by Paul Hoffman
‘But you can do something for me?’
‘I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out.’
‘If you’d let her, you naughty boy.’
‘Be quiet, Poll.’
‘But it’s right.’ An unattractive little smirk from Cale. ‘I am a naughty boy.’
‘So I understand.’
‘I’ve done terrible things.’
‘Yes.’
There was a silence.
‘What happens if the people paying for me stop?’
‘Then your treatment will stop as well.’
‘That’s not very nice.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Just stopping – when I’m still sick.’
‘Like everyone else I must eat, and have somewhere to live. I’m not part of the order that runs the Priory. They’ll keep you in a charity ward but if I stop paying my way they’ll turf me out.’
‘Yes,’ said Poll. ‘We haven’t had Redeemers to look after us all our lives.’
This time Poll went uncorrected.
‘What if I don’t like you?’ said Cale. He had wanted to come up with a stinging reply to Poll but couldn’t think of one.
‘What,’ said Sister Wray, ‘if I don’t like you?’
‘Can you do that?’
‘Not like you? You seem very determined that I shouldn’t.’
‘I mean decide not to treat me if you don’t like me.’
‘Does that worry you?’
‘I’ve got a lot of things to worry about in my life – not being liked by you isn’t one of them.’
Sister Wray laughed at this – a pleasant, bell-like sound.
‘You like answering back,’ she said. ‘And I’m afraid it’s a weakness of mine as well.’
‘You have weaknesses?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then how can you help me?’
‘You’ve met a lot of people without weaknesses?’
‘Not so many. But I’m unlucky that way. Vague Henri told me I shouldn’t judge people by the fact that I’ve been unlucky enough to come across so many shit-bags.’
‘Perhaps it’s not just luck.’ Her tone was cooler now.
‘What’s your drift?’
‘Perhaps it’s not just a matter of chance, the dreadful people and the dreadful things that have happened to you.’
‘You still haven’t said what you mean.’
‘Because I don’t know what I mean.’
‘She means you’re a horrible little boy who stirs up trouble wherever he goes.’ Yet again Poll went uncorrected and she changed the subject.
‘Is Vague Henri a friend of yours?’
‘You don’t have friends in the Sanctuary, just people who share the same fate.’ This was not true but for some reason he wanted to appal her.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ said Sister Wray. The Priory servant stood at the door silently. Cale, uncertain and angry, got to his feet and walked across the room and onto the landing. Then he turned, about to say something, and saw Sister Wray opening a bedroom door and quickly closing it behind her. All the way back to his own room he considered what he’d seen, or what he thought he’d seen: a plain black-painted coffin.
‘Tell me about IdrisPukke.’ It was four days later and their sessions began at the same time every day. Poll was on Sister Wray’s lap but leaning all the way back on the arm of the chair and drooping over the side to signal her utter boredom and indifference to Cale’s presence.
‘He helped me in the desert and in Memphis when we were in prison.’
‘In what way?’
‘He told me how things were. He told me not to trust him or anybody else – not because people are liars, though a lot of them are, but because their interests are not your interests, and that to expect other people not to put what matters to them ahead of what matters to you is stupid.’
‘Some people would say that was cynical.’
‘I don’t know what cynical means.’
‘It means believing others are motivated only by self-interest.’
Cale thought about this for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said at last.
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, I understand what cynical means.’
‘Now you’re just trying to provoke me.’
‘No, I’m not. IdrisPukke warned me when he didn’t have to that I should remember that sometimes what mattered to me and what mattered to him would be different and that even if he might bend a little in my favour other people mostly wouldn’t – when push came to shove they’d be forced to choose what was best for them. And only the biggest dunce would believe that other people should put you ahead of themselves.’
‘So, no one sacrifices their own interests for others?’
‘The Redeemers do. But if that’s self-sacrifice you can shove it up your arse.’
Poll slowly raised her head from behind the sofa, looked at him then collapsed backwards with a groan of contempt as if the effort had been utterly worthless.
‘And yet you’re very angry with Arbell Materazzi. You think she betrayed you.’
‘She did betray me.’
‘But wasn’t she just consulting her own interest? Aren’t you being a hypocrite for hating her?’
‘What’s a hypocrite?’
‘Someone who criticizes other people for the same kind of things they do themselves.’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Poll from behind the arm of the chair.
‘Be quiet, Poll.’
‘No, it isn’t the same,’ he said, looking straight at Sister Wray. ‘Twice I saved her life, the first time against all reason or odds – and nearly died for it.’
‘Did she ask you to?’
‘I don’t remember her asking to be thrown back – which is what I should’ve done.’
‘But isn’t love putting the other person first, no matter what?’
‘That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. Why would anyone do that?’
‘He’s right,’ said Poll, still with her head obscured by the arm of the chair.
‘I won’t tell you again,’ said Sister Wray.
‘Laugh if you like – I was ready to die for her.’
‘I’m not laughing.’
‘I am,’ said Poll.
