The Sacrificial Man Read online

  Twenty-eight

  Cate Austin is here. I prefer her seeing me in my own home. Like a cat, I can adapt, but only within limits. At St Therese’s I was a singular, exotic flower amid rubble, but here I’m dominant. It’s better this way. I know she hopes to find the crack in the glass; she needs to make a breakthrough if her report is to have substance. She understands the weight of the questions she asks, but carries on asking, picking over old scabs to see if they bleed. She wants to know if I’m so very different from her.

  “Alice, are you clear on why the case was adjourned?” I hate it when she talks to me like this, as if I’m a fool. “More time was needed to see if the drugs can keep me stable since, apparently, I wasn’t stable a few weeks ago. If I can’t cope in the community, a hospital order will have to be considered, and that takes time to assess.”

  “Well, that’s one reason. But, I needed more time too, Alice.”

  “You’re still not sure what to propose?”

  “I’m still not sure I’ve heard what I need to know.”

  She bites her lip, and I wonder what it is she expects me to say.

  “I saw your parents at the courthouse. They looked pretty frail, up in the public gallery. It must be very hard for them. How do they cope with knowing their daughter helped someone to die?”

  “I explained it to them, as much as I could,” I say, as if it was a simple thing to be explained. “I did it the day after Smith died. I’d been bailed from the police station. I hadn’t been charged yet. The police hadn’t a clue what to do with me, so I was released and asked to return in a week. I knew I had to talk to my parents before someone else did.”

  “Did you tell them the truth?”

  “The truth,” I reply carefully, “is always a matter of interpretation.”

  As I’ve already said, I didn’t want my parents to find out from gossip or the local papers about Smith’s death, and I knew it was just a matter of time before word got out. After all, nothing much happens in Suffolk, so Smith’s death was bound to cause a stir. I was worried about Mum and Dad. I didn’t want to hurt them. It’s not that I was ashamed, but I knew they wouldn’t understand. How could they? Their lives are so ordinary.

  I always visit my parents one evening a week, just for an hour. Dad is usually in the front room, watching TV or reading the daily paper, and Mum will be in the kitchen, bleaching an already immaculate surface or polishing the teak table in the tiny dining room. When I arrive we always go up to my old bedroom, and she sits by the window to smoke. Dad doesn’t approve, so she has to lean out of the window like a disobedient teenager. If she forgets and smoke seeps into the room, she wafts it like mad and sprays some of the floral air freshener she keeps under my bed. It’s a tiny bed, smaller than a single, and Dad made it with a built-in shelf underneath. He’s handy like that, as you’d expect for a woodwork teacher. He’s good with wood, but not so good with people, and when I was at school I was ashamed by how easily the kids bullied him. He should have been a carpenter by rights, working alone in a workshop, but he didn’t have the motivation. Preferred the security of a pension.

  In my parents’ house we stick to our own rooms. It was always like that even when I was living with them. For all the dining table is polished daily it’s never used except at Christmas, and when I lived there Mum would bring up breakfast and tea to my bedroom on a tray, after giving Dad an identical one. She never ate much, just leaned against the windowsill talking. I think she was happiest then. I know it was hard for her when I left, with no-one to talk to. With Dad at work all day what has she to do but clean? Not just our home, but other people’s too. She’s good at it, of course.

  So when I visited them on the day of Smith’s death, the stench of the police station still on my clothes, my mother insisted on making up my tray, mashed potatoes with a vegetarian cutlet, and a bowl of ice cream, and we sat in my room. Though the blood was no longer on my hands its memory lingered in my senses and I couldn’t eat. I watched her smoking, thinking for the millionth time that she was too skinny and I really should say something. I knew I should have gone straight home: Smith had only been dead for nine hours, and I’d spent most of that time in a cell. I needed to go home and shower, but I couldn’t bear returning to that empty house. Not yet.

  “Why don’t you move back here for a few days, love?” Smoke was in the room, but she wasn’t reaching under my bed for the air freshener. That’s how I knew that she’d heard about Smith’s death.

  “I’m okay, Mum.”

  “But are you sure you should be alone right now?”

  “I like to be alone. There’s a lot I need to do at home. Just until everything’s been cleared up… ”

  She looks hopeful, “Cleared up? A mistake…?” I found out later that Smith’s death had been reported on the evening news. I’d been named as his girlfriend, and it was said that I was helping the police with their enquiries.

  “Yes. A big mistake.” I tell her.

  I couldn’t say anymore, because the stench of blood was stuck in my throat and I had this pain around my chest like I might cry. I don’t cry in front of anyone.

  “You know, we always tried our best for you. We only wanted you to be happy. After everything you went through, when you were a little girl… ”

  “I know, Mum. Please, don’t.” I hate it when she gets upset.

  She looked so frail sitting there, trying to fight back tears. When did she get so old? Of course, she was always old. I realised that when I started primary school and she was the only mother with grey hair. Some kids would ask if she was my gran, and I would say yes. It was easier than explaining.

