by Maggie Groff
‘Three days is what the prof told us,’ Rafe said. ‘He assured us that by using certain techniques he could make us behave the way he wanted in three days, and from then it was a natural progression to make us believe what he wanted, too.’
Reading through my notes, and properly this time, I sensed Rafe watching me. It wasn’t unpleasant, and I couldn’t hold back a smile. He was obviously flirting, but I didn’t know if he was just playing or was really attracted to me.
‘Glad to have been able to help,’ Rafe said, picking up the fruit plate and offering me the last strawberry.
Hopelessly enjoying myself, I didn’t want to take the last anything, as I didn’t want this experience to end. Shaking my head, I continued my intense reading.
‘Scout?’ Rafe said, and his serious tone made me look up. Gold flecks danced in his deep blue eyes and for a second I was lost, imagining what it would be like to run my fingers through his dark curls. It simply wasn’t fair on a girl.
‘I owe you an apology.’ Rafe’s voice was like warm honey. He leaned across the table and took my hand. The moment he touched me a thousand butterflies took flight somewhere below my waist and I felt a sudden rush of heat between my legs.
‘I deeply regret referring to you as a floozy, I’m sorry,’ Rafe said, although I couldn’t be absolutely certain his regret was authentic.
Operating under normal conditions, I would have snatched my hand away and said, I should jolly well think so. But I didn’t. In fact, I was incapable of saying anything. I just stared at Rafe and left my hand where it was.
My common sense seemed to have abandoned me and I had no control over what was happening here, and I wasn’t sure if I was okay with it or not okay with it.
One thing I did know. It wouldn’t take Rafe three days to make me behave the way he wanted.
I was pretty certain he could do it in three hours.
Chapter 21
Who knows where our spur-of-the-moment rendezvous would have gone if Miranda hadn’t injured her hand on a carving knife in the kitchen? The cut was deep and it bled profusely, creating a modicum of panic.
People rushed to and fro barking orders at no one in particular until an attractive woman abandoned her breakfast and sprang into action. I could practically hear the theme tune from M*A*S*H as she moved everyone aside.
With impressive dexterity, she cleaned the wound and bound Miranda’s hand with an assortment of dressings from the first-aid box, added a bag of frozen peas and wrapped the whole creation in bandages. When she’d finished, Miranda’s hand looked like a giant white boxing glove.
‘I’m using the peas as a field-medicine ice pack,’ the woman explained to me when I looked sceptically at the frozen packet. ‘Keep this arm elevated, my dear,’ she told Miranda. Then the woman smiled becomingly at Rafe, preened her hair and asked him, ‘Would you bring a car, please, honey? This girl has to go to hospital. She’ll need stitches.’
I could tell from Honey’s sardonic grin that he’d registered the woman’s coquettish behaviour. He glanced at me and I quickly averted my gaze, unsure if his grin portrayed amusement that another female had fallen under his spell, or acknowledged tough luck that our little interlude had been interrupted. And, honestly, I didn’t know which explanation I would have preferred.
A short while later Rafe drove Miranda to the hospital in her old Datsun. He offered me a lift home, but I declined, telling him I wanted to walk. The real reason was that I needed to put some distance between Rafe and myself—I couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that I’d just been on a first date.
Taking the path along Lawson Street instead of the beach, I strolled towards town, mentally editing the incident in the café. Without doubt, the accident had generated an emotionally charged situation. Many people there, Rafe and myself included, knew the basics of how to stop the bleeding, but within seconds of the woman coming forward we’d all backed off and allowed a complete stranger to take charge. Whilst it was apparent that the woman was competent, none of us had considered asking for her professional credentials. We had accepted her in blind faith and obeyed orders without question.
In other words, I’d just witnessed first hand that people are susceptible to authoritative control when emotions are involved. In a minor way I was beginning to understand what Rafe had meant by cults targeting emotions not intellect.
Taking a shortcut through the Beach Hotel, I paid for Dave’s mojito and then picked up sliced ham, a couple of fruit tarts and a rockmelon in town.