‘She told me she loved me. I didn’t make her do it. She told me and made me think it was true. She didn’t have to but she did. Then she sold me to Bosco to save her own skin.’
‘And the rest of Memphis – her father, everyone? What do you think she should have done?’
‘She should have known I would have found a way. She should have done what she did and then thrown herself into the sea. She should have said that nothing on earth, not the whole world, could make her hand over someone she loved to be burnt alive. Though before they’d set fire to me they’d have cut my balls off and cooked them in front of me. You think I’m making that up?’
‘No.’
‘Whatever she did it should have been impossible to bear. But she put up with it well enough.’
There was a long silence in which Sister Wray, experienced as she was in the anger of the mad, wondered why the very walls of the room did not catch fire so dazzling was his rage. The silence went on – she was no fool and it was Cale who ended it.
‘Why do you have a coffin in your bedroom?’
‘May I ask how you know?’
‘Me? I’ve got eyes in the front of my head.’
‘Would you be reassured if I told you it has nothing to do with our business together?’
‘No. Nobody likes a coffin and me less than most. I’ll have to insist.’
‘Don’t tell that nosy boy anything,’ said Poll.
‘Go and look for yourself.’
Cale had more or less been expecting her to refuse to tell him anything although he had no idea what he’d have done if she had. He stood up and walked over to the far door and
considered what he might be letting himself in for. Was it a trap? Unlikely. Was there something horrible inside? Possibly. What if it wasn’t a coffin and he was mistaken and would look foolish? The door was shut tight so he couldn’t just push it open. He could kick it open but that would look bad if there weren’t a couple of villains waiting on the other side. Would you rather, he thought, be dead or look stupid? He snatched at the handle, pushed it open, then quickly glanced around the room and dodged back again.
‘Cowardy cowardy custard,’ sang Poll. ‘Your shoes are made of mustard.’
There was no question it was a coffin and the room was empty. Empty except for whatever was inside the coffin. He turned into the bedroom, leant his head back and his arm forward and flipped the lid off then jumped back, windy as you like. He stared at the contents for a few seconds. It was plain wood, no lining. There were even a few wood shavings in the corner. For a moment he felt a surge of pure terror in his chest and thought he was going to throw up. Then he shut it away. He stepped back into the main room, closed the door behind him and went back to his chair.
‘Happy now, you big sissy?’ said Poll.
‘Why do you have an empty coffin in your bedroom?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Sister Wray. ‘It’s not for you.’
‘I do worry. Who’s it for?’
‘Me.’
‘Worried about cheesed off patients?’
She laughed at the idea – a lovely sound, thought Cale. Is she beautiful?
‘I belong to the order of Hieronymite nuns.’
‘Never heard of them.’
‘Also called the Women of the Grave.’
‘Never heard of them either. Don’t like the sound of them much.’
‘No?’ He had the sense that she was smiling. Poll moved her head forward and raised her floppy right arm in a way that managed to indicate loathing and contempt.
‘The Hieronymites are an Antagonist order.’ She stopped, knowing this would be a disclosure of some significance.
‘I never talked to an Antagonist before. Do you wear that thing on your head because you’ve got green teeth?’
‘No. I mean I don’t have green teeth and I’m not hiding anything, though I suppose that would be a good enough reason. Did the Redeemers really tell you that Antagonists have green teeth?’
‘I don’t remember them actually telling us. Not Bosco anyway. It was just sort of generally known.’
‘Well, it’s not true. The Antagonist Hegemony, a kind of religious committee, declared the Hieronymites to be an extreme error and dissolved the order. They ordered us, death being the alternative, to carry a coffin with us for a hundred miles so that everyone would know not to give us water or food or shelter. We carry the coffin and an ounce of salt.’
‘Because?’
‘Salt of repentance.’
‘And did you? Repent, I mean.’
‘No.’
‘So we’ve something in common.’
‘We don’t,’ said Poll, ‘have anything in common with you, you godless killing swashbuckler.’
‘Don’t pay any attention to her,’ said Sister Wray.
Cale expected her to continue but Sister Wray could see he was interested and wanted him to be at a disadvantage.
‘So what did you do wrong?’ he asked at last.
‘We pointed out that in the Testament of the Hanged Redeemer, although he doesn’t actually say that heresy should be forgiven, he does say that we should love those that hate us and forgive their trespasses not once or twice but seventy times seven. St Augustine says that if a person falls into heresy for a second time they must be burnt alive. A Hanged Redeemer who said that if a man strikes you on the cheek you must turn the other and let him strike you a second time is not a God in favour of burning.’
‘I heard he said that from the Maid of Blackbird Leys – about turning the other cheek, I mean. But if you turn your cheek when people hit you they’ll keep hitting you until your head falls off.’
She laughed. ‘I understand what you say.’
‘You can understand all you like – I’m right, whatever you think.’
‘We’ll agree to disagree.’
‘They burned her.’
‘Who?’
‘The Maid of Blackbird Leys.’