  My parents were lucky. I don’t think they let older couples adopt so easily now. My mother was in her late forties when they got me. That’s older than I am now, and I know I don’t have the energy to cope with a young child. But then, not everyone would want a four-year-old. It’s not like getting a baby, is it? A child that age already has a personality, it’s not like a blank sheet you can stamp your mark on. And the mark on my personality was death.

  I always knew they weren’t my real parents. The social worker told them it was better that way; no big shock when I was sixteen, no sudden realisation if I ever needed a blood transfusion and neither of them matched, nothing dramatic like that. I knew I was adopted and it was fine. It didn’t matter. I was wanted, and that’s what counts. Isn’t it?

  Sometimes I wish I was more like them, that we were closer, but then we never argue, and how many families can say that? It was clear from early on that I was heading somewhere they’d never been. ‘Always got her head in a book,’ my mother would boast, to anyone who’d listen, ‘she’ll be off for university, that one.’

  She was so proud of me, but she didn’t count on me leaving home to study and never coming back. She didn’t realise that books would become my life, an existence she couldn’t comprehend. Still, we get along. It’s more than many mothers and daughters can say.

  “So what did you tell her?” Cate asks. Her pen makes a careful note on the page and I want to knock her arm, to smudge the ink.

  “Well, as I said, I realised she knew something. Probably that he’d died. Of course, I’d told them that he was dying of cancer. I hoped that was enough, that I wouldn’t have to say much at all. Then mum asked something I hadn’t expected, something that made me kick myself for my short-sightedness when we had all met that day at The White Swan.”

  “Alice, on the news this evening it said the man who… passed away… it said his name was David. Not Richard. We – your Dad and me – are a bit confused.”

  I thought quickly. “David is his given name, but he prefers to be called Richard.” I corrected myself, “preferred.”

  Mum shook her head, “Such a terrible thing. A young man like that. He looked so poorly. I hope you told them. I hope you told the police about the cancer. You did explain, didn’t you?”

  What could I say but yes?

  “There is another quest
ion I’d like to ask, Alice.” Cate looks less sure of herself, and her colour is high. She looks at the writing on her jotter, and I see that she has prepared this question. This must be important.

  “Alice, did you at any time get an inkling of why David Jenkins wanted to die? If the cancer was a hoax you made up for your parents, why do you think he really wanted to kill himself?”

  “That, is something I never asked him.” “Most people would have asked.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “Inferior love demands reason.”

  Cate Austin’s pen is poised in mid-air, “So not asking was a demonstration of your superior love?” I nod. “Including the eating of his flesh?”

  I’ve been expecting this question. “Of course, it repulsed me too. It wasn’t my choice, Miss Austin. It was his. But death and suffering can make people behave differently. So can love. We were making a sacrifice together. He needed me to do as he asked.”

  I see that she is incapable of such rationale. Her mouth is curled in distaste, despite the level note she has forced into her voice. “Why do you think he wanted you to eat him?”

  “Ours is not to reason why. My devotion was absolute. I was merely his disciple. I simply agreed to do as he asked.”

  She is fixated with the cannibalism. She can’t see clearly. And this woman is going to judge me.

  “It was a strange thing to do, Alice. Some would say deranged.”

  “Some would say it was an act of faith.” I lean forward, hands clasped in front of me on the table, and realise I must educate her. My voice is one of authority; I must enlighten her or she will never understand. “One of Keats’ poems tells the tale of a woman, Isabella, who has fallen deeply in love with a man whom her brothers consider to be unworthy of her. Seeing that she will not be dissuaded from her affections, the brothers take him into the forest and kill him, burying him in a shallow grave. But such is the strength of his love, that he visits the woman, in ghost form. He tells her where he is buried. The woman goes to the forest and digs up her dead lover. She can’t bear to leave him. Bereft, she cuts off his head and puts it in a pot, over which she grows a basil plant. The plant thrives and the woman will not be without her pot, which is always in her arms. It’s a story showing extreme behaviour, some would say madness, but also of great love.”

  She looks at me, student to teacher. I see that she has failed to understand.

  “The problem is, Alice, that what you have just recounted is a story. Fiction. What happened to David isn’t a fable, it’s reality. This isn’t an academic exercise, it’s the real world. And in the real world, unlike in literature, people don’t eat their lover’s penis in the name of love.”

  Twenty-nine

  “You’re a bit late bringing Amelia home, Tim. I hope she’s eaten?”

  “Fish fingers and chips.”

  Relieved not to have to start cooking, Cate collected the remnants of her own meagre tea – a cheese sandwich – and put the plate in the sink. Tim hovered behind her, checking his mobile and pressing buttons to send a text.

  “Sally wants me to ask you about Beth’s christening.”

  Cate smiled mockingly. “Not asking me to be godmother are you? Only you know how unreliable they can be at giving good blessings.”

  “Very droll, Cate. No, we think it’s best if you don’t come.”

