Sacrament (51 page)

By the time they reached the car, the rainstorm had passed over the island and was headed for America. Night
was on its way; there were lights in the cluster of houses at Barrapol, and stars coming between the ragged
clouds. She got Will into the passenger seat without any problem (it was almost as though he were in a trance;
capable of responding to simple instructions, but in every other way absent); then she backed the car up until
she reached the road, and drove through the rapidly descending twilight to Scarinish. There'd be a ferry
tomorrow; they'd be back on the mainland by evening, and - if she drove through the night - home by the
following morning. That was as far as she was presently willing to project her thoughts: as far as the kitchen
and the teapot and the comfort of her bed. Only when she was safely back in her own house would she think
about what she'd seen and felt and suffered since the man at her side had come back into her life.

The following day went pretty much as she'd anticipated. They passed an uncomfortable night in the car, parked
just outside Scarinish, and at noon or thereabouts boarded the ferry for the return journey to Oban. Her only
problem on the drive south was her own exhaustion, which she kept at bay with copious amounts of coffee. But
it still crept up on her, so that by the time she finally got home, at four in the morning, she was barely able to
keep her thoughts in order. For his part, Will remained in the same trancelike condition that had possessed him
since the destruction of the House. it was plain to her he knew she was there beside him, because he could
answer questions as long as they were simple (do you want a sandwich, do you want a cup of coffee?); but he
wasn't seeing the same world that she was seeing. He had to fumble to find the coffee-cup, and even when he
did deposited half the contents over him as he drank from it. The food she plied him with was eaten
mechanically, as though his body was going through the motion without the assistance of his conscious mind.

She knew where his thoughts resided. He was still enraptured by the House, or by his memories of it. She did
her best not to resent him for his detachment, but it was hard when the problems of the here and now were so
demanding. She felt abandoned; there was no other word for it. He was inviolate in his trance, while she was
exhausted, confused and frightened. There would be questions to answer when people realized she was back
from her travels; difficult questions. She wanted Will there to help her formulate some answers to them. But
nothing she said to him roused him from his fugue. He stared on into middle distance, and dreamed his dreams
of the Domus Mundi.

There was a worse betrayal to come. When she woke the following morning, having passed four grateful hours
in her own bed, she discovered he'd vacated the couch where she'd put him to rest, and wandered out of the
house, leaving the front door wide open. She was infuriated. Yes, he'd witnessed a great deal in the House; but
so had she, and she hadn't gone wandering off in the middle of the night, damn it.

She called the police after breakfast, and made her presence known. They were at the house three quarters of an
hour later, plying her with questions about all that had happened in the Donnelly house. Plainly they viewed her
departure from the scene of Sherwood's demise as strange, perhaps even evidence of mental imbalance, but not
an indication of guilt. They already had their suspects: the two itinerants who had been seen in the vicinity of
the Donnelly house for two or three days prior to the murder. She was happy to name them, and to offer detailed
descriptions; and yes, she was certain they were the same pair who had tormented Will, her brother and herself
all those years ago. What, they wanted to know, was the connection between Sherwood and these two, that he'd
been there in the Donnelly house in the first place? She told them she didn't know. She had followed her brother
there, she said, intending to bring him home, and had discovered Steep in midassault. Then she'd given chase.
Yes, it had been a stupid thing to do; of course, of course. But she'd been witless with shock and anger; surely
they understood that. All that she had been able to think about was finding and confronting the man who'd
murdered her brother.

How far had she tracked him, the detectives wanted to know. Here she told her direct lie. Only as far as the
Lake District, she'd said; then she'd lost them.

Finally, the oldest of the detectives, a man by the name of Faraday, came to the question she'd been waiting to
hear.

'How the hell does Will Rabjohns fit into the picture?'

'He came along with me,' she said simply.

'And why did he do that?' the man said, watching her intently. 'For old times' sake?'

She said she didn't know what he was talking about, to which the detective replied that unlike his two
companions, he was very familiar with what had happened here all those years ago; he'd been the man who'd
tried to get the truth out of Will. He'd failed, he admitted. But a good policeman - and he counted himself a
good policeman - never closed a file while there were questions unanswered. And there were more unanswered
questions in this file than any other on his shelves. So again, he said, what had been going on that she and Will
had been together in this? She pretended innocence, sensing that Faraday, for all his doggedness, was no closer
to understanding the mystery here than he'd been thirty years before. Perhaps he had some suspicions; but if
they were anywhere close to the mark they were unlikely to be the kind he could have voiced in front of his
colleagues. The truth lay very far from the usual realm of investigation, where a man like Faraday probably only ventured in his most private ruminations. Though he pressed his suit, she returned only the blandest answers, and he finally gave up on the business, defeated by his own reluctance to put the pieces in their true order. Of course he wanted to know
where Will was now, to which Frannie truthfully answered that she didn't know. He'd disappeared from the
house this morning, and could be anywhere.

