How could she ever have thought he was nice! Don’t trust any male, all men are rapists. Often said at the Collective, Kat had not believed it. She didn’t want to believe it. She wanted to believe most men are OK and some more than OK. She was confident in her ability to know which were definitely not OK. She has lost her power of discernment. How could she be so stupid! So idiotic! Why hadn’t she picked up on the signs? Why had she let his little games deteriorate into the sordid? Why had she pretended it was sophisticated adult foreplay? Imbecile!
Every part of her body feels bruised — no, battered is the word. You are OK, she tells herself. Nothing is broken. You survived and got home. Unwilling to relive what had happened with the man (she won’t name him) she reviews dragging herself to the shower, slowly dressing, and the taxi driver with minimal English helping her to the door.
“A lovely autumnal day,” booms the radio alarm. Kat jerks. Her nerves are on edge. “Make the most of it, rain is forecast for tomorrow. But today it is a sunny Tuesday, Tuesday the twenty-first of April.”
Tuesday, a waitressing night, shift starts at six, morning lecture at ten, insufficient motivation to get out of bed. Kat silences the ridiculous DJ banter but can’t shut out the morning noises of flatmates: creaks, thumps, water cistern gurgling to toilet, shower, sink and basin, boiling jug, clack of toaster, fragments of voices, door slam. Her head hurts. Everything hurts. Gingerly she reaches for the paracetamol and water bottle on the floor by her bed. She swallows two tablets and slides back to sleep.
“It is your fault!” someone shouts. The words drag her eyes open. Bright sunlight reveals no one is in the room but herself. Sleep talk! 9:57 glow the numbers on her clock. No point in getting up, too late to get to the lecture. Her mouth is dry. She could do with a coffee but doesn’t have the energy.
She encouraged his games. Was it rape? She had, after all, had sex with him many times. You always have the right to say no, Cleo’s words come to her. The law is on your side. The law? The law is in the hands of men. Cops who are clients? How could she front up to the local cop shop complaining about a client!
She must get up. She feels dirty. She must inspect the damage and have a proper shower. Her generous mirror reveals welts and bruises, all are in places that won’t show. Her arm throbs. What is under the bandage? She attacks the knot with nail-scissors and unwinds a long blood-soaked bandage. Fresh blood seeps. She wonders if she may need stitches. How could she explain this wound? The bare arm displays a mess of blood, cuts and something else, something black. Kat cleans the cuts with cottonwool and disinfectant. Tears spring at the sting. Or is it what the sting reveals? The cuts, done with a sharp instrument, are not deep and not random. They form a perfect 'A' blackened with marker-pen.
The beast! Thinks he can mark her as her own! The tears flow. How dare he!
Showered, Kat tips a half-used box of sticking plasters onto the vanity unit and uses them all. Wrapped in a towelling bathrobe she heads for the kitchen. Why drink coffee when there is gin? She scrabbles around in the bottom cupboard, discarding to the floor ice-cream containers that ‘might be useful for something’ and seldom-used kitchenware. Yes, right at the back. Gin is not the drink of choice in the flat but someone bought a bottle duty free and gifted it for general use. After a couple of G and T’s each it had been forgotten.
Is there any tonic? Flat lemonade will do. The lemonade is finished long before the gin but it doesn’t matter, why had she bothered with lemonade in the first place? Her body has stopped aching.
Work is hours away, loads of drinking time to go. Perhaps she should eat something. Toast? The thought turns her stomach. Half a super-size bag of double-cheese corn chips are unearthed from a top shelf. No tie on the bag, they will be going soft. Yep, taste awful but you shouldn’t drink without eating.
Kat finishes the bag and the bottle before throwing up, then sleeps until the need to pee can’t be ignored. The room is black. 9:25 blinks the bedside digital. No point in phoning the restaurant now. After slurping handfuls of water from the hand-basin in the loo she sleeps until woken by the grey light of day.
Temples throb, stomach queasy, mouth disgusting … why does the morning after have to arrive? Morning after — the reason for the hangover comes flooding back. She hasn’t taken the morning-after pill. She hasn’t got a morning-after pill. She is fanatical about safe sex. The morning after has gone. Is it too late?
