The Sin Within Her Smile

by Jonathan Gash

  She drew me down. ‘In the name of Holy Earth ...’ I honestly tried hard to stay in control, but there’s never a hope.

  ‘Amen,’ I said in a thick voice. Well, it was a Welsh poet who once said, ‘Isn’t life terrible, thank God.’

  ‘Threat?’ It had been bothering me as I slowly came to. She’d been superb. I still floated. Better still, she’d dreamt along until I surfaced. A woman worth praying with.

  ‘The others across the valley.’

  ‘Who?’ I wasn’t scared, but a threat’s a threat.

  She smoked a small hubble-bubble. The water clacked rhythmically in the glass, the children watching sleepily. Oh well, us making love was her fault, not mine.

  ‘Some mental health unit.’ She pointed the mouthpiece, naked, her legs folded. ‘It’s just built. They have an injunction, to arrest us.’ ‘Where’ll you go?’

  ‘Nowhere, Lovejoy.’ She smiled, fondling me. I was as naked, a bag of spanners with a dangling spring. ‘Police always do an Avon on us - turn us back for unroad worthy vehicles.’

  ‘The mental unit’s clearing you from the valley?’

  ‘Yes.’ She searched until her eyes found me. ‘I love you, Lovejoy. Have you an owner?’

  Owner? ‘Eh? Oh, aye.’ The children slept.

  ‘Will she sell you? I can barter much.’

  My headaches hadn’t been too bad lately, but now three hit, clamouring to throb quickest. ‘I’ll come to you if I can escape.’ ‘Please, Lovejoy.’ She drifted, hung on. ‘You’re so selfish. You make the holiness carnal.’

  ‘Here, knock it off.’ I was narked. I’m kind.

  She purred, twisting sinuously. ‘I displease you?’

  She hauled at me so suddenly I gasped and clouted her one. She gave a throaty laugh, head back in rapture. ‘Like one of Baptation’s explosions, Lovejoy!’ She examined her handiwork, cupping me and murmuring.

  ‘Explosions?’

  ‘Trint.’ She giggled, head lowering. I gasped, she laughed. ‘Semmy, seef. Better than old ammy!’

  Then I was gone, sucked into her vortex and out of control on the palliasse. I woke later, Cruza sleeping like a babe. I was frightened to death and scrabbling for my clothes, wondering how to get back and stop everybody, including me, from being blown to blazes.

  Trint’s the anarchist’s nickname for trinitroluene, made from toluene and sulphuric and nitric acids. It’s the old one-pound TNT sticks you see in gangster flicks. Semmy is Semtex, the putty-like stuff that’s safe until you detonate it. Seef is the famed American C-Four, also like putty, explodes with a shattering 9,000 yards per second. Her ‘ammy’ was ammonium nitrate, fertilizer mixed with diesel exploded with a battery timer. Only one-eighth seef’s power, but corner shop ingredients.

  I shook Cruza, gouged her eyes open. I’d learnt my lesson about eavesdroppers since Meg, and whispered, ‘I’m in love with you, er, darling. Honest, most sincerely. Where’s Baptation? I need Bap to, er, get free. For you!’

  She coiled. I struggled not to get drawn, as it were, in. Her eyes were suddenly clear. ‘You mean it?’

  ‘Promise! Oh, er, Mother Earth, everything.’

  ‘He meets the American by the lake. Shall I come?’

  ‘Er, no. Stay with the ducks. I’ll be along.’ I flung her down, and hopped one-legged into my trousers.

  As a lad, I was taken to see Henry V. The carnage, the melee, stunned me. No consolation that the actors lined up unscathed to take a bow. It comes anew on bad nights. Hurrying through the endless encampment in the darkness the same appalled feeling was there. I was lost, blundering from one light to the next, asking, calling, only finding chaos.

  My directional sense is useless at the best of times. I was numb with shock, every minute expecting to hear Baptation’s semmy, trint or ammy go off whoomph and me still stumbling.

  The whole spread was made of mini-camps, each one around a fire or music. Small herds rummaged, children idling, some couples copulating in duplicate. I literally fell over a cluster of five on the go, with one bloke wearing a bushman’s hat. And among the broiling smoky nocturnal tumult stood the vehicles, lit any old how. I fell over wires and batteries, peered through choked windows. Piles of tyres, rubbish, people asleep, others wandering as lost as me. I felt I glimpsed something unbelievably familiar in the maelstrom but couldn’t recognize it... It felt like the end of the world. I honestly don’t know why film makers don’t cotton on. I’ve seen pictures where nine extras pretend they’re thousands of Zulus/Indians/ Russians. Directors could minicam this whole populace. Cost nowt, wrap in half an hour.

