her my name and that I was an investigative journalist researching a story. In response, she gave me her phone number and address at Burleigh Heads on the Gold Coast. We agreed that I would meet her there at 4 pm today. I then listened patiently while she provided directions, although I already knew the area well. We confirmed our appointment time and rang off.

  Yippee! Not only did I now have a connection between the cult and the Gold Coast, but my investigative antennae had also shot up and were vibrating madly at the mention of Bacchus. Here was the risqué Roman deity of wine and revelry and debauchery. The orgiastic deity of Bacchanalia. Naughty, naughty Bacchus.

  And good old dreaded Miss Bush, my school headmistress, and her explanation of the pleasure-loving behaviour of Bacchus and his followers—what had she called it? Oh, yes, ‘a sexual free-for-all of madness and ecstasy’. It had sounded great to a bunch of hormonal fourteen-year-old girls.

  The whole class had descended into helpless laughter when Miss Bush had stood in front of the slide projector and a giant staff with a large pine cone on the end, which she said represented the phallus of Bacchus, had appeared to emerge out of her left ear. It didn’t seem quite so funny now. Well, perhaps a bit. After class, I’d had to tell Sarah Bernie what a phallus was. It’s odd, isn’t it, what you remember?

  I know, I know. If there was a relationship between the use of Bacchus’s name and cult activities, this was terrible news for Marcia Sanderson, but great news for me. My readership was guaranteed and maybe Brian would have his wish for deviant sex after all.