The Sacrificial Man Read online

  Thirty-one

  Smith: I want to see you.

  Robin: When? This weekend?

  Smith: Yes. We should start planning out the details. June 16th isn’t far off.

  Robin: We still haven’t discussed how you want to die.

  Smith: Poison. A slow, lingering death. I want to savour every moment.

  Robin: What type of poison? Paracetamol?

  Smith: Something else. Something that brings pleasure. Don’t you have any students who use drugs?

  Robin: What do you think?? But getting them to supply me would be too risky. Whatever we use you should buy it.

  Smith: You answered my ad – I thought you liked playing with risk?

  Robin: I’d like to keep my job.

  Smith: Point taken. But I don’t know any drug dealers. Although I’ve got a good mate who uses a lot of dope. He works across from me, so I could speak to him tomorrow. The dealer he uses must sell harder stuff too. I’ll get his number.

  Robin: I just had a thought. I do have a student who has failed a couple of essays. A total druggie. Maybe he would be interested in an exchange? One grade for one hit.

  Smith: I thought you said it was too risky?

  Robin: Not when he has something to lose. Without my help he’ll have to drop out. But I could make him an offer. He gets his pass, and everyone’s happy.

  Smith: Let me ask my friend first. If he can’t help, then you can ask your student.

  This was how Smith and I planned; messages on our computer screens, one sentence communication that helped us prepare. Smith wanted to die of a drugs overdose, and his friend from work gave him the number for a drug dealer, but the mobile went unanswered every time he tried it. We were both getting impatient. It was time to try it my way.

  I waited in the lecture hall, watching the students fan out into the corridor. I waited until the hall hummed only with noisy air conditioning, the sound of no words. Still, I waited. Alex was slumped in his usual place, near the back of the hall. Despite being drugged to the eyeballs, he always made it to lectures. This told me a great deal. It told me that he didn’t want to drop out, despite all signs that he was going to fail anyway. It gave me the advantage.

  Alex was too stoned to have learned anything that day. There was no notepad on the desk, no pen. His pupils were wide as saucers, his body caved in a stupor. Awoken from his doze he looked up and scowled.

  I opened a bottle of water and placed it in front of him. “Drink it. It’s dangerous to become dehydrated.”

  But water was not the medicine that would cure him. He was spaced out and his pupils were dark; he needed a stronger fix. His face was waxy, unreal, and his clothes were loose. He was a marionette, limply waiting for life to be pulled into him by a puppeteer. By me.

  “Alex, why do you still persist in coming here? Why attend my class when you can’t possibly gain anything from it?”

  He frowned in the effort of thinking. His hands were like newborn puppies, jerky energy but uncoordinated as they scrambled for the water bottle, fumbling with the cap. “My parents would freak if I dropped out.”

  “But attendance alone won’t earn you a degree.”

  Despite whatever drugs coursed through his blood, he reacted. His mouth drooped before the expression was masked as he swigged the water. Some ran down his chin.

  “I want you to be honest with me, Alex. What drugs are you on?”

  His body sank back into the chair, his hands momentarily still in his lap. He was about to protest but hadn’t the energy. Instead, he gave in. As I had anticipated.

  “Speed. Coke. Anything I can get. Why, what are you selling?” His lip curled and I saw his brown teeth.

  “You’re throwing away your education. Are drugs worth that?”

  He was bored and agitated. “You better believe it, mate. Speed gives you this incredible high, the most amazing up. But coke! Wow, that’s the best. It’s like this soaring energy. Like being King of the World.”

  “But you’re failing your degree. Essays handed in late, poorly written. Not to mention the cost to your parents.”

  He looked up sharply, “What are you, a fucking counsellor? What’s it got to do with you?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” Here I paused, then said evenly, “Unless you’re interested in a proposition.”

  “A proposition?” He tried to focus on my mouth but his eyelids were heavy. “What proposition?”

  “I want you to get me some drugs, Alex.”

  He half laughed, but his voice came out a drawl. “You must think I’m fucking mental if you reckon I’d do that. I don’t want to be had up for dealing.”

  His scruples amused me, “Teach me about drugs. What would you take if you wanted to be relaxed? Really relaxed, so you were anaesthetised from pain. So you felt that anything that might happen to you was just a dream.”

  Alex chuckled, his face suddenly lit with good humour. In that moment I could see the appeal of this young man in the student bar, in the student digs. He was at ease, knowing his expertise, taking a viva on his best subject: narcotics.

  “Gees would be the drug of choice for that situation.”

  “Gees?”

  “GHB. Gamma Hydroxybutyric acid.” He looked at me with disgust for my ignorance. “You’d know it as a date rape drug.”

  “I thought that was Rohypnol?”