  It finished me. Forty, fifty minutes I raced, then finally was spent, my mind spinning, and collapsed against a tent, fagged out. A dog came, sat by. I was drenched with sweat. The dog nuzzled. I shoved it away. It didn’t shift. With my first usable puff I got out, ‘Sod off. I’m busy.’

  The dog snickered in the flickering gold light. Tudor.

  ‘Busy?’ a voice said. I looked about.

  Nobody, if you ignore some ten thousand folk, a couple of thousand shambled vehicles looking like a nightmarish pile-up. The place seemed a vast convoy torpedoed on some horrendous static sea. Nearby a wood fire smoked untended, more goats, a baby’s cot, two children skipping, and a trio under blankets, kipping Mexican fashion.

  ‘You got what, busy man?’

  Inside the tent. ‘Beg pardon?’ I’d given up, all hopeless. A woman rolled out, straggly, under a leather poncho.

  ‘Got what for what?’ She waited. Scandinavian? ‘Ganja, squab, bufo, crad, ekkie? What busy with?'

  Nothing that this bird’d want ... Then I thought, hey, those names, and pulled out Mercury’s packet. ‘Lovejoy,’ I said.

  ‘Noo, huh?’ She eyed the packet. ‘Lovejoy, y’say?’

  ‘Yes, it’s new.’ Well, a couple of days.

  ‘What’ll you take for it? I got me, petrol, batteries ... ’ She reeled off a list. I listened in bafflement. Barter, Mercury’s coin?

  ‘Er, none of the above.’ I inhaled, plunged. ‘I want guiding out, to the lake, please.’

  She struggled to kneel up, toppled, made it. We eyed each other, worn out. ‘Hey, bro,’ she said, admiring. ‘You’m gone, yeah?’ ‘True, love.’

  ‘Gimme that Lovejoy,’ she said, wobbling erect. ‘You got Dimity. What’s you?’

  ‘Er ...’ I thought we’d done all this. ‘Lovejoy.’

  ‘I like it!’ she crooned. ‘The product is the man!’ We started off, stumbling over guy ropes and folk in various states of uncommunication. I felt uneasy, not wanting her tribe hunting me down for nicking their bird.

  Tudor came. Makes you wonder sometimes what dogs actually think of us. I mean, Tudor could be forgiven for seeing us as one weird despoiling multitude. We seemed to blunder for ever. I swear we passed through the same identical rock concert three times, but Dimity seemed sure.

  ‘Lovejoy?’ I stumbled into her. ‘There.’

  ‘Where?’ I couldn’t see a damned thing, just a wall.

  ‘The rehab. The lake’s up, two hundred yards. That’s the road. The Lovejoy, bro. And the way in.’

  ‘Eh? Oh.’ I gave her the packet. ‘Way in?’ Then I remembered this is how addicts ask how a drug needs to be taken. I didn’t want the damned stuff harming her. ‘Er, you smoke the, er, toke,’ I said with embarrassed vocab. Lucky it was night, or she’d have seen me go red.

  She put her lips full on mine. ‘Go godly, Lovejoy.’

  ‘Ta, love.’ I unwound her. ‘You go godly too, Dimity.’ She’d gone. I found the road, annoyed to see the low building suddenly emerge. A light showed as I rounded the curve. Tudor was eager to be in. Had the silly hound known the way all the time? I approached.

  It was the weirdest sensation, expecting carnage and finding everything exactly at peace. Had I been imagining things? Maybe I had jumped to ridiculous conclusions among the lost tribes, breathing in heaven-knows what intoxicants and engulfed by Cruza.

  The entrance was aj
ar. Nobody was on the gate. I pushed the revolving door, entered with relief, sure I’d done the right thing. I stood at the reception desk, dinged the bell.

  Nobody. I looked at Tudor. ‘Everybody’s out, mate?’ He said nothing.

  Another ding.

  Nobody.

  Well, I’d been ordered to clock in, so I found the book and wrote my name. Eleven o’clock. Maybe the night staff went for a meal about now?

  Daft just to stand here, I thought. It felt odd. You know how some houses have a feel? As if the very place itself was alive, perhaps hating? Like that. It wasn’t anything tangible. Over in the immense sprawl of travvies I’d been whacked, exhausted, but it hadn’t felt so horrid. An old auntie of mine once decided never to go down a certain street: ‘It mislikes me,’ she said calmly. And I was relieved when they pulled Foundry Street down for good.

  ‘Tudor?’ His ears had pricked up. He stood tongue out, front paw lifted. ‘What’ve you heard, lad?’