When I arrived home, Chairman Meow greeted me by pouncing on my feet, weaving in and out of my legs and meowing loudly. I placed the groceries on the kitchen table and picked him up, making little tappy kisses between his ears. Then I chastised him for allowing me to leave home in a stained T-shirt and no makeup.
‘See it doesn’t happen again,’ I said, returning him to the floor and heading for the shower.
Dressed in my new black and gold swimsuit, and a black sarong, I made a watercress sandwich for lunch and tried to reflect on Rafe’s explanation of mind control, but it was no good—my subconscious kept taking my thoughts away from the issue at hand and in the direction of Rafe’s physique and those amazing eyes.
Since I’d met Toby there had been several men I’d found attractive, and with whom I’d flirted a little, especially at parties. However, those occasions had been harmless, and it had certainly never crossed my mind to take any action.
Despite my lack of experience, I knew that this full-throttle desire I was now experiencing for Rafe was quite different. And it was so strong that I doubted I had the personal armour to deflect an advance, should there be one. Also, I couldn’t dispel the feeling that even thinking about Rafe was being disloyal to Toby, who, let’s face it, I was in love with. No, there was nothing for it but to ensure my path didn’t cross Rafe’s again, and that I stopped daydreaming about him.
To take my mind off the situation, I took lunch into the bedroom and called my parents, Alex and Margo, who are both retired and live in Sydney. In between mouthfuls of sandwich we covered the usual preliminary subjects—yes, I was well, Harper and her family were well, the weather was great and I had work.
‘What’s wrong?’ my mother asked, her voice full of concern.
How do they know? I mean, HOW DO THEY KNOW?
‘Absolutely nothing, Mum.’
‘Is it your diabetes?’ she asked, knowing that I would tell her what was wrong rather than have her thinking there was a problem with my health.
‘Yes,’ I said cunningly.
‘No, it isn’t,’ she snapped.
‘How do you know?’
‘Harper would have called me.’
‘Oh.’
‘Is it money?’ she demanded.
I sighed. It was no good, I was going to have to tell her, otherwise she’d fret and drive my father up the wall with imagined scenarios. The power of mothers to extract information is unmatched in the western world, and I’m amazed the CIA hasn’t cottoned on to that.
‘Mum,’ I ventured, ‘have you ever been strongly attracted to another man other than Dad?’
‘You’ve seen your father, of course I have,’ she said, and it made me laugh, which I knew was her intention.
‘Mum, I don’t think I even like this man, at least I didn’t, but, oh Mum, he is so attractive.’
‘And Toby’s in Afghanistan?’
‘Yes.’
‘Scout,’ she said, her tone serious, ‘you must allow your heart to rule your life, not your head. Your heart will always do the right thing.’
‘Thanks, Mum,’ I muttered, although this advice was exactly what I’d expected as she’s seen The Sound of Music at least twenty times.
‘Dad and I are considering buying a cottage in the Blue Mountains,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘In Katoomba.’
‘That’s fun,’ I said, and fended off my mother’s propensity to ramble on about renovations in excruciating detail by changing the
subject myself. ‘Have you seen the girls?’
‘They were over for dinner on Wednesday. Niska looks great and she brought tiger prawns from the fish market. Tasha had dark bags under her eyes.’
‘To be expected,’ I told my mother, ‘for a young hospital doctor.’
‘Max is coming over today to change the oil in your father’s car.’ Max, Harper’s eldest, was the first grandchild and he and Dad have always loved messing about with engines together.
After a brief chat with my father, we said our goodbyes and I leaned back against the pillows and closed my eyes. It was comforting to know that my parents and children were keeping an eye on each other. They would all be coming north at Easter, a few weeks away. Max would go home to Harper’s, the twins would stay with me, and my parents had booked a holiday unit at the Lord Byron Resort, just down the road.
Trying not to wake Chairman Meow, who’d fallen asleep beside me, I eased myself off the bed and crept to the study. The guys in the apartment over the road were having an early beer on their verandah and they raised their glasses in response to my wave.
