The Sacrificial Man

by Ruth Dugdall

  “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.”

  I wanted to promise but the words wouldn’t come.

  We left the church, passing a stall laden with groceries and an honesty box at the front. What kind of church has its own jams and sauces? How about a pack of ‘St Peter & St Paul’ cookies?

  “This place is such a tourist trap.” Smith wasn’t listening; “Have you got 50p?” I dug in my handbag, found a pound coin. It fell in the box with a jingle, landing on a mountain of other coins, and Smith chose a postcard from the rack. It was a picture of the crucifixion scene, which we had just studied for so long. Tight-lipped, he slid it into the inside pocket of his coat.

  We left the church and I took his hand. He turned to me as if just remembering who I was, looking like he had just awoken from a dream. His face was serene and accepting.

  Later that night, just two hours after I had watched him board a train back to London, I logged on to my computer. He was already there, waiting for me. An instant message flashed on the screen:

  Smith: Robin? Are you there?

  Robin: Yes.

  Smith: Have you thought about my request?

  Robin: I’m trying to understand.

  Smith: Is it really such a shocking idea? I mean, we’re already pushing the limits of what others call acceptable.

  Robin: But suicide is noble. In other cultures, in other times – look at Japan, think of Romeo and Juliet. Cannibalism isn’t.

  Smith: You’re wrong, Robin. You’re thinking with your Imperialist head, your Western prejudices. Kuru, the eating of the dead, is an ancient funeral rite, a mark of respect. It’s a way to keep the dead with us. Theophagy can only be practiced by the faithful. By the devout.

  Robin: The only people I can think of who eat humans are serial killers: Neilson, that Japanese psychopath, Hannibal Lecter…

  Smith: Those people were mentally ill, but the instinct is primitive, already in us. Some animals eat their dead young. It’s a kind of recycling but on a spiritual level. It’s beautiful.

  Robin: Like the Eucharist? The bread and the wine?

  Smith: Exactly. It’s not ugly, it’s a sign of devotion. Taking it in, absorbing. That’s what I want. To be carried inside you. To live in your body. To feel there was a purpose.

  Robin: Help me.

  Smith: How?

  Robin: Make it normal. Make me understand.

  Smith: You’ve taught me so much about how you see the world, about negative capability. Experience without analysis. But now it’s my turn to teach you. I’ll tell you a story. Of another land. Of people far, far away who lived a different life.

  He told me the story, of the cannibals in Papua New Guinea. But it was still hard for me to see. My understanding was only partial. I didn’t want to eat him. But he said I must trust him. I must have faith:

  Smith: Do you believe, Robin? Have you enough faith?

  Robin: It’s difficult, but I’m trying.

  Smith: I’m almost ready. It’s nearly time. I can feel it…

  Robin: I know. We’ve come so far. Your final journey. A beautiful death. It’s what I’ve always dreamed of, and now I’ve found you I know it’s possible. I promise to make your final moments perfect.

  Smith: But there is something I want. Will you give me what I ask for?

  Robin: Anything.

  Smith: My dying request?

  Robin: Tell me. Make it clear – I want to be sure I understand.

  Smith: Will you taste me? My flesh. My blood. I want you to take me in, take me with you. Like Jesus. Do you see? You must know that I can only live on if you agree.

  Robin: I want to make you happy. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, to make someone’s final moment the best. But I hadn’t expected this. It was naïve of me, but I hadn’t imagined any blood.

  Smith: ‘He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me.’ Robin, will you do it? Will you eat me?

  “I didn’t want to do it.”

  Cate Austin looks up from her notepad. “You didn’t want to help him to die?”

  “Of course I did. That was part of the plan. To cease on the perfect note… as long as it was his choice.” I must make her see this: “I’m not a murderer.”

  “What is it you didn’t want to do, Alice?”

  I hesitate. Is it the right time for this? It must come, I know, but is she ready to hear me; is there enough trust? I breathe slowly, “Holy Communion. The cutting… the eating.”