Stymied in his enquiries, Faraday warned that this interview would not be the end of the matter. There would be
identifications to be made if and when the culprits were apprehended. She wished him luck in finding them, and
he departed, with his colleagues in tow.

The interview had taken up almost all of the day, but with what was left of it she set about the melancholy
business of planning Sherwood's funeral. She would go over to the hospice in Skipton tomorrow, and find out
from the doctors if they thought she should tell her mother the sad news. Meanwhile, she had a lot of organizing
to do.

In the early evening, she answered the door to find Helen Morris, of all people, come to offer her condolences.
Helen had never been a particularly close friend, and Frannie harboured the suspicion that the woman had come
calling to garner some gossip, but she was glad of the company anyway. And it was comforting, in its petty
way, to know that Helen, who was one of the most conservative women in the village, saw fit to spend a few
hours with her. Whatever people were surmising about events in the Donnelly house, they would not find
Frannie culpable. It made her think that perhaps she owed Helen and the rest of the folks puzzling over this
mystery a helping hand. That maybe in a month or two, when she was feeling a little more confident, she'd
stand up between the hymns at the Sunday service and tell the whole sad and wonderful truth. Maybe nobody
would ever speak to her again if she did so; maybe she'd become the Madwoman of Burnt Yarley. And maybe
that would be a price worth paying.

0ut on the hills, Will just kept moving, his body trekking the cold slopes while his spirit wandered in far
stranger places. He plunged deep into ocean trenches, and swam with forms that had not yet been found or
named. He was carried as a motey insect over peaks so remote the tribes in the valley below believed divinities
lived upon them. But he knew better now. The creators of the world had not retreated to the heights. They were
everywhere. They were stones, they were trees, they were shafts of light and burgeoning seeds. They were
broken things, they were dying things, and they were all that sprang up from things dying and broken. And
where they were, he was too. Fox and God and the creature between.

He wasn't hungry, nor was he sleepy, though in his passage he encountered beasts that were both. Seemed
sometimes to travel in the dreams of sleeping animals. In dreams of the hunt; in dreams of coupling. He seemed
sometimes to be a dream himself: a dream of the human, being experienced by an animal. Perhaps dogs barked
in their sleep, sensing his proximity; perhaps the chick grew restless in the egg when he brought it news of the
light. And perhaps he was nothing but a figment in his own haunted thoughts, inventing this journey, so as not
to go back, not ever go back, to the city of Rabjohns and the house of Will.

Every now and then, he'd cross the path of the fox, and he'd move on before the animal could make its formal
farewells and depart. But somewhere along the way - who knew how many days had passed? he chanced upon
the creature in the back yard of a house he vaguely knew. It had its head in the rubbish, and was rifling through
the muck with no little enthusiasm. Will had better places to linger than here, and was about to depart for those
places, but the fox turned its besmirched face his way and said:

'Do you remember this yard?' Will didn't answer. He hadn't spoken to anybody in a long time, and didn't
particularly want to start talking now. But the fox was ready with an answer anyhow. 'This is Lewis's house,' the
creature said. 'Lewis? The poet?' he prompted. Will remembered. 'This is where you saw a raccoon, so rumour
tells, doing much as I'm doing now.'

Will broke his silence, finally. 'I did?' he said.

'You did. But that's not why you're here.'

'No ...' Will said, now sensing the significance of his presence.

'You know why, don't you?'

'Yes. I'm afraid I do.'

So saying, he left the yard, and went out into the street. It was early evening, the sky still warm with light
towards the west. He walked along Cumberland to Noe; then on to 19th and so to Castro Street. The sidewalks
were already crowded, so he assumed it was either Friday or Saturday; a night when people were casting off the
restraints of the working week and were out on the town.

He didn't know what form he had travelling here, but he soon found out. He was nobody; he was nothing. Not a
single gaze came his way as he climbed Castro; not even to despise him. He walked amongst the beauties and
the watchers of beauties (and who here wasn't one or the other?) unnoticed, past the tourists out to see how
homosexual heaven might look, and the hustlers, checking their pants and their reflections, and the high queens,
pronouncing on every other sight they saw; and the sad, sick men who were out because they feared they'd not
see another party-night. He passed through this throng like the ghost he'd perhaps become, his trek bringing him
at last to the house at the summit where Patrick lived.

