by Euan McAllen
Each remembered the fury of the sex, the fear of discovery, the futility of trying to freeze the moment as something everlasting. God had not been on their side. But it had been fun. He remembered her in bed – her dormitory bed – attacking him with her emotions, her words, and not least of all, her sex. And she had won every battle – not that he had ever put up much of a fight. She remembered the great sex: nothing as good before, nothing since; and sometimes it drove her crazy. Sometimes it kept her awake at night, like a sickness.
Needing an injection of cold reality, Miuccia gave her report, wishing to get business out of the way: she wanted pleasure, and she wanted it now. She wanted his body back. Nothing else would do.
‘I checked thoroughly. He never left the room. He never left the hospital. No one would dare lie to me.’
Adolphinus digested that piece of news with bemusement, and then something clicked. Twins?
‘Have the years been good for you?’ he asked.
‘Good? The same, I would say.’
‘Same for both of us then.’
‘Time for a change perhaps.’
That sounded like an offer, and he felt sure he knew what it was. She struck again.
‘You lonely?’
‘Me, lonely?’
He could not answer the question – but Miuccia did not need him to. The silence was enough.
‘Remember you said you would never leave me, always be by my side.’
‘My promotion, it changed everything.’
‘And I helped you in that.’
‘No, you didn’t. You just made things worse.’
The talk was proving to be anything but fun, so she just wanted to drink now, get drunk now, and she wanted him to get drunk. But Adolphinus refused to play that game, this night, so she cut her losses and left, but not without winning a second chance to play the game. He was willing – perhaps wishing – to see her again. She left in a buoyant mood, escorted out by a monk. They did not get very far: the monk was stopped with a firm tap on the shoulder by one of her brother’s policemen. Her baby brother wanted to speak to her, now, right now.
Like a criminal, she was hustled into her brother’s room – for which the officer received a severe rebuke from his boss. Ingel did not like others treating his sister badly. That was his prerogative. Ingel was very angry that much was obvious. Normally, when her little brother got angry, it made Miuccia laugh, but this level of intensity unnerved her. The angry brother said nothing but simply stared at his sister. So she stared back, also angry – angry at his anger. There was no room for compromise in the air. Craccus watched them both, flitting from one face to the other, looking for signs of movement, or weakness. Finally, Ingel spoke, his words landing like shrapnel.
‘Why the visit? And don’t play games with me.’
‘You never were any good at games. Always afraid of losing.’
‘I said, why the visit!’ Ingel sounded furious.
‘Medicinal. He needed a boost. So I gave him something to improve the mind, perk him up.’
‘And what did you talk about?’
Miuccia fought back: he was family, which made her his equal. He could hurt her, yes, but seriously harm her? No.
‘Mind your own business.’
‘I said what did you talk about!’
‘Nothing! Nothing, except he was feeling low, exhausted. Lost his job. He took it hard.’
‘Lost his job? He’s been sacked?’
‘No, the promotion.’
‘Oh, that. Yes, he told me. Tell me; he visited the hospital earlier?’
‘Yes, to see that Timothy.’
‘And what did they talk about?’
‘I don’t know. Honest, I really don’t know. He spent time with him alone. It wasn’t very long. Then he left in a blinding hurry, with a splitting headache. I offered to bring him something. He said to keep it secret.’
Ingel was not interested in her story. He had moved on.
‘Turn him against me, and I’ll never forgive you.’
‘I don’t know what you mean. I was just doing my duty.’
‘Duty?’ Ingel nailed his sister to the floor. ‘Let me be clear about this.’
‘Clear?’
‘You do not see the Chief Monk again, not without my permission.’
‘Your permission? I don’t need your permission. If he wants to see me, he wants to see me, and I’ll see him. Nothing you can do about it.’
‘I am the Senior Religious Observance Officer of this monastery. I am responsible for its security and the security of its Chief Monk. You will respect that. Remember you are just a nurse.’
‘You think I am a danger to the Chief Monk?’
