Heller (37 page)

The rest of
the day passed uneventfully, and it wasn’t long before Pastor
Peachey arrived once more for the evening prayer session. He gave
me that creepy look again, taking in my jeans and loose hair. I sat
on the bed and stared at him intently during the whole session.
Let him see what it was like, for once
, I thought nastily.
He didn’t enjoy the scrutiny, judging by the number of times his
eyes shifted over to me.

He was out of
sorts that evening. All the women got a blast for not concentrating
and not thinking about the scriptures properly, even though it was
him who constantly lost his train of thought or place in the Bible.
I thought he was very hard on them and it was a subdued little
group of women who readied themselves for the evening lecture.
Reluctantly, I pulled the dress back over my head and had my hair
plaited again.

When it came
close to the start of the lecture, the Pastor knocked on our door
and like a group of obedient schoolgirls we all walked the few
floors down to the hotel’s large conference hall. I felt curious
eyes on us as we made our way there and was mortified to be thought
part of this weird family. I wanted to walk to one side, but what
was the real use of that? I was dressed like one of his wives, and
everyone would think of me as one of them anyway. I hoped I didn’t
run into anybody I knew.

The other five
women kept their eyes lowered modestly, only peeking up on occasion
to take in the faded baroque extravagance of the conference hall.
It had been built lavishly in less economically rational times, but
like the hotel in general, had a general air of squalor and neglect
about it.

The wives and
I stood in a line at one side of the hall. They stood uniformly,
their hands clasped in front of them, chattering quietly to each
other. I stood in the middle, towering over them in height, arms
crossed, one foot in front of the other, hip cocked, eyes
suspicious and a strong expression of contempt on my face. I looked
pissed off and menacing, exactly the type of woman you would run a
million miles from if you were a polygamist. And how do I know how
I appeared just then? Because some dropkick of a photographer took
a shot at that exact moment that ended up in the next day’s
newspaper under the headline,
Beauties and the
Beast
, which was neither accurate nor witty. I really should
have done what I wanted at the time and smashed that camera over
his head. I strode towards him in an intimidating way, and he ran
off without taking another shot, which is presumably how that truly
awful photo ended up in the newspaper instead. Never mind, I told
myself, nobody read that trashy little tabloid anyway.

There were a
surprisingly large amount of attendees at the lecture.
God, how
many boring, ugly, middle-aged sexual perverts were interested in
multiple wives in this city anyway
, I thought derisively. It
seemed like an outlandish number of them to me. I made it my
personal duty that evening to individually glare at each one of
them, until they turned away from my reproving gaze, squirming in
embarrassment.

Pastor Peachey
was introduced by a local advocate of polygamy, Robert Rigby, a
boring, ugly, middle-aged sexual pervert. He was on the news on a
regular basis, staging repeated one-man pickets in front of
Parliament House trying to persuade the legislators to make
polygamy legal in this state. He was a lunatic and a joke and I
don’t know what his long-suffering wife of thirty-five years
thought of his continual attempts to legally bring young brides
into their marriage bed, but she should have chopped his knob off
years ago and saved the rest of us from his dull diatribes.

The Pastor
spoke for two long, long hours, during which I made absolutely no
attempt to hide my gigantic yawns. The wives and I were sitting
down by then, but still segregated at the side of the hall, so that
everyone could observe us with pity, or longing, depending on your
viewpoint. Mostly longing I suspected, casting my eyes scathingly
over the assorted bunch of weirdos and perverts gathered together.
The wives were hanging on their husband’s every word, except Hannah
who looked as though she was singing quietly to herself.

Pastor Peachey
finished his speech with another lengthy section of scripture that
sounded as though it was also about wanton women and sinful
relations. He was a one-note band, that man. There was tumultuous
applause, some of the perverts even jumping to their feet in
acclamation. The Pastor stayed behind to chat to attendees and to
answer questions about his beliefs and lifestyle, which he was more
than happy to do.

