Sin (13 page)

“What did you see?”

There was a short silence.

“A man kneeling in front of a woman.”

As once my father knelt to her.

“She stroked his head. And pressed him to her stomach. They stayed like that for … oh, maybe half an hour. And then he left.”

I knew, of course. But had preferred not to. The past … in this … had not been so unpredictable.

“Charles talked about me? To you?”

“Not really. But I know. I … I know he feels … most deeply.”

“How can you know?”

“I know.”

“Why did you leave him?”

Silence.

“Why did you let me have him?”

Silence.

“Because, Ruth … he is yours. And I had had my day. ”

“What do you mean?”

“Hubert. Hubert was true. To me, and to his promise. Charles tried. But he … he failed. I'm harsh in this, I think.”

“And Daniel?”

“There are no promises between Daniel and me.”

“I'd give you a promise. And keep it. If you'd let me.”

“But I won't let you, Daniel.”

He looked at me as though to read my thoughts.

“You're thinking bodies, aren't you, Ruth? I'm young, and Elizabeth's not. And young girls' bodies. And why am I not with them? Bodies. You're thinking bodies, Ruth.”

“I'm not quite as banal as you seem to imagine.”

“Perhaps not. Well, let me tell you about bodies. From my experience. I lived in California. I had my first ‘crush' on a girl when I was fifteen. She was beautiful. She was tall with long, blond hair. Her waist tapered. It tapered into a kind of chalice. Small hipbones, and skin stretched tight across her stomach and creamy blonde pubic hair. I painted her. With what my teachers used to call my ‘high eye.' I suppose she was my first model. I worshipped her body every day, I knew I would feel like that forever. But then I met Oona.

“Oona had short, thick, black hair. She wasn't tall. Her breasts were out of proportion to everything else. I couldn't get them out of my mind. Until Catherine.

He ran his hand through his hair. And smiled at us. He was … young.

“Catherine was an athlete. Half French. Brown eyes, black hair, and her body just worked. You know, everything just seemed to fit together. Nothing out of alignment. She used to laugh a lot. That's all I can remember about her. But the body, I remember … perfectly. From the time I was fifteen I've had bodies … girls' bodies. Bodies, I know about. Body sex. Great rush of crazy pleasure.”

“And then?”

“And then you get greedy.”

“For what?”

“For more. By that stage the bodies aren't enough. Now you want mind games. Games of power. Rejection. False jealousy. Eventually, even adolescents need an aphrodisiac.”

I was becoming tired. The vision of Charles, suppliant before her, was agonising.

“No matter what Daniel says, he'll leave someday.”

“Is that what you long for, Ruth? Another loss for me? What will satisfy you? My death, perhaps?”

Perhaps.

“You're like a child, Ruth. What you can't have, you must destroy. That habit of destructiveness has spoiled everything you had, and have. You'll spoil what you have with Charles. Because of your anger at his small need of me. You want that as well.”

She looked at me with love and pity. And her obstinate, stubborn goodness shone out.

My old hatred of her leapt like a hound to my mouth. And I wanted to sting her with my tears. Again. And watch her weep for her Hubert. Again. And see her sadness as she left Charles. Again. Let the hound tear her for the agony that would never leave me—the day her child drowned mine.

If I could kill you, Elizabeth, I would. I would. If I could only choose the way. If I could strangle you, I would. If I could plunge a knife into you, I would. If I could shoot you, I would shoot you through the eyes. And I would look on you, and be released. At last.

Terrible things started to happen to my body. In my head, sounds, like high-pitched screams, made it impossible for me to hear what she was mouthing. Red mist obscured the face of Daniel, which seemed to float in shock close to mine. And my mouth was full of something … venom … venomous … I ran screaming down the corridor of myself. Looking for a last door. There was some other force shaking my body. My bones were becoming liquid. Elizabeth and Daniel tried to catch the liquid as it spilled on the floor. I was being torn asunder. I had miscarried myself. The red became black. And Stephen and William were drowning again. The second time for them. Oh, what cruelty. To make them swallow the water again. Oh, boys. Both boys. They cried out. “Not again. Not again.” Were they drowning in my liquid body? Could someone scoop it up and make a thing of it? Was there a vessel to contain me? Something to hold me together? Words, more words came, and drowned the screams inside my head. I cannot, will not speak them. “I bear no guilt.” These are the only words I will speak.