I checked my emails and, unfortunately, there was still nothing from Brian. Niska had emailed to say that she hadn’t recognised anyone in the photos, and yes she was up for Bollywood dancing. And, just to let me know, Tasha was going well at the hospital but looked like she hadn’t slept in a week, and best not to mention it.
Tasha’s response had been sent at two in the morning. She’d recognised both Marcia and Tildy as Gai and Matty. She went on to say that Matty hadn’t changed much since childhood, and she remembered Gai/Marcia clearly as they always had pizza when she stayed over at their house, and we never had it at home. Ah-ha! So perhaps that was why I’d thought of pizza when I’d first heard Marcia’s voice.
Maternal guilt.
Half an hour later, the back verandah looked like a very messy girls’ change room. I had extracted the four bras from Doreen and Beryl’s bag of ‘washing’, then randomly tossed the remaining clothing over the chairs and floor.
Rummaging through my underwear drawer I found four old pairs of sexy knickers that had more memories than serviceable fabric, and a threadbare pair of tights. I coupled the bras with the briefs and discarded them on the verandah in pairs, much as I imagined the Tattings girls would have done when changing for swim class. Casting the tights near one set of undies, I fetched a pair of scissors and a sports bag, placed the scissors in the sports bag and put the bag on one of the chairs. The stage was now set for my experiment.
I unlocked the back gate, which leads to the steps down to the back lane, and paced approximately fifty metres, the distance equivalent to that between the school change rooms and the swimming pool. The visual alignment after the count of fifty was a neighbour’s blue gate.
I walked home and waited for the second hand on my watch to hit the twelve.
Go!
Quickly, I unzipped the sports bag, removed the scissors and picked up the first bra. I snipped between the cups but the scissors wouldn’t cut cleanly and I had to hack. Then I cut through the straps and discarded the bra pieces on the floor. Keeping an eye on the clock I picked up the briefs and cut the side open before discarding them near the damaged bra.
Thirty-five seconds . . .
Then I repeated cutting the remaining three sets of bras and briefs. On the last set I cut the legs off the tights.
One minute fifty seconds . . .
Replacing the scissors in the sports bag, I checked the time . . . two minutes . . . set off down the back stairs and walked swiftly towards the blue gate and stopped.
Two minutes forty-five seconds. It was so simple that I couldn’t believe neither Harper nor I had worked it out earlier.
Back home, I phoned Harper and the call went to her voicemail.
‘I know how she did it,’ I said.
Chapter 22
Chairman Meow watched with interest as I tidied the apartment, whizzed round with a duster and vacuum cleaner, scrubbed the bathroom and made up the third bedroom for Marcia. It was activity he hadn’t seen much of before.
Usually I play an imaginary mind game called Desert Island Dicks when undertaking the existential drudgery known as housework. As a guest on a radio show I’m invited to choose eight men with whom I would like to be cast away on a desert island.
‘It’s not working,’ I said to Chairman Meow, who was leaping around the vacuum cleaner. ‘I’ve chosen eight Rafes.’
It was now almost two months since I’d bought Chairman Meow home from the pound. Despite concerns that I may not be a cat person, he and I had taken to each other like bees to honey, respectful of each other’s need for space, and companions in our solitude. He’d quickly staked out ownership of the prime viewing and snoozing spots—the old Windsor chair in my study, the cushioned wicker chair on the back verandah, the cool patch at the top of the stairs, and my bed.
Essentially a homebody, Byron nightlife didn’t interest him. In a hop-skip he could have nipped over the back gate and made off into the wild with one of the jezebel laneway cats. I was glad he hadn’t. Even after such a short period of cohabitation I couldn’t imagine life without him.
Marcia arrived at four o’clock with a spectacular bunch of Australian natives for me, and a box of chocolates and a bottle of red wine for Dave and Daisy. She somehow managed to look elegant and expensive in ivory three-quarter pants, a stretch black T-shirt and flat black sandshoes. A brightly coloured silk scarf was tied stylishly around her neck and she smelled of lily of the valley.
