Sacrament (8 page)

'It wants more than a dip.'

'Does it indeed?'

He knelt between her legs, and, reaching out, removed her hand from her sex, to give himself better sight of it.
Then he stared.

'What are you thinking?' she said.

He fingered her for a moment, then ran his moistened digit down to her arse. 'I'm thinking ...' he said, '... that
I'd rather have this today.'

'Oh would you?'

He pressed his finger in a little way. She squirmed. 'Let me put it here,' he said. 'Just the head.'

'There are no children to be had that way,' she said.

'I don't care,' he replied. 'It's what I want.'

'Well, I don't,' she replied.

He smiled at her. 'Rosa-' he said softly -you could not deny me.'

He slipped his hands beneath her knees and hoisted them up. 'We should give up all hope of children,' he said,
staring at the dark bud between her buttocks. 'They have always come to nothing.' She made no reply. 'Are you
listening, love?' He glanced up at her face. She wore a sorrowful expression.

'No more children?' she said.

He spat in his hand, and slickened his prick. Spat again, more copiously, and slickened her arse.

'No more children,' he said, drawing her closer to him. 'It's a waste of your affections, smothering love on a
thing that hasn't even got the wit to love you back.'

This was the truth of the matter: that though they had together made children numbering in the many dozens, he
had for her sake taken them from her in the moment of their delivery and put them out of their misery, if the
cretins ever knew misery. He would dutifully come back when he'd disassembled them and disposed of the
pieces, always with the same grim news. That though they were fine to look at, their skulls contained only
bloody fluid. Not even a rough sketch of a brain; nothing.

He pushed his prick into her. 'It's better this way,' he said.

She let out a little sob. He couldn't tell whether it was out of sorrow or pleasure, and at that moment didn't really
care. He pressed against the warmth of her muscle, his prick utterly enveloped. Oh, it was good.

'No ... children ... then.. .' Mrs McGee gasped.

'No children.'

'Not ever?'

'Not ever.'

She reached up and took hold of his shirt, pulling him down towards her.

'Kiss,' she said.

'Be careful what you ask for

'Kiss,' she said again, raising her face towards his.

He didn't deny her. He pressed his lips against hers, and let her tongue, which was nimble, dart between his
aching teeth. His mouth was always drier than hers. His parched gums and throat drank deep, and murmuring
his gratitude against her lips, he pressed hard into her, their hold on one another suddenly frantic. Her hands
went to his throat, then to his face, then to his backside, pushing him deeper, while his fingers pulled at her
buttons to gain access to her breasts.

'Who are you?' she said to him.

'Anyone,' he gasped.

'Who?'

'Pieter, Martin, Laurent, Paolo-'

'Laurent. I liked Laurent.'

'He's here.'

'Who else?'

'I forget all the names,' Jacob confessed.

Rosa brought her hands back up to his face, and caught tight hold of it. 'Remember for me,' she said to him.

'There was a carpenter called Bernard-'

'Oh yes. He was very rough with me.'

'And Darlington

-the draper. Very tender.' She laughed. 'Didn't one of them wrap me up in silk?'

'Did he?'

'And poured cream in my lap. You could be him. Whoever he was.'

'We have no cream.'

'And no silk. Think of something else.'

'I could be Jacob,' he said.

'You could, I suppose,' she said, 'but it's not as much fun. Think of someone else.'

'There was Josiah. And Michael. And Stewart. And Roberto-' She moved her body to the rhythm of his litany.
So many men, whose names and professions he'd borrowed to excite her, wrapping himself in their reputations
for an hour or a day; seldom longer. 'I used to like this game,' he said.

'But not any more?'

'If we knew what we were...'

'Hush now.'

... maybe it wouldn't hurt so much.'

'It doesn't matter,' she said. 'Not as long as we're together. As long as you're inside me.'

They were knitted now, so tightly wound around each other, limbs and kisses intertwined, they would never be
separated.

She started to sob again, the breath pushed out of her with every thrust. Names were still coming to her lips, but
they were fragments only, pieces of pieces

'Sil ... Be ... Han.

She was lost to sensation; lost to his prick, to his lips. For his part, he had given up words entirely. Just his
breathe, expelled into her mouth as though he were resurrecting her. His eyes were open, but he no longer saw
her face, nor the candles that shook around them. There were instead vague forms, particles of light and dark,
pulsing before him; dark above, light below.

The sight brought a moan from him. 'What is it?' Rosa said.