  “GHB is better, ’cos it’s a liquid so it’s easier to slip into someone’s drink and then they’re away with the fairies. You can literally do anything to ’em and they can’t remember a thing about it.” Alex checked himself. “Not that that’s my bag, y’get me? Only sick fuckers do that. I just use it for the sleep it gives. Man, it’s deep! Oblivion.” He drawled, enunciating every vowel, as if he was on the edge of it. He smirked, cocky. “Course, you have to be careful with the dosage. Just two teaspoons and you’d OD. More kids end up in A&E after taking GHB than Ecstasy.”

  “What with?”

  “Worse case, heart attack. A little bit see, just a few drops on the tongue, and you’re the life and soul of the party. A few drops more and you’re in a coma, a few more and your breathing’s fucked so your heart gives. But I’ve got a high tolerance. ’Sides, I know when to stop. I don’t let myself get too careless. I only buy two vials at a time, max, and each one is only half a teaspoon, so I could never overdose, even if I wanted to.”

  “Alex, I want to be clear about this: I don’t want you wasting my time here at the university. I am going to do something very unorthodox, something I would never do normally, but I believe you are an exceptional young man. I believe you have talent, and I’m going to help you to use it. I’m offering you a deal. But we need to keep this between ourselves.” I allowed there to be a pause, for us both to register what I was saying. The air conditioning hummed, our only witness. “This must be our secret.”

  Alex narrowed his eyes, interest fighting with mistrust. “What deal?”

  “If you give me your two vials of Gee, then I’ll change this year’s final grade. You will no longer fail or have to retake this year. I’ll give you a 2.1 for the course you have taken with me, and persuade my colleagues not to fail you outright on the other courses.”

  “Can you do that?”

  He was suspicious but alert. I thought of my dusty colleague who took the Medieval Literature course and knew that persuading him would be no effort. “I can promise you a good enough grade to get you into next year. But you must complete your half of the deal.”

  “What are you gonna do with the drugs?”

  “I will safely dispose of them. In exchange you will get a pass, and no need for Mummy and Daddy to discover what a fuck-up their darling boy has become. I’m offering you a lifeline. A solid grade to end this academic year should give you the motivation to get the help you need over the summer, and come back ready to start clean in year two. That is the deal. Two vials of GHB in exchange for a pass.”

  Later, I sent an instant message to Smith:


  Robin: I did it! I have what we need. We can practice now.

  Smith: What do you have?

  Robin: The perfect drug. One that brings deep, easy sleep… I was told, on expert authority, that it’s blissful.

  Smith: So this weekend we’ll test it. You know, just a little, to make sure it’s the right one. Robin: I was told it could lead to death easily. Heart attack.

  Smith: I just need to be certain, to try it out first. I want to minimise the risk of anything going wrong in June.

  Robin: Ever the actuary!

  Smith: Something like that.

  Robin: Okay. This weekend then. A trial run. I’ll think of something special…

  Smith: I’m looking forward to being relaxed, I’m so tense at the moment. What do you do when you can’t sleep?

  Robin: Take a bath. Drink warm milk.

  Smith: Doesn’t work for me… Robin: What’s up?

  Smith: Feeling low… depressed… it happens.

  Robin: John K would call it ‘melancholy’. Isn’t that a beautiful word?

  Smith: How would he recommend snapping out of it?

  Robin: He wouldn’t. He believed all emotions, even painful ones, should be explored, and revelled in. ‘Glut thy sorrow’.

  Smith: Why? Was he a sadist?

  Robin: Of sorts. He saw that experiencing melancholy gives a greater appreciation of the other side of the coin: happiness, passion, love. All emotion is intensified.

  Smith: Ah, love! Do we love?

  Robin: Do we? Do we passion?

  Smith: Are you toying with me?

  Robin: Never. I love you.

  Smith: More than ever before?

  Robin: More than. Much. Sleep, now, my love. We will be together soon enough.

  I couldn’t sleep, I was so excited. You can imagine, can’t you? How wonderfully thrilling it was to be so close to the time when I would feel that love, that sweet warmth that comes with the perfect moment?

  Outside the night was fading, and the sun would soon rise. It would be a hot day, the weatherman said, especially for May. A beautiful day was dawning and we were going to practice. It was a test for both of us.

  Without bothering to dress I went to the spare room where Smith was sleeping. The curtains were open, and the windows, so I could hear the rising call of birds. Smith was shrouded in a white sheet, his eyes closed although his breathing told me that he too was awake. I lay down next to him, my weight pinning the sheet tight to his side. “We don’t need to sleep.”

  He opened his eyes, blinking as he tried to focus and I passed him his glasses from the bedside table. “We could do something else.”