  She watches, and I see the colour rise to her cheeks. I’m surprised when she doesn’t pull her punch. “So why did you agree to do it?”

  There are movements in the corridors outside. I look at the clock on the wall. It’s ten to two. In a few moments the staff will be collecting the patients for their afternoon activities.

  “Alice, why did you do it? What motivated you – what possessed you? Why on earth did you agree?”

 
Twenty-one

  1981

  In the unnatural heat of the swimming pool, the children’s voices echoed and screeched off the walls like tropical birds calling to each other over the warm water. They flew around, chastised by mothers and lifeguards who feared they’d slip, but the young feet hurried on, splashing on wet tiles, chattering to each other and climbing to the high bough of the fluorescent slide. Their costumes were exotic too, flashes of indigo and violet as they bombed down the slide, landing in a cascade of splash and bubbles as anxious adults watched from the edge, waiting for the resurfacing, the yells of triumph. In the smaller pool, away from the noise and shove, a younger fledgling paddled, equally bright in a turquoise swimsuit. There was a pink flamingo depicted on the front, and she stood like one, unsteady on straight legs, looking around the water with uncertainty. Next to her swam a young woman with long hair like a silver sword down her spine. She too was exotic. At first a bystander would see two girls, think they were sisters, but on closer inspection would realise it was a mother and daughter who were enjoying the heat of the baby pool.

  They were predictions of each other; what one looked like as a child, what the other would look like in seventeen years. The mother was just a teenager, hair in a wet ponytail slapping her back as she bobbed around her nervous daughter. But the relationship was made clear by the child’s frequent cries of, “Mummy! Watch me!” as she kicked her feet and flapped her orange armbands as if preparing for flight.

  The mother dived into the shallow water. For agonising seconds the girl panicked, looking about but not daring to move, desperate to see the blonde head of her lost parent break the surface. She was like an abandoned chick in a nest, and totally helpless.

  A waterfall of giggles celebrated the girl’s joy at being found, her mother swimming under her, between her legs. The girl was so small that as the mother glided under, she was lifted onto her back, riding a sea horse through shallow shoals. She held on tight as her mother came up for air.

  Later, maybe the same day but maybe not, the girl with the pink flamingo swimsuit was at home, lining up her dolls and animals, instructing them on tea party manners. “Say please, Sindy,” Alice told her favourite doll, “and I’ll do your hair and make you pretty.” The doll had matted brown hair, and the girl pulled a plastic comb through the nylon mop.

  Alice’s home was just one room, and in that room was her whole world. She didn’t have a bed, but a special chair folded out each night, and her Mummy threw a sheet over the orange itchy fabric, making it cosy with a pillow and blanket. Sometimes she was too tired to sort out the chair and the girl was glad, because then she could curl up behind her in the bed, warm and safe as she leant her head against her Mummy’s back.

  It was home, that room.

  There was the big bed and the chair, a sink and a small TV with an aerial that Mummy had to wiggle to get a good picture. Their clothes were in a small dresser, on top of which they kept their shampoo and soap, other things they took with them to the shared bathroom down the hall. Alice wasn’t allowed to go there alone, not even to do a wee, because Mummy said you never knew who was about. The little cooker in the corner sometimes flamed, so she wasn’t allowed to go near that either.

  “Really, Matilde. There’s not enough room to swing a cat.” The smart lady tutted and stared, and Alice thought what she said was funny, imagining a fat ginger tom on a wooden swing going higher and higher and reaching the ceiling. No, there wasn’t enough room. The cat would get hurt. Even though the smart lady said this funny thing she didn’t smile and Mummy looked sad, so Alice wanted the smart lady to go away but she just stayed, looking around, in her furry coat and shiny black shoes.

  “Come here, Alice,” she ordered, and Alice obediently stood up, holding her doll in front of her. The lady stared at Alice for a long time, pulling her forward, a tight hand on her top arm until she thought she would wet herself with fear. The lady said to Mummy, “Well, at least she doesn’t look like him.”

  She let go of Alice who scurried back to the corner with her toys.

