The Sacrificial Man (17 page)

“I told you that you had a choice, and one of those was to talk to me. I thought we were getting somewhere, that you were beginning to trust me.”

I’m silent. She has great expectations.

“I didn’t understand until just now why Dr Gregg sectioned you, so I’ve just been to talk with him. He believes you’ve relapsed. That you have narcissistic tendencies.”

She pauses. I see that she’s uncertain about this diagnosis but it’s no surprise to me. I know how other people see me.

“The thing is, Alice, you were fine on Monday. And yesterday, when I visited your home, it was immaculate. There was no sign anywhere of the woman that Dr Gregg sectioned. Except the black eye shadow on the dresser. The yellow makeup. And another thing – the smashed vase. It wasn’t the expensive blue and white one that I saw on the table. It was a cheaper yellow one, but the flowers were the same. Why did you swap the vase, Alice? Is it because you planned to smash it, and didn’t want to break your precious art? Is that why the makeup was still out on the dressing table? Had it been applied in a hurry, before the good doctor arrived at your door? I think you put on a little performance so Dr Gregg would think you’d relapsed. So tell me. Was it a sham?”

“A sham?” I stand, move closer.

She doesn’t blink or step away as I thought she would.

“Don’t you trust his judgment, Miss Austin? It would take more than a broken vase and a bit of makeup to hoodwink Dr Gregg, surely?”

“Stop patronising me, Alice. Just tell me, was it a sham?”

“Do you want me to tell you the status of my mental health, Miss Austin, when you have already spoken to a professional?”

“I don’t believe you’re mentally ill.” She speaks softly now, and it’s me who is angry. She’s still standing too close. Finally, she steps back. “But I’m not an expert.”

“No. It doesn’t matter what you think or what I say. It’s the judge who’ll decide. And what Dr Gregg has done will weigh heavily with him. I can’t be locked up in prison. I haven’t the constitution for it, to live behind bars. I would be a plant in the shade; I would wilt. Whatever else happens, I must have my liberty. They can make me do anything else, clean ditches, work with cripples, whatever… but I had to convince him that I can’t be locked away in jail!” Cate slowly shakes her head, as if she has had enough of my words. “Look at me, Miss Austin. Wearing smart clothes, gold studs in my ears, face expertly made up. How could I be mad when I was so professional and educated? But if I’m not ‘mad’ then I must be something else, another label will be applied. And if that label is ‘bad’ or ‘evil’ then what will become of me? I’ll be sent to prison, perhaps for years, and I couldn’t let that happen. At least in hospital I’ll be released when I’m deemed well again.”

Cate looks at me, silently considering.

“My distress was real. You still believe I pulled the wool over his eyes with a bit of makeup? I suppose I should be flattered.” My anger has gone, and I taste bitter desperation. Honesty makes me vulnerable, and I sit down on the bed that sinks under my weight. “I’m scared, Cate. I want your help. Is there a choice, an option between mad and bad? Can I be reasonable? Plausible? It’s a risk but I want to be myself; I want to tell the truth. But I’m scared. I don’t want to go to jail.”

“I can’t make any promises, Alice. I don’t know what I’ll propose, and sentencing is just a week away. But I know this much: the games have to stop. Can you do that? You must tell me the truth.”

I look away, swallowing a sharp taste. “I’ve never told you anything else. And I hate playing games.” She sits next to me, so close I can feel her warmth. It makes me want to weep.

“Then help me to understand, Alice.”

“I’m trying to. I’ve tried to explain.” I blink, cursing the tears that are close. I can’t hold on to my thoughts. My sanity is slipping from me.

“Tell me about David. About your family. Did they ever meet?”

I see that once again I have no choice. I must talk. I force the words to sound easy.

