The Sacrificial Man (34 page)

“A pot bellied pig,” whispered Smith, touching my shoulder. “Perfect.”

The pig was friendly, pushing its snout through the holes to suckle my skirt. Its saliva darkened the fabric and I shoved my knee against it, pushed it away, but it was tenacious in its desire to be petted. There was a wooden kennel behind it, with a homemade sign over the door that read ‘Boris’.

Boris chewed ferociously, the sound of gravel on teeth, watching with black beady eyes, its wet snout dripping. Its muzzle and brow were coarse with wiry black, like pubic hair. “I don’t think I can,” I said, feeling my nose wrinkle as I watched Boris take a long piss in the mud.

“Think of it as a gift,” he said, extracting my kitchen knife from his coat, unwrapping the tea towel from the blade. “A sacrifice.”

“To you?”

“If you like.” Smith watched Boris, showing him the shiny steel to see if he recognised the danger; he didn’t. “Or to God.”

I snatched the handle from him, just wanting to get it over with. For Christ’s sake, I thought, this had suddenly got bizarre. To me, the act of killing the pig proved nothing. Smith’s sacrifice was voluntary, but the pig had no consciousness, no choice, and no will. It was just a dumb animal.

I climbed over the netting, only high enough to keep the pig in, not intended to keep humans out, and approached the tame beast, the knife poised and ready.

My God, how it squealed!

I panicked, fearing we would be discovered, and plunged the knife into Boris’ neck, feeling the layers of fat and gristle give way to unforgiving bone. I must have punctured an artery as blood started pouring out, and I wanted to heave but Smith was watching. This was my test and I had to prove myself worthy.

The pig flopped onto its fat side, still alive, a gaping mouth revealing black molars. I pulled the knife from its neck and, seeing the double row of nipples plunged into the centre, aiming for the heart. The pig screamed like a baby, but it was over. I leaned back on my heels, sick to the core. Who the hell called a female, Boris?

“I’ve done it. Now let’s get out of here.”

I stood quickly, longing for escape, giddy on my feet, and stepped back over the netting. Smith was rooted to the spot, his hands clasped to the wooden fence post.

“Are you okay, Smith?”

Was he disgusted with the violence? Had I gone too far? But when he looked at me his eyes were moist and dark. He took my hand in his, which was clammy with sweat, and placed it over his groin. I felt his erection, straining against the thin fabric and understood. Boris’ death had made him feel alive and happy, the act of sacrifice sealing his devotion to the plan.

Later, I took Smith to the station in Colchester, and waited with him until his train arrived. We were bound together by blood, and didn’t want to be separated, even for the few days until he returned. I touched him, soothed him, knowing this would be how he remembered me until then. I touched his cheek, stroked the soft skin, felt the irregular growth of stubble. I pulled him to me, kissing the place where his pulse throbbed in his neck. The intercom crackled and a woman’s shrill voice broke the tender tension. ‘The train about to depart from platform one is the seven o’clock service to London Liverpool Street.’

He leaned towards me, his mouth wet on my ear. “Robin,” his voice stuttered, agitated, “I’m ready now. Make sure you’re prepared.”

His words stilled the world. It was all I ever wanted to hear.

I could hardly breathe, my throat tight, and I found myself rocking, my heart suddenly running a sprint. He held me, and I fell into his embrace. His arms were tight and my heartbeat fast, my hands wet. The surgical detachment was gone. My head knew that I was having a panic attack, and that the driver in the seat of my emotions was my heart. His words hadn’t been heard by Robin, the cool academic, they had been heard by the girl Alice who longed to be back again, in that room, with her still-warm Mummy. Who wanted that love back.

I hated Smith seeing me this way, but more than that I needed to be held. He supported me, arms around my tense body, until my breathing steadied. When my heart slowed I felt dizzy, as if I had just run a race. Smith pulled away. He was calm, as if my emotion has drained away his own. “I love you. I want us to be together. Always.”

He placed his hand on my forehead, still wet with perspiration, “You shall eat of my flesh. Do this as a memorial of me. We shall be one flesh, one blood.” It was a blessing.

He left me then, boarded the train. The train doors slammed closed as the conductor blew his whistle. I watched the train depart. I knew it would be the last time he would ever leave me. I was a convert. A disciple. I saw that everything before that moment had been a test.

Smith was ready to die.

I’m nervous as hell, with the sentencing just two days away. I feel sick and have a headache that refuses to die, even after four Nurofen. It’s Lee’s final day; tonight she flies back to Germany, her extended leave over. She wants to take me on a trip. I haven’t been swimming for decades.

Not since I was four-years-old.

“It’ll be fun,” Lee says, grabbing my hand and pulling me behind her, through the silver turnstile, the gateway to the whorls of water and screams and slipping feet.

In the changing room are three women, of various ages, at opposite corners of the room. The oldest woman rubs sagging goose-bumped flesh with a patterned towel, the youngest woman is still dry, and adjusting the straps on her Speedo costume. She wears a plastic hat, and goggles are on the bench in front of her. A serious swimmer. But it’s the third woman who captures my interest. I guess she’s a similar age to me and she’s helping her young daughter, a pale thing with limp bunches, into a red and white polka dot swimsuit. The girl is hopping, one foot to the other, like an excited sparrow in a birdbath. The mother looks my way and smiles, a distant greeting, a tired but happy face that makes my heart ache.