I've come to see him die, he realized. He looked around him for some sign of the fox, but the scurrilous animal,
having brought him here, was now hiding its head. He was alone in this business; already slipping up the steps
and through the door into the hallway. Here he halted for a moment, to gather his wits. This was the first place
of human habitation he'd visited in a little while, and it felt like a tomb to him: the silent walls, the roof keeping
out the sky. He wanted to turn and leave; to get back out into the open air. But as he started up the stairs to the
apartment door, the memories began to come. He'd undressed Patrick climbing these stairs, so eager to have
him naked he couldn't wait until the key was in the lock; stumbled over the threshold, hauling his lover's shirt
from his pants, fumbling with his belt, telling Patrick how fine he was, how perfect in every particular: chest
and nipples and belly and prick. No man in Castro had been more beautiful; nor any wanted him more in return.

He was at the apartment door now; and through it; and moving towards the bedroom. Somebody was crying
there, pitifully. He hesitated before entering, afraid of what he would discover on the other side. Then he heard
Patrick speak.

'Please stop that,' he said, gently, 'it's very depressing.'

I'm not too late, Will thought, and slipped through the door into the bedroom.

Rafael was standing at the window, obediently stifling his tears. Adrianna was sitting on the bed, watching her
patient, who had before him a bowl of vanilla pudding. His condition had deteriorated considerably in the days since Will had departed for England. He'd lost weight, and his pallor was sickly, his eyes sunk in bruisy shadow. Plainly he needed to
sleep; his lids were heavy, his features slack with exhaustion. But Adrianna was gently insisting he first finish
his food, which he did, conscientiously scraping the bowl to be sure he'd eaten it all.

'I'm done,' he said eventually. His voice was a little slurred, his head nodding, as though he might fall asleep
with the spoon still in his hand.

'Here,' Adrianna said. 'Let me take those from you.'

She took the bowl and spoon from him, and set them on the bedside table, where there sat a small squad of pill
bottles. Several of them had been left with their tops unscrewed, Will saw. All of them were empty.

A sickened suspicion rose in Will. He looked at Adrianna, who despite her stoical expression was plainly
having difficulty holding back tears of her own. This wasn't just any dinner she'd been telling Patrick to finish
up. There'd been more than pudding in the bowl.

'How do you feel?' she asked him.

'Okay ...' Patrick said. 'A little light-headed, but ... okay. It wasn't the best pudding I ever tasted, but I've had
worse.' His voice was thin and strained, but he was doing his best to put some music into it.

'This is wrong...' Rafael said.

'Don't start again,' Adrianna told him sternly.

'It's what I want,' Patrick said firmly. 'You don't have to be here if it bothers you.'

Rafael looked back at him; his face knotted up with contrary feelings. 'How long ... does it take?' he
murmured.

'It's different from person to person,' Adrianna said to him. 'That's what I heard.'

'You've got time to get a brandy,' Patrick said, his eyes closing for a time, then opening again as though he was
waking from a five-second doze. He looked at Adrianna. 'It's going to be strange...' he said dreamily.

'What's going to be strange?'

'Not having me,' he replied, with a dazed smile. His hand, which had been rhythmically smoothing a wrinkle in
the sheet, now slid over the coverlet and caught hold of her hand. 'We've talked a lot over the years, haven't we .
. . about what happens next?'

'We have,' she said.

'And I'm going to find out ... before you ...'

'I'm jealous,' she said.

'Bet you are,' he replied, his voice steadily failing him.

'I can't bear this,' Rafael said, coming to the bottom of the bed. 'I can't listen to this.'

'It's okay, baby,' Patrick said, as though to comfort him. 'It's okay. You've done so much for me. More than
anyone. You just go have a cigarette. It'll be all right. Really it will.' He was interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. 'Now who the fuck is that?' he said, a spark of the old Patrick momentarily ignited.

'Don't answer it,' Rafael said. 'It could be cops.'

'And it could be Jack,' Adrianna said, rising from the bed. The doorbell was being rung again; more urgently.
'Whoever it is,' she said, 'they're not going to go away.'

'Why don't you go, babe?' Patrick said to Rafael. 'Whoever it is send them away. Tell them I'm dictating my
memoirs.' He chuckled at his own joke. 'Go on,' he said, as the bell was rung a third time.

Rafael went to the door, glancing back at the man in the bed as he went. 'What if it is the cops?' he said.

'Then they'll probably kick the door in if you don't answer it,' Patrick said. 'So go. Give 'em hell.'

At this, Rafael made his departure, leaving Patrick to sink back down amongst the pillows. 'Poor kid...' he said,
his eyes fluttering closed. 'You'll take care of him, won't you?'

'You know I will,' Adrianna reassured him.

'He's not equipped for this,' Patrick said.

'Are any of us?' she replied.

He squeezed her hand. 'You're doing fine.'

'How about you?'