  No answer, but the same intensity. I wondered if I should take my chances with Sister Cruza and Dimity. But people go to bed at night, right? And what point was there in night staff? Tell me that. Dolly would bowl up come dawn, and we’d be off collecting the antiques as I went.

  From the reception desk I couldn’t see the lounge. I edged slowly across the foyer. ‘Come lad,’ I told the dog. He hesitated. ‘Go first, you frigging coward.’

  Open glass double doors. I could hear the fire lurch as a log settled. I steadied, moved cautiously to peer. Nobody that side. But the corridor was to the right. I took a pace. I looked back to the main door, saw only darkness. I craned, sweat trickling down my temple.

  ‘Boo.’

  My belly relaxed. I straightened, and tried to stroll.

  ‘Wotcher, Mrs. Farahar.’

  ‘Vana, please.’ She was reading one of those glossies. I felt a duckegg, casually sat on the couch. She looked stunning in a long gold sheath-dress. Emeralds and citrons, gold bracelets.

  ‘Where is everybody?’

  ‘Oh, around.’ She smiled a dazzle that made me squint. ‘Why?’ Her amusement was unconcealed. ‘Won’t I do?’

  ‘I was out for a walk,’ I said feebly. She made me feel helpless. It reminded me of being up for auction. ‘Looking at..No, that wouldn’t do. I hadn’t gone to gape at a circus. I’d gone to Cruza, who’d shown me mercy. ‘Calling on friends.’

  Vana eyed my state. ‘They gave you a boisterous welcome, Lovejoy. You aren’t too tired to perform?’

  ‘Can’t it wait?’

  Her glance flicked towards the lounge clock. ‘Not really, Lovejoy.’ She scrutinized me. ‘I owe you explanations, and a reward. If,’ she added languidly, ‘you recall?’

  My throat needed a couple of coughs. She sat, indolent, in control the way women always are. Shopsoiled, I worried in case I’d got the wrong end of the stick.

  ‘Is it far?’

  ‘Down the corridor.’ She rose, sort of swooping upright without effort. She walked towards my corridor, me trailing her like a mutt on a lead. It’s a woman’s world, always was.

  At the glass door she waited. I fumbled it open. She swept through. Her fragrance made me giddier, I swear, than all the fumes of Araby. She paused in the corridor, facing a solid door. I opened it, dizzy from her proximity. She stepped inside.

  And suddenly it wasn’t the woman, her perfume, the hint of love. It was the array on the snooker table. I’d never seen so much gold. No wonder there were auto cameras at every pelmet. And no wonder I felt odd.

  You can talk about the physics of light on metallic surfaces, art down the ages, production figures for gold mines. But when it comes to it, there’s no actual meaning in those numbers. Like, all the gold ever mined would fit in the space under the Eiffel Tower. And like, there’s ten billion tons of gold dissolved in the world’s oceans. But so? Statistics mean zilch.

  There was a croaking sound. It was me. Vana walked round to face me. The gold pieces were on the green felt in a stunning display. There must have been sixty, from twisted neck torcs imitating the ancient Celtic tribal kings’ ornaments, to rings, bangles, clasps, chalices, a monstrance, pattens, lunas, all showing simulated excavation trauma.

  ‘Well, Lovejoy?’

  ‘Can I touch?’

  I picked up Fair Rosamund’s Ring, my hand tingling.

  Some things are holy. To some tribes, a couple of feathers and a shell equals pure sanctity. To others, it’s a fragment of wood said to be from the True Cross. Veronica’s Veil, a long-dead saint’s fingernail, a shroud from Turin, a glossopetra - fossilised shark tooth you hang round your neck ... Everybody’s holiness differs. A Buddhist might think you barmy for praying before a piece of consecrated bread. Christians wonder at chaps who wear yarmulkes, whatever. But there’s one place we all meet.

  It’s called gold. The most ductile, resistant stuff, lovely in colour. It’s still only metal, when all’s said and done. Poor deluded goons adore it for its worth. Which is barmy, in my book, for the same reason it’s lunacy to value women by the ounce. You can’t.

  But when one piece is different then you’re into life itself. That’s why every woman has her own beauty.

  Like in antiques. Now, gold is old as the world because, along with carbon, hydrogen, all that, it’s stuff of which the world is made. But dig and shape it, suddenly the game changes. Each gold atom’s the same whether dug up in Johannesburg or the Welsh hills, sure. It’s only the human factor alters things. Here on the green baize lay an ancient ring known to scholars the world over, a miracle. It’s where logic fails.