  Cate thought of the godmother that wasn’t invited, wasn’t she the one who cursed the baby? Tim was distracted, still fiddling with his mobile.

  “This christening’s a big deal to Sally – to us – and we’d like Amelia to look pretty – it’d be good to see her in a dress for a change rather than those jeans she always wears. Sally wondered if you’d got anything suitable?”

  “Well if you don’t like the way I dress our daughter, Tim, you know what you can do. Why don’t you get her a dress?”

  “Come on, Cate. Don’t be difficult – it’s a simple enough request. You know the kind of thing we mean.”

  “Not really. You see, I haven’t ever been to a christening. Your first daughter wasn’t christened – I seem to remember you thought it was hypocritical.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s important to Sally.”

  He shuffled his feet, picking one of Amelia’s juggling balls from the worktop and toying with it. “So why are you being so arsey with me? Why did I have to bring Amelia home an hour before my time was up?”

  She switched the hot tap on full. Soapsuds rose on her arms. “I want Amelia rested before school.”

  “You’re being unreasonable.”

  “What was that?” She turned, soap dripping on the floor, and Tim held up his hands.

  “Whoa! All I’m saying is you’re not making it easy for me to be involved in Amelia’s life… ”

  “How dare you Tim!” she hissed, coming closer to be heard over the pouring water, “I didn’t want to be a single mother! You left me, remember? So just put your coat on and go back to that perfect home you share with the woman who you fucked when you were still living with me, okay? Just piss off!”

  Clumsy with a hasty need to distract her heart Cate brought David Jenkins’ diary up on the screen, opening a notepad by her side. She hoped that the diary would give her answers, even if Alice refused. This diary would help her to understand, to get it right. Even if her personal life was a mess, she could still get it right as a professional.

  11th January.

  (Though why should I care about the date, the year? It’s my last January. My last year. Numbers are irrelevant now.)

  Straight up, I’m happy to die. Well, perhaps that’s wrong. I’m happy to choose the hour of my death. There. That’s it. After all, it’s a privilege isn’t it? Today I read about a guy who travelled across Europe just for that – to die. Now the police are questioning his wife, and the poor bloke was practically a vegetable. He couldn’t even feed himself or wipe his arse. He had one of those colostomy bags. What kind of life is that? He had to go abroad to die. And they say it’s a free country! It got me thinking about Robin. I mean, I wouldn’t want to put her in any position, you know, with the police. What we are doing is illegal – not that it matters. You can’t arrest someone who’s dead. But if someone helped, well, then they can cop it. Literally. But that’s something she has to deal with. It’ll be too late by then.

  My advert wasn’t so unusual. I’m not the only one. Just do a little research and you’ll see. In Japan the government is worried about the rise in internet suicides. Last year, ninety-one people killed themselves after hooking up with people on the web, and arranging suicide pacts. This year the figure looks likely to double. What about that case in Wales a few years back, all those kids with everything to live for? I read about a woman who hired a man to kill her. She wanted to die, but was nervous about doing it herself so she paid him to shoot her, to catch her off-guard. It was how she wanted to go. But the man welched on the deal, ran off with the money, so she reported him to the police. He was convicted for breaching a contract! You couldn’t make it up, could you?

  Robin and I may be an oddity, but we’re not the only ones. We deserve to be understood.

  There is one thing that links us, those who get help to die. Most have ‘poor health’. Such a nothing expression. What does it mean? Prone to coughs and colds? A bit spotty and fat? Does it include mental health? Whatever the definition, I fit it. I’m in ‘poor health’. It’s a club I was enrolled in without my consent. I’m a member without paying any subscription.

  I found myself confused today in the supermarket. I couldn’t remember what I needed, whether it was cornflakes or toilet rolls, and I got into a panic. I lurched between the two aisles, hoping that just seeing the product would kick-start my brain into remembering, but the data was lost. In the end I bought the cereal and a large pack of toilet rolls and a bottle of whisky. When I got home I saw what I was missing, but realised the real loss had been in my head. Short-term memory is one of the earliest casualties. So, in defiance or out of sheer stupidity, I drowned my b
rain with alcohol, punishing it for letting me forget.

  It was just a few days into the new year when I found out I was dying. The doctor had telephoned me at home, so I knew it had to be bad news. I arrived at his surgery to find him staring out of the window, his back to me. When he turned around he couldn’t look me in the eye.

  I’d got to know him quite well over the previous five months, since I’d started to suffer from occasional bouts of dizziness and shaking. What had first been put down to over-work and the need for three square meals a day, developed into lack of balance, so bad that once I collapsed on the tube. After that I started to get more forgetful, and I had blinding headaches. Dr Froy referred me to a neurologist who did an MRI scan. I was told it might be Meniere’s disease or simply bad migraines. Dr Froy had the scan results, and judging by the tension in the room it wasn’t good news. I just wanted an answer. A diagnosis would be a relief, at least that was what I thought.