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Jen had woken alone. Wilkin was sleeping in the spare bed. Sarai had said she didn’t mind if Jen missed a lecture and Jen decided a change of routine would do her good. She’d phoned her sister and arranged an impulsive day-visit to Timaru, leaving a note for the sleeping Wilkin before she departed.
Laughing with Lindy has aerated her soul, she decides, reviewing the day as she motors back north. It’s been years since she had hours alone with her sister. As for the brief interaction with her nieces after school, the sensation still warms. What is the word? Avuncular comes to mind, is there no aunt equivalent? Are female family feelings restricted to maternal? Her relationship is not maternal yet a connection tugs. They are delightful youngsters and each so individual: confident, dark-haired Sue, thoughtful blonde Mary, and the energetic ginger-topped Nicola. Her brother has a boy and a girl, serious Ken and mischievous Judy. The extended family is short on boys, she reflects, does this improve the odds on her having a son? The long drive has steadied Jen’s equilibrium but her stomach harbours a small knot of uncertainty. What will she come home to?
At dinner Wilkin appears to be his normal work-obsessed self. It is as if the past 24 hours hasn’t happened. There is no mention of the shrine. He makes no derogatory comment about the Kentucky Fried Chicken takeaway she serves. He even asks after Lindy. She must make more effort.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
A woman in a white coat explains the pill will work for up to 72 hours. Kat makes some frantic mental calculations and realises the woman is still talking.
“There are two pills, take the second pill 12 hours after the first.”
It’s OK. It hasn’t been 72 hours. “I need a couple of large dressings and some sticking plaster. I better have a box of band aids as well.”
Back at the flat she takes the pill, has a leisurely breakfast and phones the restaurant. Miss Hicks is far from pleased but Kat knows Tuesday night is never frantic and Alison will have coped. She also knows that much as Hickey would like to dismiss her she can’t and there is a largish group-booking tonight. “Yes, Miss Hicks, sorry, Miss Hicks, I will be there tonight.” Yes Hickey, no hickey, three bags full Hickey. The waitresses’ joke is: she is a no-hickey for life.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
The group booking is a fortieth birthday party. The guests arrive late and are in a mood to party. Alison and Kat are run off their feet with side dishes, dropped cutlery, extras and spills. It is after midnight when Kat crawls into bed. She sleeps soundly. Cleaning her teeth in the morning she remembers the second pill. She scoffs it down and takes off for uni. Too late she notices the gathering clouds. She should have brought an umbrella.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
14 — Samhain
Thursday, 30 April
Pauline gazes at her flower fairies calendar: only two nights to the big Six-O. This really is the beginning of old age, she rues. Fifties still qualify as middle-aged in her book, but 60 marks a new era. Be positive, she tells herself, you are entering the crone stage; open yourself to crone wisdom.
Crone I am becoming, she agrees with herself, but I am still young enough and fit enough to fully enjoy life. I hope the others are. She chuckles at the thought of the party she has planned. Her black cat entwines around her legs. Pauline gathers him into her lap and strokes his silky back. “Familiar, fancy the thirtieth of April being the eve of Samhain in this Land of the Long White Cloud. We live in such an upside-down place! In the old country, where seasons are the right way up, Samhain Eve is the thirty-first of October, the end of summer — that’s what Sa
mhain means, the end of summer. It’s also the eve of All Hallows. Here, Halloween is celebrated on the thirty-first of October, in appalling ignorance — a commercial con for shops to profit from fancy-dress outfits and trick and treat bags. It’s disgusting!” She strokes with more vigour and Familiar purrs louder. “Children rudely demanding sweets, witches’ costumes worn with no understanding of witches, ghost costumes flaunted to parody the sacred dead.” She is momentarily overcome by the evils of disrespect, ignorance and commercialism. Familiar extends his claws. Pauline resumes stroking. “All Hallows and All Souls were intended as festivals to respect deceased forebears and offer prayers for their souls. Did you know, Familiar,” she chucks him under his chin, “the Celts believe those born at Samhain have the gift of second sight? But, of course, that relates to October thirty-first and November the first, not April the thirtieth!” Familiar rumbles a response and Pauline continues stroking and lulling. “Our friend Sarai was born on the first of November in Celtic England, it is possible that she is so gifted.” Familiar gives a sharp meow. Pauline takes it as affirmation and drops a light kiss on his head.
