“I didn’t! Hell, I wasn’t even there, Ray. I was living in a cul-de-sac in Twickenham.”
“Exactly. It was nothing to do with you at all. She died of natural causes, Thea. Life and death belong to God and nature. Even you’re not powerful enough to murder people six thousand miles away.”
“You’re mocking me again, Ray. I thought this was meant to be Confession.”
“It is Confession and I never mock. I’m speaking to you as God would. You may have hated, but you’ve never killed. God will forgive the hate.”
“You mean … you could give me absolution?”
“Of course I could.”
“Even though I hate her? Still.”
“You can’t really hate the dead, Thea.”
“You can.”
“Well, you must want not to want to hate her.” He grinned. “Could you manage that?”
“Yes, but … supposing she hates me? Well, perhaps not her — not now — but other people. Janet, for example. Or my mother. Or Leo, even. I’m frightened of that hate, Ray.”
“You don’t even know it’s there, my girl. It’s only your own hate reflected in a mirror.”
“Well, my own hate’s even worse. That’s why I want to stay here. There’s no hate in the hospital. And even my own I can hide away from here. Everybody’s kind and decent here — well, all except Sister Robert, they are. I mean, the whole thing only exists to be loving and caring and …”
“You can take that with you, Thea, all that love and decency, set it up inside you. That’s what absolution does. Gets rid of the hate, so you can put something better in its place. Look, remember that man sick of the palsy?”
“What is palsy, Ray, exactly?”
“Paralysis. The poor chap couldn’t walk or move his limbs. But I’ve always suspected it was a sort of hysterical paralysis — you know, psychological, psychosomatic — all those long words which mean his mind knocked his body for six. You see, Thea, his sins so weighed him down, he was literally crippled by them. Christ realised that. That’s why the first thing He said was, ‘Your sins are forgiven you.’ It was enough, you see. It healed him, soul and body. Maybe it’s a bit the same with you. All that hate and stuff has been dragging you down for years, Thea. Even fear is a sort of paralysis. Once we get rid of it, you won’t need hospitals. Oh, of course you’ll have to get your teeth fixed, and rest and recuperate and take things easy for a while, but the real, essential Thea will be strong and healed and …”
“But supposing there isn’t a real, essential Thea? I mean what if I’m a fraud? Even now, I’m not really sure I’m not deceiving you. A bit of me still wants to … Oh, I know it’s crazy, Ray, but the more you talk like a priest and go on about Christ and cripples and miracles and things, the more I want to sort of … paw you.”
He grinned and touched my hand. “I don’t think that matters much, do you? I mean, we’re all a bit of a mess, clinging on to heaven with our fingertips, while our toes trail in the mud.”
“But I think I prefer the mud.”
“That’s only because you’re so used to it. It’s like people who’ve been in prison for years. They’re scared to come out, in case the sunlight blinds them. It won’t, Thea. In fact, I think you need some sun. Look, shut your eyes and we’ll say the prayers together.”
“But supposing I’m not sorry?”
“You’ve made two confessions in three days. Isn’t that proof you’re sorry?”
“Not necessarily. I might just be trapping you. I was, in the beginning.”
“Look, Thea, you said you trusted me. Well, can’t you trust me enough to know when a penitent’s genuine, and when she’s shamming?”
“But, you’re so simple, Ray. You don’t even see through me. Hell! I only said I trusted you because I wanted you to touch me. Don’t you see, the whole thing turns me on? It’s as if all your prayers and gospels and things were a sort of Kama Sutra …”
How could I go on? Tell him his words were lapping against my cunt, probing it like a long dark velvet finger?
“That’s OK, Thea. The gospels are a kind of love story and they should turn you on.”
“But not like that! You’re so damned saintly, Ray, you don’t even see what I’m getting at.”
“Oh yes, I do. But I think you make too much of it. Sex is your special subject, so to speak, so you keep on going back to it. It’s understandable — you don’t want it devalued because it’s all you’ve got in your life at the moment.”