I took the
opportunity to hustle the wives back to their hotel room. In the
hallway of our floor we were accosted by three very drunk guys who
evidently mistook us for a bunch of coy strippers. They
deliberately blocked our progress in that aggressive way drunken
guys have, thinking that they’re being flirty and playful, when
they’re actually being quite menacing. One of them, a drop-dead
gorgeous man with wavy golden hair and stunning gold eyes, his
handsome face loose and rubbery with the alcohol, grabbed Hannah
around the waist and tried to kiss her. She screamed loudly and
swatted at him ineffectually with her hands. I sighed, my stock of
patience all used up by the tedium of the lecture.

I started off
nicely, pulling Hannah gently away from his busy hands. “Look guys,
we’ve had a long night and we just want to go to bed, so if you
don’t mind . . .”

Golden Guy
turned his attention on me. “We wanna go to bed too, sweetheart,”
he slurred and leered, advancing towards me. “Six of you, three of
us. Would be fun. Good time had by all. Guaran-fucking-teed.”

“Do we look
like whores to you?” I asked him scornfully, trying to dodge his
groping hands.

“You look like
girls who need a good fuck.” The wives shrieked in horror at the
suggestion, but he certainly had my measure – I was in dire need of
a good one. “And we’re the men for the job,” he boasted, swaying as
he stood there, sweeping his hand to include his equally inebriated
mates – a lanky, freckly man and a stout, balding man. I was less
sure about that. He leaned forward, blinking, trying to focus his
eyes on me. “You’re pretty.”

“Yeah, pretty
pissed off that you won’t get out the way.” I tried to push past
him, but despite his drunkenness, he stood his ground firmly, a
buddy behind each shoulder. I was fondly thinking of my capsicum
spray right about then, but my handbag was back in the room.

“Last time,” I
said, looking up into his beautiful eyes. Why are the good-looking
ones always the biggest jerks? “Out of the way, sunshine.”

“Gimme a kiss
first, pretty girl.” His hand shot out and grabbed my butt, having
a good feel. “Mmm, nice and tight. Bet you’re hot in the sack.”

That whole
exchange riled me for two reasons: one, I hate people (men)
presuming they can touch me without my permission, and two, as I
said before, I really hate being called a girl. I didn’t bother
reasoning with him any further, but just quickly fisted my hand and
forcefully punched him in the neck, right in his Adam’s apple. It
was one of the manoeuvres Tysen had taught me because it doesn’t
require a great deal of skill to perform and it’s very painful for
the assaulted. While he was distracted by that unpleasant
experience, I took him by surprise by ramming against him hard with
all my force, unbalancing him in his drunkenness. He went down
heavily, taking down his buddies at the same time like bowling
pins, them being too dull-witted by the booze to get out of the
way.

“Ladies,
quickly!” I suggested with urgency and we all hurried down the
hallway, half-running, half-walking, towards our room. I ushered
them ahead of me so that I was last in the line to step over the
struggling bodies on the floor, attempting to disentangle
themselves from each other.

One of the men
shot his hands out and grabbed both my ankles as I passed, causing
me to fall flat on my face. Fortunately I had the time and reflexes
to put my arms out to stop my face breaking my fall. I glanced up
at the wives, huddled in fright in the doorway, looking back at
me.

“Ladies, get
inside and lock the door!” I shouted slowly and patiently and hoped
I didn’t sound as patronising as I felt. The man that tripped me,
and it wasn’t Golden Guy but one of his friends, the lanky, freckly
one, had a death grip on my ankles.

“That wasn’t
nice what you just did to us,” he complained, and while I could
agree with his line of reasoning – it undoubtedly
wasn’t
a
very nice thing to do – I found it hard to muster up any
remorse.

“Well, it
wasn’t very nice what you just did to me either,” I pointed out
politely. “I could have broken my nose. And it wasn’t nice for you
to hassle us and block our path and swear at us. Or for him,”
pointing at Golden Guy, “to grope me or try to kiss my friend. Will
you let go of my ankles now, please? You’re hurting me.”

And just like
that, he did. To my utter surprise, he then stood up and offered me
his hand to help me up as well. The others rose to their feet and
stood in the hall, hangdog expressions on their faces.