“I do hope she approves of what I’ve planned. She indulges me but I know I disappoint her. Well, I truly feel there is another dimension to life. Experiencing the Spiritual is good. The church has always used visual aids, so what’s wrong with fantasy?” Familiar continues to purr. “Besides it is my birthday, my party, and this Samhain is going to have its fun side. And this blinking rain had better stop!” She glares out the window. “It’s been raining for five days. Maybe I should be working on a fine weather spell.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
‘We thought, because we had power, we had wisdom’ – Stephen Vincent Benét (1898-1943), Litany for Dictatorships, 1935. So Jen’s PC had primed the intellectual component of her Tuesday routine.
A week has passed since Sarai responded to her desperate phone call. She hopes Sarai won’t mention it in front of Kat. Sarai doesn’t. Following the lecture they are in Sarai’s study. Kat is slowly rotating in front of the heater. Her damp jacket is spread over a chair beside her. Kat is looking pale, thinks Jen. I hope she doesn’t get a cold.
“You need to understand, friends,” Sarai remarks, after passing around fragrant mugs of tea, “it’s not just the Bible that was written ‘by men for men’; pretty much all history and philosophy has been recorded in this manner. But in the background wise women have influenced some of the decisions.”
“Behind every great man stands a great woman,” comments Jen, trying to make normal Tuesday conversation.
“Quite,” affirms Sarai. “Consider the sacred Canon of Scripture. There were numerous scrolls to choose from, so why have we got these particular 66 books?”
“Was the Roman Emperor Constantine behind it? Didn’t he organise the Council of Nicaea to standardise Christian belief? Were the books voted into the Canon by the bishops who attended?” Jen asks, feeling she has made a rather clever deduction.
“The Council of Nicaea was 325 CE. The Hebrew Canon was set before the time of Jesus.”
“So, who chose the Old Testament books?” asks Kat, moving to an armchair.
“The books of the ‘Law’, the Torah, were held as sacred very early, followed by the ‘Prophets’ and ‘Kings’ and lastly the ‘Writings’. The final list is ascribed to ‘The Men of the Great Assembly’ — scribes and sages who ruled in the period after the time of the prophets.”
“Why did these men include the Book of Ruth?” ponders Jen. “Isn’t Ruth a story of women for women?”
“Exactly, wise women working behind the scenes. Even more controversial is the Book of Esther. It was the last book accepted into the Hebrew Canon. Like Ruth, Esther is a subversive story of strong women. It was so controversial that when the first known list of the full Bible was produced the Book of Esther was omitted.”
“Who produced the list?”
“Melito, Bishop of Sardis. He died in 180 CE.”
“Well before the Council of Nicaea!”
“Correct. Melito was strongly opposed to the Book of Esther. This bishop was a scholar who wrote many things but he was referred to as ‘the eunuch’ or ‘the virgin’. So perhaps it is understandable why the wise women of the time were unable to influence him.” Sarai arches an eyebrow and her mouth threatens to smile.
“How then did Esther get into the Christian Bible?”
“Saint Jerome was the man. Jerome translated all the books of the Bible into Latin in the late 300s. His Bible is known as the Vulgate — common language — version and it contains all 39 books of the Protestant Bible as well as the books of the Apocrypha.”
“So why did Jerome include the controversial Esther?”
“Jerome became secretary to the Pope in the late 300s. In this role he became spiritual director to noble ladies interested in the monastic life. He got quite caught up with some of the Roman ladies. They influenced him without him realising what was happening. That’s how it often is with feminine wisdom, as both of you are well aware.” The women smile their agreement. “I’ve been pontificating quite long enough. We will get to the Book of Esther next month. Much as I enjoy your company I think the rain is easing and it may be wise for you to chance your luck.”
Jen and Kat descend to the foyer. The sky has lightened and the wind is dropping. The rain has slackened to a drizzle but neither feels like making a dash for it. Both are lost in their own thoughts.
