With and Without, Within and Without

by Euan McAllen

  Rigger asked his daughter where she was meeting the soldier, wishing to be reassured that it was safe – or so he said. At the monastery gardens, she said with a superior voice. He had access. He was going to show her around, see how the others lived.

  ‘What, not happy with how this half lives?’ shouted her mother across the room, as her daughter was already halfway down the street.

  Rigger looked strangely thoughtful for a moment, then waved her on.

  ‘Do your worse,’ he said, as a kind of a joke.

  Both wife and daughter looked at him in alarm, horrified.

  ‘What? Stop looking at me like that! It was just a bloody joke!’

  ‘You’re the joke,’ said the wife to her husband. And that statement was no joke.

  The daughter looked at both of them and gave up, shaking her head to make a point. As she stormed out of the house, pretending to have been insulted, the daughter got hit on the back of the head by a bread roll. It had been thrown by her mother. The youngest ran after it and took possession. He began to scoff it, not caring if it had dirt on it. He lived his life in the dirt (and soot, when sent up a chimney).

  Barely a minute after his daughter was gone, Rigger announced out of the blue that he was going out for a drink with his mates; leaving his wife to complain that he never took her out for a drink; to which he replied that’s because you always complain. Before she could rearm herself with another bread roll he left promptly. The youngest asked if he could have some butter on his roll, and perhaps a piece of cheese, or ham, to go inside it; or both. ‘No,’ said his mother. ‘Shut up.’ When he was sure she wasn’t looking, he stuck up a single finger, just like dad did – but only when he was absolutely sure.

  At the tavern, two guards lost it, with each other, and swords were drawn to back up words and egos in an angry exchange. Each demanded satisfaction. Each told the other to go crawl back under his rock. Each wanted to look the better in front of their audience of mates and girls. Their audience roared and cheered, and urged then on. It had been ages since any of the guards had seen a good fight with real weapons. And for most of the girls, it was their first time. It made some of them shake with anticipation. One girl wet herself.

  The two guards fell out into the street to escape the protests as they clashed swords, overturned chairs, and spilt drinks. The fight was stopped by other guards when one ended up with a serious cut to the arm. Bleeding badly, and complaining that he had not lost, he wrapped it up as best he could and stormed off angrily towards the hospital. Some cheered him on until he was out of sight, whereupon they dropped him from their thoughts and returned to drinking and snogging, feeling and fondling.

  The junior doctor on night duty in A&E directed him to a nurse: he could not refuse a drunken soldier wielding a sword. Payment for treatment was not important right now, if ever. The nurse treated the soldier well, giving him all her attention. He was enthralled. He felt like a really important person. He watched her every move, lapping it all up like a puppy. Just as he loved to see himself in a uniform, he loved to see a woman in a uniform.

  The place looked empty, just him and his nurse. A mindset quickly set in: she was his to do with as he liked. For now, he was happy just to watch her do her work and tend to his wound. For him, her every twist and turn was a source of amusement. This one is worth falling in love with, he told himself. The others were just slags, but this one here, this nurse, she is pure gold. She is hot.

  A hooded Rigger trailed his daughter through town, keeping a fixed distance; fully focused on his task ahead. He followed her like a manic man on a manic mission; ducking and diving; suddenly jumping to the left or to the right; stopping to catch his breath, but not to think about what he was doing. The less he thought about it, the better. It was a simple matter of money, and the fact that that other man had some, lots; and some of it – no all of it – was his. It was his by right. He had the right to take it back. The man had better not have spent it.

  Rigger watched his daughter run up to Deputy Dolgar and fall into his arms. Good girl, he thought. You know how to play a man, my sweetheart. Get some money off him. Ask him for a bit of cash to help you along, buy a new dress. Dolgar held her tight and kissed her as she kissed him, and told her he loved her. He led her up the garden path as he led her up the path towards the garden gate, which led into the monastery grounds. Rigger saw the moment coming when he would have to act. He broke out in a cold sweat, and his bad tooth felt like it was trying to stab him to death. He was not at his best, but more money would make him better, or so he convinced himself.