I lock myself into a cubicle while Lee changes in the communal area. I begin to remove my clothes, carefully folding them into a pile. Without my socks and boots the floor is wet and cold. I step into my new swimsuit, bought just moments ago in the small shop in the foyer. I hope it fits. It’s strange, the feeling of lycra over my stomach, my breasts. I feel more exposed than when naked. It was a mistake to agree to this, I shouldn’t have let Lee persuade me. When she said it would be fun she had no idea what she was asking of me. I haven’t swum since I was a child, and maybe I only swam then with Mummy’s help. What if I sink?

Lee is waiting for me, beyond the shallow footbath. She is simply waiting, in a plain navy costume, smiling. It’s easy for her, she’s relaxed here, after all those years standing by the pool-side ready to jump in if someone needed help. Behind her children screech as they hurl down the waterslide, landing in a splash at the bottom, disappearing under the force of their own weight. The echoing calls come to me as if from long ago.

I’m petrified and begin to shake.

“Come on, Alice. Let’s get in. It’s freezing just standing here.” Lee takes my hand. How is it that such a simple thing can steady me? “We’ll go to the children’s pool. It’ll be a lot warmer in there.” She leads me, allows me to find my way carefully on the wet tiles, stepping delicate as a flamingo.

The children’s pool is as warm as a bath, and just as shallow. I’m grateful for both. I watch as the girl in the polka dot swim-suit splashes around her mother, her orange armbands like the wings of an exotic bird.

We sit, with the warm water just below our necks, and under the water Lee keeps hold of my hand. She seems to be waiting for something to happen. I’m not waiting, I could stay here for a long time. I even close my eyes. This is it, I think. The moment I shall remember if I’m locked away. The thing I shall think about from my prison cell. And I think back, to another time, another swimming pool. I watch the young girl splashing, remembering that I too was young once. Mummy was with me. Lee, by my side, anchors me. She always did. “Now, Alice. The big pool. Come on!”

I follow, trusting her, still nervous of slipping. The silver steps take me into colder water, and deeper. I’m grateful for Lee’s hands on my waist, her closeness, but still the steps go down, lower into the deep water and then nothing. I’m out of my depth.

“It’s okay, Alice. I’ve got you.”

I panic like a cat thrown in a river, scrabbling for the edge. She lets me claw my way to her, supporting me as she treads water. “Don’t hold my neck, Alice. Hold my shoulders.” Her shoulders are narrow and sinewy, but I can feel the strength. Lee begins to swim, to move away from the side, taking me with her. A graceful breaststroke, with me holding on. We rise in the water as she pulls at each wave, my face just in the air, chlorine on my lips.

She swims like a dolphin.

I hold on, rescued, her shoulder a fin for me to grip. I trust in the strength that takes me out into the middle, where the water is deepest. I will not drown. I’m learning to swim.

I’m learning what it is to feel safe.

Back at home Lee cooks me supper. She massages my feet. She likes to do ordinary things. She likes to watch TV with a jumbo bag of popcorn. She likes to go to the Indian takeaway and order a vindaloo, even though it gives her wind. And she likes to ask questions. All the time, trying to fix me like some boat that’s got a leak, dammit, and she’ll sort that out, she’ll make it sound. She won’t stop, patching me up with normality. She’s like a child rattling a pill bottle. She just won’t get the message that the cap is designed to keep the contents safe.

And she’s so restless. She won’t keep still, even after sex when all I want to do is sleep. She props herself on an arm and annoys me with her stroking fingers, her probing questions: So how are your parents keeping? What good films have you seen recently? Are you still enjoying work? Peanut Butter or Marmite?

“Why do you care?” I snap, exasperated by the litany of interrogation, tired of feigning sleep. “You’ll be back in Germany soon.”

“I just want to talk, that’s all,” she says, bruised. Like a dog that’s just been kicked, she shrinks away from me. I’ve just opened up my body for her, what more does he want? Isn’t enough? Apparently not.

“The thing is Lee, this time tomorrow you’ll be in another country, and I don’t see the point in us having this kind of conversation. Oh, and I hate both peanut butter and marmite. There. Now can we please go to sleep?”

She touches my chin, tentatively kisses my cheek. When she speaks she sounds sad, “Not like this, Alice. I don’t want to force you to open up. I want you to trust me. You know I’d do anything to be with you. If you want me to, I’ll leave the forces. Or you could come with me. Back to Germany.”

“Ha! They’re cool about lesbians in the military now, are they?”

Lee looks stung. “I’m not saying it would be easy. But it’s possible. If you want to be with me, Alice, you can be.”

I screw my eyes shut and wait until her breathing is low and even, and I’m sure she is asleep. I watch the flicker of her eyelids, her hand uncurling like an upturned crab after the tide is out. It’s so easy for her. She doesn’t have to appear in court in two days. Then, with the dark sky outside my only witness, I let a shoal of tears swim over my face.

Later, we kiss goodbye. She has to go to Colchester to pack, before taking a taxi to the airport.

I am abandoned.

Robin: Are you there?

Smith: Yes. Sleep well?

Robin: No. I’m restless.

Smith: Me too. I want to be with you.

Robin: You are. Always. Have you been thinking?

Smith: About death. I couldn’t stand it to be too quick I want to be conscious when you taste me. I want to see you do it.

Robin: What should I use to cut you?

Smith: I’ll do the cutting, Alice. I won’t let you do anything that gets you into trouble later. I just want you to be with me.