After Purple (23 page)

“They
are
beautiful,” he whispered.

I bowed my head, joined my hands. Now it was a valid sacrament. I struggled to sit still, to collect my thoughts and remember the words of the act of contrition which we'd learnt at school.

“For these and all other sins of my past life, I beg pardon and absolution from you, my heavenly father.”

Suddenly, I was crying. The words were so beautiful, I couldn't bear to mock them. “Heavenly father” took me straight back to my birthday party. I could almost taste the marzipan rancid on my lips, smell Capstan Navy Cut.

“I want to confess my
real
sins, Ray,” I sobbed.

“There's no
need
, Thea. God has forgiven you already.” I don't think he could cope with any more sins. My breasts were almost more than he could handle.

“I want to, Ray, I must. I've never told anyone before. I don't mean all the sex and screwing and things. You're right — they're nothing. It's worse than that. Far worse. I've …”

Ray had removed the tea-towel from my feet and was mopping up my tears with it. “Hush, Thea, don't cry. There's nothing so bad that …”

“But there
is
, Ray, there is. Listen, for fifteen years I prayed that Josie Rutherford would die. I
hated
her. Nothing was too bad for her. I wanted her boiled in oil and thrown to sharks and scraped off motorways. But then she
did
die, Ray. I killed her. I
keep
on killing people. I hate them first and then they die. Look at Janet's baby! It would have lived, if it hadn't been for me.”

“No, Thea, that's not true.”

“How do
you
know? You weren't even …”

“Look, my girl, about one in ten first pregnancies ends in miscarriage. That's an awful lot of babies for you to have killed.”

“It
wasn't
a miscarriage — she lost it at nine months. Even the doctors don't call it miscarriage when it's
that
far on. Anyway, you're laughing at me …”

“I'm
not
laughing, Thea. It's just that I'm pretty damned certain you're not a murderer.”

“Oh yes, I am. What about Josie Rutherford?”

“Thea, dear, who
is
Josie Rutherford?”

“
Was
.”

“Was, then.”

“Oh, some … bitch my father ran away with.”

“I see. And when did she die?”

“Eighteen months ago.”

“Oh, recently. How old was she then?”

“I've no idea.
His
age, I suppose.”

“Well, how old was
he
?”

“Don't know!”

“You told me last time your father married late, and had
you
even later. So he can't be young.”

“Well, he's not old.”

“Sixty-ish?”

“
No!
Well … yes … maybe.”

“So his … er … woman was at least sixty when she died?”

“Mmmm.”

“And already had a good part of her life. Was it a
happy
life?”

“She had my
father
, didn't she? For nearly twenty years. I only had him for
four
.”

“Happy, then. What did she die of, Thea? I mean, it wasn't boiling oil, or sharks, was it?”

“No-o.”

“Well, what?”

“She had a chest infection, followed by pneumonia. It didn't kill her, actually, but she had a relapse. They were living in Saskatchewan at the time, and she insisted on swimming in some sub-zero lake when she was meant to be convalescing.”

“You mean, you
made
her swim in it.”

“I
didn't!
Hell, I wasn't even
there
, Ray. I was living in a cul-de-sac in Twickenham.”

“Exactly. It was nothing to do with you at all. She died of natural causes, Thea. Life and death belong to God and nature. Even
you're
not powerful enough to murder people six thousand miles away.”

“You're mocking me again, Ray. I thought this was meant to be Confession.”

“It
is
Confession and I never mock. I'm speaking to you as God would. You may have hated, but you've never killed. God will forgive the hate.”

“You mean … you could give me absolution?”

“Of course I could.”

“Even though I hate her? Still.”

“You can't really hate the dead, Thea.”

“You
can
.”

“Well, you must want not to
want
to hate her.” He grinned. “Could you manage that?”

“Yes, but … supposing she hates
me?
Well, perhaps not her — not now — but
other
people. Janet, for example. Or my mother. Or Leo, even. I'm
frightened
of that hate, Ray.”

