Sacrament

CHAPTER X

i

Later, with the good butcher Donnelly dead, Geoffrey Sauls, who had accompanied him into the Courthouse that night, would offer a bowdlerized version of what happened within. This he did to protect both the memory of the deceased man, who'd been his drinking and darts partner for seventeen years, and Donnelly's widow, whose grief would have been cruelly exacerbated by the truth. Which was: that they had climbed the steps of the Courthouse thinking that perhaps they'd be the heroes of the night. There was somebody inside, no doubt of that, and more than likely it was the runaway. Who else was it going to be, they reasoned. Donnelly had been a pace or two ahead of Sauls, and had therefore arrived in the Courtroom first. Sauls had heard him mutter something awestruck and had come to Donnelly's side to find not the missing boy but a woman, standing in the middle of the chamber. There were two or three fat candles set on the ground close to where she stood, and by their flattering light he saw that she was partially undressed. Her breasts, which had a gloss of sweat upon them, were bared, and she'd hoisted up her skirt high enough that her hand could roam between her legs, a smile spreading across her face as she pleasured herself. Though her body was firm (her breasts rode as high as an eighteen-year-olds) her features bore the stamp of experience. Not that she was lined or flabby; her skin was perfect. But there was about her lips and eyes a confidence that belied her flawless cheeks and brow. In short, Sauls knew the instant he set eyes upon her that this was a woman who knew her mind. He didn't like that one bit.

Donnelly, on the other hand, did. He'd had a couple of double brandies before setting out, and they'd loosened his tongue. 'You're a lovely,' he said appreciatively. 'Aren't you a bit cold?'

The woman gave him the reply he'd surely been hoping for. 'You look like you've got plenty of meat on you,' she said, earning a chuckle from the butcher. 'Why don't you come over here and warm me up a bit?'

'Del-' Sauls warned, catching hold of his friend's arm, 'We're not here for shenanigans. We're here to find the boy.'

'Poor Will,' the woman said. 'A lost lamb if ever there was one.'

'Do you know where he is?' Geoffrey said.

'Maybe I do and maybe I don't,' the woman replied. Her eyes were fixed on Donnelly, her hands still playing away.

'Is he here somewhere?' Sauls asked her.

'Maybe he is and maybe he isn't.'

The reply made Sauls more uneasy than ever. Did it mean she had the boy a prisoner here? God help him if she did. There was a gleam of lunacy in her eyes, and in this whorish display of hers. Though he loved Delbert dearly, no sane woman would be inviting him to touch her the way she was right now: her dress lifted so high her privates were on display, her fingers plunged into them to the second knuckle.

'I'd keep your distance if I were you, Delbert,' Sauls advised.

'She just wants a bit o' fun,' Del replied, swaying towards the woman.

'The boy's here somewhere,' Sauls said.

'So go find him,' Donnelly replied dreamily, raising his sausage fingers to fondle the woman's breasts. 'I'll keep her distracted.'

'I'll take you both on if you like,' the woman suggested.

But Delbert wasn't feeling democratic. 'Go on, Geoffrey,' he said, his tone faintly threatening. 'I can handle her on my own, thank you very much.'

Geoffrey had only brawled with Delbert once in his life (over a contested darts match, naturally) and he'd come off much the worse. The butcher was more bulk than brawn, but Geoffrey was a bantamweight, and within half a minute he'd found himself flat on his back in the gutter. Given that he couldn't hope physically to pry Del from his object of affection, he had little choice but to do as the man said, and go look for the child. He did so quickly, so as not to be gone from the Courtroom itself for very long. With his torchbeam lighting the way ahead he searched the passageways and chambers in a systematic fashion, calling for the boy as though for a lost dog.

'Will? Where are you? Come on. It's okay. Will?'

In one of the rooms he came upon what he assumed to be the whore's belongings: two or three bags, and some scattered articles of clothing, along with a variety of paraphernalia that looked vaguely erotic in purpose. (He didn't have time to study them closely. But many months later, when the trauma of this night had receded, his mind would guiltily revisit this litter, and obsess on it, imagining the purpose to which she had put these barbed rods and silken cords.) In a second chamber he found a still more disturbing sight. Overturned furniture, ashes underfoot, fragments of charred debris. What he didn't find was the boy; all the other rooms, and there were several, were deserted. The layout of the place was tricky to grasp, especially in his present state of anxiety. He might well have got lost in the maze of chambers and passages had he not heard Delbert start to shout, or sob maybe - yes, it was a sob - and followed the din

back through the corridors, through the room with the ashes, and that unholy boudoir, to the Courtroom.

