Sacrament

CHAPTER XVII

i

The morning after the love-feast Will woke on the living-room floor, having apparently slid from off the sofa where he'd made a nest of the clothes he'd stripped off the night before. He felt like shit. His entire body ached, even his teeth and tongue. His eyes burned in their sockets. He got to his feet, somewhat unsteadily, and made for the bathroom. There he doused his face in cold water, and then looked at himself in the mirror. The calm and clarity that had been such a revelation the previous afternoon were gone. The face he was looking at was just a rag-bag of weary particulars: pallid skin and red-rimmed eyes and furlined mouth. What the hell had he been up to? He vaguely remembered there being some dispute with Drew, but he had no idea what it had been about, much less how it had been resolved, if indeed it had. Clearly he'd been out on the town, and to judge by the state of his body it had been quite a party. He had scratches on his back and chest; bite-marks on his shoulders. And there was more damning evidence still between his legs: a dick and balls so red-raw they might have been massaged with sandpaper.

'Question one:' he said, looking down at his groin, 'what the fuck have we been doing? And question two: who the hell do we need to apologize to?'

When he ventured into the bedroom, of course, he was confronted with chaos. The air was rank with rotting food, and stale vomit, the floor a rubbish heap. He stood in the doorway, surveying the carpet of remnants, while tantalizing flashes of how the celebration here had come to an end entered his head. He'd crawled on all fours through this muck, hadn't he? puking like an over-fed Roman in the Vomitorium. And out in the hallway, where there was blood and broken glass, he'd cut his foot while he was hauling himself to the top of the stairs

What had happened after that? His mind refused to confess. Rather than rack it for answers, he left the fragments of recollection along with the rubbish, where they lay, and closing the bedroom door, he went to shower. There was a pattern here, he thought, of sleeping, and waking to visions, and showering, and waking again, as though the cycle of diurnal duties had been turned to the purpose of Lord Fox. A canny trick, this: to use the safest rituals of his domestic life to make him shed his assumptions. Washing himself proved a delicate business - the soap and water found broken skin he hadn't noticed - but he emerged feeling a little better. He was in the process of drying himself when somebody rapped hard on the front door. He wrapped a towel around his middle and headed for the stairs, stepping gingerly past the glass as he went. The rapping came again, and with it Adrianna's voice:

'Hey, Will? Will? Are you in there?'

'I'm here,' he said, opening the door to her.

'Your phone's not working,' she said. 'I've been calling for the last hour. Can I come in?' She peered at him as she entered. 'Boy did you ever have a late night.' He led the way into the kitchen.

'What did you do to your back?' she said, following him. 'No, never mind, don't tell me.'

'You want some coffee, or-?'

'I'll do it. You should just call England.'

'What for?'

'Something's happened to your Dad. He's not dead, but there's something wrong. They wouldn't tell me what.'

'Who wouldn't tell you?'

'Your agents in New York. Apparently somebody was trying to find you, and whoever it was called them, and they tried you, but they couldn't get you, so they tried me, only I couldn't get you-' She kept up the story while Will went into the living-room, where he found the phone unplugged. Drew's handiwork, no doubt, so they'd not be disturbed during their night of decadence. Will plugged it back in again.

'Do you know who made the call?'

'Somebody called Adele.'

'Adele?'

'Speaking.'

'This is Will.'

'Oh my God. Oh my God. Will. I've been trying to contact you-' 'Yes, I

'He's in a terrible state. Just terrible.'

'What happened to him?'

'We don't really know. I mean, somebody tried to kill him, we know that much.'

'In Manchester?'

'No, no, here. Half a mile from the house.'

'Jesus.'

'He was just beaten unmercifully. He's concussed. He's got three broken ribs and a broken arm.'

'Do the police know who did it?'

'No, but I think he knows, and he's not telling. It's peculiar. And it frightens me, it really does, in case whoever it is ...' she started to dissolve into tears '... whoever it is ... comes back ... I didn't know who else to turn to . . . so ... I know you and he haven't talked in a long while, but ... I think you should see him...' It was plain enough what she was saying, even if she wasn't putting it in so many words. She was afraid he wasn't going to survive.

'I'll come,' he said.

'You will?'

'Of course.'

'Oh that's wonderful.' She sounded genuinely happy at the prospect. 'I know it sounds selfish, but it'd take such a weight off my shoulders.'

'It doesn't sound selfish at all,' Will said. 'I'll make arrangements right now and I'll call you the moment I get into London.'

`Shall I tell him?'

'That I'm coming? No, I don't think you should. He may not want to see me for one thing: better just let it be a surprise.'