“You don't even know it's
there
, my girl. It's only your
own
hate reflected in a mirror.”

“Well, my own hate's even worse. That's why I want to stay here. There's no hate in the hospital. And even my own I can hide away from here. Everybody's kind and decent here — well, all except Sister Robert, they are. I mean, the whole thing only exists to be loving and caring and …”

“You can take that
with
you, Thea, all that love and decency, set it up inside you. That's what absolution does. Gets rid of the hate, so you can put something better in its place. Look, remember that man sick of the palsy?”

“What
is
palsy, Ray, exactly?”

“Paralysis. The poor chap couldn't walk or move his limbs. But I've always suspected it was a sort of
hysterical
paralysis — you know, psychological, psychosomatic — all those long words which mean his mind knocked his body for six. You see, Thea, his sins so weighed him down, he was literally
crippled
by them. Christ realised that. That's why the first thing He said was, ‘Your sins are forgiven you.' It was
enough
, you see. It healed him, soul
and
body. Maybe it's a bit the same with you. All that hate and stuff has been dragging you down for years, Thea. Even fear is a sort of paralysis. Once we get rid of it, you won't
need
hospitals. Oh, of course you'll have to get your teeth fixed, and rest and recuperate and take things easy for a while, but the real, essential Thea will be strong and healed and …”

“But supposing there
isn't
a real, essential Thea? I mean what if I'm a
fraud?
Even now, I'm not really sure I'm not deceiving you. A bit of me still wants to … Oh, I know it's crazy, Ray, but the more you talk like a priest and go on about Christ and cripples and miracles and things, the more I want to sort of …
paw
you.”

He grinned and touched my hand. “I don't think that matters much, do you? I mean, we're all a bit of a mess, clinging on to heaven with our fingertips, while our toes trail in the mud.”

“But I think I
prefer
the mud.”

“That's only because you're so used to it. It's like people who've been in prison for years. They're scared to come out, in case the sunlight blinds them. It
won't
, Thea. In fact, I think you need some sun. Look, shut your eyes and we'll say the prayers together.”

“But supposing I'm not sorry?”

“You've made two confessions in three days. Isn't that
proof
you're sorry?”

“Not necessarily. I might just be trapping you. I
was
, in the beginning.”

“Look, Thea, you said you trusted me. Well, can't you trust me enough to know when a penitent's genuine, and when she's shamming?”

“But, you're so
simple
, Ray. You don't even see
through
me. Hell! I only said I trusted you because I wanted you to touch me. Don't you see, the whole thing turns me on? It's as if all your prayers and gospels and things were a sort of Kama Sutra …”

How could I go on? Tell him his words were lapping against my cunt, probing it like a long dark velvet finger?

“That's OK, Thea. The gospels
are
a kind of love story and they
should
turn you on.”

“But not like
that!
You're so damned saintly, Ray, you don't even see what I'm getting at.”

“Oh yes, I do. But I think you make too much of it. Sex is your special subject, so to speak, so you keep on going back to it. It's understandable — you don't want it devalued because it's all you've got in your life at the moment.”

I drained my glass, more to hide my face than anything. Ray had put his finger, not on my cunt, but on something just as sensitive. I had so few achievements, I
needed
those forty-seven men. They were like my O-levels or my testimonials, and I didn't want him knocking them. Yet, wasn't he offering me a life-escape, a way to soar beyond them? I was still confused. I longed for absolution, but …

“Supposing it's all a
game
, Ray. I mean, just my way of grabbing another man? Or two, if you count God. I mean, I'm
always
playing games with people. Sometimes I don't even know I'm doing it.”

“Oh, so your tears were just a game, were they? And Josie Rutherford was a game and …”

“Well,
no
, Ray, but …”

“And you
don't
want absolution?”

“Yes, yes, I
do
.”

