The League of Lilith
A thriller with soul, by mother and son duo
Rosalie Sugrue & Troy Sugrue
Copyright © 2013 Rosalie Sugrue
& Troy Sugrue
Smashwords edition
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ISBN 978-1-927260-20-3
Philip Garside Publishing Ltd
PO Box 17160
Wellington 6147
New Zealand
[email protected]
www.pgpl.co.nz
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First published 2011, and reprinted 2012,
by Oratia Media, Auckland, New Zealand
Map of Pauline’s Property
1 — Famine in the land
Christchurch, January, 2009
There was a famine in the land. The phrase enters her head and takes up residence. Feast or famine, that’s how it is these days, thinks Jen bitterly. He doesn’t touch me all week then wants it all weekend. Good sex is not the only deprivation in Jen’s life. What life? she asks herself.
Jen’s soul has become an alien in an impoverished land. Her body, however, lives in a land of plenty. 40 Ridgevale Terrace is prime real estate protected by 24-hour monitored security. Jen’s walk-in pantry and chest-freezer are always tastefully loaded. She ‘does lunch’ with friends once, sometimes twice a week, and cooks hostess meals for Wilkin every evening. Domestic goddess life is not her desire or experience other than over the past three months. Producing meals from glossy cookbooks is merely something to do since leaving Goldberg and Son’s.
Jen was a PR with a gift for translating marketing speak into consumer-friendly light reading and was rapidly wordsmithing her way up the totem pole at G-bergs. Achieved ambition requires long hours and Wilkin had become fed up with her arriving home after him. “These hours are stressing you out, honey,” he’d said. Jen hates being called honey — does he think I’m a housewife from a fifties movie? her mind snapped back. Her words conveyed her feelings more gently but Wilkin had been annoyed; she could tell by the tight line of his thin lips. “You’re my sweet one,” was his even reply. After that he shortened the endearment to hon.
Jen likes hon even less, makes her think of ancient warrior thugs. She wasn’t stressed by her work, she thrived on it. But Wilkin had convinced her — well, demanded really — that she should stop work and cultivate her maternal side. “You don’t need to work. I can supply all your needs. What we both want, more than anything, is a baby. We both got into this marriage with babies at the top of the priority list.” Really? Top of my list was an excellent partnership with an ideal man enjoying the good things of life. Jen’s mouth is practised at not letting such thoughts sneak out. “At 38,” Wilkin continued, “your biological clock is counting down. Don’t be selfish, Jen. Marriage is for procreation.”
She tries, she really does. She knows the ridiculous words were spoken in frustration, and yes, she has always intended to have children — eventually. When she married this gorgeous man it had occurred to her, somewhat immodestly, that children from their union would be not only intelligent but very pleasant on the eye. Now the novelty of unlimited time is wearing thin. Her mood is sinking. Within a few weeks of sacrificing — too strong — interrupting her career Wilkin is not keeping his end up. Jen permits herself a grin and amends her thoughts: he is less focused on fulfilling his stated purpose of marriage. Wilkin’s work seems to be increasingly demanding in effort and time.
It is beneath Jen’s dignity to watch daytime TV. Gym Mondays and Thursdays and lunch and Pilates on Wednesdays give structure to her week but to what purpose? What is there to keep fit for? As for lunching with the girls! The trio she meets with have infants they stow in childcare centres, ever declaring how good it is to have a break from their demands, yet unable to stop mentioning them.
“Yes there is a famine,” Jen declares to the perfectly-dusted 50-inch German flat screen. “I am bored,” she informs the understated lounge suite and exotic rug. Turning to the distant city framed by elegant drapes, she enunciates for her own clarity, “I have to find something to do!”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Kat is not bored. Kat is 22 and lovin’ it. Five years ago she escaped from Ross. Could any place be more end-of-the-world than Ross? Once it was the West Coast rail terminal, but that tiny boast ended years ago. Kat’s grandmother travelled the railcar trip to Hokitika District High for two years and Kat made the same trip by bus to the same school, renamed Westland High, for a year more. Kat’s teachers had done their best to encourage her to stay. “You have brains, you could be anything,” her English teacher urged, “stay and get University Entrance.” What use had Kat for a university education? All she wanted was to Get Away.
In Christchurch she flitted from checkout to waitressing jobs until an ex-workmate introduced her to a lucrative sideline. Initially Kat used Scarlet for her street name. To shed her back-of-beyond image she had her plain ginger hair sliced to short spikes and tipped with vivid red, and various parts of her anatomy pierced with ornamental metal. A couple of years into the game, she gave herself a makeover. Demure shoulder-length hair, square fringe, and manicured nails, and thus Scarlet became Amber.
The web finds her some business, but it’s the good old-fashioned newspaper that keeps Kat’s bank balance up and Amber’s knickers down. More than half of her clientele are regulars these days, entertained in a discreet motel that gives good hourly rates. She is glad to be off the streets. The local media endorse rumours and give substance to city jitters about too many immigrants, dangerous gangs, and hooded youth. The spire at the city’s heart that once pointed proudly to God and Heaven now verges on impotency shrunk by the towers of commerce and greed. Fear whispers round the cathedral and lurks in the alleys off its Square as boy racers screech violence in the surrounding avenues.