  Alice lifted her doll on to her lap and whispered sternly, “Just be quiet, Sindy, and give me some peace,” trying not to look at the smart lady who was making Mummy cry. “You’re a naughty doll and I’m going to smack your bottom,” Alice said, seeing in the dressing table mirror that the smart lady was now sitting on the edge of the bed, next to Mummy, still with her coat on. It looked funny because the smart lady and Mummy had the same sort of mouth, both of them looked sad, and then the smart lady opened her shiny bag and lifted out a red purse, which opened with a click. She handed Mummy a bit of that coloured paper people keep in purses, and at first Mummy said no, but then she took it and that made her cry harder and the old lady said it doesn’t have to be this way, and that she would have a better chance. Then she asked what kind of a life is this for either of you and then Mummy said, shush, she’s listening.

  Alice combed Sindy’s hair and pretended to be deaf.

  Mr Wilding was always knocking at the door, and sometimes Mummy let him in, usually when he had something for them, not just fish and chips or wine. He brought toys, still in plastic and boxes. Dolls and sketching books. Alice loved the presents, but Mummy always looked sorry he’d brought them, even though he said they were a gift.

  That evening, after they got back from the park, Mr Wilding came knocking. Her mother’s tongue was still sore from the accident on the swing and she was grumpy. He tried to make her smile. He gave Alice a Barbie doll, and said he’d take Mummy out. He knew a special place. He said it would be fun. He said she should wear her dress, the pretty one with flowers on it. He said to remember some lipstick.

  Mummy looked lovely, like Cinderella after the fairy godmother’s done her magic, and the lipstick was nice and bright, so why didn’t she look happy? She promised Alice she’d be home soon.

  When Mr Wilding saw Mummy he touched her bottom and said she was a good girl. Alice had never heard her being called that before. She didn’t know that grown-ups could be good girls too. Alice stayed in the room, with the TV on for company and her new Barbie. She fell asleep on the big bed, but she woke to the sound of shouting in the hallway.

  Mr Wilding didn’t think Mummy was a good girl anymore, he called her other things. Nasty things. Alice held Barbie and lay as still as she could, pretending to be asleep. Mummy smelled funny when she climbed into bed, like smoke but also like the grass when its just been cut. She cuddled Alice too tight and sang to her, softly. A lullaby that she had sung to Alice all her life:

  ‘Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Mummy’s going to buy you a mockingbird…’

  Alice and Mummy were in the red telephone box down the street and outside it was raining hard. Alice was looking out of the smeared glass, watching the rain make puddles on the pavement, wishing she could go and splash in them, but the door was too heavy for her to open on her own. They’d left without putting on wellies, or even coats. Mummy had just picked up the envelope from the mat downstairs and once she’d opened it she grabbed Alice’s hand and they had run to the telephone box. Mummy hadn’t even noticed the rain.

  Mummy was shouting into the black receiver, pushing silver coins into the box. Alice heard the words, but didn’t understand them all. She knew the argument was about adult things and she heard the word ‘money’ and ‘no, I can’t go to court again’, so she thought about Kings and Queens and maybe Mummy needed money to go to the Ball.

  After the phone call they walked back to the bedsit in the rain and Mummy didn’t even say to hurry up. It was as if she didn’t notice that Alice was soaked to the skin.

  Back at the bedsit Mummy stood in front of Mr Wilding’s door. Alice shuffled her feet and finally Mummy knocked on the door. Usually, he came to them.

  Alice stood behind Mummy, but she could see into his room. The boxes had gone, but there were piles of other things, computers and televisions. Mr Wilding was laid on the bed and on the table in front of him something was spilt, som
ething white. Maybe washing powder. Maybe icing sugar! Alice squeezed in behind her mother and went to the table, dipping a finger in the sugar.

  The slap was hard on her wrist. “Leave that, Alice!” Mummy pushed her away, but then she bent down and cleared up the powder, only not with her hands. She kept her back to Alice, but when she turned round the sugar was gone, and she was smiling and the tip of her nose was white. Mr Wilding was smiling too. It must be a good day after all.