Clive Barker - Sacrament

'I know,' she said, smiling up at him.

A police car roared past, siren blaring. The happiness faded from George Cunningham's face.

'I'll butter us some toast,' Frannie said, patting his chest. 'That'll make us feel better.' She pulled the slices out from under the grill and flipped them over. 'You want some marmalade?'

'No thanks,' he said, watching her as she fussed around: to the fridge for some butter, then back to the cooker, where she picked up the hot toast and put it on a plate. Then she slathered on the butter, the way she knew he liked it.

'There,' she said, presenting him with the toast. He wolfed it down, murmuring his approval.

All she needed now was milk for her tea. The carton was empty, but the milkman could have arrived by now, so she padded through to the front door to fetch the delivery. The front door had been bolted top and bottom, which was unusual. Plainly her parents had gone to bed nervous. Frannie reached up and unbolted the top, then stooping to unbolt the bottom, opened the door. There was still no sign of the day; not a glimmer. It was going to be one of those winter days when light barely seemed to touch the world before it was gone again. The snow had stopped falling, however, and the street looked like a well-made bed in the lamplight, plump white pillows piled against walls, and quilts laid on roofs and pavements. She found the sight comforting in its prettiness. It reminded her that Christmas would soon be here, and there'd be reasons for songs and laughter.

The step was empty; the milk was late being delivered today. Oh well, she thought, I'll have to have tea without.

And then, the sound of feet crunching on snow. She looked up and saw somebody had appeared at the opposite side of the street. Whoever it was stood beyond the lamplight, but only for a few moments. Realizing he'd been seen, he stepped out of the grey gloom and into view. It was Will.

i

Rosa waited on the rock, listening, listening. They would be upon her soon, her pursuers. She could hear every creak of their snowcaked boots as they followed her trail up the hillside to where she sat. One of them - there were four - was smoking as he climbed (she could see the pin-prick of his cigarette, brightening whenever he drew on it); one of them was young, his breathing easier than that of his companions; one took out a flask of brandy every now and then, and when he offered it around, had a distinct slur in his voice. The fourth was quieter than the others, but sometimes, if she listened very carefully, she thought she heard him murmuring something to himself. It was too indistinct for her to understand, but she suspected it was a prayer.

Her exchanges with Jacob had been quite straightforward. She'd freely admitted to what she'd done in the Courthouse, and told him he'd better get out of harm's way before the mob was upon them. He'd told her he would not be leaving the vicinity just yet; he had work to do in the village. When she asked him what manner of work, he told her he wasn't about to share secrets with a woman who'd probably be under interrogation before dawn.

'Is that a dare, Mr Steep?' she said.

'You might take it that way, I suppose,' he'd replied.

'Would you have their deaths on my conscience?' she'd said, to which he'd replied:

'What conscience?'

His response had amused her mightily, and for a few moments, standing there on the hillside with Jacob, it had almost seemed like old times.

'Well,' she said, 'Now you've been warned.'

'Is that all you're going to do?' Jacob had replied. 'Warn me, then walk away?'

'What else do you suggest?' she said with a little smile.

'I want you to make sure they don't come after me.'

'So say it,' she'd whispered. 'Say: Kill them far me, Rosa.' She'd leaned closer to him; his heartbeat had quickened. She'd heard it, loud and clear. 'If you want them dead, Jacob, then all you have to do is ask.' Her lips were so close to his ear, they were almost touching. 'Nobody's going to know but us.'

He'd said nothing for a few seconds, and then, in that resigned voice of his, he'd murmured the words she'd wanted to hear, 'Kill them for me.' Then he'd gone on his way with the boy.

Now she waited, feeling altogether happier. Though he'd been willing to kill her just a few hours before, she more and more thought it would be better for them both if they'd made peace. She'd exacted her revenge for his attempt on her life, so she was willing to put the incident behind her, if things could be permanently healed between them. And they could, she was certain; with a little work, a little patience. Maybe their relationship could never be quite what it had been before - there'd be no further attempts at children - she was resigned to that - but a healthy marriage wasn't carved in stone. It changed; deepened and matured. That was how it could be between Jacob and herself, by and by. They would learn a fresh respect for one another; find fresh ways to express their devotion.

Which brought her back to the purpose of this vigil on the rock. What more perfect way of demonstrating her love than this: to commit murder for him?

She held her breath, and listened intently. The man with the slurred voice was complaining about the climb; he couldn't go any further, he was saying. He'd have to leave them to go on without him.

'No, no...' she said to herself softly. She was ready to take four lives, and four lives she would take. No excuses.

While the men debated, she made her own decision: no more waiting. If they were going to prevaricate, then she would take control of events and go to them. Drawing a deep breath, she rose from her squatting place, clambered down off the rock, and almost girlish with anticipation, began to retrace her tracks to where her victims stood.

ii

Will looked terrible. Grey face, clothes torn and sodden, his gait a shambling limp. He looked the way Frannie imagined somebody dead would look. Dead, but come back in the middle of the night to say goodbye. She put that stupidity out of her head. Will needed help: that was all that mattered right now. Though she was barefoot, she stepped off the threshold and started towards him, her legs plunged shin-deep in snow. 'Come on into the warm,' she said to him. He shook his head. 'There's no time,' he said. He sounded as sick as he looked. 'I just came to get the book back.' 'You told him?'

'Yes ... I had to...' Will said. 'It's his book, Frannie, and he wants back.'

She stopped advancing, suddenly realizing her naYvete. Will wasn't here unaccompanied. Jacob Steep was with him. Out of sight, somewhere in the darkness beyond the lamplight, but close at hand. Was that why Will looked so ill, she wondered? Had Steep hurt him somehow? Keeping her head directed at Will, she looked for a sign of motion in the shadows behind him. Somehow she had to get Will off the street and back into the safety of the house, without arousing Steep's suspicion.

'The book's upstairs,' she said, as casually as she could. 'Just come in while I fetch it for you.'

Will shook his head, but there was sufficient hesitation before he did so for her to think he might be tempted to step into the warmth if she pressed a little harder.

'Come on,' she said. 'It won't take me more than a minute or two. There's tea. And buttered toast-' (they were, she knew, just simple domesticities, set against whatever claim Steep had upon him; pitiful, probably, in the scheme of things. But they were all she had).

'I don't ... want to come in,' he said.

She shrugged. 'Okay,' she said lightly. 'I'll go and get the book.' She turned back towards the house, wondering already what she was going to do once she got inside. Did she leave the door open, hoping to coax Will over the threshold, or did she close it, protecting the house and her family from the man watching in the shadows?