Sacrament (30 page)

'I'll make sure there's no problem, don't worry.'

'Good. That makes me feel a lot happier.' Without opening his eyes, he reached out and unerringly took Will's
hand. 'How am I doing?'

'You're doing fine.'

'I don't like weepers.'

'You're allowed.'

There was another silence, lighter this time, now that the deal had been struck. 'You're right,' Patrick finally
said. 'I'm allowed.'

Will glanced at his watch. 'Time to go,' he said.

'Go, baby, go. I won't get up if you don't mind. I'm feeling a little frail.' Will went and hugged him, there in the
chair. 'I love you,' he said.

'And I love you back.' He had caught fierce hold of Will's arms, and squeezed hard. 'You do know that, don't
you? I mean, you're not just hearing the words?'

'I know it.'

'I wish we'd had longer, Will.'

'Me too,' Will said, 'I've got a lot of stuff I'd need to tell you about, but I got to catch this plane.'

'No, Will, I mean I wish we'd had longer together. I wish we'd taken the time to know one another better.'

'There'll be time,' Will said.
Pat held on to Will's arms another moment. 'Not enough,' and then, reluctantly loosening his grip, let Will go.

He Names The Mystery

i

Home to England, and the summer almost gone. August's stars had fallen, and the leaves would follow very
soon. Riot and rot in speedy succession.

You'll find the years pass more quickly as you get older, Marcello the resident wise old queen from Buddies in
Boston - had told him an age ago. Will hadn't believed it, of course. It wasn't until he was thirtyone, maybe
thirty-two, that he'd realized there was truth in the observation. Time wasn't on his side after all; it was
gathering speed, season upon season, year upon year. Thirty-five was upon him in a heartbeat, and forty on its
heels, the marathon he'd thought he was running in his youth mysteriously became a hundred yard sprint.
Determined to achieve something of significance before the race was over he'd turned every minute of his life
over to the making of pictures, but they were of small comfort. The books were published, the reviews were
clipped and filed, and the animals he had witnessed in their final days went into the hands of taxidermists. Life
was not a reversible commodity. Things passed away, never to return: species, hopes, years.

And yet he could still blithely wish hours of his life away when he was bored. Sitting in first class on the
eleven-hour flight, he wished a hundred times it was over. He'd brought a bagful of books including the volume
of poems Lewis had been distributing at Patrick's party, but nothing held his attention for more than a page or
two. One of Lewis's short lyrics intrigued him mainly because he wondered who the hell it was about:

Now, with our fierce brotherhood annulled, I see as if by lightning, all the perfect pains we might have made,
had our love's fiction lived another day.

It certainly had the authentic ring of Lewis's voice about it. All his favourite subjects - pain, brotherhood and the
impossibility of love - in four lines.

It was noon when he arrived: a muggy, breathless day, its oppressiveness doing nothing for his stupefied state.
He claimed his baggage and picked up a hire car without any problem, but once he got onto the motorway, he regretted not also hiring a driver. After two nights of less than satisfactory sleep, he was aching and shorttempered; within the first hour of the four-hour trek north, he was several times perilously close to a collision, the fault always his. He stopped to
pick up some coffee, some aspirin and to walk the stiffness out of his joints. The weight and heat of the day
were beginning to lift; there was rain beyond Birmingham, he heard somebody say, and worse to come. It was
fine by him: a good heavy downpour, to cool the day still further.