  As the garden gate swung open, Rigger rushed forward out of the shadows, revealing his wife’s best kitchen knife. Without success – at least from his daughter’s point of view – he tried to disguise his voice.

  ‘You there, hand over your purse!’

  Dolgar turned round and looked unimpressed, then extremely annoyed.

  ‘Who me?’

  ‘Yes, of course, you! Who else do I mean?’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘What?’ Rigger looked at his daughter, now confused. The knife wavered, but he held firm. ‘Hand it over.’

  The knife looked big and sharp. The robber looked serious. Dolgar, worse for wear for drink, decided to play it safe. Grudgingly he held out his purse, for it was mainly filled with just pennies. Rigger snatched it up and felt its weight. It felt good. Wishing to make the point that he always won in the end, he spat in Dolgar’s face.

  ‘Arsehole. You and your lot are arseholes. Get out of my town.’

  That was too much for Dolgar.

  ‘Arsehole. Give that back, before I kill you.’

  With one swiftly executed, powerful swing of his arm and flick of his hand Dolgar disarmed the mugger. The knife fell to the ground. As he tried to wipe his face clean, he drew his sword.

  ‘Should I slit your throat or slice your big fat stomach open. Your choice.’

  ‘Please don’t kill him,’ cried the daughter. ‘He’s my dad. Just being stupid, my dad. He’s always being stupid. Mum must have made him do it. I told her I was seeing you tonight. She doesn’t want me to see you.’

  ‘Your dad. Your stupid, fucking dad. That explains it. Tell him to fuck off before I kill him.’

  ‘Dad, please, go.’

  Rigger stared at his daughter. She was always getting into trouble that one. How dare she talk to me – look at me – like that. I am your dad! Show me some respect! The tip of the sword on his throat made it clear it was time for him to leave the scene. He dropped the purse and scarpered. He did need a drink now. He knew what would happen next: his daughter would tell the wife and she would humiliate him; she would never stop talking about it. And he still didn’t have his money back. He went to get that drink, to lick his wounds, even though he didn’t have any.

  Using unnecessary force, Dolgar pulled his girl on through the gate and into the privacy of the monastery gardens. She did not resist. She felt a sense of relief for things could have been much worse. She did not know it, but her date was now in the foulest mood.

  Rigger’s daughter had never been inside the monastery gardens before. It excited her: this place was a piece of paradise; to be explored; to run around in; to hop, jump and skip around in. The gardens looked fabulous to her: so many colours; so many shapes; tall thin plants; short, fat round plants; plants in pots; plants growing up wooden frames towards the sky. And it smelt fabulous: the flowers, herbs, fruits, and vegetables were all in competition for recognition. She wanted to smell the flowers. Her excitement excited Dolgar.

  Then the pulling began again. She laughed and squealed, and allowed him to pull her in; resisting to make him pull harder, and earn his bread – a good snog. She kissed him as she allowed him to embrace her, hug her tight. He pushed her down on to the grass – that hurt. But the grass smelt good.

  ‘Ca
reful.’

  She rolled on to her back, still giggling, on fire; happy for the kissing to continue. But it wasn’t kissing her soldier was after now. He wanted something more, and he wanted it in such a way as to humiliate her and her dad. Dolgar was a proud man and didn’t take insults – or orders – lightly. Even as he bore down on her, weight overpowering, she had one last positive thought: this soldier was handsome, lean, all muscle. He began the assault with a wolf’s smile and a friendly caress of her hair; and like any good soldier, he stuck to his guns, ignoring the pain he was inflicting on someone who trusted him, along with the protests and the pleading. Total surrender was required.

  ‘No,’ she moaned and muttered many times; its impact diminishing with repetition. In the end, it was pointless saying anything for he was not listening – not even to the voice inside his head. ‘No’ counted for nothing. And a ‘yes’ would have spoilt his enjoyment: the pleasure of revenge. He was not making love he was taking revenge.