‘Yes.’
That was too much – or at least too soon – and Miuccia stormed out. She was more than just a nurse. She realised they were now at war; not just on bad terms, not just a family feud, but at war, over Adolphinus.
She cannot come between me and Adolphinus, Ingel told himself. He would not allow it.
‘Craccus you are my witness!’
Craccus did not hear him.
***
The next day was a special day, a day of national celebration. It was Builder Completion Day and the day on which Tibi had promised himself to visit his father. He crept through the Trade ward; keeping his distance from the sick people; smiling at the nurses, until he saw his father; still in the same bed, in the same corner of the room; still sick. He tried to rehearse something upbeat to say. But what could he say? Hello, was all he could think of.
Tibi crept up on his father: he was asleep, or too tired, or too bored to open his eyes and take in the same view. Tibi sat down by the bed and looked at his father. His proud, protective, combatant father was reduced to this: struck down by infection; dignity devalued; reliant upon his son to train as a monk, and keep him in hospital on the cheap; a cheap life, reliant upon men of god and medicine to keep him alive. Tibi had lost his mother to sickness. He did not want to lose his father. But what could he say to God that he hadn’t said already, again and again? What could he say? He could only cry – when no one was looking – and pray when all were deep in prayer. God had grabbed them both by the balls and was squeezing both of them dry. Tibi had always relied upon his father to look after him. Now his father was relying upon him. So this was God’s plan? Life sucked. He took the plunge and nudged his father.
‘It’s me again,’ he whispered.
Too few words, he thought. Must do better next time. (Which was what the monks often told him in class.)
His father turned towards him and pulled a smile: it was his son, his only son; his only child; his only link back to his wife. Eyes met in a salutary, calm embrace; declaring ‘I am old. You are young. I am dying in my dreams. You are living your dream. I fear for no future. You fear for the future. I once took care of you. Now you take care of me. I taught you to walk. Now I cannot walk. I am supposed to act the father. You are supposed to act the son. Is it all an act?’ Tibi was the first to lower his eyes, unable to take the pain.
Tibi felt sick seeing his father sick and fighting for his life. But what could he say? He had already said ‘get better soon’ a hundred times. Now the phrase was worn out, hollowed out. But what else to say? ‘Don’t die on me’? His father spoke and put him out of his misery – only to land him in another.
‘Doctor says I have to have an operation. Extra money.’
‘I’ll find the money. Don’t worry about that.’
Tibi did not believe himself, but what else to say?
‘The money is not a problem, son?’
‘No problem, father.’
‘I don’t want to be a burden. I’ve never been a burden to anyone, not even your mother; God bless her.’
‘
You’re not a burden, you’re my father. And yes, God bless her.’
‘Your life, is it good? Is it good at the monastery?’
‘Good father. Good.’
Tibi lied that life there was good, that he had found his vocation in life. It was a lie, but what else could he say? Then he remembered Timothy.
‘Timothy is back. You remember my friend, Timothy? He was a novice?’
His father nodded and squeezed his bedsheet even tighter as he absorbed the fresh information.
‘Timothy, yes. I remember him. Expelled wasn’t he?’
‘That’s him.’
‘Back? Back from where?’
‘Travelling. Adventure.’
‘He missed his hometown.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Give him my regards.’
‘I will.’
‘He didn’t get into any trouble, did he? Always getting into trouble that one.’
‘I don’t think so.’
Lies, but what else could he say? Nothing. Tibi could not think of anything else to say. His father could not think of anything else to say. Father and son were carrying a heavy load of emotion but neither had the words to express much – if any – of it; so the load continued to bear down on both of them, adding to the sickness.
Tibi left his father where he was, as he was, as he had to be, and promised to return soon – the same as he had said last time, but what else to say? He walked back through the ward with one thought dominating, screaming for attention: money, money, money, and how the hell to get it. Only money could make his father better; not more prayers; not God.