I drained my glass, more to hide my face than anything. Ray had put his finger, not on my cunt, but on something just as sensitive. I had so few achievements, I needed those forty-seven men. They were like my O-levels or my testimonials, and I didn’t want him knocking them. Yet, wasn’t he offering me a life-escape, a way to soar beyond them? I was still confused. I longed for absolution, but …
“Supposing it’s all a game, Ray. I mean, just my way of grabbing another man? Or two, if you count God. I mean, I’m always playing games with people. Sometimes I don’t even know I’m doing it.”
“Oh, so your tears were just a game, were they? And Josie Rutherford was a game and …”
“Well, no, Ray, but …”
“And you don’t want absolution?”
“Yes, yes, I do.”
“Well, why don’t we finish the game? I know you think I’m simple, Thea — perhaps I am. But sometimes it pays to be simple. Shall we try? Even the rules of this game are very simple. All you have to do is shut your eyes, listen to the words of absolution, and try and tell God you’re sorry, OK?”
Holy. Sorry. Simple. Words I had never trusted up till now. Christ was probably simple. He may have had rough red hands and shy myopic eyes.
“OK.”
I shut my eyes. The night was so dark, it came roaring into my head. All I could hear, at first, was the scowl of rain fretting outside the window. Then, something like a nudge of moonlight trembled on my neck. I squinted through my eyelids. I could see Ray’s hand trailing across my shoulder, returning to my breasts. A holy hand. Not pawing me, but shielding, sanctifying. I felt his fingers fall against the nipple. A great sob shook my body.
“God the Father of Mercies,” Ray began. He was saying the words in English, but even the flat Manchester vowels couldn’t hide the glory in them. Hate and shame and murder were drowning in the dark waters of the Saskatchewan lake. The narrow, messy cul-de-sac which had been my past now had a wide free-flowing channel cutting through it, flushing out the debris, roaring to the sea. Healing waves were breaking over my head, grace streaming from my soul, my cunt, my eyes. Ray had reached the climax now. We were both trembling, both triumphant.
“And I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit …”
He made the Sign of the Cross with his other hand. The right one never wavered from its homage at my breast. I sat stone still. I could feel the Holy Spirit scudding through my body, sluicing down my thighs.
Ray was still praying. “May whatever suffering you endure, heal your sins and help you grow in holiness.”
I swooped on the word suffering and clasped it to my chest. There was purpose in my pain now, as I had wanted all along. My mangled mouth was sanctified.
“Amen,” I stuttered. “Amen.”
Love and light were flooding into me. I was a sun, a flame, a meteor. The humble room was a glowing golden palace, Ray’s packing-case a throne. Even the stains on the carpet had turned into spinning stars. I hardly noticed when Ray took his hand away. He had put the sheepskin back around my shoulders. It felt warm like the breath of God.
We sat staring at each other. Whatever was said now could only be an anti-climax, so we left the silence stretching up to heaven. I dived in it and swam. Ray, I think, was praying. I could feel myself lapped in his soft white prayer, like sheepskin.
At last he got up and fumbled with the tumblers. “Look, I don’t want to rush you, Thea, but …”
“It�
��s all right, Ray, I know I’ve got to go.” I was radiant now, and strong.
“Would you like a snack before you leave? There’s not much here, but I could probably unearth a tin of soup or something.”
I knew he was trying to bridge that awkward, nervous gap between earth and heaven. I shook my head. I didn’t need it bridged. If I still had a stomach, then grace was plugging all the gaps in it. There wasn’t room for soup.
“Well, at least let me see you safely back to your bed.”
“No,” I whispered. I wanted to be alone. Or rather not alone. As Ray closed the door, I glimpsed the floor of heaven glinting through the clouds. I was walking out into a night so full of angels, the dense black sky was streaked and creamy with them. I was absolved, forgiven, one with the whole eternal, living church. I had made my First Confession, so now I was a true, authentic Catholic, joined to the eight hundred million others in the world. Every Catholic church from Walsingham to Warsaw was my church now, every priest my priest. God himself had been sitting in the room with me, sharing Ray’s packing-case. I could still feel His fingers burning on my breasts, His grace leaking out between my legs. I lay down on the grass and tried to keep it there; stared up at the sky. Joy and rain were falling in my eyes. I was God-sized now. All the swanking stars were only soft blossoms tangling in my hair; the soaring cedars sprigs in my buttonhole. I could feel God ravishing me, his strong limbs pressing hot against my nightdress. My forty-eighth man and still no sin in it. No sin anywhere. Even Josie Rutherford was over. Ray had wiped her out and cancelled her. She hadn’t even left a stain. No stains. My soul was white and shimmering like the white beard on a wave. I was a wave. Breaking and pounding on the shore of heaven.