He got back into the car in an altogether brighter mood, and the next leg of the journey was uneventful. The
traffic thinned, the rain came and went, and though the view from the motorway was seldom inspiring, on
occasion it achieved a particularly English grace. Placid hills thumbed out of the clay, all velvety with grass, or
patched with straggling woods; harvesters raising ochre dust as they cut and threshed in the fields. And here and
there, grander sights: a ridge of naked, sun-struck rock against the grimy sky; a rainbow, leaping from a
water-meadow. He felt a remote reminder of those hours on Spruce Street, wandering two revelatory blocks to
Bethlynn's house. There wasn't anything like the same level of distraction here, thank God, but he had the same
sense that his gaze was cleansed; that he was seeing these sights, none of which were unfamiliar, more clearly
than he had ever before. Would it be the same when he got to Burnt Yarley, he wondered. He certainly hoped
so. He wanted to see the place made new, if that were possible; to which end he didn't let himself stew in
expectation of what lay ahead, but kept his thoughts in the moment: the road, the sky, the passing landscape.

It became harder to do, however, once he came off the motorway, and headed into the hills. The clouds broke,
and the sunlight moved on the slopes as if commanded, the light beautiful enough to bring him close to tears. It
amazed him that having put so many journeys between his heart and the spirit of this place, labouring for more
than two decades to discipline his sentiments, its beauty could still steal upon him. And still the clouds divided,
and the sun joined up its quilt piece by gilded piece. He was passing through villages he now knew, at least by
name. Herricksthwaite, Raddlesmoor, Kemp's Hill. He knew the twists and turns in the road, and where it
would bring him to a vantage point from which to admire a stand of sycamores, a stream, the folded hills.

Dusk was imminent, the last of the day's light still warming the hilltops but leaving to the blues and greys of
dusk the valleys through which he wound his way. This was the landscape of memory; and this the hour.
Nothing was quite certain. Forms blurred, defying definition. Was that a sheep or a boulder? Was that a
deserted cottage or a clot of trees?

His only concession to prophecy had been to prepare himself for a shock when he got into Burnt Yarley, but he
needn't have concernedhimself. The changes wrought upon the village were relatively small. The post office had been remodelled; a few cottages had been tamed up; where the grocer's had once stood there was now a small garage. Otherwise,
everything looked quite familiar in the lamplight. He drove on until he reached the bridge, where he halted for a
moment or two. The river was high; higher, in fact, then he ever remembered it running. He was sorely tempted
to get out of the car and sit for a few minutes before covering the final mile. Maybe even double back three
hundred yards and fortify himself with a pint of Guinness before he faced the house itself. But he resisted his
own cowardice (for that was what it was) and after a minute or two loitering beside the river, he drove home.

ii

Home? No, never that. Never home. And yet what other word was there for this place he'd fled from? Perhaps
that was the very definition of home, at least for men of his inclination: the solid, certain spot from which all
roads led.

Adele was opening the door even as he got out of the car. She'd heard him coming, she said, and thank
goodness he was here, her prayers were answered. The way she said this (and repeated it) made him think she
meant this literally; that she'd been praying for his safe and swift arrival. Now he was here and she had good
news. Hugo was no longer on the danger list. He was mending quite nicely, the doctors said, though he'd have
to stay in hospital for at least a month.

'He's a tough old bird,' Adele said fondly, as she puttered around the kitchen preparing Will a ham sandwich and
tea.

'And how are you bearing up?' Will asked her.

'Oh, I've had a few sleepless nights,' she admitted almost guiltily, as though she had no right to sleeplessness.
She certainly looked exhausted. She was no longer the formidable no-nonsense Yorkshirewoman of twenty-five
years before. Though he guessed her to be still shy of seventy, she looked older, her movements about the
kitchen hesitant, her words often halting. She hadn't told Hugo that Will was coming ('Just in case you changed
your mind at the last minute,' she explained), but she had told his doctor, who had agreed that they could go to
the hospital to see him tonight, though it would be well past visiting hours.

'He's been difficult,' she said heavily. 'Even though he's not fully with us. But he knows how to rub people up
the wrong way whether he's sick or well. He takes pleasure in it.'

'I'm sorry you've had to deal with this on your own. I know how difficult he can be.'

'Well, if he wasn't difficult,' she said, with gentle indulgence, 'he wouldn't be who he is, and I wouldn't care for him. So, I get on with it. That's all we can really do, isn't it?'