And now, of course, we come to that part he kept from telling in its entirety, preferring to risk a lie than defame his friend. Delbert was not, as Sauls would later testify, lying inert on the floor, sobbing to be saved. Supine he certainly was, his trousers and underwear somewhere around his boots, his head and arms thrown back. But there was no appeal in his cry, except perhaps that the woman straddling him, her hands digging into the mottled fat of his belly, ride him harder, harder.

'Jesus, Del-' Sauls said, appalled at the sight.

Delbert's little eyes, upside-down in the wet, hot bulk of his head, burned with pleasure.

'Go. Away.' he said.

'No, no ...' the woman panted, beckoning Geoffrey to her and proffering her breast. 'I can use him here.'

Even in the throes of his delirium, however, Donnelly was feeling proprietorial. 'Fuck off, Geoffrey,' he said, skewing his head around to get a better fix on the competition. 'I saw her first.'

'I think it's time you shut up!' the woman snapped, and for the first time Geoffrey saw that there was something wrapped around Del's neck. From what he could see it looked to be no more than a thin piece of rope with a few beads threaded along its length, except that it moved, in serpentine fashion, its tail twitching between Del's pink tits, its body sliding upon itself as it tightened its grip. Del suddenly made a choking sound, and his fingers went up to his throat, scrabbling at the cord. His red face suddenly got redder still.

'Now, come here,' the woman instructed Geoffrey, sweetly enough. He shook his head. If he'd had any urge to touch the creature, it had been scared out of him. 'I'm not going to tell you again,' she said to Sauls. Then, glancing down at Delbert, she murmured: 'Do you want it tighter?' A pitiful gurgling sound was all that escaped him, but the snake-rope seemed to take that as a yes, and duly tightened.

'Stop!' Sauls said, 'You're killing him!' She stared at him, her face as blank as it was beautiful, so he said it again, in case the bitch in her heat hadn't understood what she was doing. But she understood. He saw that now; saw the look of pleasure cross her face as poor Delbert bucked and thrashed beneath her. He had to stop her, and quickly, or Del would be dead.

'What do you want?' he said, approaching her.

'Kiss me,' she said, her eyes become slits in a face that was somehow simpler than it had been moments ago, as though it were being unmade before his eyes by some invisible sculptor. He would have preferred to clamp his mouth to his own mother-in-law's maw than kiss the moist hole in the whore's face, but Del's life was ebbing away by the gasp. A few moments more, and it would be gone. Steeling his courage, he pressed his lips against the unbecoming flesh of her mouth, only to have her take hold of his hair - what little he had - and haul back his head. 'Not there!' she said, the words coming on a breath so balmy and sweetly scented he momentarily forgot his fear. 'Here! Here!'

She pressed his face down towards her bosom, but as he stooped to service her Delbert's flailing arms caught hold of Geoffrey's right boot, and pulled. He stumbled backwards, vaguely aware that this was more farce than tragedy, his outstretched hand raking the woman's pristine skin as he tried to prevent himself falling. It was no use. Down he went, arse first, the breath knocked out of him.

As he raised his head he saw the woman climbing off Delbert, clutching her breast. 'Look what you did,' she said to him, showing him the marks where his fingernails had caught her. He protested that it had been an accident. 'Look!' she said again, advancing on him. 'You marked me!'

Behind her, Delbert was gurgling like a monstrous baby, his arms no longer strong enough to flail or his legs to kick. There was another of the woman's pet ropes slithering around his groin, Geoffrey saw, most of its length constricting the base of his prick, so that it stood up - even now, even as the last of his life went out of him -stout and stiff.

'He's dying,' Sauls said to the woman.

She glanced back at the body on the ground. 'So he is,' she remarked. Then, looking back at Geoffrey: 'But he got what he wanted, didn't he? So now, the question is: what do you want?'

He wasn't going to lie. He wasn't going to tell her he wanted her body, however finely made she was. He'd only end the same way as Del. So he told the truth.

'I want to live,' he said. 'I want to go home to my wife and my kids and pretend this never happened.'

'You can never do that,' she replied.

'I could!' he insisted. 'I swear I could!'

'You wouldn't come after me, for killing your friend?'

'You won't kill him,' Geoffrey said, thinking perhaps he was making some headway with the woman. She'd had her fun, hadn't she? She'd successfully terrorised them both; reduced him to a quivering mess and Delbert to a human dildo. What more did she need? 'If you let us go, we won't say a word. I promise. Not one word.'

'I think it's too late for that,' the woman replied. She was standing between Geoffrey's legs now. He felt horribly vulnerable.

