by Morris West
There was a light burning over one of the confessional boxes, indicating that a priest was in attendance, offering a shriving to any who needed it. I felt a sudden urge to unburden myself; but I stayed anchored in my place. What words had I left? How could I tell so long and complicated a tale to a stranger? How could I explain the blood on my hands and the scars of old battles on my flesh?
General Rhana had no such problems. He could blow a plane full of people out of the air and then sit down calmly and haggle over a share deal. Marius Melville had none either. He and his kind were coeval with conflict. Murder was as much a tool of their trade as a computer or an accountant’s ledger. Cassidy had corrupted a whole series of lives and brought about the death of his own lover. And was Martin Gregory any different? I had become that most magical of men, who could kill with a word, a hint, a wink of an eye. I had proved I could do it – better even than Cassidy. I could do it again and again, without remorse, unless – please God! – someone lifted me out of the frozen wasteland into the sun.
When I climbed back into the cab, the driver gave me an odd look and said, ‘You were a long time in there, mate. Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘I think so. Yes, I think I’m all right.’
‘Funny thing, religion. Me, I never had much time for it. My old man had it bad though, real bad. No booze, no cards, no naughty women, no sport on Sundays. Dull old world he made for himself. Often wondered what sort of heaven he expected… Where did you say you lived, guv’nor?’
‘Richmond.’
‘It’s a nice place. You’re lucky.’
For the first time since Cassidy’s death, I began to hope I might be. When Pat opened the front door, my hope looked like an illusion. She was shocked to see me. She burst into a hysterical gabble of apologies and excuses: she wasn’t expecting me until tomorrow; the children never came home till Friday; she wasn’t wearing make-up; she was trying to clean the stove; there was no food in the house…
All the time she was retreating from me into the hallway, her eyes fixed on my face as though it were a Gorgon mask. I kicked the front door shut behind me, then reached out and drew her to me. She didn’t resist. She was as passive as a rag doll.
I asked gently, ‘Can we go upstairs?’
‘Of course.’ She reached down to pick up my bag like a servant but I managed to forestall her and she walked slowly up the stairs ahead of me. When we reached the bedroom, she began to babble again.
‘Would you like a bath? I’ll draw one for you. You must be very tired. Don’t bother unpacking. I’ll do that. The washing machine was broken but the man came to fix it yesterday…’
‘Pat, please
‘Please what?’
‘Stop talking. Just look at me.’
‘I am looking at you, Martin.’
‘And listen to me!’
‘I am listening.’
‘I want to tell you I love you. I know what happened in Klosters. I don’t care. A lot has happened to me, too. People are dead because I fought back when our lives were threatened. Everything before today is plague country. I don’t want to go back to it. If you still love me, I want us to go forward together.’
My heart sank when she didn’t answer me, but sat limply on the edge of the bed, staring down at the floor. Then slowly she raised her head and faced me and I caught a glimpse of the old fiery Cassidy spirit.
‘I do love you, Martin. I wish I could say I’m sorry for what happened; but I’m not – not for all of it, anyway. I’m changed. I needed to be changed. You’re changed too. I can see it, feel it. We’re different people. Better or worse, I don’t know, but different – by God, yes! Do you think we can face that?’
‘I’m willing to try.’
‘So am I… Will you tell me about Father?’
‘I’d rather not.’
‘Why?’
‘The books are closed. Just remember that he loved you once.’
‘And he never let me love him.’
‘You’ve got to forgive him, my love. Otherwise, you and I will never forgive each other either.’
For the first time, I saw a hint of surrender. Then she reached out to me and said, with an uncertain smile, ‘Do you think we could finish this in bed?’
It was a mating different from any other we had known together, a combat of bodies and of will, a rage to possess what had so nearly been taken from us both; and afterwards, no truce, but a surrender that left us both exhausted and triumphant.
We were lying there, in drowsy tranquillity, when we heard the front door open. A few moments later Clare called from the hallway, ‘Pat?… Farkis is here! Do be a dear. Come down and fix us some martinis.’
To which Pat, pure Cassidy again, yelled back, ‘I’m in bed with Martin. Let Farkis fix his own bloody cocktails. He’s a big boy now and you’re old enough to handle him.’
It had a nice ring of normality about it. It proved I was home again.