  They call it the ‘Godstow Ring’. Experts date it about ad 1420. It was found in the Godstow Nunnery, Oxford. Chased, and supposedly once enamelled, it’s wide, peculiarly graceless. The Mother and Children are depicted on it, some saintly bloke, and the Trinity. It was a love ring, from a passionate incription on the inside. It’s in the British Museum. (For emphasis: It is in the British Museum.) Us common folk call it Fair Rosamund’s Ring, always will unless they educate us.

  Which made me think, as chimes echoed in my skull. Because it was in the British Museum. And here?

  ‘You like that, Lovejoy?’ asked Vana. ‘What about the rest?’

  ‘They’re duff, replicas made yesterday.’

  She came round the table. I couldn’t let go of Fair Rosamund’s Ring until she practically overpowered me. ‘Thank you for that demonstration, Lovejoy. Shall we chat?’

  ‘Er . . .?’

  ‘The gold will be quite safe.’ She glided ahead.

  Sod the gold, I was thinking. What about Fair Rosamund’s Ring. The rest included some excellent fakes. But it’s humanity that imparts soul, and only the Gostow Ring had one. The other golds were worth their weight in, well, gold, but who cared?

  She swept ahead to my room, rattled the handle.

  ‘Shhhh,’ I went, like a fool. ‘You’ll wake Arthur.’

  ‘Oh, of course.’ She was smiling the woman’s smile, a sin within. But at what?

  My door was unlocked. Some mental unit rule, I shouldn’t wonder, as if we were all imbeciles. I meant they, not me.

  She surveyed the room. ‘Quite pleasant, Lovejoy.’

  I was shaking from wondering how on earth they’d managed to borrow the Godstow Ring from the British Museum. Also, I wasn’t sure why she was in my room near midnight. Still, her presence quietened my fears.

  ‘It’s one piece, Lovejoy,’ she said, standing there.

  ‘One piece?’ Like a genteel vicar discussing croquet.

  ‘My dress, Lovejoy. Come here.’ She meant I was stupid.

  That smile was driving me out of my skull. She lifted her hair from

  her nape. My fingers were clumsy. I’m sure I tore the clasp, dexterity to the winds. She sighed as the dress came into my hands.

  ‘For God’s sake, Lovejoy,’ she said, yanking at my clothes. ‘We have two hours before you collect your Romano-Celtic lanx, to end the bargain.’

  She knelt hauling m
y shirt, slapping my leg crossly, impatient. From my standing position she was breathtaking. With so little time left, I was glad to help. We didn’t have time to put the light out. I suppressed the chimes reaching across the corridor, of that ancient love ring, famed the world over, glowing on the green baize.

  Thoughts don’t stop just because you sleep. It was pitch black. Awake, I remembered Fruit. A parson who’s a firework expert. No kidding. Makes a fortune arranging displays for pageants. The only time I saw him go berserk was my fault. I’d strolled in, said hello. He ran me out into his garden, bellowing, ‘Of all the ...’ The rest is unreportable.

  His licence depended on keeping sulphur separate from chlorate. I’d walked some yellow sulphur into his chlorate space on my shoes. ‘Think of coupling, Lovejoy. You’ll blow us to ...’ et abusive cetera, his rotten old Factories Act (Explosives) my fault.

  Moral: Sulphur is innocent. Chlorate, innocent. Couple them, varoom. It kept coming into my mind.

  In semi-coma I roused, tottered to the bathroom in the dark, stumbled back to bed. She was there, asleep. She must have switched our light off. So? Fruit’s furious words went dozily round and round.

  Being warm helps you to sleep. And there was the warmth of love beside me, Vana sleeping. Plus, for me, the resonant heat radiating from Fair Rosamund’s exquisite golden band lying among the dross. I slept like a babe, like Arthur himself, who seemed to be having a slumbersome night.

  Then I woke, cold as a frog.

  The warmth had gone.

  You’re never really sure how long you’ve slept, are you? Not even what your sleep’s been about, if you follow. Sleep varies. Some bits of sleep are simply empty. Other chunks are frantic, mind a-whirl. Other patches are a happy drift, dreams firing through like rockets. I opened my eyes. Darkness. Closed them, felt beside me.

  No Vana. So? She was in the bathroom. No noise, though. So

  she’d flitted. Well, a married lady ... Woman cannot live by smiles alone - she has to deliver, or lose all.

  Roll over. What sort of sleep this time? Sleep varies, moment by moment. Una momenta by ...

  The warmth had gone. Suddenly I was wide awake, scared. The warmth I missed wasn’t Vana’s pure unadulterated love, no. It was that musical radiant warmth from across the corridor.