“You lucky, bloody sod.”
Olive sat hunched over her table, working on a new sculpture.
Eve and her faces and her baby had collapsed under the weight of a fist, leaving the pencil pointing heavenward like an accusing finger.
The Chaplain regarded the new piece thoughtfully. A bulky shape, roughly human and lying on its back, seemed to be struggling from its clay base. Strange, he thought, how Olive, with so little skill, made these figures work.
“What are you sculpting now?”
“MAN.”
He could, he thought, have predicted that. He watched the fingers roll a thick sausage of clay and plant it upright on the base at the figure’s head.
“Adam?” he suggested. He had the feeling she was playing a game with him. There had been a surge of sudden activity when he entered her room, as if she had been waiting for him to break hours of stillness.
“Cain.” She selected another pencil and laid it across the top of the clay sausage, parallel with the recumbent man, pressing it down till it was held firmly.
“Faustus. Don Giovanni. Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does,” he said sharply.
“Not all men sell their souls to the devil, any more than all women are two-faced.”
Olive smiled to herself and cut a piece of string from a ball on the table. She made a loop in one end and fastened the other round the tip of the pencil so that the string hung down over the figure’s head. With infinite care, she tightened the loop about a matchstick.
“Well?” she demanded.
The Chaplain frowned.
“I don’t know. The gallows?”
She set the matchstick swinging.
“Or the sword of Damocles.
It amounts to the same thing when Lucifer owns your soul.”
He perched on the edge of the table and offered her a cigarette.
“It’s not Man in general, is it?” he said, flicking his lighter.
“It’s someone specific. Am I right?”
“Maybe.”
“Who?”
She fished a letter from her pocket and handed it to him. He spread the single page on the table and read it. It was a standard letter, personalised on a word processor, and very brief.
Dear Miss Martin, Please be advised that unforeseen circumstances have obliged Mr. Peter Crew to take extended leave from this practice.
During his absence his clients’ affairs will be covered by his partners. Please be assured of our continued assistance.
Yours
The Chaplain looked up.
“I don’t understand.”
Olive inhaled deeply then blew a stream of smoke towards the matchstick. It spiralled wildly before slipping from the noose and striking the day forehead.
“My solicitor’s been arrested.”
Startled, he looked at the day figure. He didn’t bother to ask if she was sure. He knew the efficiency of the cell telegraph as well as she did.
“What for?”
“Wickedness.” She stubbed her cigarette into the clay.
“MAN was born to it. Even you, Chaplain.” She peeped at him to watch his reaction.
He chuckled.
“You’re probably right. But I do my best to fight it, you know.”
She took another of his cigarettes.
“I shall miss you,” she said unexpectedly.
“When?”
“When they let me out.”
He looked at her with a puzzled smile.
