League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul

by Sugrue, Rosalie

  Sarai isn’t having it. She throws herself between Bert and the assailant and waits for the punch to strike her back. It doesn’t come. Sarai turns with stick raised to ward off the next missile but the assailant isn’t there. He is on the ground, stunned to silence.

  A new man has injected himself into the fight. Shiny black shoes register first then suit, tie, and a face set in calm determination. An open hand flies past Sarai to the hood holding Bert. The youth dodges the hand. There is a sickening crack. The suited leg had struck with the speed of light - the hand a distraction, the kick the weapon.

  The youth falls grasping at his leg and screaming. Bert takes the opportunity to sink the frozen lout still standing. The crowd erupts in a backward explosion of self preservation. Three men are on the ground one stunned, one moaning, one screaming.

  The victor turns to Jen, engages her eyes, inclines his head, then runs at the crowd, finds a gap and is gone. Jen releases the post she’s been clinging to since staggering into it. Sirens sound in the distance. She has been in a street brawl! Mr Graham offers his hand to Sarai. “Bert Graham, we haven’t been formally introduced, but I know you from your writings in the Press, Sarai, isn’t it?”

  They shake hands with eyes in direct contact. Bert smiles a warm, easy smile, “You’re quite a fighter for an old girl.”

  “Fighting is for fools,” returns Sarai, with an equally friendly smile, “but that doesn’t mean one should allow herself to be pushed around by fools.”

  Bert laughs a chugging, too-loud laugh, “You’ll do me love, you’ll do me.” He takes out a large handkerchief and holds it to his head.

  “You need to get that seen to,” says Sarai tartly. Jen squeezes Bert’s arm, “You are amazing Mr Graham,” and tapping her belly, “I hope this little fellow grows up to be as brave as you.” Bert nods acknowledgement. His eyes slide back to Sarai, “I hope we meet again,” he says, “soon.”

  “I’m sure we will,” replies Sarai looking gracious and sounding genuine.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Wilkin brakes and curses, a yellow sign with black stick-figure and shovel indicates road works ahead. On a Sunday! There are no milling men or crawling machines, just a narrow strip of metalled roadway beside a new strip of tarseal. The sealed area is blocked off. Wilkin has no plan. Speeding is the only balm he has. Now he is forced to travel slowly. The length of the road works is interminable — several crawling kilometres. Twice he has to pull to a near stop to let oncoming vehicles pass.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Ben is cheered by the sight of red brake lights. What luck, road works, this will slow Hawthorne down. Travelling the narrow strip of usable road, Ben rakes over the route in his mind. Porters Pass could be a problem. His machine doesn’t have the grunt to do it at speed, but really there is nowhere to go. Apart from the main road there are only farm roads and access to ski-fields. Ben has done a bit of skiing and is familiar with the territory. It is summer. The gates to the main ski field roads will be locked. There are no alternatives other than the road around Lake Lyndon. Ben turns the radio on.

  Porters Pass is as he feared. Hawthorne mounts it like a rally driver. “Come on, old girl,” Ben urges. The Toyota’s best is not good enough and Ben loses sight of the silver Chrysler. I hope he didn’t take the Lake Lyndon back road, Ben mutters as he follows his gut feeling and swings right with the highway. He is going faster than he has ever driven on the flat, let alone in the mountains. Rounding a corner, heading downhill, he spots a knot of vehicles stopped at a bridge. Ben pulls up behind the Chrysler. In front of it an old Ford is kissing a Maui campervan. The campervan is skewed across the bridge with its tail buried in the railing. Three Asian tourists are speaking passionately and gesticulating wildly to a middle-aged woman. The woman speaks to Hawthorne and then to Ben. “They didn't give way. I tried to get the tow-truck at Springfield but it’s Sunday and they aren’t answering. I’ve got another company at Kirwee but they say it will take about an hour to get here. I’m sorry but there is nothing to do but wait.”