It was simple enough wisdom. There were flaws in any arrangement. But if you cared, you just got on with it.

Adele insisted she drive to the hospital. She knew the way, she said, so it would be quicker. Of course she drove
at a snail's pace, and by the time they got there it was almost half past nine. Relatively early by the standards of
the outside world of course, but hospitals were discrete kingdoms, with their own time-zones, and it might as
well have been two in the morning: the corridors were hushed and deserted, the wards in darkness.

The nurse who escorted Will and Adele to Hugo's room was chatty, however, her voice a little too loud for the
subdued surroundings.

'He was awake last time I popped my head in, but he may have gone back to sleep. The pain-killers are making
him a little groggy. Are you his son, then?'

'I am.'

'Ah,' she said, with an almost coy little smile. 'He's been talking about you, on and off. Well, rambling really.
But he's obviously been wanting to see you. It's Nathaniel, right?' She didn't wait for confirmation, but wittered
on blithely: something about how they moved him to a shared room, and now the man he'd been put in with had
been discharged, so he had the room to himself, which was lucky, wasn't it? Will murmured that yes, it was
lucky.

'Here we are.' The door was ajar. 'You want to just go in and surprise him?' the nurse said.

'Not particularly,' Will said.

The nurse looked confounded, then decided she'd misheard, and with an asinine smile, breezed off down the
corridor.

'I'll wait out here,' Adele said. 'You should have this moment alone, just the two of you.'

Will nodded, and after twenty-one years stepped back into his father's presence.

There was a meagre lamp burning beside Hugo's bed, its sallow light throwing a monumental shadow of the
man upon the wall. He was semi-recumbent amid a Himalayan mass of pillows, his eyes closed.

He'd grown a beard, and nurtured it to a formidable size. A solid ten inches long, trimmed and waxed in
emulation of the beards of great, dead men: Kant, Nietzsche, Tolstoy. The minds by which Hugo had always
judged contemporary thought and art, and found it wanting. The beard was more grey than black, with streams
of white running in it from the corners of his mouth, as though he'd dribbled cream into it. His hair, by contrast,
had been clipped short and lay fiat to his scalp, delineating the Roman dome of his skull. Will watched him for
fifteen or twenty seconds, thinking how magisterial he looked. Then Hugo's lips parted, and very quietly he
said:

'So you came back.'

Now his eyes opened, and found Will. Though there was a pair of spectacles at the bedside table, he stared at
his visitor as though he had Will in perfect focus, his stare as unrelenting as ever; and as judgmental.

'Hello, Pa,' Will said.

'Into the light,' Hugo said, beckoning for Will to approach the bed. 'Let me see you.' Will duly stepped into the
throw of the lamp to be scrutinized. 'The years are showing on you,' he said. 'It's the sun. If you have to tramp
the world at least wear a hat.'

'I'll remember.'

'Where were you lurking this time?'

'I wasn't lurking, Pa. I was-'

'I thought you'd deserted me. Where's Adele? Is she here?' He reached out to pluck his glasses off the
nightstand. In his haste he instead knocked them to the ground. 'Damn things!'

'They're not broken,' Will said, picking them up.

Hugo put them on, one-handed. Will knew better than to help. 'Where is she?'

'Waiting outside. She wanted us to have a little quality time together.'

Now, paradoxically, he didn't look at Will, but studied the folds in the bedcover, and his hands, his manner
perfectly detached. 'Quality time?' he said. 'Is that an Americanism?'

'Probably.'

'What does it mean exactly?'

'Oh...' Will sighed. 'Are we reduced to that already?'

'No, I'm just interested,' Hugo said. 'Quality time.' He pursed his lips.

'It's a stupid turn of phrase,' Will conceded. 'I don't know why I used it.'

Stymied, Hugo looked at the ceiling. Then: 'Maybe you could just ask Adele to come in. I need a few toiletry
items brought-'

'Who did it?'

