‘That’s not very nice.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Just stopping – when I’m still sick.’
‘Like everyone else I must eat, and have somewhere to live. I’m not part of the order that runs the Priory. They’ll keep you in a charity ward but if I stop paying my way they’ll turf me out.’
‘Yes,’ said Poll. ‘We haven’t had Redeemers to look after us all our lives.’
This time Poll went uncorrected.
‘What if I don’t like you?’ said Cale. He had wanted to come up with a stinging reply to Poll but couldn’t think of one.
‘What,’ said Sister Wray, ‘if I don’t like you?’
‘Can you do that?’
‘Not like you? You seem very determined that I shouldn’t.’
‘I mean decide not to treat me if you don’t like me.’
‘Does that worry you?’
‘I’ve got a lot of things to worry about in my life – not being liked by you isn’t one of them.’
Sister Wray laughed at this – a pleasant, bell-like sound.
‘You like answering back,’ she said. ‘And I’m afraid it’s a weakness of mine as well.’
‘You have weaknesses?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then how can you help me?’
‘You’ve met a lot of people without weaknesses?’
‘Not so many. But I’m unlucky that way. Vague Henri told me I shouldn’t judge people by the fact that I’ve been unlucky enough to come across so many shit-bags.’
‘Perhaps it’s not just luck.’ Her tone was cooler now.
‘What’s your drift?’
‘Perhaps it’s not just a matter of chance, the dreadful people and the dreadful things that have happened to you.’
‘You still haven’t said what you mean.’
‘Because I don’t know what I mean.’
‘She means you’re a horrible little boy who stirs up trouble wherever he goes.’ Yet again Poll went uncorrected and she changed the subject.
‘Is Vague Henri a friend of yours?’
‘You don’t have friends in the Sanctuary, just people who share the same fate.’ This was not true but for some reason he wanted to appal her.
There was a knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ said Sister Wray. The Priory servant stood at the door silently. Cale, uncertain and angry, got to his feet and walked across the room and onto the landing. Then he turned, about to say something, and saw Sister Wray opening a bedroom door and quickly closing it behind her. All the way back to his own room he considered what he’d seen, or what he thought he’d seen: a plain black-painted coffin.
‘Tell me about IdrisPukke.’ It was four days later and their sessions began at the same time every day. Poll was on Sister Wray’s lap but leaning all the way back on the arm of the chair and drooping over the side to signal her utter boredom and indifference to Cale’s presence.
‘He helped me in the desert and in Memphis when we were in prison.’
‘In what way?’
‘He told me how things were. He told me not to trust him or anybody else – not because people are liars, though a lot of them are, but because their interests are not your interests, and that to expect other people not to put what matters to them ahead of what matters to you is stupid.’
‘Some people would say that was cynical.’
‘I don’t know what cynical means.’
‘It means believing others are motivated only by self-interest.’
Cale thought about this for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said at last.
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, I understand what cynical means.’
‘Now you’re just trying to provoke me.’
‘No, I’m not. IdrisPukke warned me when he didn’t have to that I should remember that sometimes what mattered to me and what mattered to him would be different and that even if he might bend a little in my favour other people mostly wouldn’t – when push came to shove they’d be forced to choose what was best for them. And only the biggest dunce would believe that other people should put you ahead of themselves.’
‘So, no one sacrifices their own interests for others?’
‘The Redeemers do. But if that’s self-sacrifice you can shove it up your arse.’
Poll slowly raised her head from behind the sofa, looked at him then collapsed backwards with a groan of contempt as if the effort had been utterly worthless.
‘And yet you’re very angry with Arbell Materazzi. You think she betrayed you.’
‘She did betray me.’
‘But wasn’t she just consulting her own interest? Aren’t you being a hypocrite for hating her?’
‘What’s a hypocrite?’
‘Someone who criticizes other people for the same kind of things they do themselves.’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Poll from behind the arm of the chair.
‘Be quiet, Poll.’
‘No, it isn’t the same,’ he said, looking straight at Sister Wray. ‘Twice I saved her life, the first time against all reason or odds – and nearly died for it.’
‘Did she ask you to?’
‘I don’t remember her asking to be thrown back – which is what I should’ve done.’
‘But isn’t love putting the other person first, no matter what?’
‘That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard. Why would anyone do that?’
‘He’s right,’ said Poll, still with her head obscured by the arm of the chair.
‘I won’t tell you again,’ said Sister Wray.
‘Laugh if you like – I was ready to die for her.’
‘I’m not laughing.’
‘I am,’ said Poll.
‘She told me she loved me. I didn’t make her do it. She told me and made me think it was true. She didn’t have to but she did. Then she sold me to Bosco to save her own skin.’
‘And the rest of Memphis – her father, everyone? What do you think she should have done?’
‘She should have known I would have found a way. She should have done what she did and then thrown herself into the sea. She should have said that nothing on earth, not the whole world, could make her hand over someone she loved to be burnt alive. Though before they’d set fire to me they’d have cut my balls off and cooked them in front of me. You think I’m making that up?’
‘No.’
‘Whatever she did it should have been impossible to bear. But she put up with it well enough.’
There was a long silence in which Sister Wray, experienced as she was in the anger of the mad, wondered why the very walls of the room did not catch fire so dazzling was his rage. The silence went on – she was no fool and it was Cale who ended it.
‘Why do you have a coffin in your bedroom?’
‘May I ask how you know?’
‘Me? I’ve got eyes in the front of my head.’
‘Would you be reassured if I told you it has nothing to do with our business together?’
‘No. Nobody likes a coffin and me less than most. I’ll have to insist.’
‘Don’t tell that nosy boy anything,’ said Poll.
‘Go and look for yourself.’
Cale had more or less been expecting her to refuse to tell him anything although he had no idea what he’d have done if she had. He stood up and walked over to the far door and considered what he might be letting himself in for. Was it a trap? Unlikely. Was there something horrible inside? Possibly. What if it wasn’t a coffin and he was mistaken and would look foolish? The door was shut tight so he couldn’t just push it open. He could kick it open but that would look bad if there weren’t a couple of villains waiting on the other side. Would you rather, he thought, be dead or look stupid? He snatched at the handle, pushed it open, then quickly glanced around the room and dodged back again.
‘Cowardy cowardy custard,’ sang Poll. ‘Your shoes are made of mustard.’
There was no question it was a coffin and the room was empty. Empty except for whatever was inside the coffin. He turned into the bedroom, leant his head back and his arm forward and flipped the lid off then jumped back, windy as you like. He stared at the contents for a few seconds. It was plain wood, no lining. There were even a few wood shavings in the corner. For a moment he felt a surge of pure terror in his chest and thought he was going to throw up. Then he shut it away. He stepped back into the main room, closed the door behind him and went back to his chair.