‘Why?’
‘She was saying the kind of stuff you were saying. She’d got hold of a copy of the Testament too. No coffin and no salt though, she went straight to the fire.’
‘When you say she got hold of the Testament, you mean a secret copy.’
‘Yes.’
‘Antagonists don’t have secret copies of the Hanged Redeemer’s Testament. It’s an obligation to read it – it’s translated into a dozen languages.’
‘P’raps,’ he said, ‘it’s a different Testament.’
‘Some things must be the same if they burned her for saying that the Hanged Redeemer is a God of love and not punishment.’
‘If it’s that obvious why did they punish you for saying the same thing?’
‘That’s the way mankind is.’
‘God’s greatest mistake.’
‘I don’t believe that.’
‘Me neither – it’s God who’s mankind’s greatest mistake.’
‘Wash your mouth out with soap, you impious sack of shit.’
This time Sister Wray did not rebuke Poll.
‘Looks like,’ said Cale, triumphant, ‘you need to teach your little friend about forgiveness.’
‘Perhaps,’ replied Sister Wray, ‘you’ve exceeded your limit.’
‘Seventy times seven,’ Cale laughed. ‘I’ve got loads left. You won’t get off that easy.’
‘Possibly. It depends on how great the sins you committed are.’
‘Does he say that, the Hanged Redeemer?’
‘No.’
‘There you are then.’
‘You’re not telling me the truth.’
‘I never said I would. Who are you? I don’t have to tell you anything I don’t want to.’
‘About the Maid of Blackbird Leys, I mean.’
‘I did what I could to save her.’ He wasn’t feeling so triumphant now. ‘That’s all there is.’
‘I don’t think that can be true. Am I wrong to think there’s more to say?’
‘No, you’re not wrong.’
‘Then why not tell me?’
‘I’m not afraid to tell you.’
‘I didn’t say you were.’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘I agree. Yes, I did.’
He stared at the grid of tiny holes that covered her eyes. Maybe she was blind, he thought, and this was a waste of time. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
‘I signed the licence for her to be justified.’
‘Justified?’
‘Burned on a pile of wood. Alive. You ever seen that?’
‘No.’
‘It’s worse than it sounds.’
‘I believe you.’
‘I oversaw her being burned.’
‘Was that necessary – to be so closely involved?’
‘Yes, it was necessary.’
‘Why?’
‘None of your business.’
‘But it bothers you?’
‘Of course it fucking bothers me. She was a nice little girl. Brave. Very brave but stupid. There was nothing I could do.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘No, I’m not sure – maybe I could have jumped on a magic rope and swashbuckled my way out of a square of five thousand people and twenty-foot-high walls. Yeah, that’s what I should have done.’
‘Did you have to sign?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you have to be there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you have to be there?’ she asked again.
‘I went because I thought I should suffer … for signing … even though there was nothing else to do.’
‘Then you did all you could. That’s my opinion.’
&n
bsp; ‘That’s a relief.’ Quiet but acid. ‘Do you think she would have thought so?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘That’s the problem, isn’t it? Do you forgive me for what I did to her?’
‘God forgives you.’
‘I didn’t ask about God. Do you forgive me?’
8
Of arms and the man I sing, and of cheese; of the rage of Thomas Cale and of adequate supplies of oats for the horses delivered in the right place at the correct time; I sing of thousands going down to the house of death, carrion for the dogs and birds, and of the provision of tents, of cooks, water for ten thousand in the middle of the barren wilderness; I sing of a sufficiency of axle-grease and cooking oil.
Think of a picnic with family and friends, consider the failure of all to meet up at the proper time and place (‘I thought you said twelve o’clock’; ‘I thought the meeting place was at the elm tree on the other side of town’). Consider the endless wrongness of things, consider the jam mislaid, the site of the picnic shared with a swarm of bees, the rain, the angry farmer, the row between brothers festering for twenty years. Now imagine the bulls of war let loose to bring about the ending of mankind. To bring about the apocalypse requires cheese, cooking oil, oats, water and axle-grease to be ordered, the order made up and the order delivered. That’s why Bosco was not fighting but wasting the time of kings, emperors, supreme rulers, potentates and their armies of ministers and under-secretaries of this and that with an endless blizzard of treaties, pacts, protocols, pledges and covenants all designed to create as much space and time for the essential trivia required in order for the wiping out of the human race to be made possible. The end of the world had been postponed until the following year.
As nothing really happened in a hundred walled towns for month after month throughout the four quarters, other more imminent threats emerged: disease, fear, the failure to plant a crop, the inflation of money, a longing for home and the hope that everything would somehow sort itself out. The refugees began to return home. As a result, in Spanish Leeds the typhoid abated when an old midden, opened for the influx of alarmed peasants and which had leaked human excrement into the water supply and caused the plague, was shut down because it was no longer needed. Trevor Lugavoy recovered, as did Kevin Meatyard who turned up at the address he’d been given and started work humping sacks of grain around the city.