Amber’s top client is a suited gentleman initially so embarrassed that she actually believed it was his ‘first time at doing anything like this’. Had it not been for her skills, she recalls with not a little pride, he may not have succeeded! He paid more than she asked. The precedent was set. Kat thinks Amber deserves this bonus. With his shyness conquered, Arthur is getting into kinky stuff; not over the top, but not what she would do for just anyone. He often makes Monday evening appointments but he doesn’t restrict himself to one regular time or day. Sometimes he comes twice a week. Amber is always pleased to respond to Arthur’s firm, three-rap knock. He greets her with curt disdain and strips deftly, dropping garments over the floor. His authority remains intact when stripped to long black socks and pinstripe boxers. At his direction, Amber, wearing nothing but a frilly apron and high heels, picks up and carefully arranges each item on a motel coat hanger, checking with him that she has it right before placing it on the rail. His complaints lead to a variety of punishments. Amber enjoys the role-playing and anything she doesn’t like is easily endurable with its cash conclusion.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen opens her emails daily at nine-thirty. More than ever she needs the discipline of routines. The first item in her inbox is ‘Quote
of the Day’ from some lightweight literary outfit she accidentally signed up to months back. Between the great things we cannot do and the small things we will not do, the danger is that we shall do nothing — Adolph Monod. The thought is discouraging. Jen has no expectation of actually doing anything today, not even sending an email. Over the last year she has been driven mad by the sheer volume of old friends who wish to reacquaint themselves with her via the web. While at G-berg’s she deleted every approach without a moment’s hesitation. These days she has time to kill and each invitation to ‘friendship’ is given some consideration. After 20 minutes filtering Jen still hasn’t replied to anything. She shrugs and Outlook Express vanishes at a single click. Jen turns from her screen and refocuses, ticking off her assets: I’m highly educated, successful, attractive, size 10 and very well married. Why does my life seem so damn dull?
UNIVERSITY OF CANTERBURY, she taps into Google. Two fresh-faced girls and a boy sprawl on grass between backpacks and lecture notes. They radiate happiness and potential. “Those were the days,” Jen mutters. She received her legal degree at Otago but students are students whatever the university. “I don’t want anything sensible,” she tells the screen. “This is an indulgence just for me.” She clicks on Gender Studies, skims the contents and concludes that even if she doesn’t practise gender equality at home she was a high-profile advocate for it at work. Nothing new there. She has an unexpected vision of her Bible Class days: rousing youth services at East Taieri Presbyterian, great socials and amazing Easter camps. Jen’s religion had been male dominated and she hadn’t minded one little bit. Her youth leaders had been inspirational, and the boy band that played at evening services was totally hot. Back then she had expected Presbyters and Elders to be male and sermons to centre on Bible men. That ‘man’ included women and all Christians are ‘brothers’ in Christ went unchallenged. Presbyterians respect the Bible. They stand reverently for the ‘entry, and exit, of God’s Word’ borne by a dignified Elder at the beginning and end of every service.
In a moment of seductive sentimentality Jen types RELIGIOUS STUDIES into search. Fresh-faced students instantly swap places with one large ape face, backed by an exploding star cluster. It seems the creationists are squeezed out, Jen chuckles inwardly, I wonder if Wilkin has seen this?
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Wilkin is a member of the University Council and Anglican to the core. He chairs a subcommittee of the Cathedral Chapter. His forebears were cabin class passengers on the Charlotte Jane. The Hawthorne family tree is sprinkled with vicars, and even a distant bishop. Wilkin deeply regrets that the Church has lost control of the university. He dislikes modernity in religion. In his opinion the 1662 Prayer Book expresses all that is needed. That A New Zealand Prayer Book has become the main source of their parish liturgy continues to gnaw at his soul, whereas Jen feels spiritually nourished by modern images grounded in New Zealand culture. Despite being raised Presbyterian, Jen understood that marriage would assign her to Wilkin’s denomination, and fair enough, for she had learned at Bible Class it is unwise to be ‘unequally yoked together’. It was a small price to pay for this man who was so perfect in every way.
What’s this? ‘Biblical Text and Women’ ... interesting, and totally useless. Pure indulgence, Jen thinks, just what I need!
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Amber fastens her suspenders, checks her lace-up corset, adds a silk chemise and half-slip, full skirt and buttoned top. She puts her feather duster on the table. Murray likes a bit of dusting, twirling and posing before he lingers over undressing her. Then they dust each other’s nooks and nodules. He is pathetic but so are most of them.
In Murray’s case she has no qualms about accommodating his middle-age paunch, grey goatee and lame preferences. Today he is late. She checks her watch against the bedside clock, which she finds is slow by ten minutes. This won’t do, she tells herself, I’m not having Mucky Murray claim more time than he’s entitled to. The LED display responds hesitantly to her button pushing then speeds past the intended time. Damn, she mutters, and works through the minutes again. She shoves the clock back onto the bedside cabinet, knocking the Gideon Bible to the floor. It opens to the flyleaf. Someone has irreverently printed a message in blue biro: WRITTEN BY MEN FOR MEN.