They met just the once. I couldn’t face taking Smith to my parents’ home, so I agreed to afternoon tea in the White Swan. It was Easter, and Smith was visiting for the bank holiday weekend. I remember as we walked to the hotel he put his arm around my shoulder. ‘I’m quite looking forward to meeting your folks,’ he said. Sometimes he forgot that we were transcending normal relationships. Smith meeting my parents was something I would have avoided if I could, but Mum wore me down with her repeated questions. Finally I gave in, warning them that he was very ill so they mustn’t interrogate him. We agreed to meet on Good Friday.

I didn’t tell him about the conversation I’d had with them, when I told them he was dying. That they assumed he had cancer. But I felt safe, believing my parents too polite to raise such a terrible topic. I just had to keep the meeting brief.

The Swan is called a destination pub in the Sunday magazines. It’s a time warp of a place, with the young waiters, students on a gap year from the other side of the world, in white shirts and black trousers, holding silver trays at shoulder height. It’s comfortable with its own brand of shabby refinement, populated by Londoners and locals in tweed suits. Exactly the kind of place my mum dreams of visiting but then ruins by being over anxious.

When we arrived my parents were perched on a window seat, still in their coats, looking awkward. They stood up and started to walk over, “Yoo hoo Alice! Over here!” Other people in the hotel turned to look at us.

The sofa sagged under our weight, a long wooden table at our knees, while my parents each took a low chair opposite. Smith was impeccably polite, offering his hand to both my parents. He introduced himself with a fictitious one, as we’d agreed. “I’m Richard.”

We ordered tea, and Mum insisted on a tower of cakes as if it was a party. On the top tier was a choux pastry swan filled with vanilla cream, and I remembered that swans mated for life. It was too beautiful to eat.

Mum picked at a custard slice, smiling sadly, and sneaked glances at Smith. I knew she was trying to detect signs of his illness. It pained my parents that my boyfriend was ill, I knew that. But I also knew they were relieved that at least I had a boyfriend.

I suppose it was nerves that made Smith’s hand shake, his cup clattering in the saucer as he held it. Dad noticed too. “Well, Alice, it’s been a while since we’ve seen you,” he said, “glad to see you’re still in the land of the living.” he stopped, realising what he had just said, looked at Smith, “It’s just an expression. I wasn’t referring to you… ”

There was an awful smash as Smith dropped the delicate china. It shattered on the stone floor. He looked at me, and I looked at the broken pieces on the floor. A waiter sulkily began to clean up, a tight look of disapproval on his face. Smith’s hand was still shaking.

“Dad!” I hissed, and he was looking sorry but still curious. Next to him, my mother’s head was slightly cocked as her eyes drowned with sympathy. I wanted to throw my drink in her face. Smith fumbled with a tissue, mopping up spilt tea though the waiter wanted him to stop interfering. Eventually, the broken crockery was cleared away and the waiter disappeared.

Dad pushed his untouched tea away. “I’m sorry, Richard. I didn’t mean to speak out of turn.”

Mum pulled out a handkerchief from her handbag, which she must have slid between the purse and her lipstick in anticipation of this moment, and blew her nose. “No, he shouldn’t have said that.” She shot my father a black look. “But it’s so tragic. Our daughter is finally happy, and then… Is there nothing the doctors can do?”

I was beside myself with rage, but also shame. Why wouldn’t they both shut up? But if I was distressed, Smith was worse. His face was drained of colour, both his hands shaking, clasped together between his knees. When he spoke, his voice was cold. “There’s nothing the doctors can do. There’s no medicine. No cure. It’s just a matter of time.”

I never knew Smith was such a good actor. He was so convincing, Mum began to blub. Dad cleared his throat and said, “How much time have they said you’ve got, son?”

I couldn’t believe he would ask such a question. If Smith really had been terminally ill the conversation would have been devastating. “About a month, maybe two. These things can never be exact.” His voice was warm, and my parents melted, my mother wiping away fresh tears and my father endlessly clearing his throat. I didn’t know what to do. Smith was doing such a good job, that I couldn’t fail him. I put my arm around him, leaned my head on his shoulder. His body quivered, losing strength, and I seized our excuse for a swift exit. Mum pushed a custard slice away, and the tea went cold in the pot.