“Sorry for
being so obnoxious. We’ve just come from a buck’s party for one of
our friends and we’re a little bit frisky. None of us have
girlfriends at the moment,” said Golden Guy, as if that excused
anything, rubbing his throat and bathing me in his incredible eyes.
He was killing me with that admission though, because he was simply
edible. I wished I’d met him in better circumstances, without me
looking like, you know, a stupid polygamous wife in a hideous
dress.

“Sorry,”
echoed the other two sheepishly.

“Well, all
right then. I’m sorry for pushing you all over. How about we just
call it quits? Enjoy the rest of your evening, gentlemen,” I said,
not quite believing the turn of events but taking advantage of it
to move quickly down the hallway, rapping on the hotel door. “It’s
Tilly, let me in. Quickly!”

I twisted to
look back at the sorry trio, afraid they were going to rush me, but
they had already turned away, making their staggering way down the
hall towards the lifts. Golden Guy glanced back over his shoulder
once to throw me a sweet and regretful smile. I gave him a little
wave of equal regret. Damn, he was smoking hot! Even from the
rear.

The women
welcomed me back as if I was a hero warrior returning from a bloody
but victorious battle, and fussed over me continuously. I gave a
mental shrug and let them. It wasn’t very often I was fussed over,
so I sat back and enjoyed it. They made me a cup of tea, although
to be frank I would much rather have been given a nice cold glass
of sauvignon blanc. Then they insisted on treating the minor grazes
I’d received on my arms when I fell, and I didn’t have the heart to
tell them that the disinfectant they liberally applied caused me
more pain than the grazes had.

After a while
they settled down and we ate our meagre dinner: cheese and
crackers, apples again, tap water again. Then we commenced our
queuing for the bathroom routine. Elizabeth received the call to
spend the night with their husband and the conjugal nightgown was
carefully folded and taken with her. It was just as I was ringing
Heller to report in that I remembered I had wanted to ask Daniel to
get some US currency for me, even though the dress was still
fine.

So far.

Heller groaned
with exasperation when I told him about the hallway altercation,
probably imagining that I’d started a riot at the hotel. But when
I’d finished my story, he congratulated me on defusing the
situation with my politeness. When he said that, I was glad that I
hadn’t had the capsicum spray handy, because I’m pretty sure I
would have used it. And then the situation wouldn’t have ended so
nicely, especially for the men, and I wouldn’t be feeling so warm
and tingly with Heller’s praise ringing in my ears.

After we said
goodnight, I sent Daniel a text message asking him to do that
little favour for me and he texted back his willingness to help. I
thought $US200 should cover it. Then I had the last, cold shower
for the night and bunked down again on the lumpy lounge. I was very
tired though and fell asleep immediately.

The next day
passed almost identically to the previous one. At the morning
prayer session, Elizabeth was given rare praise for her answers and
the Pastor looked on her with something approaching fondness. She
blushed modestly, smiling down at her hands and jealousy briefly
flared on the other wives’ faces.
She must have outdone herself
in the sinful relations department last night to have earned such a
reward
, I thought cynically, trying not to let the thought
bring my breakfast back up. Rebecca was singled out for further
instruction during the day, so I assumed I could take the ladies
for another stroll around the park, while he was occupied screwing,
er, sorry,
instructing
his wife. Hannah perked up at that
plan, having missed out on the excursion the day before and it was
lovely to see her simple happiness in being outside the hotel
room.

After the
evening prayer session, where Mary was appointed the designated
husband-shagger for the night, I pulled on my horrible dress and
submitted again to having my hair plaited, tying the scarf in place
as soon as it was done. We all filed downstairs again. And if I
thought that the previous night’s lecture had exhausted the city’s
supply of ugly, middle-aged sexual perverts, I was sadly mistaken.
The room was full again. The crowd had a slightly different
composition that night though and a different atmosphere, and I
wondered if some of the audience had turned up looking for trouble.
It didn’t take long before I knew the answer to that interesting
little question.