After the terrible row with Wilkin, Jen thought life would never be the same again, but Sarai has made her feel OK. Yes, she is a strong person. Jennifer Hawthorne can cope with the backhanders of life and move on. Wilkin doesn’t have her inner strength. For him life is about outcomes, while she understands the journey is the important thing. The sun does shine after rain — not that it shows great inclination of doing so at present. Jen gives Kat an appraising glance. She’s not herself, she decides. She’s not wearing eyeliner or mascara. She’s little more than a child really. I’ve never seen her look so washed out and … vulnerable.
“Hey, Kat,” she says impulsively, “would you like to have lunch at my house? I’ve got plenty of salad and soup left over from last night.” Kat looks as if she really doesn’t care but Jen continues with increasing enthusiasm. “I’d love to show you my home. Do come.”
“OK,” says Kat, squaring her shoulders. “Thanks.”
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Kat’s boots rest easy on a tall stool at Jen’s breakfast-bar. She has superb legs, notes Jen as she heats the soup. “Your home is stunning,” says Kat. “This kitchen looks like it jumped off the page of a glossy. You could be in House and Garden.”
“Yes, I’m lucky,” says Jen. “I have many things to be grateful for. Shame it’s too wet for a walk around the garden. You’ll have to come back on a nice day.”
Lingering over coffee after lunch, both feel warm and relaxed. “It can’t be easy living off waitress wages,” says Jen. “You manage so well, always immaculate.”
Kat flushes. “Actually, Jen, it’s not the waitressing. I have another income source.” Jen waits. Kat considers. “Jen, the fact is,” she pauses again then takes the plunge, “actually, I do a bit of escort work.” She braces for Jen’s reaction.
Jen is surprised but knows better than to show it. A trick learnt early in her working life: don’t look surprised if you want the truth. A phrase comes to her from Fanny Hill, a novel she read as a teenager: our virtues and vices depend very much on our circumstances. She keeps it to herself.
“Can I share something personal?” ventures Kat.
“Of course you can — anything.”
“A few days ago a client became … abusive. He … raped me.”
“Oh Kat, that’s terrible!” Jen is shocked and momentarily stunned. She gathers herself and takes Kat’s hand. “I’m so sorry. Will you press charges? I could help you.”
Kat shakes her head. “No, it wouldn’t work. He’s been a client for a long time. He would claim it
was consensual.”
“It’s hard for any woman to win in a rape case. The sad fact is court re-victimises the victim, and even a conviction can feel as if it wasn’t worth it.”
“I’ll be OK.”
“I do care, Kat, and if I can help with anything just let me know.” Jen gives her hand a squeeze. They sit in silence for a while.
“Tell me about your life. What’s Wilkin like?”
“Wilkin is …” Jen pauses. What is Wilkin like? “… successful … intelligent, well spoken, he never swears, and … he is quite handsome,” she finishes confidently.
“I don’t see any photos around.”
“No, Wilkin isn’t into displaying family snaps, he considers coloured photos kitsch. His taste is paintings, mine too really, we chose that together.”
Both consider the dominant painting, a head-on impression of Banks Peninsula. Brown land curves forward, flanked by two rivers fanning into the ocean. The rivers cross a broad, chequered plane, and disappear into a long white-capped ridge. Overhead, clouds suggest a large bird. “The spirit bird, hovering overhead,” Jen quotes from a modern hymn.
“It’s so full of drama,” says Kat. “I never thought of the rivers like that, sort of guardians to the peninsula. The clouds do look like a spirit bird watching over everything.”
“I like landscapes to be at least vaguely recognisable. I have some fairly recent holiday snaps of Wilkin taken on the Gold Coast. He’s quite good-looking really. So are his forebears. Their portraits guard our stairwell. They’re an impressive bunch. The family likeness peeps over beards and clerical collars.” She puts on a pluty voice. “Wilkin’s great-great-grandfather came out on the Charlotte Jane. His father and his grandfather were both vicars. Come and see the rogue’s gallery.”
They chuckle over the stiff monochrome images as they mount the stairs. “Now I’ll find a photo of Wilkin for you to compare,” says Jen, moving to a bedroom. Her phone bleeps. “It’s Wilkin. He’s coming home early. There’s a University Council meeting tonight and he has some preparation to do. You can meet him in the flesh.”
League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul Page 17