'And?'
'My mind fairly began to spin at the possibilities,' she said with a smile. 'It really did. If we're not going to be forgiven, why try to be something I'm not?' She was staring hard into his face. 'Why should I waste my breath hoping for something we'll never have?'
Jacob pulled his face from her hands. 'You won't tempt me,' he said. 'So stop wasting your time. I have my plans laid
'The book's burned,' Rosa snapped.
'I'll make another.'
'And if that burns?'
'Another! And another! I'll be the stronger for this loss.'
'Oh, so will I,' Rosa said, her features draining of warmth, so that her beauty seemed, for all its perfection, almost cadaverous. 'I will be a different woman from now on. I will have pleasure whenever I can take it, by whatever means amuse me. And if someone or something gets a child upon me I'll fetch it out of m'self with a sharpened stick.' This notion pleased her. Laughing raucously, she turned her back on Jacob, and spat
into the ashes. 'There's for your book,' she said. She spat again. 'And there's for forgiveness.' Again she spat. 'And there's for God. He'll have nothing more from me.' She said no more. Without looking to see what effect she'd had upon her companion (she would have been disappointed; he was stony-faced), she strode out. Only when she'd gone did Jacob let himself weep. Manly tears; the tears of a commander before a broken army or a father at his son's grave. He didn't simply grieve for the book - though that added to the sum - but for himself. After this, he would be alone. Rosa - his once beloved Rosa, with whom he'd shared his most cherished ambitions -would go her hedonistic way, and he would take his own road, with his knife and his pen and a new journal full of empty pages. Oh, that would be hard after so many years together, and the work before him still so monumental and the sky so wide. Then an unbidden thought: why not kill her? There would be satisfaction in that right now, no question about it. A quick slice across her pulsing throat and down she'd go, like a felled cow. He'd comfort her in her final moments; tell her how much he had loved her, in his way; how he would dedicate his labours to her until they were finished. Every nest he rifled, every burrow he purified, he would say: this is for you, my Rosa; and this; and this, until his hands, bloodied and yolked, had finished with their weary work. He pulled his knife from his belt, already imagining the sound of its swoop across her neck; the hiss of her breath from her throat, the fizz of her blood. Then he went after her, back towards the Courtroom. She was waiting for him; turned to face him with her pet ropes - what she liked to call her rosaries - cavorting around her arms like vipers. One leapt as he approached her, finding his wrist with the speed of her will, and catching it so tight he gasped at the sensation. 'How dare you?' she said. A second rope leapt from her hand, and wrapping itself around his neck caught hold of his knife-hand from behind him. She flicked her eye and it pulled tight, wrenching the blade back towards his face. 'You would have murdered me.' 'I would have tried.' 'I'm no use to you as a womb, so I may as well be crow-bait, is that it?' 'No. I just ... I wanted to simplify things.' 'That's a fresh excuse,' she said, almost admiringly. 'Which eye is it to be?' ' What?' 'I'm going to puncture one of your eyes, Jacob. With this little knife of yours-'She willed the ropes to tighten. They creaked a little. 'Which is it to be?' 'If you harm me, it'll be war between us.'
'And war's for men, so I would lose? Is that the inference?' 'You know you would.' 'I don't know a thing about myself, Jacob, any more than you do. I learned it all watching women do as women do. Perhaps I'd be a very fine soldier. Perhaps we'd have such a war, you and me, that it would be like love, only bloodier.' She cocked her head. 'Which eye is it to be?' 'Neither,' Jacob said, a tremor in his voice now. 'I need both my eyes, Rosa, to do my work. Put one of them out and you may as well take my life with it.' 'I want recompense!' she said, through her perfect teeth. 'I want you to suffer for what you just tried to do.' 'Anything but an eye.' 'Anything?' 'Yes.' 'Unbutton yourself.' 'What?' 'You heard me. Unbutton yourself.' 'No, Rosa.' 'I want one of your balls, Jacob. It's that or an eye. Make up your mind.' 'Stop this,' he said softly. 'Am I supposed to melt now?' she replied. 'Get weak with compassion?' She shook her head. 'Unbutton yourself,' she said. His free hand went to his groin. 'You can do it yourself, if that'll make you feel any better. Well? Would it?' He nodded. She let the ropes about his wrist relax a little. 'I won't even watch,' she said. 'How's that? Then if you lose your courage for a bit nobody's going to know but you.' The ropes loosed his hand completely now. They returned to Rosa and looped themselves around her neck. 'Go to it.' 'Rosa ... ?' 'Jacob?' 'If I do this-?' 'Yes.' -you'll never talk about it to anybody?' 'Talk about what?' 'That I'm not ... complete.' Rosa shrugged. 'Who'd care?' she said. 'Just agree.' 'I agree.' She turned her back on him. 'Make it the left,' she said. 'It hangs a little lower, so it's probably the riper of the two.' He stood in the passageway when she'd gone and felt the heft of the
knife in his hand. He had commissioned it in Damascus, a year after the death of Thomas Simeon, and had used it innumerable times since. Though there had been nothing supernatural about its maker, some authority had been conferred upon it over the years, for it grew sharper, he thought, with every breath it took. He would be able to scoop out what the bitch demanded without much trouble; and after all, what did he care? He had no use for what he now cupped in his palm. Two eggs in a nest of skin; that's all they were. He put the tip of the blade to his flesh, and drew a deep breath. In the Courtroom, down the passageway, Rosa was singing one of her wretched lullabies. He waited for a high note, then cut.
CHAPTER V
Will didn't attempt a short cut back to the Courthouse, but took the road down to the village. At the intersection there was a telephone box, and he thought: I should say goodbye to Frannie. It wasn't so much for friendship's sake as for the pleasure of the boast. To be able to say: I'm going; just as I said I would; I'm going away forever.
He stepped into the box, fumbled for some change, then fumbled again (his fingers chilled, even through his gloves) to find the Cunninghams' number in the out-of-date directory. It was there. He dialled, prepared to disguise his voice if Frannie's father came on the line. Her mother answered, however, and with a hint of frostiness brought her daughter to the phone. Will got straight to the point: swore Frannie to secrecy then told her he was leaving.
'With them?' she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
He told her it was none of her business. He was simply going away.
'Well I've got something that belongs to Steep,' she said.
'What?'
'It's none of your business,' she countered.
'All right,' Will said. 'Yes, I'm going with them.' There was no doubt in his feverish head that this was so. 'Now . . . what have you got?'
'You mustn't say anything. I don't want them coming looking.'
'They won't.'
She paused a moment. Then she said: 'Sherwood found a book. I think it belongs to Steep.'
'Is that all?' he said. A book; who cared about a book? But he supposed she needed some memento of this adventure, however petty.
'It's not just any book,' she insisted. 'It's-'
But Will had already finished with the conversation. 'I have to go,' he said.
'Wait, Will-'
'I haven't got time. 'Bye, Frannie. Say 'bye to Sherwood, will you?'
He put the receiver down, feeling thoroughly pleased with himself. Then he left the relative comfort of the telephone box, and set out on the track to Bartholomeus' Courthouse.