The grass was freezing, but I hardly felt it. How could I be cold with God’s breath against my neck? I wasn’t lonely. I was joined now with the whole singing chain of earth and heaven, with all three hundred girls at school, with all three million visitors to Lourdes. Soon I would be one of them. And at Lourdes I would creep even closer into God. I would swallow Him, store Him in my stomach, feel Him flooding through my bloodstream. This was only Confession; Communion would be as wonderful again as a constellation to a single star.
I closed my eyes. I had still to say my penance. Ray had asked me to say an Our Father. Just one Our Father for a lifetime of sin, a backlog of screwing. God wasn’t insisting on His pound of flesh. I lay straighter on the grass, clasped my hands together, closed my legs. The rain had turned my nightie into a penitential garment, damp and dark and clinging, but I was so white and light and radiant, it felt like a bridal gown.
“Our Father,” I began. Then stopped. The words were so beautiful, I kept repeating them over and over again. Our Father, father, father, father, father. I could feel His rough beard prickling against my breasts, His strong arms swinging me round and round the sky; I could smell the lure of His tobacco lingering on all the trees, their brown bark stained with it. I didn’t want lovers any more, only fathers. Forty-seven fathers, three thousand and forty-seven.
“Our Father,” I whispered. My father. I wasn’t going to share Him. “My father who art in heaven.” (I could never be an Anglican because they used to say “which art” and so turned fathers into things). “Hallowed be thy name.” It was already hallowed. Father — no name more sacred or more special. And I was hallowed on account of it. I was made of starlight now, of lilies, snow, ambrosia — no longer a dingy thing of dust and slime.
“Give us this day our daily bread,” I continued. I think I’d missed out something in between, but God wouldn’t mind. He wasn’t a fusspot like Adrian, ruler-rapping your knuckles, pedantic finger pointing to the text.
Daily bread. Soft white food which couldn’t hurt my gums. No aubergines, no purples, no blancmange. God providing goodies like titbits on a birdtable, sons and daughters feeding from His hand. No need to struggle to pay the grocery bills, or fake a face to convince the Burton Bureau. Just sit at home and God would pop the loaf in through the open window. Bread and jam. Bread and peanut butter …
“Forgive us our trespasses …” Another strange word that, like Pharisees and prodigal and palsy. I’d first seen it written up at school. The path beyond the lake said, “Private, no trespassing”, so when we chanted, “Forgive us our trespasses”, I’d always thought we were asking God to forgive us our secret walks beyond the water, through the thicket, over the stepping stones. But it was other thickets He’d forgiven. I was virgin now, like Ray; pink and white instead of stained and sallow. I could almost revert to my maiden name. Maiden meant celibate and unspotted. No man had ever had me, except my father. God had wiped out Elliott and Morton, rooting and rutting, marriage and divorce. He’d even forgiven murder. Josie Rutherford no longer glowered at me from the Other Side. I could feel her like a flower now, dead perhaps, but only because it was winter. She must have been flower-like if my father loved her. But flowers never lasted long. (That’s why Adrian bought pot plants. Josie wasn’t a primula. Only a brief, frail, fading, insubstantial weed.)
I returned to the Our Father. “As we forgive them,” I prayed, “Who trespass against us.” That meant Leo and there was nothing to forgive. My mouth was holy now — part of my penance, even. I wasn’t hideous. Ray had told me I was beautiful.
There was also Janet to forgive. I had washed away the hate for her, but what about the envy? That was less important, now she hadn’t got her baby. Janet with an empty womb and a sore, stitched cunt and her perm growing out, was easy to forgive. True, she still had Adrian, but I had Ray and God.
“And lead us not into temptation …”
No more pricks and park-keepers, ravening sharks, jars of boiling oil. God holding me by the hand now, guiding me from the cliff’s edge, the black hole, the murderer’s cell.