The conversation ended there. Will gave Adrianna a quick summary of what had happened, and then asked her to see what she could do about arranging a flight: any airline, any time. Leaving her to make the arrangements from the downstairs office, he went up to pack. This meant facing the filth in the bedroom, of course, which wasn't particularly pleasant, but he wrapped up the mess as best he could in the sheets on which the feast had been laid, dumped them all in plastic bags, and left them out on the landing to take downstairs. Then he opened the window, so as to let in some fresh air, and hauling his suitcases out of the closet set about filling them.

Adrianna secured him a flight out of San Francisco that evening. An overnight flight that would deliver him into Heathrow Airport around noon the following day.

'If you don't mind,' Adrianna said, 'I'd like to come in while you're away and look through all those pictures you took down-'

'The consumptives?'

'Yeah. I know you think I'm crazy, but there's a book in those pictures. Or at least an exhibition.'

'Help yourself. I don't want to look at another photograph right now. They're all yours.'

'Isn't that a little extreme?'

'That's how I'm feeling right now. Extreme.'

'Any particular reason?'

It was too big a subject to explain even if he'd had the words, which he doubted he did. 'Maybe we'll talk about it when I get back,' he said.

'Will you stay long?'

Will shrugged. 'I don't know. If he's going to die then I'll stay until he does. Isn't that what I'm supposed to do?'

'That's a strange question.'

'Yeah. Well, it's a strange relationship. We haven't talked for ten years, remember.'

'But you talk about him.'

'No, I don't.'

'Trust me, Will, you talk about him. Offhand remarks, usually, but I've built up a good picture of him.'

'You know, that's a damn good idea. I should get a picture of him. Something that'll catch him, for posterity.'

'The man who fathered Will Rabjohns.'

'Oh no,' Will said, heading up to pack his camera, 'that wasn't Hugo. And when Adrianna asked him who the hell it was if it wasn't Hugo he refused, of course, to answer.

ii

He went to see both Drew and Patrick before he left for the airport. He had called Drew several times, but nobody picked up, so he caught a cab to the apartment on Cumberland. Through the bars of the security gate he could see Drew's bicycle in the passageway, almost certain proof that its owner was in residence, but Will's repeated ringing of the doorbell brought no reply. He'd come prepared for this eventuality, with a scrawled note which he jammed between the gate and the brick; three or four lines simply informing Drew that he had to go to England on short notice, and that he hoped to be in contact again soon. Then he went back to his cab and had it take him up Castro to Patrick's apartment. This time the doorbell was answered, not by Patrick but Rafael. He was sneezing violently, his eyes bloodshot.

'Allergies?' Will said.

'No,' Rafael replied. 'Pat just came from the hospital. Not good news.'

'Is that Will?' Patrick called from the living-room.

'Go on in,' Rafael said softly, and disappeared into the kitchen, still sneezing.

Patrick was sitting in the window - where else? - though the vista of the city was largely obscured by a glacial bank of fog. 'Pull up a chair,'

he told Will, and Will did so. 'The view's fucked, but what the hell?'

'Rafael said you were at the hospital.'

'I introduced you to my doctor at the party, didn't I? Frank Webster? Tubby little guy; wears too much cologne? I went to see him this morning, and he just told me flat out he'd done all he could. I'm getting weaker and there's nothing more he can do for me.' There was a new barrage of sneezes from the kitchen. 'Oh jeez, poor Rafael. As soon as he gets upset he starts sneezing. He'll be like that for hours. I went to his mother's funeral with him and the whole family - he's got three brothers, three sisters - they're all sneezing. I didn't hear a word the priest said.' This was sounding more and more like one of Patrick's tales, but what the hell, it was bringing a smile to his face. 'Remember that beautiful French guy Lewis used to date? Marius? You had a fling with him.'

'No I didn't.'

'Then you were the only one. Anyway, he sneezed after he'd come. He sneezed and sneezed and sneezed. He fell downstairs at Lewis's place, sneezing. I swear.'

'Terrible.'

'You don't believe me.'

'Not a word.'

Pat glanced at Will, smirking. 'So,' he said, 'to what do I owe the pleasure?'

'You were telling me about Webster.'

'It can wait. You've got a purposeful look on your face. What's happening?'

'I have to go to England. I'm catching a flight out tonight.'

'This is sudden.'

'My father's got a problem. Somebody decided to beat the shit out of him.'

'You were here on the night in question,' Patrick said. 'I'll swear to it.'

'I mean badly, Pat.'

'How badly?'

'I don't know. I'll find out when I get there. So that's my story. Now back to Webster.'