  It was all over in minutes, and when he rolled off and over to one side she was up and gone, out of there; struggling to see the way through her tears. She was left punctured, almost squeezed out of existence; her soul bruised beyond anything like she had experienced before. Her first time had been the worst time imaginable. Would there ever be a second time? Watching the pretty daughter of a small town little shit made Dolgar feel good. Watching the pretty, small-town girl run off in tears made Dolgar feel a little bad.

  Back at A&E, things got out of hand. The soldier complemented the nurse, said she was doing a really grand job. She said thank you. The soldier said he had never been treated by a lovely looking nurse before. She said thank you. He said he had never met such a good-looking girl before. She said thank you, and nothing else. He said she was stunning. She said thank you, intending to leave him be now, work done. His wound was dressed. He grabbed her hand and said she was sexy, really sexy. Now worried, she said thank you, and that she needed to go right now. She had patients to attend to. He said to stay with me. She thanked him, but declined the invitation: she was a nurse, and her patients were waiting. He said, come with me. She firmly said no thank you and tried to release herself. Now he was angry. He could not cope with rejection. He said, ‘marry me, come live with me, spend my money. Be a soldier’s wife.’ She said ‘no, no, no, absolutely not.’ What was her problem? Didn’t he turn her on? Didn’t she like men? (He smelt like a wet dog.)

  Trying hard to hold back the tears now, she asked him, politely as she could, to let her go. But he wouldn’t. He looked around: the place still looked deserted, and he had the nurse. Drunk, frustrated, due to leave town at a moment’s notice, he had his nurse – the most beautiful nurse in the world. He held her down, put his hand over her mouth, and smiled, like he meant it. He then proceeded to violate her, consume her, spit her out, and leave her wasted. So shocked was she, she barely made a sound – almost as if afraid to disturb the patients or be seen by a doctor fraternizing with a patient. Minutes later, all done, the soldier thanked his victim and left her to lick her wounds. There were other good-looking girls out there. The nurse could not face seeing the doctor, so she pretended it had not happened.

  ***

  Paminio awoke from a bad dream; hungover, mouth dry, hung up. Immediately something felt very wrong and sounded wrong. He was not alone. Someone was in bed with him. A girl? He was afraid to look, but when he finally did he almost had a heart attack. It was that boy, the one with the looks, the one with the tray of food and wine.

  The boy sat up as if startled; looked away and jumped out of bed as if hopping mad; saying sorry on the way. He was naked – but not for long. Saying sorry again, he raced into his clothes and left the room, leaving Paminio in a state of shock. He did not want to leave his bed despite the fact that this bed had now been corrupted, contaminated. He could not face the world or himself. In the end, it became too much, and he crawled out, to dress and chase after breakfast.

  After eating hardly a thing, he went for a walk; to get air; to clear his still befuddled brain; wishing it was a dream; hoping the boy would say nothing and forget it ever happened. Yet it bothered him that he could not remember a single thing. He had missed out on something which could destroy him if news got to the Chief Monk. He wandered the monastery, back and forth, looking for somewhere to hide his face, his shame; looking to kill time before it killed him; avoiding all eye contact. He prayed, hoping that the boy was good at keeping secrets. Monasteries. Why did they always end up being places where bad things happened?

  He turned a corner, to find Ingel, Chief of Police, standing in his way, as if waiting to arrest him. The look on his face sent Paminio into a panic. He knew!

  ‘Stop right there,’ said Ingel, sounding like every policeman should.

  Paminio did as instructed. You did not resist the chief of police. Ingel stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. He smiled. Friend or foe? Paminio could not tell.

  ‘You and I need to have a chat.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I think you do. You have committed a crime in my monastery. Come on. We can’t talk here.’

  ‘I just woke up, and there he was, out of the blue. I remember nothing, not a single thing. I swear to God.’

  ‘Save it. Let’s talk in my office.’