Other words, other words were beating their way to the surface. Stop the words, Ruth. In terror, I spat my venom in her face. I raised my arm, no longer liquid, to strike her. I needed a weapon. I picked a knife from the table. I saw her eyes … and all the pain. And all the love. And all the goodness. And turned the blade upon myself. Of course. And at last.

The boy was suddenly behind me. Disarming me. Trapping me with his arms. We fell awkwardly, obscenely round the room, as he grappled for control. Finally he pinned me underneath him. And I was quiet at last.

He—this boy—was holding my insanity down. The heat of his stomach pressed into mine. The length of his legs held my lower limbs. His arms pinned mine into subjugation. His hands stroked my face, and he whispered, “It's all right. You're all right. It's OK. It's OK.”

Little words. Nothing words. Were they words of absolution for me? “It's all right. It's OK. It's OK.” Such little words.

And he almost smiled at me. Her son-boy.

Then he released me step by step. Legs. Arms. His hands slid from my face. Finally, he rolled off my chest and stomach. Certain that the beast was tamed. My clothes were soiled with my vomit. My urine. I looked at Daniel and Elizabeth. They showed no disgust.

They walked me to the bathroom. Both of them helped me into the bath. My nakedness was nothing to me or to them. I climbed into their bed. They lay on either side of me until I slept.

When I awoke it was late morning. A little carriage clock showed eleven-thirty. The door opened, and Elizabeth brought tea, and toast and honey. She sat in silence as I ate. A loving silence. Which I could feel. From which I did not recoil. She gave me her clothes. Oh, the irony. She had put mine in a little bag. I dressed in her jeans, which I rolled up, and her heavy sweater, which came almost to my knees. Dressed in Elizabeth's clothes, by Elizabeth.

Later, I felt that I watched myself leave them. We all knew I could. And that I was ready.

I saw them in the car mirror as they turned to walk back towards the house. A tall young man, and a long-limbed woman. Impossible to tell her age from the back.

And I knew that they had saved my life.

THIRTY

I never told Charles of my visit. A fact. Though sometimes he looked at me and said, “You've changed, Ruth. You seem a little more at peace.” And so I was. A little.

Elizabeth sent the boy away soon afterwards.

How did I know?

He came to Lexington. Silent. Pale. No, white. I opened the door. He just shook his head. Slowly. Again and again. His pain enraged me. I was still not as I ought to be. The years of malice were not undone. I did not help him. I felt unworthy, you see.

That is a lie.

I was afraid that Charles would see him. Oh, shame on me. My face contorted. I felt its muscles move to lock him out.

To force his pain back onto him. To crush him. He took the blow. He bowed his head. Then he walked away.

“Who is it?” Charles called.

By the time Charles came to the door, the boy had vanished.

“It was no one,” I said.

I never heard from him again.

THIRTY-ONE

All this happened some years ago. The number is irrelevant.

She is dead now.

She died from cancer. I had a phone call from a local doctor. Apparently she had named me as the next of kin.

“Mrs. Garton?”

“Yes.”

“I'm Dr. Mackintosh.”

“Yes.”

“I'm afraid I have some … sad news … about Elizabeth Ashbridge.”

“Is she dead?”

“Yes. I'm sorry.”

“How?”

“Cancer. It was very quick. Breast cancer. Started in the left breast. I am afraid she came too late. She was an extraordinary woman.”

“Yes, I know.”

“When I told her about the cancer she said, ‘How strange that it didn't grow in the heart.' I'll never forget that. ‘How strange it didn't grow in the heart.' She said it was grief, you see.”

“Perhaps it was.”

“I believe you're her closest relative. You're her sister?” In a way.

“I don't know what more to say. Will you … ?”

“Yes. Let me take your address. And the hospital address. We … er … Charles and I, will take care of everything. We'll be with you this evening.”

“I look forward to meeting you. I have some … instructions … which Mrs. Ashbridge wanted to give you. In the event of her death, that is. They concern her burial, I believe. She didn't show me the letter, you understand.”