Patrick sighed. 'I had a heart to heart with him today. He's been great. We're always in line if somebody comes along with some new medication. But ...' he shrugged '... I guess we've run out.' He looked at Will again. 'It's a mess, Will. Getting sick. We've all seen so much of it, and we all know how it goes. Well, it's not going to happen to me.' This sounded like Patrick at his defiant best, but there was no resilience in his voice; only defeat. 'I had a dream, a couple of nights ago. I was in a forest, a dark forest and I was naked. Nothing sexual about it. Just naked. And I knew all these things were creeping up on me. Some were coming for my eyes. Some were coming for my skin. They were all going to get a piece of me. When I woke up, I thought: I'm not going to let that happen. I'm not going to sit there and be picked at, piece by piece.'

'Have you talked to Bethlynn about any of this?'

'Not about the conversation with Frank. I've got a session with her tomorrow afternoon.' He leaned his head back on the head rest, and closed his eyes. 'We've talked about you a lot, you'll be pleased to know. And she was always pretty acute about you, before she met you. Now she'll be useless. Like the rest of us, flailing around trying to work out what makes you tick.'

'It's no great mystery,' Will said.

'One of these days,' Patrick said lazily, 'I'm going to have a blinding revelation about you, and everything'll suddenly make sense. Why we stayed together. Why we came apart.' He opened one eye and squinted at Will. 'Were you at The Penitent last night, by the way?'

Will wasn't sure. 'Maybe,' he said. 'Why?'

'A friend of Jack's said he saw you coming out, looking like you'd just done some serious mischief. Of course, I protected your honour. But it was you, wasn't it?'

'I don't remember, to be honest.'

'My God, that's something I don't hear very often these days. Everybody's too clean and sober. You don't remember? You're a throwback, Will. Homo Castro, 1975.' Will laughed. 'A primitive simian with an oversized libido and a permanently glazed expression.'

'There were some wild nights.'

'There certainly were,' Patrick said with gentle relish. 'But I don't want to do it again, do you?'

'Honestly?'

'Honestly. I did it, and it was great. But it's over. At least for me. I'm making a connection with something else now.'

'And how does that feel?'

Patrick had again closed his eyes. His voice grew quiet. 'It's wonderful,' he said. 'I feel God here sometimes. Right here with me.' He fell silent; the kind of silence that presages something of significance. Will said nothing. Just waited for the something to come. At last, Patrick said: 'I've got a plan, Will.'

'For what?'

'For when I get very sick.' Again, the silence; and Will waiting. 'I want you here, Will,' Patrick said. 'I want to die looking at you, and you looking at me.'

'Then that's what'll happen.'

'But it might not,' Patrick said. His voice was calm and even, but tears had swelled between his closed lids and ran down his cheeks. 'You might be in the middle of the Serengeti. Who knows? You might still be in England.'

'I won't-'

'Ssh,' Patrick said. 'Let me just get all of this said. I don't want somebody telling you what did or didn't happen and you not knowing whether to believe them or not. So I want you to know: I'm planning to die the way I've lived. Comfortably. Sensibly. Jack's with me on it. So's Rafael, of course. And, like I said, I want you here, too.' He stopped, wiped the tears off his cheeks with the heels of his hands, and then continued in the same contained manner. 'But if you're not, and there's some problem; if Rafael or Jack get into trouble somehow ... we're trying to cover all the legal issues to make sure it doesn't happen but there's still a chance ... I want to be sure you'll get it sorted out. You're good with that kind of stuff, Will. Nobody pushes you around.'

'I'll make sure there's no problem, don't worry.'

'Good. That makes me feel a lot happier.' Without opening his eyes, he reached out and unerringly took Will's hand. 'How am I doing?'

'You're doing fine.'

'I don't like weepers.'

'You're allowed.'

There was another silence, lighter this time, now that the deal had been struck. 'You're right,' Patrick finally said. 'I'm allowed.'

Will glanced at his watch. 'Time to go,' he said.

'Go, baby, go. I won't get up if you don't mind. I'm feeling a little frail.' Will went and hugged him, there in the chair. 'I love you,' he said.

'And I love you back.' He had caught fierce hold of Will's arms, and squeezed hard. 'You do know that, don't you? I mean, you're not just hearing the words?'

'I know it.'

'I wish we'd had longer, Will.'

'Me too,' Will said, 'I've got a lot of stuff I'd need to tell you about, but I got to catch this plane.'

'No, Will, I mean I wish we'd had longer together. I wish we'd taken the time to know one another better.'

'There'll be time,' Will said. Pat held on to Will's arms another moment. 'Not enough,' and then, reluctantly loosening his grip, let Will go.