  Paminio did not want to talk, but he had no choice, and Ingel led a silent, extremely battered Paminio back to his room, where he proudly introduced him to his pet crow. Then, just when he had settled Paminio down, and calmed him, he broke him, blackmailed him, and snapped him in two like a dry twig. Ingel did not ask for much: just temporary access to Bushcatti’s official document case. He wished to see any reports Bushcatti had written about the monastery or the hospital.

  ‘And Adolphinus wants to see them?’ asked Paminio.

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  Nothing, Paminio had to admit. Returning to his own room, Paminio unlocked the case and handed it over.

  ‘No one must ever know of this.’

  ‘Don’t worry, no one will. Just as no one will hear of that.’

  Paminio looked ashen-faced as Ingel flipped it open and rummaged through its contents, stopping here and there when something caught his eye. Paminio felt sick just watching him.

  ‘Good. You’ll get it back later today, and no one will be the wiser.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘But you don’t count.’

  Stung yet again, all Paminio could do was watch helplessly as Ingel left the room with the official case. He had broken a golden rule of his job, to always protect and guard official communications and documentation. If this got out, he would never work again for the League. And all because of a fucking boy.

  ***

  Later that day, Adolphinus called a special meeting: all monks and Religious Observance Officers were told to attend, as was Paminio. He was asked to bring his case, which he now had back in his possession. The invitation sent a shiver down his spine. Earlier, Ingel had thanked him and reassured him that the episode was now forgotten. Ingel had even shaken his hand as if to say no hard feelings. So forget, Paminio kept telling himself, forget. But it was difficult to forget such a beautiful boy.

  As the monks filed into the room one by one and greeted their chief, Adolphinus looked each one in the eye, recognising old friends and old enemies, and reaffirming both. (Ingel did the same, except he had fewer friends, and more enemies.) The monks sensed something important was about to be announced. Many had not seen their chief since the fatal accident: he looked worn out, thinner in the face. It was as if God had stripped him back to bare basics. You could hear a pin drop: such was their anticipation. Paminio felt like a fish out of water. He found it hard to breathe. He hoped to God that this meeting was not about him. It would kill him.

  When Adolphinus was sure everybody worth anything was present he clapped his
hands, and all faces became alert. He had them in the palm of his hand like he always did, and now he was about to squeeze his hands together.

  ‘Thank you all for coming. This has been a difficult time for all of us. It was a shock for me. It still is. Since the tragic death of our beloved, most esteemed Chief, Chief Monk, I have kept much to myself, kept my thoughts to myself, and mourned his passing. But I can contain myself no longer. I must speak up, speak out, speak the truth, and share the truth, my secret, for we cannot live in a vacuum. We must have certainty, continuity. We must know where we stand.’

  Good, thought Ingel, arms folded. The more senior monks, nodded their heads slowly, as if in private conversation with God as if they knew what was coming.

  ‘Before his tragic, untimely death, Bushcatti revealed to me that he had chosen me as his successor, and had already put my name on his succession document, so no one could change his mind. So I could not refuse. My first reaction was to do exactly that, refuse. But he said no. I said I was not sure I was good enough. He said he was sure. This, he told me in confidence, was the reason for his visit, and said I must keep it so for he wished to make a formal announcement to all chiefs. I intend to escort his body home, and bury him; and no one must dispute his wishes so I am speaking out now.’

  Adolphinus paused for a moment; for effect, not questions. He did not want questions, just acceptance. There was clapping, the measured, and controlled kind; nothing flamboyant, nothing out of place.

  ‘Chief, Chief Monk Bushcatti was a great man. I hope to be a worthy successor and carry on his good work. He has passed for safekeeping the future prosperity and purity of the League into my hands. I must not drop it.’

  Ingel blinked slowly, for that last sound byte sounded awful.

  Adolphinus suddenly switched all his attention on to Paminio. All others followed suit. Adolphinus asked him to open his case and produce the succession document. Paminio was outnumbered. He placed his case on the floor, knelt down, and unlocked it. When he produced the document in question, Adolphinus almost whipped it out of his hand. He did not say thank you. Adolphinus scanned it quickly then held it up for the world to see. He desperately wanted the world to see it.