‘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.
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 alt?’ 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.
The fallen snow had frozen, and formed a glittering skin on the road ahead, upon which a new layer of snow was being deposited as the storm intensified. Its beauty was his to appreciate, and his alone. The people of Burnt Yarley were at home tonight, beside their fires, their cattle gathered into sheds and byres, their chickens fed and locked up in their coops for the night.
The mounting blizzard soon turned the scene ahead of him into a white blur, but he had sufficient wits about him to watch for the place in the hedge where he’d previously gained access to the field, and, spotting it, dug his way through. The Courthouse was not visible, of course, but he knew that if he trudged directly across the meadow he’d reach its steps in due course. It was harder going than the road, and his body, for all his determination, was showing signs of surrender. His limbs felt jittery, and the urge to sink down in the snow for a while and rest grew stronger with every step. But he saw the Courthouse now, coming out of the blizzard. Jubilant, he wiped the snow from his numbed face, so that the blaze in him – in his eyes, in his skin – would be readily seen. Then he started up the steps. Only when he reached the top did he realize that Jacob was in the doorway, silhouetted against a fire burning in the vestibule. This was not a piffling blaze like the one Will had fed: it was a bonfire. And he did not doubt for a moment it had living fuel. He could not see what, exactly, nor did he much care. It was his idol he wanted to see, and be seen by. More than seen, embraced. But Jacob did not move, and a terror came upon Will that he’d misunderstood everything; that he was no more wanted here than at the house he’d left. He stopped one step short of the top, and waited for judgment. It did not come. He was not even certain Jacob had even seen him.
And then, out of the shadowed face, a soft, raw voice.
‘I came out here without even knowing why. Now I see.’
Will dared a syllable. ‘Me?’
Jacob nodded. ‘I was looking for you,’ he said, and opened his arms.
Will would have gone into them happily, but his body was too weak to get him there. As he climbed the final step he stumbled, his outstretched hands moving too slowly to protect his head from striking the cold stone. He heard Jacob let out a little shout as he fell,