'Let me at least help Delbert,' he begged. 'He's not done any harm to you. He's a good family man and-'

'The world's filled with family men,' she said contemptuously.

'For pity's sake, he's not done you any harm.'

'Oh, Jesus...' she said, exasperated. 'Help him, then, if you must.'

He watched her warily as he scrambled to his feet, anticipating a blow or a kick. But none came. Instead she allowed him to go to Delbert, whose face was by now purplish, his lips flecked with bloody spittle, his eyes rolled up beneath his fluttering lids. There was still breath in him, but precious little; his chest heaved with the effort of drawing air through his constricted windpipe. Fearing the battle was already lost he dug his fingers between cord and flesh and pulled. Del drew a faint, wheezing breath, but it was his last.

'Finally...' the woman said.

Geoffrey thought she was referring to Del's passing, but looking down at the man's groin realized his error. In extremis, Del was spurting like a whale.

'Jesus Christ,' Geoffrey said, nauseated.

The woman wandered over to admire the spectacle. 'You could try the kiss of life,' she said. 'You might still bring him back.'

Geoffrey looked down at Del's face: at his foamy lips and bulging sockets. Maybe there was a remote chance of starting his heart again and maybe a better friend than he would have attempted it - but nothing on God's earth could have convinced him at that moment to put his lips to the lips of Delbert Donnelly.

'No?' said the woman.

'No,' said Geoffrey.

'So you let him die. You couldn't bear to kiss him, and now he's dead.' She turned her back on Sauls and wandered away. This was not a pardon, Geoffrey knew; just a stay of execution.

'Oh Mary, mother of God,' Geoffrey said softly. 'Help me in my hour of need ...'

'You don't need a Virgin right now,' the woman said, 'you need somebody with a little more experience. Somebody who knows what's best for you.'

Geoffrey didn't turn to look at her. She'd exercised some mesmeric hold over Del, he was certain of it, and if he met her eyes she'd get into his head the same way. Somehow he had to find a way out of here without looking at her. And then there were those damn ropes to be considered. The one that had garrotted Del had already slithered away. He didn't want to look at Del's groin to see what had become of the other, but he had to assume it was loose somewhere. He would have one chance at escape, he knew. If he was not quick enough, or somehow lost his bearings and missed the exit, she would have him. However offhand she was being right now, she could not afford to let him escape; not after what he'd witnessed.

'Do you know the story of this place?' she asked him. Happy to have her distracted by conversation, he told her no, he didn't. 'It was built by a man who felt injustice very deeply.'

'Oh?'

'We knew him, Mr Steep and myself, many, many years ago. In fact, he and I were intimate, for a short time.'

'Lucky man,' Geoffrey replied, hoping to flatter. Her talk was all delusory, of course. Though he knew little about the Courthouse, he was certain it had been standing a century at least. There was no way this woman could have known its creator.

'I don't remember him well,' she fantasized. 'Except for his nose. He had the largest nose I have seen. Monolithic. And he swore it was this that made him so sympathetic to the condition of animals- While she babbled, Geoffrey covertly cast his eyes left and right, the better to orient himself. Though he couldn't actually see the door that led to freedom, he guessed it to be just out of sight near his left shoulder. Meanwhile, the woman chattered on: -they're so much more sensitive to odours than we are. But Mr Bartholomeus, because of his nose, claimed he could smell more like an animal than a man. Ambrosial, myrrhic, mephitic. He'd divided the smells up, so he had a name for every one. Putrid, musky, balsamic. I forget the others. In fact, I forget him, except for his nose. It's funny what you remember about people, isn't it?' She paused. Then: 'What's your name?'

'Geoffrey Sauls.' Was that her footfall behind him? He had to get going, or she'd be upon him. He scanned the ground for her lethal rosaries.

'No middle name?' she said.

'Oh. Yes.' He could see nothing moving, but that didn't mean they weren't there, in the shadows. 'Alexander.'

'That's a lot prettier than Geoffrey,' she said, her voice closer to him. He glanced back down at Del's dead face, to give himself that last jolt of motivation, and then he was up, and turning towards the door. He'd guessed aright. There it was, ahead of him now. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed the whore, and felt her eyes burning into him. He didn't give them the opportunity to work their hex on him. Loosing a shout he'd learned in the Territorial Army (it was designed to accompany a bayonet charge, while this was a retreat, but what the hell?) he fled for the exit. His senses were more acute than they'd been since boyhood, his adrenalin-flooded system alive to every nuance. He heard the whine of the rosaries as they flew, and glancing over his shoulder, saw them in the air like beaded lightning, flying towards him. He dodged to his right, ducking as he did so, and watched them fly past him, striking the door. There they writhed for a heartbeat, and in that beat he snatched at the handle and threw the door wide. His own strength astonished him. Though the door was heavy it swung fully open, its hinges screeching, and slammed against the wall.