“I see. Naturally, we'll do as Elizabeth asked.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“I must speak to my mother. To her mother. I'm so grateful. Thank you.”

I put the phone down.

My life's … my life's companion … was gone. She had died in the night. As I lay beside Charles. We had felt nothing. We had simply slept through her death. Will I sleep through Charles's? Or will he sleep through mine? And then sleep afterwards? I have slept since the boys died.

Charles was in the garden. I walked up to him and stood behind him for a second. Silent. Then I said the words. He turned to me. No tears. Nothing.

“She left me a long time ago, Ruth. It was then I learned how … bitter life could be.”

“We should go, I think. Together. To bring her home.”

“Yes.”

“Who else … to tell?”

“Mother. And the Baathus family.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

Would they have a clear memory of her? Their son's wife? Who had outlived him. Till now.

“Yes. I'll phone them.”

“So. Let's go then, together.”

And we did.

We did not bring her home. We buried her in the local churchyard. As instructed. Her letter to us was short. A note really. It said:

“
Not beside the boys. I know you will understand.
Here. A simple cross with my name. Nothing else.
”

We followed her instructions. Almost. We put
ELIZABETH ASHBRIDGE. ARTIST
on the tombstone. A white marble cross.

There was a brief reading of the will. She left everything to me. There were a number of obituaries in the papers. Short, not very enlightening. No one knew her.

Charles and I beat out our time quietly now. We mark anniversaries where once we marked birthdays.

And if I'd never met her, would I have been good?

For in the end, that's all that matters.

We are here to add to the sum of human goodness. To prove the thing exists. And however futile each individual act of courage or generosity, self-sacrifice or grace—it still proves the thing exists. Each act adds to the fund. It needs replenishment. Not only because evil flourishes, and is, most indefensibly, defended. But because goodness is no longer a respectable aim in life. The hound of hell, envy, has driven it from the house.

We two, Charles and I, once united by the powerful bond of sin, now float towards each other across a sea of sorrow. Above the faces of the boys, who rise and fall, to watery graves, again and again.

And as we move towards each other, the face of Elizabeth also rises. Again and again.

And if I had never met her? What then? Did she create me? Or I her? Did I dream her? Am I Elizabeth? Now?

These questions long engage me. Do you have answers? Please. Please, answer me.

Answer me, as I leave you now.

As I leave you.

As I leave.

A Biography of Josephine Hart

Josephine Hart is the international bestselling author of six novels and two poetry anthologies. Her novels, which include
Damage
(1991),
Sin
(1992), and
Oblivion
(1995), are notable for their spare prose and themes of lust, betrayal, and obsessive love, and have been translated into twenty-seven languages.

Hart was born and raised in Mullingar, Ireland, and later moved to London to pursue careers in publishing, theater, and then writing. In the mid-1980s, she founded the Gallery Poets and West End Poetry Hour, an event that grew from her desire to make poetry a powerful force in people's lives. While working as a director at Haymarket Publishing, Hart poured herself into Gallery Poets and ultimately went on to produce a number of West End plays, including Iris Murdoch's “The Black Prince.” Shortly after marrying Maurice Saatchi, an advertising executive and former Chairman of the Conservative Party of Great Britain, Hart began creating the characters for her first three books but resisted the urge to commit them to paper. It wasn't until Murdoch and Saatchi encouraged her to write a book that she finally decided to do so. Her first novel,
Damage
, about a British politician's affair with his son's fiancè, was a critical and commercial triumph, selling more than one million copies worldwide.
Damage
was made into the Oscar-nominated film of the same name starring Jeremy Irons and Juliette Binoche.

Hart's subsequent novels have also received wide acclaim and success, and in 2007
The Reconstructionist
was filmed by Italian director Roberto Ando. Her latest novel,
The Truth About Love
, was published in 2009 by Knopf and will be published in paperback in the U.S. in August 2010. She continues to support poetry, saying that it “gives voice to experience in a way no other literary art form can. It has never let me down.” The Josephine Hart Poetry Hour, a monthly poetry reading at London's British Library, has attracted such readers as Bono, Bob Geldof, and Ralph Fiennes, among many others, since its inception in 2004, and the anthologies
Catching Life by the Throat
(2006) and
Words that Burn
(2008) are accompanied by CDs based on these readings.