Tibi went to find his friend, needing to get drunk with a friend, before he had to watch the monks getting drunk whilst serving them. He could not bear the thought of remaining sober during their feast. But he found Timothy gone: gone for good, Fiodor said; back into The Maze, for good. ‘For good’. The words echoed around inside Tibi’s head as he made his way back to the monastery, and a life he had grudgingly made his own.
***
Today was a day for eating and drinking to excess in celebration of the completion of The Maze. And this year, the feast at the monastery was held in special honour of its special guest, His Most Esteemed Excellency, Chief, Chief Monk Bushcatti. The great man sat at one end of the top table in the Meeting & Eating Room while his Chief Monk sat at the other end, counting the cost and consuming looks.
A stuffed pig’s head and a roast swan took pride of place at the centre of the table. The pig had been pickled and spiced, stuffed and boiled, then baked. The swan, feathers plucked, innards scraped out, had received a simple honey glaze and roasting. The best music was played by those monks blessed with such talent. The novices were made to wait upon the tables.
At first, conscious of their special guest, the senior monks sitting at the top table consumed carefully; terrified they might drop their food or spill their drink; or accidentally dribble, or blurt, or miss anything important the great man might have to say to them. But as the drink flowed, such concerns were abandoned. Their ultimate chief knew how to have a good time – unlike Chief Adolphinus today.
Bushcatti drank himself silly. In the kitchen, Bushcatti’s guards drank themselves silly. Personal assistant Paminio tried to make the best of it, and ate in moderation, telling all those who asked that he was having a great time. Adolphinus, slightly drunk, but greatly consumed with painful thoughts, looked silly as he watched his chief’s every movement. Monks drunk themselves silly, as novices served them, and watched, and wondered, and gossiped out of sight and out of mind. A monk’s life was a great life when God let them off the hook.
The fun of the party was temporarily suspended when one extremely large and immobile monk keeled over without warning, complaining that his entire left side had gone numb. He did not know it, but he had suffered a heart attack. He was rushed to the hospital by Ingel’s Observance Officers – they were not part of the feast – where he had to wait for ages for a bed, for the B&B man was not on duty: he was out drinking somewhere with some accountants and doctors. The doctor who attended the emergency had no clue what had struck the man down, though he had seen it before in other overweight monks. He did not know what a heart attack was. The monk died soon after, leaving the accountant on duty stuck with an awkward question: should he invoice the monastery on today of all days for such a small amount?
Celebrations were not just confined to the monastery. In town, Rigger and his mates drank themselves silly and stupid – Rigger having stormed out on his wife after yet another blazing row (and taking a whole pie and his eldest with him). A drunk, often incomprehensible, and clearly enraged Rigger dragged his drunk mates down into the depths of his gloom by refusing to give it a rest, to stop talking about his financial loss until, finally, one suggested as a means to shut him up – and as a joke – that he mug the guard and steal all his cash: it wasn’t stealing, it was recovery of what was rightly his, and more, for damages. Brilliant idea, the rest agreed, and pushed and pushed, until Rigger said, yes, great idea, I’ll do it. It was a stupid idea, but it sounded great. Rigger Junior was not so sure, but his opinion did not count. His job was to beg, not disagree with his dad – that his dad made clear by grabbing him by the hair and shaking hard – perhaps to see if his bad leg would drop off.
Back at the top table, Adolphinus needed to say something, and when Bushcatti suddenly got up and left the party, he was quick to follow him out – but careful not to catch him up. Bushcatti made his way slowly but surely up to the roof, desperate to gulp down cool, fresh air, and to look at the stars; and contemplate, if only badly. His brain was swimming. His head was spinning. His body was bursting. He began to shiver and did not hear Adolphinus creep up on him from behind and speak – much like a snake would speak if it could speak.
‘Don’t ignore me, please.’
Bushcatti turned slowly to see who was so rudely disturbing his state of melancholic meditation and semi-sleep. It was him of course. Bushcatti waved the painful man away, and turned away, not wishing to have Adolphinus spoil his view or thoughts.