  Ben checks the familiar number plate in front of him, DBL333, and registers three sixes. He knew the man was evil. He sends another text to Stopforth. Hawthorne on west coast road has passed lake lyndon may have baby

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Greg McRae ponders alone in his hospital office. Dire thoughts are interrupted by an insistent phone. A proposition flows into his ear. McRae is not one to ignore a life-line. Salvation comes in many forms. How the caller has this knowledge is a mystery, but he obviously knows what he is about. Disasters live and die in the media. Prudent management of that forum is a path to success. That someone who talks the right talk and knows the right people has offered discrete assistance, is an utter god-send!

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  3.50 pm

  “Jennifer, I need to go home.” Sarai feels heavy on her arm. “I need to lie down, dear, and I’m sure you do too. This has been a hideous day.” She looks at her watch. “It is almost four o’clock. How about you come home to my place? We can freshen up, rest, have a bite to eat and be back with Kat in time for the six o’clock news.”

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  “I can’t, Sarai. I must keep looking for the baby. You do understand?”

  Sarai claps her hands softly together. “Of course, dear, of course. You must do what you are called to do.”

  Jen kisses Sarai on the cheek. “I’m sorry for doubting you, Sarai. I feel such a fool. Please forgive me.” Without waiting for a response she plunges on, “But I must go immediately.”

  Sarai calls after her, “Do what you need to do, Jen, but know this: the baby is safe. The lamb is with the good shepherd. I have seen it.” Jen looks back, puzzled. Sarai blows a kiss and walks on.

  As Jen heads for the empty taxi rank the mystery saviour falls into step beside her, “Are you OK?” he asks.

  “Thank heavens!” Jen beams at her hero, and notes his suit is high end Armani from the current collection. “I thought you had disappeared like a ninja or something.” She holds out her hand, “I can’t thank you enough. What you did was fantastic. I owe you a massive debt, I hate to think…”

  Mr Armani jumps in. “It was my privilege.” His voice is not local - confidently slow paced with some indeterminable European intonation. “You were in a bad situation. I’m just glad I turned up at the right moment.”

  Jen blinks and unexpectedly gives a sob. She tries to reign herself in, but something is slipping, “God, it was terrible.” Her hands come to her pale face.

  “It’s over now,” soothes the handsome man. “All’s well that ends well.” He senses her vulnerability and wants to help her through the moment. His skills prove lacking.

  Jen’s dam is breached. Tears flow. Her life is in tatters. Even if Wilkin hasn’t kidnapped the baby, and she is sure he hasn’t, her husband is an adulterous, deceiving, abominable rapist who has ruined her life. Kat’s baby is missing. Kat is tarnished. Sarai is losing it. Everyone she could trust, everything she could lean on, is broken. She has been in a brawl with thugs. She could have risked her own baby’s life! Jen begins to shake. Her knees threaten to give way.

  The man puts an arm round her. “You need to sit down. Let me buy you a coffee.” Jen can’t speak let alone refuse. He grasps her hand and she trails like a rag doll to the Cathedral café. It is a relief to sit down. Jen fumbles in her bag looking for Panadol tablets but the tablets refuse to be found. Beyond appearances she pours the entire contents of her handbag onto the café table and extracts the pill box.

  Mr Armani gets a tumbler of water from the water-cooler. He considers helping her repack but seeing an unidentified feminine package, thinks better of it and goes to order. Jen picks up her phone and scans through the images. From the counter the man watches her studying the screen. The intensity of her concentration is disconcerting. She is mumbling to herself and shaking the phone in a series of little tremors.

  When he returns Jen is arranging the strewn items in order of
size - purse, makeup bag, mobile… She seems to be finding some kind of relief in the activity. He places two wrapped cake-forks and plates, each holding a different slice, on his side of the table. Jen makes a move to pack up her gear but is distracted by his lovely accent. “One double shot trim-fat white on its way,” he croons then and adds, “I’m Andrew, by the way.”

  Jen gives a little gasp, “Whhhp…I feel as if I’ve been through a disaster with you and we haven’t even exchanged names! I’m Jennifer, and you saved me.”

  “Don’t mention it. I’ve been doing akido and karate for years, ever since I was a nipper, and in all that time I have never had opportunity to actually hurt anyone.” His eyes widen in mock insanity. Jen manages a brief giggle and nibbles at the citrus slice.