-just some toothpaste and some-'

'Pa. Who did it?'

The man paused, his mouth working as though he were chewing a piece of gristle. 'Why do you assume I
know?' he said.

'Why do you have to be so argumentative? This isn't a seminar. I'm not your student. I'm your son.'

'Why did you take so long to come back?' Hugo said, his eyes returning to Will. 'You knew where to find me.'

'Would I have been welcome?'

Hugo's stare didn't waver. 'Not by me, particularly,' he said with great precision. 'But your mother was very hurt
by your silence.'

'Does Eleanor know that you're in here?'

'I certainly haven't told her. And I doubt Adele has. They hated one another.'

'Shouldn't she be told?'

'Why?'

'Because she'll be concerned.'

'Then why tell her?' Hugo said neatly. 'I don't want her here. There's no love lost between us. She's got her life.
I've got mine. The only thing we have in common is you.'

'You make that sound like an accusation.'

'No. You simply hear it that way. Some children are palliatives in a troubled marriage. You weren't. I don't
blame you for that.'

'So can we get back to the subject?'

'Which was?'

'Who did this?'

Hugo returned his gaze to the ceiling. 'I read a piece you wrote in The Times, about eighteen months ago-'

'What the hell has

-something about elephants. You did write it?'

'It had my name on it.'

'I thought perhaps you'd had some amanuensis write it for you. I daresay you thought you were waxing poetic,
but Christ, how could you put your name to that kind of indulgence?'

'I was describing what I felt.'

'There you are then,' Hugo said, his tone one of weary resignation. 'If you feel it then it must be true.'

'How I disappoint you,' Will said.

'No. No. I never hoped, so how could I be disappointed?' There was such a profundity of bitterness in this, it
took Will's breath away. 'None of it means a damn thing, anyway. It's all shite in the end.'

'Is it?'

'Christ, yes.' He looked at Will with feigned surprise. 'Isn't that what you've been shrieking about all these
years?'

'I don't shriek.'

'Put it this way. It's a little shrill for most people's ears. Maybe that's why it's not having any effect. Maybe that's
why your beloved Mother Earth

'Fuck Mother Earth-'

'No, you first, I insist.'

Will raised his hands in surrender. 'Okay, you win,' he said. 'I don't have the appetite for this. So ...'

'Oh, come now.'

'I'll fetch Adele,' he said, turning from the bed.

'What for? I didn't come here to be sniped at. If you don't want a peaceful conversation, then we won't have any
conversation.' He was almost at the door.

'I said wait,' Hugo demanded.

Will halted, but didn't turn.

'It was him,' Hugo said, very softly. Now Will glanced over his shoulder. His father had taken off his spectacles
and was staring into middle distance.

' Who?'

'Don't be so dense,' Hugo said, his voice a monotone. 'You know who.'

Will heard his heart quicken. 'Steep?' he said. Hugo didn't reply. Will turned back to face the bed. 'Steep did this
to you?'

Silence. And then, very quietly, almost reverentially. 'This is your revenge. So enjoy it.'

'Why?'

'Because you won't get another like it.'

'No, why did he do this to you?'

'Oh. To get to you. For some reason that's important to him. He did state his devotion. Make what you will of
that.'

'Why didn't you tell the police?' Again, Hugo kept his counsel, until Will came back to the bedside. 'You should
have told them.'

'What would I tell them? I don't want any part of this ... connection ... between you and these creatures.'

'There's nothing sexual, if that's what you think.'

'Oh, I don't give a damn about your bedroom habits. Humani nil a me alienum Auto. Terence-'

'I know the quote, Dad,' Will said wearily. 'Nothing human is alien to me. But that doesn't apply here, does
it?'

Hugo narrowed his puffy eyes. 'This is the moment you've been waiting for, isn't it?' he said, his lip curling.
'You feel quite the master of ceremonies. You came in here, pretending you wanted to make peace but what you
really want is revenge.'