It always delights me to see a visitor’s reaction to Byron Bay, and Marcia’s warm approval as I showed her around didn’t disappoint. I can’t describe what it is that makes Byron special; there’s an intangible quality that’s difficult to define. Apart from the outstanding natural beauty, there’s a soul that seeps into your bones. Byron is an eclectic mix—cultured and feral, chamomile and gin, tattoo and Gucci. With attitude.
‘What I can’t figure out,’ Marcia said, as we wandered back along Jonson Street, ‘is how Tildy met up with the cult so quickly. According to Bronwyn, the receptionist at my apartment block, Tildy only stayed one night. I know Tildy doesn’t like the razzle-dazzle of Surfers Paradise and I’d be surprised if she went there and just stumbled across them.’
‘It would be good to know,’ I said.
‘Mm,’ Marcia mumbled.
‘Why are you so certain that Tildy’s stayed with the cult?’ I asked.
‘I’m sure she has. Mark or I would have heard from Tildy if she’d moved on. It’s what cults do, isn’t it, stop you contacting your family?’
It was. ‘It would also be interesting to know if cult members came from America and, if so, how they got residency. They’re hardly refugees.’
‘I hadn’t considered the residency angle,’ Marcia said, ‘but it will be obvious when we speak to them if they’re American.’
‘There are a lots of angles to this, aren’t there?’
‘Too many,’ Marcia agreed.
Working on the proviso that two heads were better than one, and deciding it was not fruitful to keep things, however hurtful, from Marcia, I decided to share the American journalist’s observation that many women in blue dresses were pregnant. I also told her about the anonymous letter and Brian’s comments that the cult was dangerous. I said I hadn’t yet seen the letter’s contents.
She took it well, much better than I’d expected.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, but I was trying to . . .’
‘. . . protect my feelings,’ Marcia finished for me.
I nodded.
‘Thank you,’ she said, her tone genuinely appreciative.
We had arrived at my front door and we dusted sand off our feet and went upstairs.
Marcia sat at the kitchen table while I made a pot of the whiffy tea Harper calls Old Socks—the blend I mix of Earl Grey and Lapsang Souchong. I poured some for Marcia, added a little milk and placed the cup in fr
ont of her.
Marcia took a sip and closed her eyes. ‘Fifty-fifty blend?’ she asked and I said it was. ‘I love it,’ she announced emphatically, and I was thrilled to bits that there were now two of us in the fan club.
We were on our second pot and, as I knew that dinner at Dave and Daisy’s would be a late affair, eating ham sandwiches and rockmelon on the verandah when Rafe arrived at the back gate. Nervously, I let him in. Rafe had never been to my apartment before when Toby was away. So much for ensuring our paths didn’t cross again, I thought wistfully.
‘I’m just dropping by to let you know how Miranda is,’ Rafe said, removing his sunglasses and perching them on his head. He was looking very healthy and handsome in knee-length black shorts, a camel T-shirt and navy and tan boat shoes.
As I made introductions Marcia preened her hair and I couldn’t help smiling. It was impossible not to be affected by the man.
‘Nice Lexus. Is it yours?’ Rafe asked Marcia.
She shook her head. She may have been unable to speak.
‘It’s mine,’ I told him. ‘I’ve borrowed it for a few days from Bruce until my car is back.’
This interlude was potentially tricky, particularly if the subject of cults was raised. I didn’t want Marcia to inadvertently let it slip in front of Rafe that she and I might be about to commit an illegal act by taking her daughter from a cult. Then I had a brainwave, and hoped Marcia would get my drift.
‘Rafe is one of our local police officers,’ I said casually.
Marcia quickly glanced my way, an almost imperceptible movement but enough to let me know that she was on guard.
‘Uniformed?’ she asked, her tone wickedly suggestive.
Rafe nodded and I stifled a grin, as I knew exactly what Marcia was thinking. The more time I spent with Marcia, the more I liked her. She was definitely my sort of person.
‘So, how is Miranda?’ I asked Rafe, and quickly explained to Marcia about Miranda’s accident in the café.
‘Fortunately, no tendons cut,’ Rafe advised us. ‘She’s had eleven stitches and a tetanus shot. I’ve just dropped her home.’