  “Street fighting is rather different to competition grading. They were little shitbags who needed a good wake up call. I gotta tell you trashing them felt good.” Andrew looks at Jen and perceives her gaze as searching for definitions, clues… maybe he is sounding like a bogan primate…time to re position… “I must sound dreadfully primal. I’m not a brawler - please don’t think that of me but it was quite an experience! However, the issue was getting you and your friends out of that horrible situation. That old guy is one plucky geriatric. He must be sixty, sixty-five?”

  “Easily,” smiles Jen, “He was retired when he attended our wedding. He was an old friend of…” She stops short and turns her head sharply. Above the door the five o’clock news is sounding from a faded speaker. Jen catches Wilkin’s name. Café sounds drown the story. She springs to her feet and strains to hear the radio. We will bring you further updates as more information comes to hand.

  Andrew comes towards her. “I have to go,” she blurts. Her eyes scan across the Square. Two cabs sit on the rank. What is she doing relaxing in a café? Guilt, fatigue and physical pain rack through her like rising vomit. “Thank you for everything, but I have to go.”

  With the quickest of hand shakes she is striding towards a cab. Two minutes later she is back at the café. Andrew meets her at the door with her handbag held out, “I packed it,” he smiles.

  “I can’t believe this day,” groans Jen, and is gone.

  The man returns to his coffee and activates his phone. “It doesn’t matter that you didn’t find Hawthorne at the hospital. Mum was brilliant. Found out where his Mrs was. We speed to the Square and spotted her immediately. A great afternoon, couldn’t have worked better if it had been planned to the last detail. Big story… tell you later. There’s no point in following her now. Hawthorne has totally cooked his own goose...”

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  4.15 pm

  Kat is still sleeping. They must have given her a real knock-out drug, Jen thinks, and wonders what to do. She should have gone home with Sarai. Didn’t Keith say something about leading a service? When she gets to the chapel it is empty. She sits on a pew and for the first time in hours is able to relax. A burst of pixie music from her phone halts the thought. “Hullo, Jen,” says Keith. “I hated leaving you alone. Where are you now?”

  Within minutes Jen is sipping hot tea and eating a muesli bar in the chaplains’ office, a room so small its only window is to the main corridor. She relates her afternoon to Keith, who expresses genuine relief that Jen and Sarai are friends again. This reminds Jen that Sarai intends to return to Kat around six.

  “One thing this cupboard of an office does have is a good view of the corridor. You can watch out for Sarai through the net curtain.” Jen swivels on the office chair and sees how right he is. “If you and Sarai are visiting Kat this evening I won’t intrude. I’ll visit her tomorrow.” He pauses. “Jen, I’m truly sorry you’re having this terrible time. If I can help in any way at all just call me. And, if you need a listening ear, both of mine are available.”

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  4.30 pm

  Fish dapples bright-red rata onto the dull bush-green. His eyes move to the dark channel that conceals thrashing water. Otira is a wild place to call home. An image jumps into his head. It is a fellow squatter in the cottage next to his. The bent and surly chap must be well into his eighties, has lived alone for decades, so they say. Poor in vision and crippled by arthritis, just doing the tasks required to survive saps most of his energy. Each futile day is identical to the one before and the one following. Old Ian is alone and no one cares. Is that what you want forever? asks a voice in his head.

  Fish dislodges the uninvited discomfort by blending three colours to achieve the right shade of rusty red for the lichen-coated rocks. The mix turns amber. Amber. The colour and the word pull an image of his first daughter, Katrina, with the amber hair. Her baby must be almost due. He is about to become a grandfather. Grandfather! The thought has never struck him before. Grandfather has a very different feel to father. Father embodies responsibility, domesticity, labour, and mortgage, but grandfather evokes indulgence, stories and sweets, hugs and treats.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Wilkin is seething. He has never felt so frustrated in all his life. Three cars have him pinned to the shoulder-less road from behind. In front two vehicles are wedged into the narrow bridge, totally blocking the road. How can a main highway have one lane bridges? It is a bloody trickle of a creek. The previous bridge had two lanes crossing a wide expanse of gravel and water. Road board madness! Damned Asian tourists shouldn’t be allowed on our roads. Or is it the fault of that female? Bloody women drivers! They should stay home where they belong. When at last the road is opening he turns the engine on and revs impatiently. Don’t be foolish, he chides himself, you don’t want to draw attention to yourself. He turns the radio on.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Ben too is on edge and not wanting to analyse his actions. He decides to stretch his legs with a short walk back up the road. The sound of a helicopter provides a welcome diversion. It circles overhead. Ben is reminded how his father and his rich buddies like to chopper into places where mere mortals have to hike. Hawthorne has probably shared in such journeys with his father. Ben is suddenly struck by the craziness of his current situation. How did all this come to be?