Will opened his mouth to deny the charge, then thought better of it, and instead told the truth: 'Maybe a little.'

'So. You have your moment,' Hugo said, staring up at the ceiling. 'You're right. Terence does not apply. These .
. . creatures ... are not human. There. I've said it. I've thought a lot about what that means, while I've been lying
here.'

'And?'

'It doesn't mean very much in the end.'

'I think you're wrong.'

'Well you would, wouldn't you?'

'There's something extraordinary in all of this. Waiting at the end.'

'Speaking as a man who is waiting at the end I see nothing here but the same tiresome cruelties and the same
stale old pain. Whatever they are, they're not angels. They're not going to show you anything miraculous.
They're going to break your bones the way they broke mine.'

'Maybe they don't know what they really are,' Will replied, realizing as he spoke that this was indeed at the
heart of what he believed. 'Oh, Jesus...' he murmured almost to himself. 'Yes ... They don't know what they
are any more than we do.'

'Is this some kind of revelation?' Hugo said in his driest tone. Will didn't dignify his cynicism with a reply.
'Well?' he insisted. 'Is it? Because if you know something about them I don't, I want to hear it.'

'Why should you care, if none of it means anything anyway?'

'Because I have a better chance of surviving another meeting with them if I know what I'm dealing with.'

'You won't see them again,' Will said.

'You sound very certain of that.'

'You said Steep wants me,' Will replied. 'I'll make it simple for him. I'll go to him.'

A look of unfeigned alarm crossed Hugo's face. 'He'll kill you.'

'It's not that simple for him.'

'You don't know what he's like-'

'Yes I do. Believe me. I do. We've spent the last thirty years together.' He touched his temple. 'He's been in my
head and I've been in his. Like a couple of Russian dolls.'

Hugo looked at him with fresh dismay. 'How did I get you?' he said, looking at Will as though he were
something venomous.

'I assumed it was fucking, Dad.'

'God knows, God knows I tried to put you on the right track. But I never stood a chance, I see that now. You
were queer and crazy and sick to your sorry little heart from the beginning.'

'I was queer in the womb,' Will said calmly.

'Don't sound so damn proud of it!'

'Oh, that's the worst, isn't it?' Will countered, 'I'm queer and I like it. I'm crazy and it suits me. And I'm sick to
my sorry little heart because I'm dying into something new. You don't get that yet, and you probably never will.
But that's what's happening.'

Hugo stared at him, his mouth so tightly closed it seemed he would never utter another word; certainly not to
Will. Nor did he need to, at least for now, because at that moment there was a light tapping at the door. 'Can I
interrupt?' Adele said, putting her head around the door.

'Come on in,' Will said. Then, glaring back at Hugo. 'The reunion's pretty much over.'

Adele came directly to the bed and kissed Hugo on the cheek. He received the kiss without comment or
reciprocation, which didn't seem to bother Adele. How many kisses had she bestowed this way, Will wondered;
Hugo taking them as his right? 'I brought you your toothpaste,' she said, digging in her handbag and depositing
the tube on the bedside table. Will saw the glint of fury in his father's eye, to have been seen addle-headed,
asking for something he'd already requested. Adele was happily unaware of this. She fairly bubbled in Hugo's
presence, Will saw, sweetly content to be coddling him - straightening his sheets, plumping up his pillow -
though he gave her no thanks for her efforts.

'I'm going to leave you two to talk,' Will said. 'I need a cigarette. I'll see you out by the car, Adele.'
'Fine,' she said, all her focus upon the object of her affections. 'I won't be long.'
'Goodbye, Dad,' Will said. He didn't expect a reply, and he didn't get one. Hugo was staring up at the ceiling
again, with the glassy-eyed gaze of a man who has more important things on his mind than a child he would
rather had never been born.