'I ... don't ... know,' he replied. It pained him to have this sight before him and not understand what he was
seeing, like a fragment of music to which he could put no name, though the notes went round and round his
head. But for all the anguish it caused him, he would not have had it taken away. There was something in the
sight that quickened a secret place; a place he never spoke of, not even to Rosa. It was too tender, that place; too
frail.

'Jacob?'

'Yes ... ?'

He looked down at her, and the phantom evaporated.

'Are we done so soon?'

Her hand went between her legs, and took hold of his prick. Half its length was still inside her, but it was
rapidly softening. He tried to push it back in, but it simply concertinaed against the tightness of her arse, and
after a couple of dispiriting attempts he withdrew. She stared at him rancorously.

'Is that it?' she said.

He put his prick away, and got to his feet. 'For now,' he said.

'Oh am I to be fucked in installments then?' she said, pulling her skirts down over her pudenda and sitting up. 'I
give you my arse against my better judgment and you don't even have the decency to finish.'

'I was distracted,' he said, picking up his coat and putting it on.

'By what?'

'I don't know exactly,' Jacob snapped. 'Lord, woman, it was just a fuck. There'll be others.'

'I don't think so,' she replied sniffily.

'Oh?'

'I think it's high time we let one another alone. If we're not out to make children, then what's the use of it? Huh?'

He stared hard at her. 'You mean this?'

'Yes, I do. Most certainly. I mean it.'

'You realize what you're saying?'

'Indeed I do.'

'You'll regret it.'

'I don't think so.'

'You'll be weeping for want of a fuck.'

'You think I'm that desperate for your ministrations?' she said. 'Lord, how you deceive yourself. I play along
with you, Jacob. I pretend to be aroused, but I have no desire for you.'

'That's not so,' he said.

She heard the hurt in his voice, and was astonished. It was rare, and like all rarities, valuable. Pretending not to
notice, she went to her battered leather satchel and pulled out her mirror, and squatting beside the candles for
better light, studied her reflection. 'It is so,' she said, after a little time. 'Whatever was between us is dying,
Jacob. If I loved you once, I forgot how. And frankly I don't much care to be reminded.'

'Very well,' he said. She caught his image in the glass; saw the look of distress that crossed his face. Rarer than
rare, that look.

'As you say,' she murmured.
'I think...'
'Yes?'
'I ... I would like to be alone for a while...'
'Here?'
'If you don't mind.'
He flicked his fingers together, and a feather of flame leapt from them, extinguishing itself above his head. She
did not care to watch him exercise this peculiar gift of his. She had her own skills, picked up, as Steep's had
been picked up, like jokes or rashes, somewhere along the way. Let him have the room to brood, she thought.
'Will you be hungry later?' she asked him, sounding (much to her perverse delight) like a parody of a wife.
'I doubt it.'
'I have a meat-pie, if you want something.'
'Yes?' he said.
'We can still be civil, can't we?' she said.
He let another flame go from his fingertips. 'I don't know,' he said. 'Maybe.'
With that, she left him to his musings.

Halfway along the track that led from the crossroads to the Courthouse, Will heard the squeaking of ill-oiled
wheels behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see not one but two bicycle headlamps a little distance
behind him. Breathing an inventive little curse, he stood and waited until Frannie and Sherwood caught up with
him.

'Go home,' were his first words to them.

'No,' said Frannie breathlessly. 'We decided to come with you.'

'I don't want you to come,' Will said.

'It's a free country,' Sherwood replied. 'We can go wherever we want. Can't we, Frannie?'

'Shut up,' Frannie said. Then to Will: 'I only wanted to make sure you were okay.'

'So why'd you bring him?' Will said.

'Because ... he asked me...' Frannie said. 'He won't be a bother.'

Will shook his head. 'I don't want you coming inside,' he said.

'It's a free-' Sherwood began again, but Frannie shushed him.

'All right, we won't,' she said. 'We'll just wait.'

Knowing this was the best deal he was going to be able to make, Will headed for the Courthouse, with Frannie
and Sherwood trailing behind. He made no further recognition of their presence, until he got to the hedgerow
adjacent to the Courthouse. Only then did he turn and tell them in a whisper that if they made a sound they'd
spoil everything and he would never ever speak to them again. With the warning given, he dug through the
hawthorn and started up the gently sloping meadow towards the building. It loomed larger by night than it had
by day, like a vast mausoleum, but he could see a light flickering within; there was nothing but exhilaration in
his heart as he made his way down the passage towards it.