  “Okay,” he said, sounding excited as he looked at my naked body, “is this what you were thinking of?” His hand slid towards me, grabbing my left breast. I pushed him away gently: petting was not what I had in mind, and we’d agreed to wait until June 16th to have full sex. To make his death more special.

  “It’s a surprise,” I told him. “Just come downstairs in fifteen minutes. Don’t bother getting dressed.”

  It had to be outside, because of the sunrise. Also, it was more practical. I’d put newspaper down over the grass like a blanket of words. In my garden was a bench, on which I’d laid out every-thing I needed, neatly angled like a surgeon’s trolley. I’d put a white sheet over the bench, not wanting to spoil the surprise.

  Smith appeared at the open door from the breakfast room, and I called softly. My neighbours couldn’t see us but if their windows were open any noise would travel.

  “Come here. Don’t be shy.”

  He came to me, naked except for his glasses. I was also naked; I’m comfortable in my skin and didn’t feel exposed. I went to my makeshift table, lifting the sheet so I could see the things on the bench. I chose the smallest item, but a potent one: the first vial of GHB.

  When he was close to me, our bare bodies touching, I removed the plastic stopper from the tiny vial.

  “Stick out your tongue,” I said.

  He laughed, then became serious. “Do you know how much to use?”

  “No questions,” I said, “just trust me.” I dropped two tears onto his tongue, watching his face as he absorbed the drug into his system. It was amazingly quick. His shoulders relaxed and his smiled broadens. But I’d not finished yet. “Lie down.”

  He looked at the newspaper.

  “Lie down,” I repeated and, relaxed by the potent drug, he did.

  I lifted the sheet on the bench once more, this time choosing the lightest object, a black sash of silk. I knelt at his head, lifting his glasses away. “You don’t need to bother with the blindfold,” he joked, “I can’t see a thing without my glasses.” Still, I wound the silk around his head, easing his head forward as I tied a knot at the back. He was pale and naked, black silk and thin bones, red smiling mouth laughing from the intoxication of the drugs. It was perfect.

  Without telling him what I intended to do, I returned to my bench, lifting the sheet fully off now that he was blind. I picked up the rope.

  I admired the scene, marvelling at my ability to step away from my handiwork even when in its thrall. The rope was blue and narrow, deceptive in its strength. It was last used when I moved in, to hoist my mahogany chest through the sash window of the bedroom. Smith was smiling, laughing at some private joke, no longer bothered by his nakedness, knees bent and arms stretched wide. I took one of his arms, running my hand down the length of it, making him giggle some more. Smiling, I circled his wrist with the rope.

  Smith chuckled as though I’d told a great joke as I pulled the rope, secure but not tight. I didn’t want to mark his wrists. I straddled him, and his free hand groped for my breast, kneading the flesh and pulling me lower, his mouth rooting for my nipple. I bent over, allowing his wet tongue, his grasping hand to grip my breast, as I looped the rope over once more, and pulled one hand up above his head, joining it with the other. Smith was lost in his ecstasy, sucking and writhing under me, as I concentrated on binding his wrists together. I held his chin, eased my breast away from his insatiable tongue. He thought I was playing and reached up, biting my nipple in his eagerness, but I wasn’t interested in those games.

  I had something else in mind.

  I was forced to be rough with him. I slapped him, once, across the face. He stopped laughing but his smile told me that he was enjoying it.

  I lifted myself from his body, glancing at his erect penis. So vulnerable. “Robin, come back to me… ” I began to wish I’d thought of a gag.

  I went to the bench, picked up a second rope, pausing to look at what remained, a veritable bag of tricks that made my breath catch in anticipation. I arrived at his feet, his ankles. When he felt the rope touch his foot he yelled, no longer laughing. I remembered Alex telling me how two drops of Gee made you the life and soul of the party but any more made you lethargic and affected the heart. Smith was becoming tense. He needed to calm down. Into his open mouth I dropped two more tears from the vial, telling him to be quiet. We didn’t want to disturb the neighbours. I pulled the rope tighter, and Smith’s legs were dead weights. The drug worked quickly, a miracle. It should be available on the National Health Service.

  When the knot was tight I stood and admired the bound and blind man. With his arms above his head, ribs jutted sharp as knives and hipbones creating a cove for his abdomen, with the gentle line of brown hair from navel to pubis he looked like Jesus on the cross.

  I knelt at his head, stroking his cheek. His breathing was shallow but even, like a relaxing cat and I knew that beneath the blindfold his eyes were closed. I leaned my head on his chest, listening to his speeded heart, the rise and fall of his life.

  “My Lord,” I whispered, my eyes wet as I felt the truth of the words. “Just one more step now. Have faith. I have one more surprise.”

  Just two things remained on the bench and I lifted the first, feeling the wooden handle in my palm. The thick blade caught a ray of early sun. It was a small knife, but it would do.
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