“Well, why don't
we finish
the game? I know you think I'm simple, Thea — perhaps I am. But sometimes it pays to be simple. Shall we try? Even the rules of this game are very simple. All you have to do is shut your eyes, listen to the words of absolution, and try and tell God you're sorry, OK?”

Holy. Sorry. Simple. Words I had never trusted up till now. Christ was probably simple. He may have had rough red hands and shy myopic eyes.

“OK.”

I shut my eyes. The night was so dark, it came roaring into my head. All I could hear, at first, was the scowl of rain fretting outside the window. Then, something like a nudge of moonlight trembled on my neck. I squinted through my eyelids. I could see Ray's hand trailing across my shoulder, returning to my breasts. A holy hand. Not pawing me, but shielding, sanctifying. I felt his fingers fall against the nipple. A great sob shook my body.

“God the Father of Mercies,” Ray began. He was saying the words in English, but even the flat Manchester vowels couldn't hide the glory in them. Hate and shame and murder were drowning in the dark waters of the Saskatchewan lake. The narrow, messy cul-de-sac which had been my past now had a wide free-flowing channel cutting through it, flushing out the debris, roaring to the sea. Healing waves were breaking over my head, grace streaming from my soul, my cunt, my eyes. Ray had reached the climax now. We were both trembling, both triumphant.

“And I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit …”

He made the Sign of the Cross with his other hand. The right one never wavered from its homage at my breast. I sat stone still. I could feel the Holy Spirit scudding through my body, sluicing down my thighs.

Ray was still praying. “May whatever suffering you endure, heal your sins and help you grow in holiness.”

I swooped on the word suffering and clasped it to my chest. There was purpose in my pain now, as I had wanted all along. My mangled mouth was sanctified.

“Amen,” I stuttered. “Amen.”

Love and light were flooding into me. I was a sun, a flame, a meteor. The humble room was a glowing golden palace, Ray's packing-case a throne. Even the stains on the carpet had turned into spinning stars. I hardly noticed when Ray took his hand away. He had put the sheepskin back around my shoulders. It felt warm like the breath of God.

We sat staring at each other. Whatever was said now could only be an anti-climax, so we left the silence stretching up to heaven. I dived in it and swam. Ray, I think, was praying. I could feel myself lapped in his soft white prayer, like sheepskin.

At last he got up and fumbled with the tumblers. “Look, I don't want to rush you, Thea, but …”

“It's all right, Ray, I know I've got to go.” I was radiant now, and strong.

“Would you like a snack before you leave? There's not much here, but I could probably unearth a tin of soup or something.”

I knew he was trying to bridge that awkward, nervous gap between earth and heaven. I shook my head. I didn't need it bridged. If I still had a stomach, then grace was plugging all the gaps in it. There wasn't room for soup.

“Well, at least let me see you safely back to your bed.”

“No,” I whispered. I wanted to be alone. Or rather not alone. As Ray closed the door, I glimpsed the floor of heaven glinting through the clouds. I was walking out into a night so full of angels, the dense black sky was streaked and creamy with them. I was absolved, forgiven, one with the whole eternal, living church. I had made my First Confession, so now I was a true, authentic Catholic, joined to the eight hundred million others in the world. Every Catholic church from Walsingham to Warsaw was
my
church now, every priest my priest. God himself had been sitting in the room with me, sharing Ray's packing-case. I could still feel His fingers burning on my breasts, His grace leaking out between my legs. I lay down on the grass and tried to keep it there; stared up at the sky. Joy and rain were falling in my eyes. I was God-sized now. All the swanking stars were only soft blossoms tangling in my hair; the soaring cedars sprigs in my buttonhole. I could feel God ravishing me, his strong limbs pressing hot against my nightdress. My forty-eighth man and still no sin in it. No sin anywhere. Even Josie Rutherford was over. Ray had wiped her out and cancelled her. She hadn't even left a stain. No stains. My soul was white and shimmering like the white beard on a wave. I
was
a wave. Breaking and pounding on the shore of heaven.