Jacob was sitting in the judge's chair, with a small fire burning on the table in front of him. He looked up when
he heard the door creak, and by the flames' light will had sight of the face he had conjured so many ways. In
every detail, he had fallen short of its power. He had not made a brow wide or clear enough, nor eyes deep
enough, nor imagined that Steep's hair, which he had seen in silhouette falling in curly abundance, would be
cropped back to a shadow on the top of his skull. He had not imagined the gloss of his beard and moustache, or
the delicacy of his lips, which he licked, and licked again, before saying:

'Welcome, Will. You come at a strange time.'

'Does that mean you want me to go?'

'No. Far from it.' He added a few pieces of tinder to the fire before him. It crackled and spat. 'It is, I know, the
custom to paint a smile over sorrow; to pretend there is joy in you when there is not. But I hate wiles and
pretences. The truth is I'm melancholy tonight.'

'What's ... melancholy?' Will said.

'There's honest,' Jacob replied appreciatively. 'Melancholy is sad, but more than sad. It's what we feel when we
think about the world and how little we understand; when we think of what we must come to.'

'You mean dying and stuff?'

'Dying will do,' Jacob said. 'Though that's not what concerns me tonight.' He beckoned to Will. 'Come closer,'
he said, 'it's warmer by the fire.'

The few flames on the table offered, Will thought, little prospect of heat, but he gladly approached. 'So why are
you sad?' Will said.

Jacob sat back in the ancient chair, and contemplated the fire. 'It's business between a man and a woman,' he
replied. 'You need not concern yourself with it for a little time yet and you should be grateful. Hold it off as
long as you can.' As he spoke he reached into his pocket and pulled out more fuel for his tiny bonfire. This time,
Will was close enough to see that this tinder was moving. Fascinated, and faintly sickened, Will approached the
table, and saw that Steep's captive was a moth, the wings of which he had caught between thumb and forefinger.
Its legs and antennae flailed as it was dropped into the flames, and for an instant it seemed the draught of heat
would waft it to safety, but before it could gain sufficient height its wings ignited and down it went. 'Living and
dying we feed the fire,' Steep said softly. 'That is the melancholy truth of things.'

'Except that you just did the feeding,' Will said, surprised by his own eloquence.

'So we must,' Jacob replied. 'Or there'd be darkness in here. And how would we see each other then? I daresay
you'd be more comfortable with fuel that didn't squirm as you fed it to the flame.'

'Yes ...' Will said, '... I would.'

'Do you eat sausages, Will?'

'Yes.'

'You like them, I'm sure. A nicely browned pork sausage? Or a good steak and kidney pie?'

'Yes. I like steak and kidney pie.'

'But do you think of the beast, shitting itself in terror as it is shunted to its execution? Hanging by one leg, still
kicking, while the blood spurts from its neck? Do you?'

Will had heard his father debate often enough to know that there was a trap here. 'It's not the same,' he
protested.

'Oh, but it is.'

'No, it's not. I need food to stay alive.'

'So eat turnips.'

'But I like sausages.'

'You like light too, Will.'

'There are candles,' Will said, 'right there.'

'And the living earth gave up wax and wick in their making,' Steep said. 'Everything is consumed, Will, sooner
or later. Living and dying we feed the fire.' He smiled, just a little. 'Sit,' he said softly. 'Go on. We're equals
here. Both a little melancholy.'

Will sat. 'I'm not melancholy,' he said, liking the gift of the word. 'I'm happy.'

'Are you really? Well that's good to hear. And why are you so happy?'

Will was embarrassed to admit the truth, but Jacob had been honest, he thought; so should he. 'Because I found
you here,' he said.

'That pleases you?'

'Yes.'

'But in an hour you'll be bored with me-
'No, I won't.'

-and the sadness will still be there, waiting for you.' As he spoke, the fire began to dwindle. 'Do you want to
feed the fire, Will?' Steep said.

His words carried an uncanny power. It was as though this dwindling meant more than the extinguishing of a
few flames. This fire was suddenly the only light in a cold, sunless world, and if somebody didn't feed it soon
the consequences would be grim.

'Well, Will?' Jacob said, digging in his pocket and taking out another moth. 'Here,' he said, proffering it.
Will hesitated. He could hear the soft flapping of the moth's panic. He looked past the creature to its captor.
Jacob's face was utterly without expression.

'Well?' Jacob said.

The fire had almost gone out. Another few seconds and it would be too late. The room would be given over to
darkness, and the face in front of Will, its symmetry and its scrutiny, would be gone.
That thought was suddenly too much to bear. Will looked back at the moth: at its wheeling legs and its flapping
antennae. Then, in a kind of wonderful terror, he took it from Jacob's fingers.