‘Excellency, speak to me!’
‘I cannot,’ croaked Bushcatti in all honesty.
He felt sick, very sick. He was homesick. He wanted to be gone. He stepped away from Adolphinus and closer to the edge of the roof. He looked down below: the ground was very far away. He looked up: God was very far away. He looked down again: the ground was still there as if waiting. He felt giddy. He began to sway to the music of the feast which he now carried inside his own head. He felt someone grab his arm. Outrageous. Adolphinus! Outrageous! He tried to push Adolphinus off, but the hand would not detach. It maintained a stubborn grip. He tried to shake him off, which made him giddier.
‘God!’ he cried. ‘Spare me from this man!’
Adolphinus refused to let go. They had to talk.
‘Speak to me!’
Bushcatti was swaying dangerously. And then Adolphinus pushed when he meant to pull – either on purpose or by accident – and Bushcatti went flying over the edge. But he could not fly. He could only fall, like any other man, like a stone. As the flagstones came rushing towards him, he just had time for one last thought, for God.
‘Did I do something wrong? What did I do wrong?’
He never heard a reply – if there was one. Smack. Silence. Blood. Brains. And a whole new story.
Bushcatti fell to his death too drunk to be afraid, but not so drunk that he did not feel the pain. Luckily, the pain was fleeting. The same could not be said for Adolphinus: he felt pain, and astonishment, that his chief had suddenly disappeared. Had he jumped or had I pushed him? Adolphinus could not answer that question. He would try to answer it another time – and many times – but would never be convinced by his own answer. Like Bushcatti before him, he crept up to the edge and looked over to confirm the
nightmare: there he was, his chief, the chief of all chiefs, flat out on the ground, blood leaking from his cracked head. Dead? Dead. God, how can he be dead?
Adolphinus felt his head clear in an instant: time to act. He fled the scene, almost falling over himself as he negotiated small steps and narrow stairs, and bumped into the walls and doors he had known all his adult life. The monastery was giving him a kicking. On the verge of a breakdown, he found sanctuary in his private chambers. God had delivered a curse. But God had also delivered him a blessing, an opportunity. In time he would see it. But for now, Adolphinus sat cradling his head in his hands, trying to pretend that nothing had happened; crying, and trying not to be sick. Alone, he suddenly fell to pieces. He went down on his knees and begged God for forgiveness, for understanding. If he had done this bad thing, then please, remember all the good he had done. All the good, God! Remember all the good!
Ingel was the third person to learn of the tragedy: the officer who reported it to him being the second. The officer had been on the watch for dangerously drunk monks and unacceptable behaviour, not dead chiefs. The dead body of the chief of all chiefs sent him into a blind, wild panic. Ingel had to slap him around the face a few times to bring him to his senses and get the facts. On hearing the one simple fact, Ingel, stunned, had to sit down. Then experience clicked in, and he jumped up, ordering his man to put a guard around the body, and cover it, and answer no questions. He swept his man aside: he had to be the first to tell Adolphinus.
Adolphinus refused to see, but that didn’t stop Ingel: he burst in to report the fatal accident. But even as he began speaking, he knew Adolphinus already knew, and he wanted to know how he knew. Adolphinus told him to deal with the body, quickly; get it out of sight, quickly; prepare it for mourning – a month of mourning, he declared – whilst constantly repeating and juggling the phrases ‘he just fell’, ‘I could not catch him’. Ingel made no comment other than to promise total loyalty – apparently free of charge and suspicion. If he was suspicious of the circumstances, he hid it well. After that, Adolphinus refused to see anybody, he could not handle the world right now. He could not even handle himself. He had a secret to try to come to terms with, and it would torture him. Deputy Dolgar had much the same secret to deal with: he had been there; he had seen what he thought had happened, that the Chief Monk had pushed his chief off the roof. The secret for him was not torture but an opportunity to be treasured, explored, and encashed.