He opened his weighted eyes. 'I've been trying to think ... of something to say when it's time. I wanted to have
something ... pithy, you know? Something quotable.'

He was slipping away, Will could see, his words becoming steadily more slurred, his gaze, when he once again
opened his eyes, unfocused. But he wasn't so far gone he failed to hear the voices from the front door: 'Who is
that?' he asked her. 'Is it Jack?'

'No ... it sounds like Lewis.'

'I don't want to see him ...' Patrick said.

Rafael was having trouble keeping Lewis out, however. He was doing his best to insist Lewis leave, but he
clearly wasn't being attended to.

'Maybe you should just go lend a hand,' Patrick suggested. Adrianna didn't move. 'Go on,' he insisted, though all
the force had left him. 'I'm not going anywhere yet. Just don't ... take too long.'

Adrianna got to her feet and hurried to the door, clearly caught between the need to stay with Patrick and the
need to keep Lewis from disturbing her patient's peace of mind. 'I won't be a minute,' she promised, and
disappeared into the hallway, leaving the door a little ajar. Will heard her calling ahead as she went, telling
Lewis this wasn't the time to come calling unannounced for God's sake, so would he please leave?

Then, very quietly, Patrick said: 'Where ... the hell did you come from?'

Will looked back at him, and saw to his astonishment Patrick's hazy, puzzled gaze was fixed on him as best it
could be fixed, and there was a small smile on his face. Will went to the end of the bed and looked at him. 'You
can see me?' he said.

'Yes, of course ... I can see you,' Patrick replied. 'Did you come with Lewis?'

'No.'

'Come a little closer. You're a bit fuzzy around the edges.'

'That's not your eyes, that's me.'

Patrick smiled. 'My poor, fuzzy Will.' He swallowed, with some difficulty. 'Thank you for being here,' he said.
'Nobody said you were coming ... I would have waited ... if I'd known. So we could talk.'

'I didn't know I was coming myself.'

'You don't think I'm being a coward, do you?' Patrick said. 'I ... just couldn't bear the ... the idea of withering
away.'

'No, you're not being a coward,' Will replied.

'Good,' Patrick said. 'That's what I thought.' He drew a long, soft breath. 'It's been such a busy day...' he said '. .
. and I'm tired...' his lids were closing, slowly '... will you stay with me a while?'

'All the time you want,' Will said.

'Then ... always,' Patrick said; and died.

It was that simple. One moment Patrick was there, in all his sweetness. The next he was gone, and there was
only the husk of him, its miracle departed.

Barely able to breathe with grief, Will went to Patrick's side, and stroked his face. 'I loved you, my man,' he
said. 'More than anyone in my life.' Then, in a whisper, 'Even more than I loved Jacob.. .'

The exchange out in the hall had come to an end now, and Will could hear Adrianna coming back towards the
bedroom, talking to Patrick as she approached. All was well, she told him; Lewis had gone off home to write a
sonnet. Then she opened the door, and for a moment, as she looked into the room, it seemed she saw Will
standing beside the bed; even began to say his name. But her powers of reason persuaded her senses they were
wrong - Will couldn't be here, could he? - and she left the word unfinished. Her gaze went instead to Patrick,
and she let out a soft sigh that was as much relief as sorrow. Then she closed her eyes, silently instructing
herself to be calm, Will guessed; to be as she had always been, the rock in times of emotional turmoil.

Rafael was in the hallway just outside the bedroom door, calling her name.

'You'd better come in and see him,' she said. There was no reply from Rafael. 'It's all right,' she said. 'It's over.
It's all over.' Then she went to the bed, and sat down beside Patrick and stroked his face.

For the first time since departing into the Domus Mundi, Will longedto be back in his own body; wished he was there beside her, offering what comfort he could. Lingering unseen this way was uncomfortable; he felt like a voyeur. Maybe it would be better just to go, he thought; leave the living to their grief, and the dead to their ease. He belonged in neither tribe, it seemed; and that unfixedness, which had been a pleasure to him as he went through the world, was now no pleasure at all. It only made him lonely.

Out into the hallway he went, past Rafael, who was standing a yard from the bedroom door, as yet unable to
enter, through the apartment to the door, down the stairs and out into the street. Adrianna would serve Patrick
well, he knew. She'd always been tender and pragmatic in equal measure. She'd rock Rafael, if he wanted to be
rocked; she'd make sure the body was presentable for the medics when they arrived; she'd scrupulously remove
all the evidence of the suicide, and if anybody questioned what had happened tell such barefaced lies nobody
would dare challenge her.

But for Will, there were no such distractions. There was only the terrible emptiness of a street that had always
been the way to Patrick's house, indeed would always be the way to Patrick's house, but that now no longer led
anywhere important.