'Alexander,' the woman called, her voice silky. 'Come back. Do you hear me, Alexander?'

He pelted down the passageway, unmoved by her summons, and for a very good reason. Only his mother, whom he had hated with all his heart, had ever called him by that name. The woman could call to him using all the voices of the sirens, and if she hung that dreaded Alexander upon him he would be immune.

Out now; down the steps and into the snow; ploughing towards the hedgerow, never looking back. He plunged through the thicket and out onto the road with his lungs burning, his heart drumming, and such a sense of happiness he was almost glad he was alone to enjoy it. Later, when he recounted this, he would talk quietly and mournfully of how he'd lost his friend. For now, he shouted, and laughed, and felt (oh, the perversity of this) all the more glorious because he'd not only outwitted the whore but had Del's death as proof of how terrible his jeopardy had been.

Whooping, then, and stumbling, he returned to his car, which was parked some fifty yards away, and undaunted by the icy road (nothing could harm him now; he was inviolate) he drove at foolhardy speed back into the village to sound the alarm.

ii

Back in the Courthouse, Rosa was not a happy woman. She'd been content enough until Alexander and his overweight comrade had arrived, sitting dreaming of finer places and balmier days. But now her dreams had been interrupted, and she had to make some quick decisions.

There'd be a mob at the gates soon enough, she knew: Alexander would make certain of that. They'd be feeling righteous and wrathful, and they'd surely attempt some mischief upon her person if she didn't make herself scarce. It would not be the first time she'd been harried and harassed this way. There'd been an unsavoury incident in Morocco only the year before, in which the wife of one of her occasional consorts had led a minor jihad against her, much to Jacob's amusement. The husband, like the fat fellow lying at her feet now, had died in flagrante delicto, but - unlike Donnelly - had expired with a broad smile on his face. It was the smile that had truly inflamed his wife: that she'd never seen its like in her life had put her in murderous mood. And then in Milan - oh, how she'd loved Milan! - there'd been a worse scene still. She had lingered there for several weeks while Jacob went south, and had fallen into the company of the transvestites who plied their hazardous trade about the Parco Sempione. She'd always loved things artificial, and these beauties, who were self-created females to a man (the viados, the locals called them; meaning fawns) had enchanted her. In their company she'd felt a strange sisterhood, and might have elected to stay in that city had

one of the pimps, a casual sadist by the name of Henry Campanella, not earned her ire. Hearing that he'd made a particularly savage assault on one of his herd, Rosa had lost her temper. This happened infrequently, but when it did, blood invariably flowed, and copiously. She'd choked the bastard on what had passed for his manhood, and left the corpse in the Viale Certosa, on public display. His brother, who was also a pimp, had raised a small army from the criminal fraternity, and would have slaughtered her if she hadn't fled to Sicily and the comfort of Steep. Still, she often thought of her sisters in Milan, sitting around chatting about surgeries and silicone, while they plucked and teased and squeezed themselves into a semblance of femininity. And when she thought of them, she sighed.

Enough of memories, she told herself. It was time to vacate the premises, before the dogs came after her, two-legged and four. She carried a candle into her little dressing room, and packed up her belongings, keeping her senses sharp every moment. Remotely, she thought she heard raised voices, and assumed that Alexander was at the village, telling tales, the way men liked to do.

Finishing her packing hurriedly, she said farewell to the body of Delbert Donnelly, and calling her rosaries to her, made her departure. She had intended to head off northeast along the valley, putting the village and its idiots as far as she could behind her. But once out in the snow, her thoughts turned to Jacob. She was of half a mind to leave him in ignorance of what her deeds had unleashed. But in her heart she knew she owed him the warning, for sentiment's sake. They had spent so many decades together, arguing, suffering and in their curious way devoting themselves to one another. Though his recent frailties disenchanted her, she could not leave him until she'd performed this last duty.

Turning her face to the hills, which had emerged from the retiring blizzard, she rapidly sought him out. She had no need of senses in this: there was in them both a compass for which the other was north; all she had to do was let the needle swing and settle, and there he would be. Lugging her bags, she started up the slope in his direction, leaving a trail in the snow she was well aware her pursuers would follow. So be it, she thought. If they come, they come. And if blood has to be spilled, I'm in a fine frame of mind to spill it.