“But deliver us from evil.” The clenched fist, the shattered vase, the bleeding bortsch, the choking cul-de-sac.
“Amen,” I shouted. “Amen.”
I could hear the sky roaring out “amen” with me, the whole earth humming it as it spun and dazzled around the sun. I sprang to my feet. I was still so tall, my hair kept catching in the stars; so strong, I could have picked up the whole hospital and pinned it on my lapel like a brooch. I knew I could leave it now. Or take it with me. I had my own white walls inside me, as Ray had said. Just one more night, then Leo would come with my suitcase, and in it I would cram all the grace and strength and healing which Ray had promised me, and which the nuns stored in their light white rustling souls.
Softly, I opened the little side door of the hospital and padded along the passage and up the stairs. No one had missed me. I slipped into bed and stretched out my arms to God the Father. My own fond, returned, and doting Heavenly father who would stay with me now for ever and ever amen.
“Put out your pipe,” I whispered. “And kiss my breasts.”
Chapter Fourteen
It was still raining in the morning and God had returned to heaven with all His angels. The earth looked drab and damp without them and I had caught a cold. It hurt to blow my nose, so I dabbed and sniffed instead. It wasn’t slops for breakfast, but hard toast and burnt bacon. I took that as a Sign — my time for being cosseted was over. Today was Departure Day.
A nun stripped my bed and left it stripped. The mattress was covered with a cold white mackintosh cover, like a baby’s cot. I kept wondering who would be lolling on it tomorrow and whether Ray would visit them and hold their hands. Leo hadn’t come. I had washed and dressed (I must have lost weight because my jeans drooped) and collected all my things together and said goodbye to Sister Ursula who kissed me, and Sister Aidan who told me it was a beautiful day outside. When I pointed out that it was pouring, she said it was God’s own rain and good for the crops. There aren’t any crops in January, but I didn’t press the point. She was simple, like Ray — which meant holy. I wished Leo was more simple, the sort of simple person who came when he said he would and left notes and said sorry.
I sat and w
aited. I refused the mid-morning Ovaltine and biscuits in case they charged me for another day. It was getting close to lunchtime and I was starving. God had fed me last night with manna and ambrosia, full to overflowing, but He’d crept away at dawn and left no one on the Day Shift.
I stole down the passage to the bathroom with the mirror in it. Perhaps Leo had changed his mind about collecting me. He’d seen me yesterday, asleep, and I didn’t look too fancy. Leo lived with objets d’ art, not rejects. I didn’t dare confront the mirror head-on, but darted furtive little glances in it, sideways. I think I kept hoping that somehow my teeth would have been returned to me and my old face stuck back on. It wasn’t. All that had changed was the colour of the bruising which was now yellowish-purple instead of purplish-yellow. There was a brown scaly residue on the outside of my lips and a sort of pussy gunge inside them. My nose was running again. I sniffed and shook my hair around my face, to try and hide the worst bits.
As I walked back to the room, I forced a smile in case Leo had arrived. My legs were wobbly with the sheer fear and lust and longing of seeing him again. I think I was suffering Leo withdrawal symptoms. Ray and God and the Sisters had filled his place to some extent, but there was some dark, strong, violent part of him which no one else could offer.
He wasn’t there, but someone else was — a small greasy man in a black leather jacket, displaying a mass of chest hair with two silver medals entangled in it. Another priest, I guessed. Their disguises were getting better all the time. This one was even armed with one of Leo’s suitcases.
“Mrs Thea Morton?” he inquired. His accent was Suffolk crossed with Bethnal Green. But he couldn’t be a pop priest — not if I was Mrs.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s me.” Actually, I didn’t feel like anyone. Everything was crumbling. My soft white bed had turned into glaring mackintosh, and Leo into a Cockney spiv with bracelets.
“I suppose you’re going to tell me you’re a Dominican?” I added.
“No. Fleetway Taxi Service. Instructions to pick up a Mrs Morton and take her to W. ll.” He tossed the suitcase on to the mattress and lit a cigarette. “OK?” (You weren’t allowed to smoke.)
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