Kat has never given a passing thought as to the authorship of the Bible. It is not a book she has even opened. Surely the Bible is for everyone. Didn’t God write it? But, how could He? Her hazy knowledge of a few Bible stories was absorbed from holy pictures and priestly reflections at the church her Irish grandmother made her attend on Days of Holy Obligation.
Amber doesn’t consider herself a fulltime whore: Kat doesn’t consider herself any sort of whore — she is ‘an attractive young woman who maximises her personal assets.’ I’m still waitressing, she tells her grandmother when she makes the occasional conscience-dictated phone call. It’s not a high wage but it pays the rent. Three nights a week waitressing pays the rent on the flat she shares in Ilam. Her flatmates are unaware of her sideline. Kat’s undeclared earnings mount secretly for her great escape plan. Escaping from Westland was step one, escaping from New Zealand is the grand plan. Kat intends to see the world.
Apart from Murray and Arthur, Amber’s clients tend to be straight-up guys who want one thing and get it. Amber doesn’t inquire as to why they want it, but that doesn’t stop them from asking her why she does it. “Because I’m sitting on a goldmine,” is her standard sarcastic reply. A few look perplexed but not for long; no one is kidding anyone that they actually care. Amber wonders at the duality of the world, with its different standards for men and women. Choosing for herself is liberating. Only occasionally does a client want a bit of conversation. Ben comes into this category. He is a perpetual student, went from school to uni, then degree to degree. At 30 he is no less plain than he would have been at 20, Amber surmises, and wonders if brains can compensate for lack of looks. Ben’s needs are smothering and urgent. Always reluctant to leave he uses the balance of his time talking. Talking is something he can do well. Not small-talk. Ben is into topics. Usually Amber switches off, supplying the occasional mmm, really and could be as he holds forth.
“Facing the instability and composite nature of our individual identities is something we all have to struggle with,” he remarks, emerging from the bathroom with a pink towel stretched round his waist. The motel doesn’t run to supplying bath-sized towels.
“Some people sing in the shower,” observes Amber. “Why is it that you think?”
Ben glows as if treated to a bonus orgasm. “It is our power to reflect that makes us human. To have good structures we must have people willing to make gender, race ideology and institutional power substantive concerns. We need to acknowledge our own ethical stances, ideological positionings, self-critical and self-reflective consciousness, and affirm the positive values of difference and multiplicity before we can change institutional structures, discourses and practices.” He pauses to pull up his y-fronts.
“Are you saying, to have good organisations we need good people running them?” For once Amber attempts to make sense of the jaw-breakers and is pleased with her deduction.
“More than that, we need personal, corporate and historic honesty,” he enthuses earnestly. “We have to come to terms with Scripture legitimising war, anti-Judaism, slavery, colonial de-humanising and misogyny.” He flushes and becomes intent on his jeans and sweatshirt.
Amber doesn’t know the last word, but thinks she’s got the general gist of his argument. “Are you saying the Bible is bullshit?” she jibes.
His ears are still burning. “No,” he sounds less confident, but rallies. “Undoubtedly the Bible has also served noble causes, promoted education and health, and inspired magnificence in architecture, art, music and literature.”
“Do you think the Bible was written by men for men?”
Ben’s look shows incredulity. “You should do religious studies.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen
is surprised at the university fees. “They’ve increased more than I would have expected,” she tells Wilkin over salmon steaks perched on beds of rice and drizzled with lime-butter sauce. He is amused that she wants to do a hobby course. “All universities struggle to survive financially and undergraduates are a major inconvenience,” he replies, tucking into the rocket salad. “Students cost.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Kat is not concerned about fees. Two of her flatmates are students. The occupants of the four-bedroomed villa live independent lives, coming and going at different times. Occasionally, very occasionally, they eat together. Living near the university they use the campus cafés. Kat knows it is possible to blend in with the students, and is confident that she could sit in on any lecture that takes her fancy.
What takes her fancy is ‘Biblical Text and Women’. It isn’t so much the topic as the lecturer. It was the photo that caught her eye and the heading MEN PUT THE WORLD OUT OF KILTER. Kat’s motel has copies of the Press freely available to guests and she enjoys a skim-read between clients. The lively-faced older woman, who wears a slender chain around her neck and identified only as Sarai, lecturer in religious studies at Canterbury University, claims the world is out of balance because male influences have suppressed feminine spirituality: On a global scale the natural role of the male as provider and protector has become a need to dominate and control. This presents in the political realm by men inflicting wars. In the religious realm it presents by men wanting to control women, in all facets of their lives, as happens in fundamentalism, be it Islam or Christianity. Even moderate faiths refuse to regard women as equals, by denying ordination and leadership. Resisting inclusive language is a sin just as deadly as any of its medieval forebears. Male suppression of women is rife throughout the world. Don’t be lulled into thinking a few women leaders and laws suggesting equality prevent repression thriving in New Zealand. Until feminine spirituality is understood and valued, violence will prevail.
League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul Page 1