Smith and I walked back towards my house. When we reached the brow of the hill he paused and looked across to the church. It was magnificent. Even I, who sees it daily, am not blind to its splendour; it’s large and lavish, perfect testimony to the success of the medieval wool trade in this area.

“Let’s go in,” he said, leading me across the road and through the wooden gate. Perfect shrubs ballooned around us as we faced a fork in the path, and chose the left, which lead to St Peter and St Paul’s, flanked by sentinel daffodils. It’s one of the grandest parish churches in the country. The vast interior has cathedrallike proportions, and we stood looking up like tourists. In the silence, Smith squeezed my hand and we gaped at the ornate carvings, the hammer-beam roof, the luminous stained glass windows. We stepped forward, devout in our silence, heads obediently low. Silence was a relief after the horrible meeting with my parents.

“I’m really sorry about my parents. I should have told you that they think you’re dying. I never thought they would mention it. I told them you were ill, but I never said it was cancer. They just assumed. My God, you were convincing! Did you do acting at school or something?”

Smith pulled me to him. “No,” he replied, into my hair, “I’m not a good actor.”

“You could have fooled me.” I smiled as I felt his lips on my neck.

We stood listening to the silence, a hush that echoed across the high walls, the glorious fifteenth-century architecture. Smith bowed his head, lips moving in prayer. Our feet knocked on the ancient flagstones, walking on memorials to the beat of our progress. At the end of the wide nave, facing the largest window, we looked up. The crucifixion. Jesus, nailed to a cross, flanked by three people: his mother, John and Paul.

“No wonder they call it The Passion. Just look at his face,” whispered Smith, as if afraid to disturb someone sleeping. Jesus’ eyes were closed, and his mouth drawn down, but not in agony. Rather it’s the expression of endurance, the serenity of acceptance. Smith said, more to himself than me, “It’s easy to be a sacrifice when you know there’s a heaven.”

As he gazed at the dying man I looked at the figures on either side. Mary had a painful expression across her heavy brow, eyes intent on her son. Her mouth was pulled in a seam. There is nothing more to say, her mouth told me. An open mouth is a sign of defiance: a shout, a scream, a yell of denial. A refusal to accept. But that closed mouth of Mary’s, more than her stooping posture, more than her praying hands, spoke of acceptance.

On Jesus’ other side was John, his hands clasped and pleading, but his expression was less peaceful, a bewildered heaviness in the lids of his eyes. I wondered how I would be when Smith was dying. If I would be serene and accepting, like the Virgin, or if in the end I would be bewildered by what we had done.

Smith was still gazing at the face of Jesus. “If I knew for certain there was an afterlife I’d be glad to die. I need faith.”

We were holding hands; his was clammy so I dropped it, but moved closer to his side. We were two disciples, under the cross, and he was losing faith. “It will be me waiting there, under your cross, watching you endure, and I’ll take you with me after. In my heart. The remembered never die.”

He turned, cupping one hand to my face. “There’s another way for you to keep me with you. Not in your heart, but in your body. The Eucharist. When Catholics take the bread and the wine they take in Jesus, his flesh, his blood. For my flesh is food indeed and my blood is drink indeed. Do you see, Robin? Do you see how important the Transfiguration is?”

I recoiled. I watched his face for meaning, allowed him to seat me in a pew. He knelt at my feet. “God made his word flesh, and that flesh became a sacrifice on the cross. That’s what I want. To sacrifice myself to you, but in you to live again.” He placed his hands on my shoes, as if he wanted to remove them. “You are my disciple, Robin.” Then he looked at me, and I saw suspicion, hardness in his eyes as if I’d betrayed him. “But I have prayed for thee, that thy faith fail not. Promise me you’ll be faithful.”