  Eventually a tow truck arrives. Ben is ready to move the moment Hawthorne does. Together the two vehicles surge over the bridge and up the hill. As he drives he tunes in to the radio. “Further update on the baby missing from Canterbury Hospital. Christchurch businessman Wilkin Hawthorne is wanted for questioning and police are asking anyone with any information to come forward.” Ben gasps and grabs at the volume control. Pop music blasts his eardrums and his car spits roadside gravel as he jumps to turn it down. Hawthorne has stolen the baby. He knew the man was evil. He glares at the number plate ahead and realises the devil is pulling away. Did Hawthorne hear the newsflash? If he decides to speed there is no way Ben can keep up. There probably aren’t any police between here and Greymouth. Hawthorne could vanish before anyone can trace him. Ben grabs his mobile and presses 111.

  The answering voice sounds bemused but repeats the number plate Ben reels off. “He’s just passed Castle Hill Station,” Ben supplies with urgency. The Chrysler is now a grey speck powering up the steep grade beyond the rock formations. A hiss of static sounds through the phone and Ben’s mobile goes dead. He is in a no signal area.

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

  Wilkin can’t believe his ears. He is living a nightmare. The crazy rocks that glare at the road are turning into angry giants. When will he wake up? The radio turns to static. He switches it off. His mind is playing tricks. He is hallucinating — rocks are rocks not ogres, the radio is not beaming messages about Wilkin Hawthorne.

  Calm down, he orders. Breathe, slow down. He changes the buzzing radio to CD and drives with the music along Lake Pearson, between mountains, around the Bealey spur, over the long Waimakariri bridge, through the Alpine Village, past the Devil’s Punchbowl waterfall … and what the devil is that? A helicopter is tracking him with broad zigzag sweeps. A man is leaning out. He has a gun!

  ~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~

 
Fish steps back to critique his work. It pleases him, a very satisfactory afternoon’s work, he congratulates himself. He dismantles his easel and stows his gear in the old van. A faint throbbing disturbs the clear peace of the narrow sky. The beating throb becomes stronger. Fish shields his eyes and sees a helicopter making dragon-fly sweeps. Strange, he mutters. Helicopters intent on deer culls or rescue missions don’t keep central to the area of the highway. The roar of a car brings his eyes to the grey ribbon of road plunging to the viaduct. A car is travelling too fast down the manmade slope. If he doesn’t brake soon he won’t navigate the bend beyond the concrete structure. A hideous squeal of brakes, a thud, a bang — and silence. The road is empty. The vehicle swallowed by the scenery. The hovering helicopter marks its place of disappearance. A guy in a harness is leaning out taking pictures.

  Fish runs to the dented guard-rail and clambers over. Twenty metres below, a car lies upside-down on the rocks. A body hangs from the driver’s window. The helicopter wheels to the east and heads back from whence it came. Fish shakes his fist. “Aren’t you going to help?” he shouts. Another car crests the hump leading to the incline. Fish waves frantically but the car is already skidding to a stop beside him. The driver, a weedy guy with glasses, springs from his vehicle, runs to the dented guard-rail, looks over, pulls back, and spews.

  “You knew he was going to crash?” inquires Fish.

  “He’s been driving erratically for kilometres.”

  The weedy guy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, goes to his boot, hauls out a rope and begins tying it to the metal rail. “We’ve got to get down there.”

  “It’s too late, mate. Fancy airbags weren’t much use to him. He’s dead, and if he’s not he’s beyond any help we can give.”