Sacrament

'You're his father

'That's my burden,' Hugo snapped. 'But if you're admirers of his-'

'We are,' the woman said.

-then I must warn you he's a terrible disappointment in the flesh.'

'We know what he's like,' the man said. 'We all know what he's like, Hugo. You and I particularly.'

The inference of kinship here was too much for Hugo. He brandished his stick in front of his face. 'We have absolutely nothing to say to one another,' he said. 'Now leave me alone.' He started to back away from the man, half expecting him to give chase. But he simply stood with his hands in his pockets, watching Hugo retreat.

'What are you afraid of?' he said.

'Absolutely nothing,' Hugo replied.

'That I don't believe,' the man said. 'You're a philosopher. You know better than that.'

'I am not a philosopher,' Hugo said, resisting the flattery. 'I am a third-rate teacher of third-rate pupils who have no interest whatsoever in anything I impart to them. That is my lot in life and to the extent that I might have done worse, I'm proud of it. My wife lives in Paris with a man half my age, my best beloved son has been dead and buried thirty years and the other is a self-promoting queer with an opinion of himself out of all proportion to his achievements. There! Are you satisfied? Does that put it plainly enough for you? In short, MAY I GO?'

'Oh,' said the woman softly. 'I'm so sorry.'

'What for?'

'You lost a child,' she said. 'We've lost several, Jacob and I. You never get over it.

'... Jacob?' Hugo murmured, and in that instant knew to whom he was speaking. A wave of feeling passed over him that he could not quite identify.

'Yes, it's us,' the man said softly, sensing that they'd been recognized.

Relief, Hugo thought. That's what I'm feeling, I'm feeling relief. The waiting's over. The mystery is here; or at least a means of access to it.

'This is Rosa, of course,' Steep said. Rosa made a comical little curtsey. 'Now ... shall we all be friends, Hugo?'

'I ... don't ... know.'

'Oh, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking about Delbert Donnelly. She was responsible for that and I'm not going to mislead you on the matter. She can be cruel sometimes, dangerous even, when she's roused. But we've paid the penalty for that. We've had thirty years in the wilderness, not knowing where we were going to lay our heads from one night to the next.'

'So why did you choose to come back here?' Hugo said.

'We have our reasons,' Jacob said.

'Tell him,' Rosa prompted. 'We came back for Will.'

'I can't-'

'Yes, we know,' Jacob said, 'you don't speak to him and you don't care to.'

'That's right.'

'Well ... let's hope he cares more for you than you do for him.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'Let's hope he comes running when he hears you're in trouble.'

'I hope that's not a threat,' Hugo said, 'because if it is-'

He didn't see the blow coming. There was no flicker in Steep's eye, no indication, however slight, that his civil chat was now over. One moment he was smiling, all courtesy, the next he struck Hugo such a blow it threw the man five yards.

'Don't do that,' said Rosa.

'Shut up,' Jacob said, and going to where Hugo lay sprawled, picked up the stick that the old man had brandished two minutes before. While Hugo moaned at his feet, he examined the stick, moving his hands up and down its length to get its heft. Then he raised it above his head and brought it down on Hugo's body, once, twice, three times. The first blow won a yell of agony. The second a moan. The third, silence.

'You haven't killed him, have you?' Rosa said, coming to Jacob's side.

'No, of course I haven't killed him,' Jacob replied, tossing the stick down beside its owner. 'I want him to hang on for a while.' He went down on his haunches beside the wounded man. With a solicitousness that would have shamed a doctor, he reached down and lay the back of his fingers against Hugo's cheek. 'Are you with me, my friend?' he said. He rubbed his fingers back and forth a little. 'Hugo? Can you hear me?' Hugo moaned pitifully. 'I'll take that as a yes, shall I?' Jacob said. Again, the man moaned. 'So here's the plan,' Jacob said. 'We will be leaving very soon, and if we don't call somebody to come and find you, there's a better than average chance that you'll be dead before dawn. Do you understand what I'm telling you? Nod if you understand.' Hugo made a barely perceptible nod. 'Good enough. So. It rests with you. Do you want to die here under the stars? Nobody's going to be coming by here tonight, I suspect, so you'll have the place to yourself.' Hugo tried to speak. 'I didn't understand that, I'm sorry. What did you say?' Hugo made a tiny sob. 'Oh now ... you're crying. Rosa, he's crying.'

'He doesn't want to be left alone,' Rosa said. 'That's a big thing with you men,' she complained. 'You're like kiddies half the time.'

Jacob returned his attention to Hugo. 'Did you hear that?' he said. 'She thinks we're kids. She doesn't know the half of it, does she? She doesn't know what we go through. But I'm assuming she's right. You don't want to be left alone. You want us to find a telephone and have somebody come and find you. Is that right?' Hugo nodded. 'That I will do, my friend,' he said. 'But here's your side of the bargain. I don't want you saying a word to Will. Do you understand me? If he comes to see you and you tell him anything about us, what you're feeling right now - the pain, the panic, the loneliness - will be as nothing beside what we will do to you. Do you hear me? As nothing. Nod if you understand.' Hugo nodded. 'That's good. You needn't agonize about this. He's ... what did you call him? ... a self-promoting queer? You're not his number one fan, obviously. Whereas I ... I am devoted to him, in my way. Isn't that strange? I haven't seen him in thirty years, of course, so I may not feel the same...' his voice trailed away. He sighed, and stood up.

'Lie very still,' Rosa advised him. 'If you've broken your ribs, you don't want to puncture a lung.' Then, to Jacob, 'Are you coming?'

'Yes.' He looked straight down at Hugo's face. 'Enjoy the stars,' he said.

CHAPTER XVII

i

The morning after the love-feast Will woke on the living-room floor, having apparently slid from off the sofa where he'd made a nest of the clothes he'd stripped off the night before. He felt like shit. His entire body ached, even his teeth and tongue. His eyes burned in their sockets. He got to his feet, somewhat unsteadily, and made for the bathroom. There he doused his face in cold water, and then looked at himself in the mirror. The calm and clarity that had been such a revelation the previous afternoon were gone. The face he was looking at was just a rag-bag of weary particulars: pallid skin and red-rimmed eyes and furlined mouth. What the hell had he been up to? He vaguely remembered there being some dispute with Drew, but he had no idea what it had been about, much less how it had been resolved, if indeed it had. Clearly he'd been out on the town, and to judge by the state of his body it had been quite a party. He had scratches on his back and chest; bite-marks on his shoulders. And there was more damning evidence still between his legs: a dick and balls so red-raw they might have been massaged with sandpaper.

'Question one:' he said, looking down at his groin, 'what the fuck have we been doing? And question two: who the hell do we need to apologize to?'

When he ventured into the bedroom, of course, he was confronted with chaos. The air was rank with rotting food, and stale vomit, the floor a rubbish heap. He stood in the doorway, surveying the carpet of remnants, while tantalizing flashes of how the celebration here had come to an end entered his head. He'd crawled on all fours through this muck, hadn't he? puking like an over-fed Roman in the Vomitorium. And out in the hallway, where there was blood and broken glass, he'd cut his foot while he was hauling himself to the top of the stairs